The Birth of Cruella (Girl to Cruella De Vil Skinsuit TF)

The world knew her as Cruella De Vil—ruthless, cunning, and utterly obsessed with fur and fashion. But before she became the infamous villain, she was someone else. A woman with a name, a life, and dreams that were never meant to be erased.

This is the story of how she was taken. How she was changed. How she was made into something monstrous against her will.

This is the story before the legend.

Emily had always been careful. She never took the same route home twice, always stayed in well-lit areas, and never ignored that uneasy feeling in her gut. But that night, the shortcut through the quiet back alley seemed harmless. She just wanted to get home faster, kick off her red heels, and put the long day behind her.

She didn’t see the van until it was too late.

A sharp sting pricked her neck—an injection, quick and precise. The world blurred, her legs wobbled, and before she could scream, everything went black.

When she woke up, the cold air bit against her skin. She was no longer on the street but inside an unknown room, her arms held high above her head by mechanical restraints. Her feet dangled, barely able to touch the cold floor beneath her. Her blue sweater was already torn open, her skirt half removed, her red heels discarded on the floor. Only her undergarments remained, leaving her exposed to the eerie hum of the machines around her.

Bright lights flashed on, blinding her. A mechanical voice echoed through the sterile air.

“Subject secured. Transformation process initializing.”

Before she could scream, the robotic arms moved in. The nightmare had begun.

Emily twisted and struggled, but the mechanical arms held her firm, lifting her higher as more whirred to life around her. A cold, mechanical voice echoed in the sterile chamber.

"Application of synthetic epidermis commencing."

Before she could process what that meant, one of the robotic arms aimed a nozzle at her bare skin. A sharp hiss followed as a stream of thick, green adhesive sprayed onto her exposed arms and legs. The substance burned slightly before settling into a cold, tingling sensation. Emily gasped as she felt it spread over her skin, sticking to her like a second layer.

From below, new arms emerged, holding what looked like limp, pale flesh—unnatural, rubbery, like a bodysuit made of human skin. Before she could scream, the suit was raised, and the adhesive pulled it tightly onto her body. It began at her feet, creeping upward like a living thing as it sealed against her legs, hips, and stomach. The suit clung unnaturally close, molding itself to her curves and erasing any trace of her former skin tone.

Emily shuddered as her arms were pulled taut, the material working its way up her shoulders. It felt too smooth, too artificial, yet as the glue continued bonding it to her, the sensation of it being "worn" began to fade. It no longer felt like something separate—it was becoming her skin.

Her breathing was ragged as she glanced down at her transformed limbs. They were thinner, paler, more delicate than her own. Her hands trembled, now adorned with long, elegant fingers tipped with sharp, red-painted nails.

But the worst was yet to come.

"Facial application commencing."

A shadow loomed above as another robotic arm descended. In its grip was a face—thin, angular, with sharp cheekbones and cruel, smirking lips. The hollow eye sockets stared lifelessly, waiting to be worn.

Emily’s heart pounded as she realized what was about to happen.

She screamed, but the machine ignored her. Another burst of green adhesive sprayed across her face, the strong scent filling her nose. Before she could turn away, the synthetic face was pressed firmly against her own.

A shock of cold spread as the glue fused the mask to her skin. At first, she could feel the difference—her own features were still beneath it, fighting against the artificial layer. But then the mask tightened. The material stretched, blended, molded itself seamlessly over her, erasing all trace of Emily.

Her nose felt thinner. Her lips curled involuntarily into a wicked smirk. Even as she struggled, her expression no longer obeyed her. The new face had taken control.

Emily gasped as the final stage took hold. A sharp click echoed through the chamber. The suit and mask weren’t just attached—they were sealed. There was no way to remove them.

Her reflection in the polished metal wall confirmed her worst fear.

She was no longer Emily.

She was Cruella De Vil.

Emily—if she could still call herself that—could barely move. The tight synthetic skin clung to her like it had always been part of her, transforming her once-soft form into something hauntingly skeletal. Her arms and legs felt impossibly thin, her fingers unnaturally long and poised. The pale skin was smooth, her lips painted a deep, wicked red, and her eyes—once warm and full of life—now shined an unnatural green, framed by dark, bold eyeshadow.

Her mind was racing, her breath quick and panicked, but the machines were far from finished.

"Wardrobe application commencing."

More robotic arms descended, carrying fabric, accessories, and shoes. The first thing she felt was the silk sliding against her skin—a slinky, satin black dress, hugging the unnatural curves of her new form. It felt light, elegant, yet it did nothing to comfort her. The arms moved with precision, slipping the black stockings over her thin legs, fastening them high on her thighs.

She barely had time to process before her feet were lifted, one at a time, and eased into a pair of striking red high heels—far taller than anything she had ever worn before. A perfect fit.

Her hands trembled, but the machines paid no mind. They slid long red opera gloves over her fingers, covering her up to the elbows. Then, the final touches—large turquoise earrings dangled from her ears, a gleaming ring placed upon her right hand, and a matching purse with three foxtails was slung over her arm.

But the worst was yet to come.

"Hair application commencing."

A cold metal arm hovered above her, and she caught sight of what it carried—a shoulder-length wig, its two halves starkly different in color. One side was jet black, the other pure white.

Emily squeezed her eyes shut as she felt the sharp hiss of the glue gun spray across her bald scalp. The strong adhesive burned for only a moment before settling into a cold, tingling grip.

Then, the wig was placed.

The machine pressed it firmly against her head, smoothing it into place, sealing it permanently.

When she opened her eyes, she could see the ends of her new hair resting against her shoulders. She barely recognized the figure in the reflection before her. The long, elegant coat—cream-colored mink with a red satin lining—was draped over her shoulders, completing the image of the infamous woman she had become.

A tear welled up in her unnatural green eyes.

Even as it rolled down her cheek, she could see the expression frozen on her new face. A cruel smirk. A smirk that wasn’t hers.

She wanted to scream.

But the machines had already moved on.

Emily barely had time to process the horrifying sight of her new self before the next phase began.

With a mechanical whir, a chair rose from the floor behind her. It was metallic, cold, with thick straps waiting to restrain her. Before she could react, robotic arms grabbed her shoulders and forced her down. Her new body was unnaturally thin, making it easy for the straps to coil around her wrists, ankles, waist, and neck, locking her into place.

She struggled, but it was useless. The synthetic skin stretched, the elegant gloves and dress clinging tightly to her, but the body she now had was weaker than she expected.

A final metallic arm descended toward her face, carrying something small—an elegant black cigarette holder, long and sleek. She barely had a moment to turn her head before it was shoved between her lips, forcing her teeth to part slightly as it settled in place. A thin wisp of smoke curled from the tip.

Her lips trembled. She didn’t even smoke.

Before she could try to spit it out, the machine whirred again, and the lights above dimmed.

A television screen lowered in front of her, humming to life with a bright, flickering glow. Emily’s green eyes widened as the hypnotic patterns began to swirl, deep and endless, drawing her in.

She tried to resist, tried to look away, but the straps held her tight, forcing her to stare forward. The spirals twisted, pulsing in strange, rhythmic waves, sinking into her vision. Her breath slowed.

Words—no, ideas—slipped into her mind like whispers in the dark.

"Luxury... Fashion... Fur... Beauty above all else..."

Her fingers twitched in their red opera gloves.

"Elegance is power... Power is control..."

Her lips parted slightly around the cigarette holder.

The thoughts poured in, one after another, twisting her behavior, reshaping the way she moved, the way she carried herself. Her posture straightened, her chin lifted. Her smirk—no longer forced by the mask—felt natural.

Deep down, something in her screamed. She knew who she was. She was still Emily.

Wasn’t she?

Her swirling eyes stared forward, blank but alive. The hypnosis had settled deep. She was elegant. She was refined. She was powerful.

But she wasn’t completely lost.

Not yet.

Time passed.

How long had it been? Minutes? Hours? Days?

Emily—no, that name felt distant now—stared blankly at the swirling screen. Her expression was still, her breath slow and refined. The cigarette holder sat comfortably between her lips, no longer an intrusive object but a natural part of her.

Then, with a sharp click, the screen powered down.

The straps around her wrists and ankles released. The chair’s mechanical arms withdrew, leaving her sitting upright in perfect posture, her long red-gloved fingers resting elegantly on the armrests.

Another click echoed through the chamber.

A door ahead of her slid open.

For the first time since her transformation began, she moved of her own will.

But it was no longer hesitant. No longer panicked.

She stood, her red heels clicking against the floor. The satin black dress hugged her thin frame as she walked forward with purpose. The mink coat draped elegantly over her shoulders, the red satin lining catching the cold, artificial light.

She took a slow, poised breath and exhaled, a thin wisp of smoke escaping her lips.

A smirk tugged at the corners of her mouth.

She stepped through the doorway.

She was no longer Emily.

Cruella De Vil was reborn.

London. The city was alive, bustling with noise, fashion, and opportunity.

Cruella strode through the streets, her new body moving with a natural grace as if she had always been this way. Her mind still held echoes of the past—distant memories of a different life, of fear, of loss. But they were irrelevant now.

Luxury. Fashion. Power.

That was all that mattered.

A black car pulled up beside her, the door opening smoothly. Inside sat a man in a tailored suit, his expression unreadable.

“We’ve been expecting you, Miss De Vil.”

Cruella smirked, sliding into the seat with effortless elegance.

The car door shut.

The city lights flickered past as she was driven away, toward her destiny.

And so, the legend began.

The city had belonged to her. For years, Cruella De Vil had ruled the world of fashion with an iron grip, her reputation feared and respected. Every room she entered became hers. Every deal she made was final. Every cruel scheme was carried out with elegance and precision.

And yet, all things must come to an end.

The rain poured in sheets as flashing red and blue lights painted the dark London streets. A crowd had gathered, whispering in hushed tones as two officers forced the infamous woman forward, her mink coat dragging through the damp pavement.

Cruella was caught.

Her hands were bound behind her back, her red opera gloves soaked from the rain. Her cigarette holder had long since been discarded. Strands of her black-and-white hair clung to her pale face, but even now, her smirk remained—defiant, proud, as if the world hadn’t finally outplayed her.

Behind her, an officer stood firm, his grip unyielding.

“Cruella De Vil,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Looks like your luck’s run out.”

She scoffed, tilting her chin up. “Luck? My dear, I make my own fortune.”

Her words dripped with confidence, but something inside her wavered.

A reflection in a nearby window caught her eye—an image so faint she nearly dismissed it. But there it was, unmistakable.

Her old face.

Emily.

Wide-eyed, trapped, watching from beneath the surface.

A single tear rolled down Cruella’s cheek, barely visible in the rain. Was it hers? Or was it Emily’s?

For a brief moment, the illusion cracked.

She wasn’t Cruella. Not truly.

Somewhere, deep inside, Emily was still there.

Still screaming.

Still waiting to be free.

But as the police car door slammed shut, as the city lights blurred past once more, the smirk returned.

Because no matter what name she had once carried…

Cruella De Vil would always rise again.