~Author's Note: Bonjour!! As mentioned below: male De Vil inspiration came from another, characters all mine. I guess you could say this is the origin story for where Cruelle gets his iconic mink fur coat. Have fun!!~
The jarring vibrations of your phone accompanied by obnoxious music violently jolt you out of your slumber, pulling a groan from you as you debate whether or not to answer it. Your (e/c) eyes strained in the darkness to read the clock on your nightstand—2:36 a.m.—and you cuss under your breath after reading the caller ID. It’s your manager, but why the hell would he be calling you at this hour?
Considering you’re the top sales representative for a high-end clothing line, you figure it’s an emergency and reluctantly answer the frantic phone.
“Hello…?” you growl.
“(Y/n), get up and to the store immediately, and I mean immediately
There was a point in time when you were wary about leaving the countryside for the city, mostly because of the warnings that it was filled with demons, monsters and succubi in human form. Yet as a wing-adorned devil places a wreath upon your head before going to dance with a lobster boiling a chef, you can’t help but laugh. Everything—everyone—around you is backwards—brass is treated as gold, kings are clowns, the pretty are mocked while the priests are charmed. It’s complete blasphemy, but you adore it.
Acrobats tumble and leap alongside men towering in stilts as they toss handfuls of confetti down in a rainbow of flurried colors upon your grinning face. You feel the crowd begin to surge forward to the stage. There, a Romani man dressed in an ochre and purple joker’s outfit melodically summons the audience’s attention, a ge
~Reminder that they're speaking ROMANIAN: Lyuba=love~
That enveloping, lulling warmth. You revel every possible second within it you can, memorizing its spiced scent, what it tastes like with every sigh, how it feels of silken skin against your body. It’s your warmth—your life, your love, the very essence of your enamored heart.
Swelling with infatuation at the mere thought, you awaken with a weary smile, your (e/c) eyes met with what has become an all too welcomed sight in the mornings. Your husband, his ever unruly hair curling about his face in raven spirals, sleeps peacefully at your side, his arm tucked beneath your shoulders in innate protectiveness. His lips are parted a margin, but only the softest sigh accompanies the even rising and falling of his bare chest. You simper gently and reach out to caress that russet plane above his steadfast heartbeat. A glint draws your eye
~Author's Note: Howdy howdy!! Glad to see ya'll reading my work Enjoy! NEXT PART IS UP!!~
“Muse: somebody who is a source of inspiration for an artist, especially for a poet.”
At the time it seemed like an honest enough job, one that would require you to just sit there and be inspirational, right? Nothing sketchy or compromising in any way; just a model for an artist. That’s all.
You remember repeating those notions to yourself as you drove to the loft of man you had zero clues about.
You had been hired to act as his muse—maybe hired wasn't the right word; more like singled out and handpicked, which sounded a lot more flattering and less…weird—and were given an address, time, and date upon you were to report.
The day this happened, in hindsight, marked the start of something very inexpl
~Rapunzel=Raiponce (French version, ha!)~
A week passes before you can return to the tower in the meadow due to your job at the bakery, but when the day arrives, you sprint through the forest as if you actually are being chased by a thief again. It really does seem like a miracle that you came across the drapery of vines that day, for it was tucked away so deeply within the forest and because it brought you to him, that beautiful, blonde boy who fulfills you with a whole new purpose—Raiponce.
After some directional maneuvering, you soon arrive at the gateway that’ll lead you to those eager, emerald eyes. You make a few last minute touchups to your (c/c) corset and (h/l) (h/c), inhale deep, and amble through the vines with a lingering hesitation. A part of you d