literature

Corrupted Little Bird (Male!CruellaxReader) Pt.1

Deviation Actions

LeFantomeDancer's avatar
Published:
69.1K Views

Literature Text

*Male Cruella De Vil X Reader: Part 1*


~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!!~

~Cruella=Cruelle~


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,” your boss orders.

You cover your face with an arm. “Sir, it’s 2:30 in the morning—”

“We have a Code Red,” he cuts in, and you’re suddenly vaulted into perfect consciousness. 

You’re out of bed and scrambling to put clothes before you bother to ask, “A Code Red?! Who is it?”

“No time to explain. Get here now, (y/n).”

“I’ll be there in 10,” you say, hanging up and tossing your phone haphazardly by your purse. 

The complete lack of light prevents you from discerning the color of the blouse and pencil skirt you’re throwing on, but you could care less. There has never been a Code Red at your job—when an extremely important fashion designer personally invites themselves into your store past operating hours, most of the time to avoid publicity, other times because they’re just that self-righteous. You’ve only heard of them from other boutiques, and they were all the doing of one very, very egotistical designer, though you can’t remember his name; all you know is several people have lost their jobs because of this guy during Code Reds, and that’s not something you can afford.
 
You get into your car and speed like a madman to the store to find your boss pacing back and forth across the sales floor. 

“(Y/n)! Thank god, you’re here,” he breathes, taking you by the arm and positioning you by the entrance.

“Are they here yet?” you ask while you give your coat and purse to your boss.

“No, but he’ll be here any second.”

“So it’s a man?” The thought relaxes you somewhat—it’s just a fact that female designers were more like vipers than their male counterparts.

You hear your belongings being dumped unceremoniously inside the office. “Do not let your guard down just because he’s a man. He’s just as vicious and unforgiving than the rest, if not more,” he warns. He flits to a rack of clothes and frantically tries to make it presentable as you finally realize you dressed yourself in a (s/c) pencil skirt and a (b/c) blouse, a horribly tacky combination that makes you groan in despair. The designer’s going to give you hell for it and you know it, not that you particularly care; you only work at the boutique cause of the pay.

Outside resonates a high-pitched screech as a gaudy, glittering, black and white Panther Deville lumbers to a stop. Your already tense figure clenches at the license plate that reads “DEVIL”.

“Wait…where’s the mink coat showcase?!” your boss suddenly hisses at you. “He specifically came here to see it!”

Your panic increases. “You told me to stow in the back last night!”

The both of you jolt violently at the sound of a car door closing, and the man swoons for the fraction of a second. “Jesus Christ, don’t just stand there, (y/n)! Go get it!” He gestures sporadically to the hidden coat. The clatter of heels approaching on concrete sends you sprinting to the back, seconds later your boss managing a shaky, “Ah! Welcome, Mr. De Vil.”

There’s a long pause while you clumsily support the massive weight of the coated mannequin against your body and begin to hobble down the hallway. 

“Travis…” a languid, grating voice says. It’s clear that it’s a threatening regard to the missing item.

“The coat’s on its way now, Mr. De Vil! Don’t worry; there was just a little mix up and it was moved to the storage,” your boss replies, and you pick up your handicapped pace as fast as possible, already accepting the likelihood of being fired at this point.

“Cruelle De Vil does not wait to get what he wants, you idiot,” the designer sighs dryly and makes his way to the back despite Travis insisting for him to do otherwise, but you aren’t aware of this—you’re solely focused on getting the mannequin to the client before all hell breaks loose.

“Mr. Travis!” you call.

“(Y/n), watch where you’re going—!”

But it's too late. You stagger full force into someone with a yelp and lose your balance.

Crap, I’m gonna fall! you think in sheer panic. Suddenly the person grabs onto the coat, yanking you forward with it.

Another pause. You hold your breath at the sight of a red leather glove.

“Drop that coat, dear, and I can guarantee it will be the end of you,” the voice from before snaps.

“I-I’m sorry,” you start as you lower the mannequin onto the floor, and soon two piercing, ice blue eyes meets yours. You freeze. Beneath sharpened tips of parted hair that’s dyed black on one side and white on the other, a thin brow rises at your flustered expression. The smell of cigarette smoke and cologne slithers into your nose, but it doesn’t gain your attention, for you’re utterly stunned by this man’s inquisitive, pointed gaze. 

“Sorry…” you repeat as a whisper. 

Despite the mannequin standing at six feet, De Vil’s tall enough to stare at you over the coat, only it doesn’t feel like staring; it feels like you’re being stripped bare and your insides probed, which causes your blush to deepen. Even though the coat blocks the lower part of his face, you can actually hear his sadistic smirking. 

“As you should be, dear,” he hums, low yet very acidic. Your boss steps towards De Vil, but you don’t dare look away from the pinpoint irises that hold yours steadfast, almost as if they were analyzing your reactions. He makes a drawn out, bemused noise in his throat.

You stumble over your hushed words, “W-what is it?” then quickly adding “Sir” from the minute wrinkle that creases the plane between his brows.

Without breaking eye contact, he tilts his head back and lifts a thin, red cigarette holder to his invisible lips, inhales, and puffs out ghostly, slithering tendrils that fan over the coat and to your face. You hinder a cough in your mouth, God forbid you do so in front of him or worse, fan the smoke away.

“You don’t know who I am, do you, little bird?” he asks. Behind him your boss makes a desperate gesture to answer positively, even though he knows you don’t have the slightest clue as to who this man is, or the significant level of status he holds.

You nod in reply, eliciting a deep, grating chuckle from De Vil. He clicks his tongue alongside a wag of a gloved finger thrice. “How ugly you are when you lie,” he draws his words out and finally tears away his gaze. His entire demeanor suddenly shifts. 

“Travis!” he barks while spinning towards your boss positioned by the register. “Why isn’t this coat on me yet? Did I or did I not come all this way to try it on? I am not paying you to waste my time.”

The sweating man babbles apologetic nonsense as he struggles to compose himself. “Of course, Mr. De Vil! Right away. Uh, (y/n), be so kind as to escort our lovely client and the coat to Dressing Room B,” he says, gesturing with over-exaggerated gusto. 

With numb hands, you carry the heavy mass of mink fur to the designated room. You hang it delicately on a hook and smooth down ruffled spots just as a towering figure fills the door way. You freeze again, and stare at the reflection of Mr. De Vil, his weight resting against the door frame before he gives you a languid onceover. 

“Thank you, darling,” he gives you a cattish, mocking grin, smoke slithering between his perfect teeth. His voice…it sends chills throughout your whole body that were somehow…delicious and electrifying. Whoever this man is, his voice is like sex on velvet—impassioned, kinky, dominating sex. The kind that leaves you breathless and feeling as though you’re on the edge of oblivion.

You blush furiously at having even thought that about some random man’s voice and swallow hard to clear your mind, although it becomes filled once more when you notice his outfit. He’s wearing a fitted, red-lined vest over a white button-up shirt that clings to his broad yet slender shoulders. A studded belt holds his skin-tight leather pants up around his narrow waist to permit his audience a glimpse of crocodile skin dress shoes. You can’t help the minute, ragged exhale when you realize he’s watching you drool over him, the pale skin over his sharp jawline stretching with a smirk.

He pushes off the door frame and slowly walks up behind you with his gloved hand still elevating the smoke stick. His very presence is overwhelming. It permeates your being like the smoke that fills your lungs. You feel him in your throat, in your breasts, in your stomach, in places that were unreasonable.

Every clattering step he takes is drowned out by the throbbing of your heart in your skull—abruptly your mind begins thrusting scenarios at you, ones that include him pressing you up against the mirror with heated, sloppy kisses, or tearing your skirt off and bending you over the stool and taking you right then and there—and as if hearing your sordid thoughts, he brushes his chest against your shoulder blades and leans over till his face is an inch from yours.

“Miss (y/n)?” he whispers.

The way your name rolls off his tongue makes your knees buckle. “Yes, Mr. De Vil?”

He drifts his nose in the tendrils of (h/l) (h/c) hair by your exposed neck with an inhale. “Get out of my dressing room,” he breathes and straightens his torso just as you mechanically rush out into the hallway and close the door behind you. 

You collapse into the wall, eyes closed, struggling to steady the pants that heave your chest. Why did that man freak you out like that? Around him, it was like you knew you were automatically relinquishing all power to him, putting him in control without the slightest willpower to object.

“Well?” Travis snaps you out of your stupor. You look over at him, shameful cause you’re well aware of how disheveled you appear.
You nod to say his client is situated and walk past him en route to the bathroom to splash water on your heated face, but you’re halted in your tracks.

From Dressing Room B comes a bellowing, roaring, shriek that sounds like an enraged hell hound. Travis stares at you as you do to him, and it’s painfully obvious that you just lost your job.
Hi, again!! So first off, I will own that the idea of a genderbent Cruella De Vil was inspired by another writer, but the story line and its characters are all original Nod 

I'm not sure how long this fan fiction is going to run at the moment, but I sincerely hope you tag along with me throughout it all Hug 

Link to Part 2!!!!--->lefantomedancer.deviantart.com…

Artwork by the breathakingly talented sakimichan!! (sakimichan.deviantart.com/)
© 2015 - 2024 LeFantomeDancer
Comments58
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In