Cruelle, Darling

...The Viper's Muse~Pt. 3 (Fin)

~Author's Note: Alas, we reach the end *maybe; read below* This part is going to be noticeably longer than the previous parts cause there was a lot I wanted to expand, explain, and play with--i.e. your emotions ;). Hope ya'll like it. Enjoy!!~

How you managed to get into the dress, you don't know. But there you stand, hands running over your exaggerated, curved figure in the mirror, your breasts seemingly on the verge of popping out of the plunging neckline. Your cheeks burn from the blush that has lingered for the past five minutes and only intensifies as you ride the elevator to the 12th floor where Cruelle is waiting for you.

You fight, unsuccessfully, to steady your breathing by exhaling through pursed lips, sweaty palms dragging down your hips. The doors glide open to reveal a room strewn with dressed mannequins, paintings, blank canvases and piles of sheets of paper. Cruelle is sitting in the loveseat at the far left end of the room with a tall sketchbook blocking your view of him.

"A muse should not be so bold as to make her master wait," he scorns at the sound of your heels clattering on the marble floor.

You swallow hard. "S-sorry...I struggled getting the dress on," you say sheepishly as you approach him.

Cruelle tilts the sketchbook aside with a scolding look from behind flat-brimmed glasses that's replaced by one of blank surprise. The icy blue irises darken as they take in your alluring, accentuated form like a lion eyeing its next meal, settling on your over-exposed breasts.

"I can see why..." he mutters to himself, lips turning up at the corners, although you still hear it. You stay still while he situates himself to rise.

Now that you consider it, Roxanne had told you that he dresses 'scantily' when he works, and yet he's still wearing the silk robe and pants from what you can tell—wait, why do you even care? You're having a hard enough time as it is to control yourself; seeing him half-naked will only make things worse, so you shouldn't act a bit—okay really—disappointed.

But then he stands up.

Oh my god...oh my god...! You nearly swoon at the sight of the bare chest, rib, and stomach muscles that expand then contract into chiseled waves when Cruelle stretches his arms overhead with a deep exhale. The gesture, much to your inappropriate enthusiasm,

causes for the already low-riding, paint covered sweatpants to drop a margin, further exposing the defined 'V' of his narrow hips.

You stumble back into a mannequin and hurriedly spin to catch it. Seriously, (y/n)?!

Cruelle watches, appealed, as you try to compose yourself by swiping a strand of (h/c) behind your red ear and patting your thighs. He saunters up to you, cigarette in raised hand, and cocks his head.

"Come, darling. Come further prove to me that I'm a genius," he winks with his hand outstretched to you.

Uncertain of what to expect, you walk forward—the heels you're wearing and design of the dress practically force your hips to pop out with each step, something that's far from overlooked by Cruelle—and place your hand in his. Keeping each other's eyes locked, he uses his other hand to tip your head up, then dropping your hand before he begins to circle you, his fingers trailing across your collarbone and around your neck.

You can feel his stare engulfing the sight of your bare back, and to confirm this, he drops his fingers down your spine and back up. An involuntary shudder rolls through you that receives a firmer, more antagonizing touch from him on your shoulder. When he comes back into your view, he's smirking down at you from the corner of his eyes with the same greedy look from before.

"W...well?" you ask as he paces away with slow steps. "Are you pleased?"

Cruelle looks at you, an arm crossing his stomach. "You don't ask a peacock if it's pleased with its most dazzling feather, do you, darling?" he says. Despite the unexpected compliment, there's something possessive and rousing about it. His gaze lingers a few seconds longer prior to him tearing it away and strutting to his sketchbook. "Ugh, I've wasted enough time as it is. Get over here, dear."