Dreams Unwind.

You can feel Tony's hand grip your ass under the hem of your skirt as you lean over the fence, trying to get a better look as the teams play on the far end of the field. Mere moments later, you feel his chest press against your back and his stubbled cheek rub yours possessively.

"You're going to make me jealous," he whispers in your ear, his free hand coming up to circle your upper arm. You know he's just itching to put that hand around your neck -- and he would be, if it wasn't for the very public place you find yourselves in.

All the while, you've only offered him a smirk in response. Everything you've done so far today, everything you continue to do, all serves only one purpose.

You eye him through the sunglasses you chose specifically to hide your eyes, then turn your attention back to the game.

You know nothing about Polo, and honestly you probably couldn't care less to learn anything about it. Hell, you've already learned something: there are horses!

You cheer, though, when it seems like Rupert has made a goal or whatever. You're not sure how points are gained. It doesn't matter. Rupert and team seem happy, so he must've hit a home run or something.

"You're such a fucking bimbo," Tony whispers behind you. "You certainly look the part. Dolled up like a fucking Barbie." He's insulting you to get your attention. You know his games better than he does, yet he hasn't caught on to yours.

The rest of the game goes on much like this. Tony attempts many methods to regain your focus. Physical affection, bribes, threats, pain. All the while you stay entirely focused on the game.

Finally, it ends, and you easily depart from Tony and run onto the field.

"Oh, Rupert. What a stunning display!" you enthuse, removing your sunglasses so that he can look you in the eye. He doesn't -- instead, his eyes rove over your body, drinking you in same as the water in his hand.

"Why, thank you," he says, beaming.

You flounce a little under his attention, beaming back even as Tony creeps up behind you. You can feel his anger in the way he holds you.

"Adequately played," he says to Rupert.

Rupert, to his benefit, doesn't seem to mind. His attention is still on you.

"Can I pet the horse?" you ask, and Rupert slides off the animal in response.

"Pet it? Would you like to ride it?"

"Ride? Oh, I couldn't!"

He waves your protest away and, with your enthusiastic consent, helps you atop the creature's back. "There you are. Absolutely perfect."

You feel quite at home in a saddle, but you dare not let the men in on that. Instead, you wobble a bit. It leads to you losing balance and slipping. Rupert comes in for the save, but Tony is there in an instant, his arms around you defensively.

Giggling, you brush yourself off and give the horse an uneasy pat. "Better I stay on the ground, I think! But thank you."

"Of course," Rupert says with a relieved grin. He takes your hand and kisses it, all under Tony's watchful gaze. "It's a pleasure to see you both."

He and Tony exchange a few tense words after that. You wander off and obtain an ice lolly to fight the heat while they talk business.

Not long after, Tony finds you and grabs you by the wrist. He's in your face a second later, glaring swords and daggers like that will do anything. "What are you doing?" he hisses.

"Eating this Jubilee," you answer easily, pulling your wrist free and taking a carefree lick.

"You make me look like a cuck when you prance around for other men's attention."

"Noooo," you say in mock sadness. "You, a cuck? No one would ever think that."

"Listen here, little bitch --"

You take the Jubilee into your mouth and stare into Tony's eyes as you do. He sputters to a stop, then groans. "Ugh. This is what you wanted."

"I like it when you get all jealous."

"You're in so much trouble when we get to your flat."

“A paid, full-time job,” you clarified, as though negotiating with a particularly dense hiring manager. “As your resident secretary. With benefits, of course. Healthcare. Regular, decent edible meals. Clothes that fit well and are comfortable. A roof over my head and a comfortable bed for the end of the day. Oh, and a matched retirement savings account, ideally. But you don’t get my soul. Unless I like my job that much post retirement. Which I currently set to be… 25 years from now.”

Silence.

Raphael stared at you, mouth slightly open, expression melted between confusion and feeling slightly insulted.

Of all the things mortals had ever asked of him—power, immortality, wealth, revenge—it was never this.

Had he known that it would be this easy, he wouldn’t have wasted all his time writing and rewriting that offer of his. He should’ve just rented a slot under the ‘jobs’ section of Baldur's Mouth!

“Well then,” Raphael said, smoothing a hand down his doublet, tone finally steadying after he forced some composure back to his voice. “I suppose… that can be arranged.”

You grinned, far too bright for someone who had just pledged to work for the devil himself. “Great! When can I start?”

His eyebrows knitted together. “Excuse me?”

“Actually, based on how deep your eyebags are,” you cut in, “I will start tomorrow. I’ll see you in the morning here!”

And before Raphael could object, you turned on your heel and left.

—

The next morning at the Devil’s Den, you arrived precisely at dawn.

Raphael arrived late. Well, to your standards.

You were already seated behind the desk.

His desk.

With three stacks of parchment, two ledgers, a freshly organized contract pile, and a color-coded system you had invented overnight.

He stopped in the doorway.

“…What in all the nine hells,” he asked slowly, “…have you done.”

“Good morning!” you chirped. “I reorganized your soul contracts alphabetically, then by benefits on your end. Do you know how many of these have clauses that cancel each other out? Also, you are double-booked to see a client and Mephistopheles today. Why did you do that?”

“That was intentional,” he said stiffly.

“It shouldn’t be.”

You handed him a neatly written itinerary.

He stared at it.

Color coded with stickers and pastel highlighters. Each of them corresponds to a specific time slots and appointments, including breaks.

“Lunch,” he read flatly. “You have scheduled lunch for me.”

“You get cranky when you don’t eat.”

“I do not get cranky.”

You offered him a grin.

Raphael felt, quite suddenly, like he was losing a battle he hadn’t agreed to fight.

“Listen here, pipsqueak. This arrangement does not grant you authority over me,” Raphael stated in annoyance, his tone was filled with a note of danger.

“Oh, of course not!” you said, waving your hand non-chalantly, already sorting papers back into their respective stacks. “But it does grant me authority over your calendar. First appointment in ten minutes. A private meeting.”

“…With whom?”

You looked up at him pleasantly.

“Why, with Haarlep, of course!”

Raphael blinked. Exasperated.

“I have no need for my incubus this early in the morning!”

“Yes you do. You reek with pent up need. If you keep ignoring yourself you will be in the worst shape you’ve ever been in when it’s time for you to receive the crown. Try not to be late. They’ve been waiting.” You winked, “Have fun!”

—