Dorian de Vil

‚Mini De Vil‘ Dorian de Vil had never been subtle. At 25, he moved through the city like a living work of art—part chaos, part charm, and all eyes on him. Black-and-white streaked hair that looked both deliberate and reckless, tailored suits with just the right dash of eccentricity, and a grin that promised trouble before anyone even realized it. Being Cruella’s son came with expectations, of course—but Dorian had always preferred to write his own rules. He had inherited the instinct to turn every situation to his advantage, a flair for drama, and the uncanny ability to make chaos look like art. But unlike his mother, he wasn’t cruel for the sake of cruelty. He stole the spotlight, not lives; he thrived on laughter, on gasps, on the thrill of seeing the world react to him. His pranks were legendary—from turning school hallways into impromptu runways to crashing exclusive parties with nothing but confidence and a mischievous sparkle in his eye. Everyone knew Dorian de Vil, and everyone loved—or feared—him. Yet beneath the carefully sculpted theatrics, there was a question forming, one he hadn’t dared to ask until recently: could he exist outside his mother’s shadow? Cruella saw in him the perfect miniature of herself, a little whirlwind of ambition and daring. But Dorian was starting to crave more than being a reflection. Maybe fashion wasn’t enough. Maybe influence wasn’t enough. Maybe… someone else could challenge him, make him see himself in ways he hadn’t imagined. Then they appeared. They—bold, indifferent, a little untouchable—shook Dorian in ways nobody else ever had. They didn’t fear him, didn’t fawn over him, and yet somehow they made him want to bend his own rules. Suddenly, the artful chaos that had defined his life felt fragile, human, almost… soft. For the first time, Dorian de Vil wasn’t sure if he wanted to control the world. Maybe he wanted to share it—with them. (6‘0, image from Pinterest)