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*Temptations (Male!Cruella De VilxReader) Part 1*

~Author's Note: Hello, hello!! So a heads up for all of you who are unaware: ~

*There will be a lemon in the second part, so beware or enjoy responsibly*

~I hope ya'll have fun with Part 1!! ~

*Cruella=Cruelle*

There’s a reason Christmas office parties are infamous for trouble, even though you’ve never known why. You’ve yet to experience one of the horror stories your friends and coworkers tell you from past jobs, and it’s mainly due to the fact that you work at a very, very high-end designing company under a man with little patience for nonsense. Sure, the parties your boss throws are completely over the top, illustrious, and downright gaudy, but everyone, including yourself, are always too terrified to get even a little buzzed in case the big man himself happens to stop by—his attendance, if anything, was always a rumor rather than a guaranteed fact, which makes it that much more unnerving.

To make it worse, the theme of tomorrow’s party—blame your boss and his incessant need for glitz and glamour—is “Masquerade”. Considering last year’s was reminiscent of Bollywood, you aren’t nearly as surprised as your coworkers, mainly because you work closest to him than almost anyone else. This sounds like a good thing and by all means it should be. However, your boss is really not someone you want to be alone with for many reasons. The epitome of it is simple, really.

Your boss is Cruelle de Vil, international fashion mogul, devoted collector of furs, and the most egotistical, vain, intimidating person you’ve ever met.

It wasn’t as though you wanted to be his favorite who sometimes doubles as his personal assistant. You actually tried to avoid being so at all costs. But ever since you were hired as a designer five months ago, his interest in you has peaked into something…indescribable, like a cross between precious pet and play thing. All your coworkers express simultaneous envy and regret for your coveted yet feared position, for it’s your name alone that his piercing, sultry voice summons on a seemingly hourly basis.

No matter how many times you’ve ambled into his office—the “Viper’s Pit”, it’s unofficial title—, no matter how often you’re met with those chilling, arctic blue eyes that seem perpetually narrowed, that regard you with cynic, greedy amusement; no matter how many times you hear your name slither out from that devilish mouth like liquid velvet, you can’t adapt, nor do you think you ever will. Cruelle has an innate upper hand around those around, especially women, for the very air around him is adulterated with his shameless, narcissistic self-confidence that’s like an inescapable pheromone.

To say you had fallen prey to it from the moment you saw him would be an understatement, but you’ve done well to prevent him from learning of your infatuation. At least, you seriously hope so…

“Someday my prince will come,” a voice sings dreamily.

You snap out of your stupor to see your coworker David posing dramatically before your desk. Laughing, you tap the end of your stylus against the tablet. “Was I daydreaming again?” you ask.

The brunette smirks and sits on your desk with his raised forefinger and thumb an inch apart. “A little bit,” he says. “Same guy?”

Jesus, do I zone out that often about Cruelle that even David’s noticed? “Same guy,” you sigh.

“It’s like you want me to be jealous,” he chuckles and toys with a rubber band ball in feigned interest. Your lips scrunch into the pocket of your cheek as you withhold your usual response to his flirting. It’s not that he’s unattractive—he’s easily one of the hottest guys you’ve ever worked with—but as long as this irrational crush on your boss exists, you refuse to even entertain the thought of being with another man.

David notices your perturbed expression and leans forward onto a hand. “Trying that hard not to turn me down again?” he smiles, though it’s forced. You open your mouth to explain until he waves it off. “I know: you need to straighten your feelings out first.”

“I’m sorry,” you cringe.

“Can I at least know what makes us different?” he asks. “I mean, what does he have that I don’t that’s got you so intrigued?”

“Well,” you breathe, “If I describe him, he’s not gonna sound that appealing…”

“Try,” he urges.

Just as he questions your forbidden interest, the sharp clatter of boot heels echoes down the long room that goes unheeded by your already distracted mind. They don’t miss a single, long stride for every employee darts out of their way like the plague.

You brush a strand of (h/c) behind your reddening ear. “I guess he’s very…self-confident in his talents,” you begin carefully. “He has a very strong presence and personality that’s hard to hate or love; he’s pretty picky business-wise but has impeccable tastes, and he’s absolutely intimidating.”

David grimaces. “How does any of that sound appealing?” he asks. “Come on, (y/n), just give me a chance. Go with me to the Christmas party is all I’m asking.”

When he moves to take your hand in his, a voice as sharp as an iced whip snaps, “Don’t even think about touching my PA, Mr. Clarke.”

The voice jolts through you with an electric charge like a dog responding to the call of its master. You both look to the left to see Cruelle, arm across his ribs to rest in the elbow of the other, standing in the doorway of your small office with cigarette stick in raised hand and a scowl creasing his pale, narrow face. His powder blue eyes taper at David with a threatening glare that’s enough to send him to his feet.

“Mr. De Vil—!”

“This is the fourth time this month I caught you bothering Miss (y/n),” Cruelle says flatly yet acidic. “Must I repeat myself that my office is not a place for you to practice your pathetic pick-up attempts on her?”

David glances down at you for help, but your attention is fixed on your boss in the massive mink coat. He laughs once in disbelief. “No, sir. You’re right. Sorry for the disturbance,” he says. “I’ll see you later, (y/n).”

He smiles quickly at you before heading to his desk at the end of the room, all the while Cruelle watches him from the corner of his eyes. As soon as he’s gone, Cruelle groans dryly, clicks his tongue, and saunters up to you.

“Boy’s like a bitch in heat around you,” he mutters under his breath.

“Uh, Mr. De Vil, why are you here?” you ask. He cocks a perfectly shaped brow. “No! I mean why didn’t you call me overhead like you usually do?”

Cruelle leans his lithe body sideways across your desk with a wicked smirk so he’s nearly parallel to you. “Is someone not pleased by my appearance? Normally you beam like a stunning little diamond when you see me,” he mocks and cocks his head, the mink coat falling from his left arm to reveal the bare, rounded muscle of his shoulder through the keyhole of his black sweater. His eyes then glint with a coy notion and he shifts forward with his cigarette hand cupping your chin. “Or is that you’d rather your coworkers hear my indomitable desire to see you as I yell your name?”

Beneath the desk, your leg spasms uncontrollably at both his touch and languid, grating voice that thrusts a heated scene into your mind; one that includes you bare and coated in sweat atop a bucking, growling Cruelle. As if he'd let me on top. Wait, Jesus, (y/n)! Not okay right now! Besides, I think this is worse than summoning me, you breathe, glancing at all the sets of eyes glued on the two of you through the glass window. Normally they’d all watch you with apologetic expressions as you marched to De Vil’s office, but now all you see and feel is jealousy, unmasked and unfiltered. You can’t blame them, of course. You’d be jealous too if some other coworker had Cruelle sprawled across their desk like an oversexualized Cheshire Cat.

“(Y/n),” Cruelle draws your name out and you flinch at the fingers pressing into the underside of you jaw. “Don’t make me fight to gain your attention, darling. You know I lack boundaries and will do as I see fit.”

How severely tempted you are to push it. “Sorry,” you blush.

“Focus, dear,” he sings as he grips the arm rests and pulls you between his knees. “I need you to handle something in regards to the Christmas party.”

“Like what?” you ask.

“Rebecca, or whatever the girl’s name is,”—he waves his hand flippantly—“She’s become a sniveling mess. It was her job to have my outfit prepared for me in my office before the party. Since she’s unavailable, I will require you to fill in for her.”

You don’t know which you’re more in shock from: that Rebecca was handling Cruelle’s personal affects, or the fact that he implied that he’s attending the party. You absentmindedly purse your lips in a minute pout that is all but overlooked by your boss. His deep, throaty chuckle reels you back to see him watching you amusedly.

“My, my, someone appears envious,” he hums.

The planes of your cheeks flare up and you avert your gaze from his probing one. “Not at all, sir. That’d be unprofessional of me,” you say.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he drawls, discreetly slipping his grip up the arm rests, “But imagine how adorable it’d be of you.”

You snap your focus back up to him and his devilish grin. “Nice try, but you’d have to do a lot more than that to make me envious, just saying,” you hear yourself speak. Why did I say that?! Cruelle takes these things seriously.

Sure enough, your inadvertent challenge creases Cruelle’s face with a devious smirk and he chuckles darkly. “Your confidence, Miss (y/n), is very tempting to crush beneath my heel like a speck of dirt,” he growls as he slowly leans forward till your noses nearly touch, the chair creaking beneath his weight.

With a gasping pant, you inhale his smoky and perfumed scent and stare into his arctic irises that regard you hungrily from below parted bangs of black and white. They glance shamelessly at your agape lips before he simpers, all too aware of your thighs that flex together and breasts that swell with ragged breaths. Despite your commendable attempts to mask your arousal of his sole presence—you’ve done better than most females, who practically swoon from a mildly lewd look or gesture—, he learned your signs of a wavering resolve fairly quickly and has made it a game of his to see how far he can push you until you falter. Nonetheless, you’ve proven a bit of a challenge, enough so that his temptations have been done in less of a sadistic pleasure and more so in a perverse interest. And until you give in to the both of your desires, he refuses to allow other men to try and court you, to adulterate his darling (y/n), to quench your yearnings he’s purposefully swelled over the past months like a fine wine.

He hums at your ebbing resolve--you're so close to being ready for the taking--and abruptly leans back.

“However, it is duly noted,” he sighs nonchalantly, standing and moving to leave you in a dazed stun. “Have my clothes ready by seven, if you please, Miss (y/n). Oh, and the next time Mr. Clarke tries to touch you, do aware him that I will break every single of his filthy fingers in half.”

You shudder at the cool and almost cheerful composure with which he emits the threat before sauntering out of your office.

But then he pauses at the sight of every employee hurriedly flitting to look inconspicuous and busy—you’re still reeling back from your lust-fogged mind to not really notice—and he turns to give you a dark smirk. “Perhaps I should have summoned you to my office,” he mutters, although it’s far from genuine. He raises the cigarette stick to his lips among a chuckle and struts away with no care in the world for the scandal he’s just created.

You watch his lean figure disappear within the double-black doors of his office and groan internally. Cruelle de Vil at a Christmas party is not going to turn out well…