𓂃Speak your love into the waves, and may the sea echo it back forever ᝰ.ᐟ
💬 It's been 800 years. Jelly fishes are walkin naked. Sea turtles climb trees, sharks are eating grass for free and finally, finally you remembered me!
💬 I wish the person who vowed to stay by my side keeps her promise and is by my side every year. And that she shows me her world
💬 Just like you, colors have emotions too. When you're happy, your eyes have a warm glow. When you're being stubborn, you clench your fists so hard they turn red. I can't see those colors now, but I can feel them with my heart.
synopsis . In which you get fed up with Sato (fratjo) for playing around with you and unintentionally get involved with his identical twin brother Toru (nerdjo), not knowing they’re simply two sides of the same coin.
content . afab!reader, porn with decent plot, messy relationship(s), fratjo’s an asshole in the beginning, bluntness, pervy!nerdjo, eventual threesome, degrading, oral sex, first time squirting & then doing it multiple times, getting caught, surprising dynamics, praise, pussy slapping, getting put in a headlock, confessions, filthy dirty talk, jealousy, marathon sex (gulp), spit, slightly bimbo!reader, choking, nerdjo is feral, full nelson, edging, getting passed around, frajo’s a voyeur, filth, slight angst, cum eating/swallowing, some cuckholding(?), masturbation, a silly ending, etc.
word count . 11.4k | author's note: this ended up being wayyyy longer than i initially thought it would be and it’s overly freaked the fuck out. hope you enjoy!! banner art by Rororogi Mogera. (not proofread—sorry in advance, truly)
In your defense, you didn't think he would care.
Sato Gojo—esteemed member of Sigma Chi, infamously known for his commitment issues, and noted to be the campus playboy—was the last person you thought would care about you sleeping with his twin brother.
Hell, he's also the last person who expected that same brother to be able to get this far with you. Toru is the shyest, dorkiest, and nerdiest part of the Gojo family, what could he possibly have done to catch your eye?
Sato had done his best to keep you away from and unaware of his six-second-younger brother's existence too. Yet somehow, here he is walking in on the two of you fucking in his bed.
Less upset at the sight and more confused, the only thing he wants to know is... what the fuck led up to this pairing?
——
For months and months prior to that, it'd been the same thing between you and Sato.
“She doesn’t mean anything to me, baby. You know you’re my favorite,” He’d say, cooing you with that manipulatively charming voice of his after you’d asked him about yet another woman he was talking to.
You weren't sure why you kept going back to him. He never told you how he felt about you unless he was inside you—and even then you’re certain those feelings were all sex-based and moderately untrue.
Yet something about him kept drawing you back in.
And if you had to guess what exactly it was...
“Fuuck, y’like that don’t you?” He’d groan, having one big hand clasped around your throat as he plowed you into the mattress. Sato rarely ever took his time during sex, too eager to make sure you cum & keep up his reputation of being a good fuck. “Like the way my cock kisses that sweet spot, huh?”
The rhythmic sound of his pelvis smack smack smacking! against your ass echoes throughout the room at a pitch almost louder than your sapped moans. “Mhmm,” You'd hummed in response, fingernails dug into the bedsheets below.
You couldn't bring yourself to think about all the other women that's been in this same exact position before you when his cock was far too busy gliding in and out of your soaking pussy. The same sheets your fingers are clawing at is also clasped in between your teeth tightly, drool wetting up the fabric pathetically due to how good you felt.
Only to be rudely interrupted by his hand gripping at your neck tighter and then tugging the upper half of your body allll the way up—his chest pressing into your back while his dick massages the gushiest spot inside you. “Don’t do that,” Sato huffs with that shit-eating grin on his face, “Speak up, pretty girl. I couldn't hear you.”
“Uhuhh, yes,” You pant, tongue beginning to dangle out of your mouth all whorishly, “I love it, Sato.”
Cocky like always, he'd let off that amused scoff and then nip at your ear playfully, “Yeahh, I know you do. Jus’ can’t get enough of me.”
Thinking back again, he had the biggest ego you’d ever seen.
Sato was tenderly humping the rest of his thick cock into you while you were nice and close, just to realize after the first few thrusts that you were trying to inch yourself away from him—your moans getting airier by the second.
His smile widened, “Hah, where’re you goin’?” He'd only made you cum three times since the two of you got here. Surely that wasn't enough to have you acting like this already. “Look at you, trying to run from me now," Sato scoffed with faux bitterness.
You barely got a moment to process what he was doing before you choked.
Warm lips pressing against your ear, “C’mon, I jus’ want one more outta’ you,” He purred, his arm slow to wrap around your neck while his bulking muscles pressed into the center of your throat. Whatever oxygen was on its way to your head all but died out as the man put you into a bullying chokehold and then flexed.
Your cunt squeaked juicily around him and his cockhead nudged in deeper because of the hold he had on you, otherwise rendering your body unable to escape.
That was one of many reasons why you always ran back to him. If Sato Gojo didn't know how to do anything else right, he damn sure knew how to fuck.
“Mhmm, that’s it, baby." His voice was huskier against your eardrums now and you felt your body shuddering with a sense of numbness as something slicker oozed around his shaft. "Take that fuckin’ cock—juuust like that.”
His thrust became slower while he held you in place and you'd never felt so full in your life. It wasn't until he suddenly snapped up into you that all air left your lungs and your eyes crossed.
Whatever sound you let out was beyond pathetic and only followed by a desperate, “S’too much,” that he could barely hear.
Rolling his eyes, he repeated the motion a few more times at a steady pace, letting you adjust to being arched and folded up how he wants you. “My dramatic girl, acting like you haven't been taking it just fine," He reminded you.
You almost believed him for a moment there until his free hand came snaking around your torso to press against your lower abdomen—right over the bulge his fat cock had created against your skin—and applying an egregious amount of pressure.
“M’gonna cum, Sato,” You cried out as his fingers slithered down to nudge against your clit. Never a firm rub or anything like that since he felt like his cock alone was enough to work what he wanted out of you.
He’d smile all victoriously and whisper, “That's it? Don't tell me you're still too scared to squirt on me?”
Truth be told, that was the one thing he couldn’t do for some reason.
He never said anything but he thinks maybe you’re just one of those women who need a little more effort put into in order to make you squirt. More effort of which he damn sure doesn’t feel like putting in.
Four orgasms in a row? That’s fine, he can do that no problem. Making you squirt? As badly as he wants to deep down inside, he just can’t.
You ended up leaving a creamy mess around his cock but it's not the spurting stream of wetness he was hoping for. After letting you tremble out of your high, he's slow with the way he unwraps his arms from around you.
You fall forward onto the bed and let out a heavy breath before smiling wearily in relief. No other guy on campus ever managed to make you cum even once so of course you didn't think much of the fact that Sato couldn't make you squirt.
Hell, you were unknowingly on the same page with him—thinking you might've needed extra effort put in for that kinda release. Which was fine, you didn't need that much from him. The fact that he could make you cum back to back was more than enough in your book.
Not his though.
Sato hated it. He hated how he couldn't make you squirt—the fact burned at his ego and wounded his pride greatly. He's made other women do it so he doesn't understand what the problem is. There were some nights where he wondered if maybe he was doing something wrong with you. Or maybe you'd found someone else who could—
He unknowingly scoffs at his thoughts, shuffling out of the bed and swiping up the nearest clean sweats to slip into. Who was he kidding? There isn't one other person on campus you'd go to over him.
And if he couldn't make you squirt, he knows there's no one else that could.
Amid his deep thoughts, you happen to look over and catch the way those white brows of his are neatly knitting together. He didn't even realize how his true feelings on the matter were written all over his face.
Your eyes had ran over him a couple times, pondering on all the scratch marks in various places. Places that your hands haven't touched.
And that's how the routine was with the two of you; high tension all throughout the day, let him fuck you 'til all your senses went numb, and then fade into quietness with little to talk about since Sato doesn't deem it necessary to get close with you in that way.
When you catch the way he's dragging his feet around the room, trying to clean the mess of clothes you two made prior to getting in the bed, your brows lifts with curiosity. Asking gently, "Hey, are you alright?"
Sato hums without turning around to you, running his a hand through his hair as if stressed out. "Yeah, m'fine." He grunts, glancing over at you after and adding a slightly comforting, "Are you?"
You nod in response to him and he stares for a moment longer than necessary, still deep in his thoughts about something he surely wasn't sharing with you anytime soon.
Why would he? You didn’t need to know that he was beating himself up over something so stupid. He’s well aware that he’s the best guy to ever sleep with you so, opening up to you about something so trivial wasn’t in his character.
There’d been jokes and banter between the two of you before—obviously—but it never went any further than that. The moment things threatened to dip into something real, something more tender or honest, Sato would shut it down with quick precision.
Which is exactly why you didn't try pressing for more of this dry conversation. Instead, you silently watched him tug a shirt over his head and then head over to the nightstand for his phone.
He's busy texting someone for a bit before he releases a huff and turns his head to see the way you've been quietly watching him, "Did you want me to run you a bath or—"
"No, no, I told you, I'm fine," You unintentionally cut off.
You weren't sure where the awkwardness had come from but it wasn't completely unwelcome since there was clearly something he wasn't telling you. You saw it in the way he pouted all grumpily just before looking at you.
Whatever was on his mind had to be eating him up on the inside.
Not that the frown pushed you to ask him anything else though. You ended up turning over and rolling off is bed a few minutes later to gather your things and leave, to which he'd peacefully helped you with.
Then Sato escorted you all the way out of his maze-like home and was "kind" enough to give you a kiss on the forehead before sending you off.
Little things like that always caught you off guard. Your heart would do that weird thing in your chest as you wondered if there was a possibility of experiencing more than just hook-ups with the man.
Though, reality is quick to slap you back to your senses when you see him with his arm around some other woman the next day while on your way to class.
You knew better than to get emotionally attached to Sato Gojo. Everyone did.
——
Some days later is when shit decides to hit the fan between you two.
It happens so randomly that you almost feel as though you dreamt the whole thing up. The day starting with him texting you to come over that night and somehow ending with you in thwarted tears.
In all the time you spent with Sato, there'd never been a moment where he was blatantly selfish. Something of which surprised you in the beginning of your relationship since he was known to be a fuckboy.
Yet, ending up in his bedroom for the nth time, as his thumb rubbed at your clit with unsteady, jerky motions, appearing otherwise annoyed about something—Sato had been selfish for the first time with you.
Foreplay was skipped entirely and you should've known something was up from that alone.
The most you got out of him prior to being stripped of your clothing was a messy kiss and a barely audible, "Need somethin' from you, baby," grunted into your mouth.
Then you were being carried all the way up to his bedroom, handled frustratedly down into the mattress, and soon fucked at a rate you weren't used to.
His thrusts were sloppy and needy, voice quiet since he didn't bother talking you through it or saying anything at all, and the only thing with a sense of normalcy to it was the way his thumb nudged over your clit as his cock dove in and out of you.
Midway through, you assumed he just had a bad day or something. Figured he wanted to take some of that stress out on you.
And that wasn't out of the ordinary for him, it's happened more often than not.
But as his thumb drew desperate circles around your twitching bud, Sato's cock twitched and he pulled out the moment you were about to cum. You were too dazed by his abrupt action that you nearly missed the way he stroked himself into finishing on your stomach and then scoffed. Bitterly.
Your eyes were glossed over since the taste of your own orgasm had been right there on the tip of your nerves, stripped away from you faster than you could blink.
Whatever had been bothering him about having sex with you was felt before it was understood.
He was already turning away by the time you pushed yourself to sit up, the sheets gliding down your arms as you watched him with wide, teary eyes. The room felt ten times quieter than it normally did. You saw how he crossed the room as if nothing had happened—as if this was just another unremarkable moment to be shrugged off.
"Sato," You say, his name tripping in your throat on the way out.
Only then did he pause, fingers curled around his drawer handle. Not sparing you a glance back, "What." he breathed out.
It was hardly even a response, more of a wall you'd audibly stumbled into. You'd never heard his voice so dull and flat with you.
Swallowing down whatever confusing emotions were building up in your throat, "Did I, um... did I do something wrong?"
Somehow that gets his attention. He glances back over his shoulder then, expression insipid and eyes casting over you all bored-like. "Don't start that," He said, irritation weaving into his voice, "You're overthinking shit already."
Your mouth opens to say something but it's like you'd been slapped in the face, leading your lips to seal shut for a second. His words were too heavy for you, coming off with weighted dismissiveness.
After a few beats, your words trail out slowly, "Sorry I'm a little confused, Sato. You asked me to come over for that..?"
He exhaled sharply, like the question itself had tired him, "What else do I ever call you over for?"
Something shrewd twisted in your chest, "Certainly not whatever the fuck that was just now."
Sato finally turned more fully and leaned back against his dresser, crossing his arms and letting his eyes meet yours firmly. "You sound upset."
"I feel used," You'd snapped back immediately.
His brow twitched, "'Cause I didn't make you cum?"
Again, the words came off blunt and careless.
Leading you to flinch internally, "I mean—yeah," You said as a humorless breath tiptoed out, "You normally do."
"Well, I didn't feel like it today. M'spent." He scoffed out.
It was almost as if that was supposed to be an explanation for everything.
You stared at him and felt the way your disbelief began to fade into something of anger, "You could've told me that."
"Would that have made you feel any better?" Every response came out of him like he'd rehearsed the entire conversation beforehand.
"We could've done something different," Your hands began to curl into the sheets a little, trying to steady yourself. "I could've-"
"I didn't want anything different." Sato cut off crisply.
You'd never been so utterly confused in your life. Everything was fine before this—for the most part—so what had come over him all of a sudden? Why was he acting like this?
The finality in his statement only made your stomach drop, your head shaking slowly in disbelief, "...So you wanted to use m-"
"No, sweetheart," The pet name sounds empty on his tongue, lacking its usual affection. "I wanted you to see how it feels to get into something thinking things are going to go like they always do, just to feel disappointed by the end."
The next sound that spreads throughout the room is your laughter as it exits you in incredulous fashion, "Sato, what the fuck are you talking about?"
He dragged a hand through the white tuffs of his hair, pacing only once before coming to a stop. "You..." Letting his words trail off, he released a long and stressed-out sigh, "Every woman I've been with has never had the problem you do."
That hits you square in the chest.
Head cocking back as you frown with immediate offense flaring over, "Excuse me? Are you... are you talking about squirting, Sato? You can't be serious."
"I am," He said without hesitation. "If it's just something you can't do, I'd rather you tell me than making me look like an idiot when we fuck."
"What?" Your eyes narrowed as your anger bled into something strictly hurt. "I... I'm sure I can. Maybe we're just doing something wro-"
"We?" Sato cuts you off instantly. Then his tone seemed firmer and you knew he didn't think things through when he said, "No, no, you've got shit backwards here. I can assure you I'm not doing anything wrong, that's all you."
Something inside you finally boiled over.
"All me?" You scoffed, pushing yourself out of the bed. The cold air wrapping itself around you felt like even more of a wake-up call than what he'd just said. "Oh, sorry for not being like all the other twenty girls you sleep with."
Grabbing your clothes with uncoordinated and janky movements after wiping away any lingering trace of what had happened, you subconsciously wished you could've erased the moment entirely from start to finish. Your hands trembled as you got dressed, seemingly more from the heated emotions waving through you than the embarrassment.
Sato stiffened upon hearing your words. For the first time—probably in his life—his confidence had cracked. "Shit—wait," He rushed out, trying to step towards you and stop you from leaving.
It was almost like he himself wasn't aware of how severely fucked up his actions and words were.
His hand reached out for your arm, "I-I didn't mean it like that, c'mon. I just—"
"Save it, asshole." You spat back at him, shoving his hand out the way and storming out his room before giving him a chance to say anything else.
He'd said more than enough to have your vision blurry and heart pounding in your chest as if pained.
The hallway was dim, your footsteps quickened to carry you as far away from him as possible, and your emotions buzzed all too loudly in your ears for you to think straight. You think you hear something clash against the wall back in Sato's room but you ignore it.
You're so wrapped up in your feelings that you're not even paying attention to where you're going. You only made it a few steps down the hall before you collided with something solid.
Someone solid.
Gasping as you stumble back, a pair of hands come up to steady you. "Ah, sorry," a voice hums out to you. The sound is soft as it reverberates throughout the hallway but your chest feels as though it's caving inwards since the guy in front of you sounded exactly like Sato.
There was a pitch of unfamiliarity in it, though. One that made you look up.
For a moment, you thought maybe you'd fallen off the bed earlier and that everything thus far had been some type of hallucination because surely Sato wasn't standing right in front of you right now.
...Except, with glasses? And a dorkier look in his eyes?
With the same snowy white hair, the same perfectly sharp jawline—that's somehow a tad softer—and the same dazzling blue eyes, he stared at you all longingly as if an angel had fallen right into his arms or something. The only difference between him and his brother being the black glasses sitting center on the bridge of his nose.
Despite the hallway's lack of lighting, you swear you see his cheeks flush with red as the moment of exchanged staring passes.
Prior to this, you'd only ever heard rumors of Sato having a twin brother but you never once imagined those would turn out to be true. The man's eyes widen slightly as he really looks at you, confusion flickering across his face whilst he takes in your flushed skin, the way your clothes are hanging off of you as though you'd rushed to put them all, and how your eyes are somberly glossed over.
"I-," You try to blink that wetness out of your gaze and then clear your throat. "Sorry, I wasn't watching where I was going."
"It's fine," He replies as he thoughtlessly continues to hold onto your arms. Then, uncertainly, "You're... Sato's, uh—"
"Sato's what?" You cut off harsher than you meant to.
There was no way he was about to refer to you as that asshole's girlfriend or anything like that, right?
His mouth visibly goes taut, realizing he was about to step into something fragile. Instead of responding, he just stands there awkwardly enough to piss you off even more.
Groaning, you push past him and continue storming down the hall. You didn't have time for whatever that was about to turn into.
Unbeknownst to you, he'd stood there and watched as you walked away—cursing himself out for letting his opportunity to talk to you pass him by like that. He'd known who you were for months prior to this. Out of all the women Sato brought over, you were the only one Toru took a genuine interest in.
It's unfortunate for him that Sato's a stingy asshole who doesn't care to introduce the two of you. Because of that, Toru had to go out of his way just to get glimpses of your personality.
He was always home when Sato brought you over, always in his room that's just one wall over while the two of you fucked—listening and secretly getting off to those gorgeous moans you let off. Toru knew it was perverted of him to do so, but he truly couldn't help himself.
Now here he is with sagging shoulders at the fact that he totally fucked up his first interaction with you.
He heard the whole argument between you and his brother and came out into the hallway hoping to come to your rescue or at least cheer you up, even if only for a second. Yet, all he managed to do was piss you off with his awkwardness and lack of confident social skills.
After a few minutes, Toru straightens up and settles his jaw in a way that says he'd made some type of silent decision. That wasn't going to be the last time he interacted with you—no matter how badly his brother fucked up—he knew you'd be back eventually.
As he turns back to his room, he promises to himself that next time he sees you, he won't hesitate or fumble things with you.
——
A few weeks pass before anything else noteworthy occurs.
In that time, things between you and Sato remain rocky, to say the utmost least. Conversations between the two of you were more careful, apologies came far slower than they should've, and some semblance of trust had been rebuilt in uneven steps.
Sometimes he was sweet and more attentive than he had been before that big argument, kinda like he was afraid it'd happen again. Other times he'd slip up and those old habits would seep through, any excuse he gave you dressed up charmingly enough for you to ultimately end up forgiving him again.
The fact that you both were trying had to be enough to count for something, otherwise the two of you were better off calling it quits months ago.
Somewhere in the middle of that relationship, Toru became familiar to you. You went out of your way to see him whenever you visited the Gojo estate, even if you were only there for Sato.
He was almost always cooped up in his room, drowning himself in his studies—textbooks stacked neatly on his desk, handwritten notes color-coded and meticulously organized.
It wasn't long before you realized he and his brother were complete opposites. Where Sato excelled in partying and socializing, Toru peaked in academics and hobbies that were far more niche.
You remember poking your head into his room one time to say hi and catching him lost in Digimon reruns with strategy guides pulled up on his nearby laptop. He was so engrossed in it that he hadn't even heard you saying something to him.
Situations like that are what got the two of you to be something close to friends.
Though, you still didn't know him any more than you knew Sato. You were still kept at an arm's length from either of their personalities beyond what was noticeable. Sato made sure of that where both he and his twin were concerned.
While he did soften up with you, he still wasn't interested in keeping you that close—not close enough to know him. And he damn sure wouldn't let you go off and try to find that in Toru.
Anytime you and the nerdier Gojo sibling were alone, Sato was intruding minutes later. Always interrupting.
Even when you ran into Toru on campus.
One time when you found him outside the library, standing near a vending machine and ran up to talk to him, Sato seemed to spawn out of thin air with his arm around you is if to silently tell his brother to fuck off.
You weren't sure what had gotten into him as far as that was concerned. He didn't care when you talked to anyone else.
This was but another unfortunate thing for you since you were quite fond of Toru. He remembered little things about you; your major, your favorite cafe, and even your preferred place to sit in lecture halls.
If you asked Sato questions about any of those things, he'd probably shrug and ask you why any of it matters in the first place.
But you bet that dick for brains could tell you which position makes you cum the fastest...
It's regrettably because of that as to why you're currently standing at the large front doors to his home, having rung the bell only a few seconds ago due to an earlier text requesting you come over.
In said text, Sato promised that he only wanted to talk to you and you chose to believe him.
Just for Toru to swing the door open with a surprised look on his face.
"Oh, hey." He began, pushing his glasses further up on his face so that he could get a proper look at you. "If you're looking for Sato, he's not here. I actually think he's been gone for the past three hours or so."
Disappointment settles into you and you roll your eyes, already annoyed. "Of course he has," You sigh.
Toru offers you a half-comforting grin before stepping back a bit and opening the door wider for you, "He'll probably be back soon though, if you wanna come in?"
You debated leaving but the prospect of being able to spend some alone time with Toru is what swayed you into staying.
Which is how you ended up in their living room.
The rest of the house was quieter than Sato ever allowed it to be. There was no music blaring, none of his restless pacing or constant yammering about fuck knows what. The only thing heard was the low hum of the TV ahead of you and Toru.
He'd put on a movie a few minutes ago and although you'd agreed to watch it with him, you kept glancing towards the front door hoping to see Sato walk in any moment now.
It never happens.
Sitting on the opposite ends of the couch, you and Toru are steady to find comfort in one another's presence. You eventually let yourself focus on what he'd put on, snorting whenever he laughed at the unfunniest bits of it and finding yourself mused by the easiness of it all.
You noticed how Toru also tried to sneak his eyes onto you here and there, lacking that smoothness his slightly older brother had and always catching your attention when he did it.
The two of you even shared those warm moments where you'd catch him staring and then whisper, "What, is something on my face?"
To which he'd swallow thickly and shake his head, "No, not at all. Sorry..."
His shyness is probably what drew you in the most about him. You loved how often he avoided eye contact with you, how gentle his voice always came out, and the way he'd begin to adjust himself against the couch due to the smallest of things.
The night was going well enough for you to forget all about—
Your phone rang and Sato's name was lighting up your screen.
At the sight, your shoulders went tense and you were unsure if you should answer it or not. Toru looked over at you but he didn't say anything.
The movie continued to play ahead as you picked up the phone and quietly spoke to Sato, "What?"
Whatever was said to you on the other end made your jaw clench—something of which Toru noted instantly. He didn't mean to be nosy but it was hard not to when minutes passed and you were clearly getting frustrated about your conversation.
"You sound drunk," You're heard muttering, making Toru's ears perk up and then strain to hear more.
Sato is just barely heard grumbling in response, "M'not drunk, baby."
Your shoulders slump, "Did you even mean to text me?"
There's a long pause. Toru tenses up and Sato's heard burping.
"I texted you?" The man on the phone asks, making your entire mood sink. "Hahhh, fuck. I don' remember doing that.. What uh, what'd I say?"
"You said you needed to talk." You reply rigidly.
He nods even though you can't see him, "Ah... I mean, I do need to talk to you but," Pausing to grumble, "Don't see why I didn't jus' call.. Anyway, s-so yesterday I was with this girl 'n she said m'not doin' anything wrong."
His early attempt at trying to convince you he wasn't drunk fell flat in that instant. You stare into space for a moment, "What?"
"Remember how we got into it about your squirting problem?" Sato blurts out in response.
You could feel yourself getting irritated with him all over again. You hated the way he said that like it was truly an issue on your end alone, even though the two of you have talked about it after the argument.
"My squirting problem? You mean the fact that you can't get me there?" You snapped back, matching his energy for just a second and unintentionally gaining the dull attention of his nosy brother.
At this point, you don't think you cared whether or not he overheard.
"No, no, I cannnn..." Sato drags out drunkenly. Then you hear this giggle in the background before he adds, "This girl told me it really is you 'n not me. Because like-"
You hang up the phone before he can continue.
The last thing you wanted to do was entertain whatever the fuck he was about to tell you for any longer than you had to. Your phone falls down into your lap and you feel it buzzing a few seconds later but you only swipe it back up to silence it entirely.
After which, the room falls into a thick quietness that swallows up both you and Toru. Even the movie playing ahead had switched to a soundless scene that only added to the shift in moods.
A few minutes of this stillness pass before you feel the weight on the other side of the couch shifting. Your eyes flick over and you see him readjusting himself in his seat.
You don't question it nor say anything but his sudden movements do manage to pull you out of your funk for a second. Ignoring it, you pick your phone back up to see that Sato had texted you a bunch of gibberish—the only sensible message you can make out being one of him begging you to text or call back.
As soon as you start typing, his twin decides to clear his throat again.
“I mean, it can’t be that hard.” Toru says all timidly, his words catching enough to snag your attention away from your phone.
Your thumb goes idle against the screen and you look up at him to see his cheeks colored over with bright red. He was looking off to his left and you could tell by the rapid rise and fall of his chest that his breathing had gone off-track.
Clearly, he hadn’t meant to say that out loud.
You chuckle as if intrigued by his words, humming, “Your brother said the same thing."
Toru scoffs and then speaks without thinking again, “He doesn’t care enough.”
Cocking a brow, “Doesn’t care enough to make me squirt?” You ask.
The sound of the man’s breath hitching was clearer than the dense tension between you both. “Obviously not,” Toru continues, lifting two slim fingers up to the center of his glasses to adjust them against his nose. “If he did, he would’ve made sure you… uh, did that.”
Never would you have expected to have this kind of conversation with the same man who can barely look you in the eye. But it was clear something had changed. Even in his body language, you saw how he'd sat up a bit straighter against the couch and let his legs sprawl out wider—almost invitingly so.
He was still avoiding your gaze but the sturdiness in his voice is what intrigued you the most.
“Did what, Toru? Say it,” You pressed, putting your phone down and turning on the couch to face him fully.
You watched as his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat with the way he gulped thickly. “He would’ve uhm..." Toru pauses to take a deep breath—mentally reminding himself that he swore not to embarrass himself in front of you again—and then clears his throat one more time, "He would've made sure you squirted.”
Too shy to look at you just yet, he misses how the look in your eyes changes entirely. It was like seeing him in a new light.
Not that you hadn't thought about it before. He does look exactly like Sato and there's been a few times where you've wondered what it'd be like to be the cause of his glasses going crooked 'n foggy.
Biting back a smile, “Well, he makes me cum a lot.” You explain to him casually. Certainly Toru wouldn't have started talking to you about this if he didn't at least have some advice for you, “Like, back to back.”
He nods, nimble fingers fidgeting over one another in his lap, “Then, he just doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
You bat your lashes at him all cluelessly, “But—“
“As I said the first time,” Toru looks at you all of a sudden, his eyes mildly terrified behind his frames despite the attempt of confidence spreading over his face. There was a devilishly sexy blend of sureness and hesitancy plastered all over his features, “It can’t be that hard.”
The direct eye contact and few inches of space between where you two were sitting made everything feel hot all of a sudden. Blush melts itself into his skin again and it was clear that this initiated flirting of his was a first time thing.
You knew Toru found you intimidating and that subconsciously accepted fact only made you want to see more. More of your affect on him.
Sliding closer to him on the couch, your voice slyly dips into something more taunting, “You sound like you wanna try.”
Watching the way his jaw flexes, teeth tightly gritted within his mouth, and throat struggling to conceal the high-pitched sound that threatened to jump out of him—your affect on the man was as clear as day.
Somehow, Toru manages to maintain his confident facade, “Would you let me if I did?”
“Do you?” You ask quicker than he expects you to.
His head felt like it was spinning already. Is this what it's like to do drugs? Does his brother get to experience this all the time?
Toru gulps again, “Do I.. what?”
Now he was playing dumb on purpose, as if he wasn't the one who commenced this whole thing with his earlier statement.
Which makes you giggle, “You’re the smartest guy I know, Toru." Your compliment makes his heart skip a few beats. Then your head tilts and your tone softens, "Don’t start acting dumb just to appeal to me.”
He bats those pretty white lashes at you with his eyes all doe-like on you for a moment before he looks down, “I just… I wanted to hear you say it.”
You stand up from the couch all of a sudden and he freezes up. Then you walk over and stand right in between his legs, moving a hand to his chin and forcing his head up. “Do you wanna try making me squirt?”
Toru shakes his head and your brows furrow. His face nuzzles into your hand, forcing it to spread open as his cheek presses into your palm, “It’s not something to be tried, it’s just something I can do for you.” He explains.
Your thumb brushes against his cheek and his glasses slip down his nose a bit. Smiling, “Someone's confident.”
He merely whispers, “‘Can’t be that hard.”
——
Ten minutes later and you're wondering why he wasn't the first Gojo twin you met.
Loong fingers stretching your pussy out crudely, hot tongue attacking your clit like he wanted to lick you into numbness, and eyes still doe-like as they remain glued up on your face—Toru was nothing like his slightly older brother.
No, no, he aimed not only to please but to learn how you like to be pleased.
Whereas Sato would just sleep with you the same way he did with anyone else—beyond confident in his own abilities to bring a woman pleasure—Toru was the kinda man who took his time to work you up specifically.
“Taste s’good,” He praised in a tone deeper than you knew to be capable from him. You were laying across the couch now and he was stuffed neatly in between your legs. Whining, “More,” as he tugged at your thighs, his jaw going slack, and his mouth smearing against your cunt. “Gimme’ more—mmpfh. Please?"
You weren't sure what more he could be referring to when his fingertips were already twirling something sinful against your g-spot. You had a hand buried into his hair, your other behind you as you held onto the couch to steady yourself with the way he feasted on you as if your pussy was the best thing to wet up his tongue.
“Ah, T-Toru, fuck!” You cried out, unconsciously pulling away from him when his fingers focused in deep against that soppy spot—addicted to the way your slick gushed out around his hand and left a sweet mess against the couch.
His fingers leave your insides for only a second and a half before he's shoving them into his mouth to suck the taste off. Toru's eyes rolled back for a moment before he let both of his hands redirect to your inner thighs and then spread you out wider just so nothing was obstructing your view of the way he sloppily kissed your cunt.
Small strings of aroused filth would hang in between his mouth and your puffy pussylips, all of which would get licked off by his eager tongue before he dove back in for more.
Before you'd let him make his way down there, you recall the way he oh-so-awkwardly kissed you. He hardly had a clue what to do with his tongue when it was against yours but now that he was in between your legs, he became an entirely different person.
Suckling the dewy tastes into his mouth and guzzling it down his throat just to let it linger, Toru was nothing short of desperate to make you feel good. So much so that his brain practically turns off as he moves his hands to grip your hips and then lifts the lower half of your body up against his face.
His mouth nuzzled harder against you and you felt the wiggling tip of his tongue slap against your clenching walls. He softly humped the couch as he ate you out, letting the sounds of your moans coax him into giving you everything he could.
Toru only pulled away from your cunt when his glasses fogged up too much for him to see your face. And before you could offer to wipe them off or anything, you met his gaze with the way his head angled for you to do so.
His voice deep and aching, “Sit on my face,” He requested before whining again. “Pleasepleaseplease,” the man panted almost puppy-like and then seared his next words right into your clit with the edge of his tongue, “Need it s’bad.”
You don't think you had it anywhere in you to deny him when he was asking so nicely like that.
But by the time the two of you had flipped over and you were left hovering over his pleasantly flushed face—his shaky hands tight against your hips—you were a little too nervous to sit down.
Toru had caught his breath by now but nothing about his starved appetite had changed. Those previously soft blue eyes of his seemed to pierce straight through you in a way that Sato's sometimes would. You know they're twins and all but fuck, it was nerve-wracking to experience that hungry look from the alleged "shy" twin.
“Ride it," Toru husked out all of a sudden, giving your body the faintest pull.
Your eyes went all wide, “…Your mouth?”
Instead of clarifying things or being patient with you, he snatches your frame down with a strength you didn't know he possessed. Moaning before your core even reaches his lips again, “Want you to feed your pussy to me.”
Then he was practically suctioned to you again, eyes rolling back far enough for the whites to be visible beneath the foggy frames of his glasses.
“Ohfuck,” You cry out, the upper half of your body slumping forward a bit as your thighs squeeze around his head.
You felt the way Toru smiled at the feeling, almost like he was exactly where he'd wanted to be. His tongue skated up into you with a vigor you'd never felt before.
The man ate pussy like he wanted the results of your release plastered all over those pretty glasses of his, leaving him with sogged vision and a numbed tongue. It was yet another thing that made him so much different than his brother because although that man had stamina like no other and knew how to use his cock, he never once ate you out.
Meanwhile Toru couldn’t seem to get enough.
He even left a needy smack to your ass, encouraging you to do as he initially asked of you and ride his face. It wasn’t until his tongue was constantly plunging past your glissading folds that you unconsciously rolled your hips forward and earned a whimper from him in response.
Then the hands on your hips began to tug at you again, not even begging you for more but demanding it now.
You could no longer focus on the way he looked with splashes of your slick spread out on his glasses in nasty droplets since the tip of his nose had bumped up against your clit, and his jaw went slack just to adhere to your drooling nerves.
The sensation made your entire body flinch, but he wouldn’t let you pull up. For the nth time, you were stunned by Toru’s strength.
His tongue was thick and gathering against your pussy, not letting a singular drop of your taste escape his mouth until something light ghosted out of you.
“S-Something feels-, nngh,” Your struggles were just the cutest thing. “Different.” You tried to warn him.
His head tilted slightly and you felt his lips curve against you again as he smiled knowingly. Plucking his mouth away from you for the first time in forever with a wet pop!, Toru let his warm breath pat your quivering hole as he whispered, “It’s supposed to feel different, sweet girl. That’s what happens when you come to the right twin.”
Cocky. You never knew Toru had that in him—must be a trait that runs into family.
Except, it’s not like he was wrong. Once he lathered his tongue back in and sucked on your cunt like it was the only thing keeping him sane, you felt that coiling burn building up inside you. You knew you were gonna squirt despite never experiencing it before.
But it felt like too much, made you feel dirty as you neared that shattering edge. So much so that you tried so hard to snatch yourself away from Toru, whining excessively only for each sound to fall on completely deaf ears.
Your legs had clamped around his head so tight that he was getting lightheaded from his lack of oxygen—not that he cared. He had one singular goal and nothing was gonna stop him from reaching it.
It wasn’t long before it happened as his complimenting moans turned into graveling groans. The sounds vibrated against your pussy and you were tongue-fucked right into something blissful. Bleary white streaks coated your vision and you think you would’ve fallen over if not for the mean grasp he had on you.
Toru had done it, he managed to make you squirt.
By the time your brain feels like it’s functioning enough to hold a conversation, you let your vision come back to you and look down to see his soaked face.
His eyes are dazed whilst they peer up at you, appreciation swirling through his pupils. Those same glasses you’ve managed to squirt over are now crooked and you wonder if that’s from the way you unconsciously started rutting your hips forward just a few minutes ago.
Toru didn’t do anything but pant heavily—his breath stuttering here and there due to how long he went without breathing properly. When he finds the energy to send you another boyish grin, you feel a wave of embarrassment flutter over.
“Shit,” You huff, slowly moving from over his face and then grabbing his glasses.
With his face revealed, you saw how unfairly pretty he was with content written into his skin.
Then he chuckles softly, “You don’t have t’clean those.” Toru tells you, tone mumbled.
You were trying to wipe his glasses off with your shirt but he’d moved his hand to your wrist to stop you.
“I like the mess,” he added.
After which you’re stuck staring at him while he takes the wet glasses out of your hand and puts them back on his face. Surely there’s some hygienic concerns to take into consideration here but he’s not at all worrying about that right now.
Not with the painfully hard cock he’s got twitching in between his legs.
He wasn’t gonna tell you out of fear you’d assume he was some kinda loser (he is) but, not only did he cum half-way through eating you out, he also got hard again when that messy stream came pouring out of you.
Toru’s never made a woman squirt before but he did study enough videos to—clearly—figure out how it’s done. He didn’t think it would work so easily with you since all he had to use was his tongue but considering the way you just-
“Can you do that again?” Your voice hits his ears all of a sudden and his eyes widen.
“W-What?” Toru chokes, “You uh, you want me to make you squirt again?”
You nod and then move to sit back a little, not exactly in his lap but still close enough for your body heat to mingle. Your finger trails down the center of his torso slowly as you speak, “It felt really good. I wanna do it again,” You requested almost innocently. “But, on your cock this time.”
He doesn’t know how he managed not to cum at the sound of that.
Toru knew you were bold, he knew you could be a bit of a ditz at time, but fuck—did you have any idea of the things you were asking for sometimes?
Mustering up that faux confidence from before, he leans up and hums. “Alright, yeah… I can do that.” He thinks. Not that he’ll admit his lack of assuredness to you though. His hands simply move against your body and you hardly realize what’s going on until he’s swooped you up in his arms. “But not here.”
You blink dumbfoundedly, “Why not?”
“I have a better idea.”
——
When he said that, you didn’t think the better idea in question would be having sex in his brother’s room.
You recognized the path there as Toru carried you, felt the familiarity when he laid you down on the bed, and smelled the same scent of Sato lingering around even as Toru tried to distract you with kisses.
It seemed to be surprise after surprise with this man.
“I think after all the times I’ve had to hear the two of you fuck,” Toru’s hands were running down your body—his touch smoother than his brother’s ever were. “It’s only fair that I make you squirt in the same place he never could, right?”
Too many thoughts of sin swirled in your head for you to answer that properly so all you did was nod your head again. Which was yet another thing he found cute.
It’s no wonder Sato kept you to himself all this time.
That realization becomes even clearer by the time Toru’s got his cock freed from his clothing, his pinkish tip dribbling precum down onto your cunt while he gapes at the sight.
With his clothes all gone, you realized that he’d been hiding a ripped body under all those baggy, nerdy-branded tees he wore. His muscles would flex without him even trying and he didn’t even notice how badly you were drooling over him until he stopped looking at your weeping hole and remembered to redirect his gaze up.
Seeing how you’re staring at his abs like you wanted to take a bite out of him, he leaned all the way up and allowed himself to be on full display for you. His cock bobbed with its hardness due to the way you admired him.
He was only reminded again that his brother got this time and time again and was too selfish to share.
What an asshole.
Toru scoffed and let his head cock to the left, peaking down at his length still hanging over your lower abdomen. “Hm,” His hand moved and he began to measure himself in comparison to how deep inside you he’d be within the next few minutes—hand stopping only a few inches short of your belly button. “Does he reach this far?”
You flinched out of your gawking thoughts and moved your attention to where his hand was, gasping at the debauched sight in between your legs.
Truth be told, the fact that they were twins clearly applied to every inch of their bodies. But if you looked hard enough, you could notice that Sato’s is a bit longer while Toru’s has that veining thickness.
To avoid making the man jealous, you shrug and make eye contact with him again, “Put it in and find out.”
Toru laughs dryly and you throb. Something had changed from before. His shyness seemed like it hid itself away considering there was nothing shy about how he wrapped his hand around his cock and then let it slap slap slap! against your swollen folds.
Your body twitched at each slap but what caught his attention most is how your cunt salivated with each one.
“Huh. I think I figured it out,” Toru breathed, his glasses slipping a bit.
Then he guides his dick up to swab around your clit for a couple seconds just to see the way your hips instantly squirm up for more. The smile that drags out across his face is chillingly close to the one Sato wears while he fucks you.
“There it is,” Toru whispers, hauling his cock down and letting his plump tip poke against your hole to feel you clench, and then slide back. “That’s what you like. You like being teased.”
You were so needy that you felt your slick wetly sliding down your skin to pool beneath you, “N-No, I just—“
“Shhh, focus on how this feels, pretty girl.” He instructs. All the shakiness you normally heard in his speech was gone and replaced with something sinfully commanding—yearning only to teach you true pleasure. “See how my cock keeps slipping out? Mmgh,” He repeated his action from before and your hips bucked for more this time, making him huff. “Don’t you want it inside you sooo badly?”
Your hand reached down for him, trying your damndest to angle him into you, “I do. Toru please,” You pleaded delightfully.
His naturally submissive nature leads him to slip an inch in but the dewy warmth of your pussy makes him let out a stuttered gasp. Then he lets his cock slop right out of you with another ringing sound of filth spurring out into the air. His deft cockhead thwacks at your quivering hole again and your eyes roll back.
"Say that again." Toru grunts, slapping your parted folds with his cock again to emphasize his words, "Beg me for it."
Your back arches up off the bed this time and you’ve got the prettiest look of desperation on your face, "Mnh, please?"
Fuck. He was not strong enough to drag this out any longer.
Nor was he reader for how welcoming your cunt is for him. Swallowing him in inch by stretching inch, Toru’s left with a slacked jaw as he finally slides into you. Choking on his own breath, “O-Ohh… Oh fuck.” he pants, “You’re so wet. F-Fuck, were you always this wet? Shit..”
You let off a pleasant string of moans that make his cock twitch wildly inside you before he even makes it halfway in.
Managing a short breath, you smile up at him, “Didn’t know you could curse s’much, Toru.”
He knew right then and there he was fucked.
“G-Gonna cum,” He whimpers as he drops his face down into your neck. The singular utterance of his name is what did it for him.
You thought he was just being dramatic but when you feel velvety ropes of creamy cum flooding into you followed by his throaty grunts against the crook of your neck, you realize he was being everything but.
The man could barely move his hips and all he had to offer you was thick loads in sporadic spurts and whiny groans.
By the time you feel his cum escaping where the two of you are still connected, you’re slow to snort, “…Toru?”
“Shit,” He gasps immediately, “Shitshitshit, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t mean to cum,” His head flies up, white hairs sticking to his forehead from sweat and eyes all wide and apologetic on yours, “I just-, you felt so good. I couldn’t-, fuck. I’m—“
“It’s okay,” You giggle, moving your hands to cup his face, “Just keep goin’.”
“But-,” His eyes travel back and forth between your own as he continues to stare. It takes Toru a long moment to realize he’s… still hard.
With a breathless oh tumbling out of his kiss-bitten lips, he rolls his hips forward and pushes his cum deeper into you as a creamy squelch rings out. “O-Ohh, fuck. That sounds s’nasty...” He murmurs, arousal decorating his expression from the sound.
“Mhm,” You whir, tugging him down to kiss you.
If Sato had good stamina then, as twins, Toru should too, right?
A very intimate mess of his hips rocking down into you carries on with your lips sliding over one another. Unlike his older sibling who typically fucked like his every thrust guaranteed pleasure (it did), Toru moved inside you in the same way his mouth moved over yours—awkward but careful.
The streeeetch from his cock definitely made up for his lack of hurried strokes since his steady pace forced you to feel every prodding inch.
He may not have lasted long inside you without cumming but he was able to bring you to an orgasm of your own, whispering things into your mouth about how perfect you were—how his brother never deserved any of this.
It made your heart feel heavy and your cunt sloppily sang around his cock up until the sound of something dropping made you both gasp.
“What the fuck.” Sato’s voice was heard seething, having dropped the bag he had hanging off of his shoulder.
When Toru pulls away from you and glances back, you manage to move your head enough to catch a glimpse of how Sato stuck was staring at the way his twin steadily fucking you to gentle tears.
“S-Sato,” You sputtered out, suddenly feeling Toru’s hand move to press down your lower abdomen—tightening the pressure around his cock and making him feel impossibly bigger inside you. “Ohmygod-,” Both men heard the way you choked, “M’gonna cum.”
Only to be interrupted by Toru scoffing, "Not yet. Someone has to teach this guy how to make you squirt, right?"
“No one has to teach me shit,” Sato argued as he fully entered his bedroom.
What a sight—his own brother fucking his favorite girl. Sato never thought he’d see the day, honestly.
Hell, he didn’t even know what to say. The sight of you two wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Toru had his face so it was like seeing himself fuck you. But, y’know, with glasses…
“Clearly someone does,” Toru’s delayed response came after he’d tugged his cock out of you, watching his cum sap out and soil his brother’s bedsheets. “Especially if I was able to do it.”
Rolling his eyes, “Bullshit.” Sato spat without letting his brother’s words register properly. When they finally do, an appalled expression colors over him, “Wait, what? No way, show me.”
Toru moves a hand to scratch the back of his neck, looking off to the side dorkishly, “Uh, we didn’t record it or anything–”
“No, I mean do it again, four eyes.” His older brother clarifies rudely.
You sit up at that. Glancing back and forth between the two for a moment and then settling your eyes onto Sato, “What?”
“I don’t believe him,” Sato huffs as comes to sit on the edge of his bed. Throwing his eyes onto you, “So, if he really made you squirt then surely he has no issue doing it again.”
You blink. “You want him to do that in front of you?”
“I want to see you squirt, period,” He admits, “I don’t care who gets it outta’ you at this point.”
You and Toru then exchange glances before looking at him.
“Well?” Sato scoffs. “If you’re gonna go out of your way to fuck in my bed, don’t stop now that I’m here. Put on a fuckin’ show for me.”
Ever so demanding he was…
——
Not that you or Toru seemed to care.
The next position you end up in is rather… precarious, to say the least.
You thought you were left stretched before but that feeling was utterly pale in comparison to what you felt now. Toru had you bouncing up and down his heavy cock, letting it talk you through every pummeling thrust by leaving sweltering smooches against the deepest crevices of your cunt.
Your maw was left to dangle open and you looked like a true slut in the eyes of the Gojo twins. As one fucked you beyond dumb, the other was sat in front of you with his hands wrapped around his shaft, his palm running up and down that wildly long cock of his as sticky precum glistened out from his tip.
Drool and spit trickled all down your jaw and fell onto the floor below and you couldn’t move in any way to escape Toru’s desperate thrusts.
The sound of sweaty skin slacking and clashing against one another echoed through Sato’s large bedroom whilst he watched and got off to the sight.
Your arms and legs were locked firmly in Toru’s grip and he was just using your pussy to satisfy that swollen ache he’d been dealing with for fuck knows how long now.
The remnants of his cum sobbed downwards and left a messy ring around his base, the pearly color nearly mocking the white happy trail of hair he had.
"Tighter-, hahh.. squeeze around me tighter, please." Toru muttered into your ear, having found himself pussydrunk and slopped. The walls of your pussy narrowed around him and his hips snapped up a little faster, "Good girl, just like that. F-Fuuck... you're gonna make me c-cum." Toru whimpered.
A singular gasp of, "Inside.” from your horribly sore throat makes both him and his brother groan.
"Again? Shiit," Toru sent a bragging smile ahead before bucking his hips up into you faster as if to prove a point. Still talking into your ear, "Y'want me to breed you in front of Sato? Damn, you're sluttier than I thought you'd be."
You feel his weighty balls pounding up against your skin as his cock bullied in deeper, your pussy stretched into the prettiest shape and molded perfectly around him.
Sato couldn’t take his eyes off the errotic sight and his hand moved faster, his own hips thrusting up as he reminisced on that feeling of positioning into you. The man swears he could feel you wrapped around him just from watching his brother handle you.
It was so different to see things from this perspective but fuck was it sexy. Your tits bounced as Toru dragged you up up upp and then let his hips meet you halfway with a needy thrust as he let your body come back down.
"Mmngh, Toru!" You moaned softly.
To which his teeth nipped at your ear, "It's so cute when you say my name like that," He huffs, "Do you like me that much? Hm? Like the way Toru treats this pussy?"
You weakly moved your head in agreement, tears running down your cheeks, "Uhuhh… f-fuuuck, Toru. M’cummin.”
His movements grew faster then, ruder. The plump crown of his cock mashed into that sweet spot of yours over and over and over as if to make the spot his new home—imprint himself there permanently.
Breathing all heavy against you, “S’okay, let it out, sweetheart. Show him what he should be making you do, yeah?”
Sato cums a split second before it actually happens, based on the fact that it was about to happen. Thank god you were too drunk to see it because he’s watching with teary eyes as you squirt all over Toru—his dick slipping out of you because of it and the mess spraying ahead filthily.
Your pussy quivers from the release and you’re whining all through it, the cooing sound of Toru whispering you through your high prominence in your ear. You could barely think, barely breathe because of the intensity of it all.
When you calm down from it, Toru’s still got you in his arms and all you’re left to focus on is Sato’s pouty face as he continues to stroke himself.
“Well, fuck. Look at you,” He spoke hoarsely the moment he noticed your attention on him, his head resting back against his headboard, “Just a whore for some Gojo cock, huh?”
Your head barely bobs in response—far too dazed to answer that with a properly functioning brain.
Sato’s hand squeezes around his tip and his brows furrow, “Yeahhh? Y’liked watching me jerk off like some pathetic loser while I let my brother fuck you?” He hardly waited for another answer out of you before nodding his chin, “Bet you do. Look at that pussy, so fuckin’ wet from this.”
Toru’s easing you down on the bed in between the both of them, puffing, “Unfair of you to keep her all to yourself, Sato.”
Keeping things simple, “I’m willing to share now.”
…
Things should have ended there. Seriously.
But, allas, the hold these two have over you appeared to be much stronger than you thought.
“Wrap those lips around me, baby.” Sato had requested, watching your shaky limbs move in between his legs.
Toru was somewhere behind you, diving his face back into your cunt to… clean the mess he left in there, apparently.
Out of both of them, Toru was definitely the more perverted one—currently eating his own cum out of your cunt after giving you some bullshit excuse about wanting to keep you clean.
All he wanted was to stick his tongue inside you again. You weren’t that dumb.
While you gathered Sato’s cock into your palm and let your lips press into his tip, he hissed as his face twisted up due to sensitivity. Easing a hand onto your head, “Atta girl. Choke on this dick while he cleans you up. Wanna see every inch down that throat.”
His words never failed to leave your cunt soused, a physical reaction of which met Toru’s compliant tongue.
Sato’s bed was a mess of all sorts of fluids—overly due for a washing after all that had taken place thus far. His cock was somewhere in the back of your throat and he felt your moans tremble against him whenever Toru slurped against you just right.
The three of you were lazy with everything by now and the only thing that made the Gojo siblings perk up was when you ended up gifting Toru’s mouth with another raining mess.
Oh, Sato was in awe at the sight all over again. So much so that it’s what caused his next orgasm. He was so dazed by your squirting that he didn’t even bother to ask you to swallow what he’d just unconsciously thrusted into your throat.
Normally that’s his favorite part; watching or asking you to swallow his seed. Yet, he’d missed all of that because seeing his brother’s face smothered in your wetness left him shocked.
“Ohhh, shit. That was more than the first time.” Toru said as he finally pulled himself from in between your legs.
Sato’s ears twitch and he cocks a brow. Daze broke completely, “First time?” he asked. It was clear he still didn’t believe that his geeky, clumsy, and overall awkward sibling made that happen before he walked in.
Toru looks at his brother, “Yeah… More than the first time she squirted.”
Sato stares. “You… You made her squirt before I got here?” Disbelief was evident in his tone.
He chuckles, “You asked me that like it’s hard or something, of course I did.”
You pull yourself up from Sato’s softening cock just in time and give the two slow blinks while transferring your gaze back and forth. Sleepiness wasn’t slow to overcome you.
Sato met your eyes with his pointed ones and puffed all brat-like, “Soooo… you’re gonna do that for only me next time, right?”
There’s not a singular thought inside your head as you blatantly ignore him. Then, you turn over and plop onto the bed to lay down—back facing the two of them.
“Hello?” Sato taps your shoulder and then jokingly adds a comedic, “Chat, am I muted…?”
Toru snorts with a shake of his head, getting out the bed to start cleaning up the mess you three collectively made within the past few hours.
Then, you’re wondering if the roles had reversed for a second when he grumbles, “Fuckin’ loser…”
Rafayel genuinely believes he's a gift to humanity—five Formula 1 championships and a face that launched a thousand sponsorship deals will do that to a man. His last assistant quit because she was "overwhelmed by his excellence" definitely not because of the seventeen schedule rewrites for "aesthetic reasons". You're supposed to be different—professional, unimpressed, immune to his particular brand of beautiful arrogance. But somewhere between managing his impossible demands and witnessing his rare moments of vulnerability, the lines start blurring. The real danger isn't losing your job when feelings get complicated—it's discovering that the man behind the legend might actually be worth the risk.
⚠️ Please read responsibly - Self-worth issues and perfectionism & brief mentions of racing accidents/crashes
🐚 Author's Note: I'm a Red Bull girl, through and through but ya can't lie that Ferrari has the best aesthetics and I definitely love seeing Rafayel in red 🤤
🫧 Comment and reblog are deeply appreciated <3
The Ferrari hospitality suite buzzed with tension as Thomas, team principal, dropped yet another resignation letter onto the mahogany desk. The late afternoon sun streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows caught the gold embossing on the letterhead, making it gleam mockingly.
"Your fourth assistant this year just quit," Thomas announced, his voice thick with exasperation. "She said, and I quote, 'Working for him is like trying to please a beautiful, temperamental cat who also happens to be a perfectionist with impossible standards.'"
Rafayel didn't look up from his phone, where he was scrolling through Instagram posts about his latest victory at Silverstone. Purple hair fell across his forehead as he tilted his head, completely unbothered by the news. His race suit was unzipped to his waist, revealing a pristine white designer t-shirt that probably cost more than most people's monthly salary.
"She lacked the necessary skills for the position," he said, voice flat with disinterest.
"She had a Master's degree in Sports Management from Oxford and spoke four languages fluently."
"Yet she couldn't remember that I prefer my espresso at exactly 65 degrees Celsius." Rafayel finally glanced up, sharp purple eyes meeting Thomas's with mild annoyance. "She also had the audacity to suggest I 'be more flexible' with interview timing. Mediocrity has no place in my organization, Thomas. You know this."
Thomas pinched the bridge of his nose. In his twenty-three years managing Formula 1 teams, he'd never encountered anyone quite like Rafayel. Five-time world champion, unquestionably the most talented driver on the grid, and absolutely impossible to work with on a personal level.
"We've hired someone new," Thomas said carefully. "She come highly recommended. Previous experience in motorsport coordination, excellent references, and..." He paused, choosing his words carefully, "she seem to have a strong tolerance for... demanding personalities."
"Good." Rafayel returned to his phone. "Brief them on my requirements. Standard protocol."
"Rafayel." Thomas's voice carried a warning. "Try not to make this one cry on her first day."
"I don't make people cry, Thomas." Rafayel's tone was matter-of-fact, almost confused by the accusation. "I simply maintain the standards necessary for championship-level performance. If she can't handle excellence, perhaps she should consider a career in a less demanding sport."
Thomas left without another word, already mentally preparing an apology speech for when this arrangement inevitably imploded within the month.
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The Ferrari motorhome at the Hungaroring buzzed with pre-practice energy. Mechanics fine-tuned suspension settings, engineers pored over telemetry data, and the familiar scent of racing fuel mixed with Hungarian summer air created that distinctive paddock atmosphere that you'd grown to love over your years in motorsport.
You'd been up since 5 AM, reviewing weather reports, tire allocation strategies, and Rafayel's schedule for the Hungarian Grand Prix weekend. Your predecessor had left detailed notes—mostly warnings about his preferences and pet peeves—but you'd always found it better to form your own impressions.
The motorhome office was pristine, all clean lines and Ferrari red accents. Through the window, you could see mechanics wheeling the cars toward the garage, their scarlet livery gleaming under the morning sun.
"You must be the new assistant," a voice said behind you.
You turned to find Rafayel leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. He was exactly as striking in person as he appeared on television—sharp cheekbones, piercing purple eyes, and an aura of absolute confidence that seemed to fill the room. His race suit hung unzipped around his waist, and his hair was perfectly styled despite the early hour.
"You must be Rafayel," you replied, setting down your tablet and extending your hand. "I'm looking forward to working with you."
He glanced at your outstretched hand but didn't take it, instead moving to settle behind his desk. "I assume Thomas briefed you on my requirements?"
"Some of them." You pulled out the chair across from his desk and sat down, opening your tablet. "I have your schedule for today, weather updates, and the tire strategy meeting has been moved to 9:30 to accommodate the track temperature analysis."
Rafayel paused, clearly thrown off his usual rhythm. Most people waited for permission before sitting in his presence. "I didn't tell you to sit."
"You didn't tell me not to." You met his gaze steadily, noting the flicker of surprise that crossed his features. "Your practice session starts in forty-five minutes. The engineers want to discuss the front wing adjustments, and your trainer is waiting in the gym. Also, your espresso is getting cold."
He glanced at the cup on his desk—perfectly prepared, still steaming slightly. "How did you know about the temperature preference?"
"Thomas mentioned you were particular about coffee. I used to work at a specialty café before getting into motorsport." You stood, smoothing down your Ferrari polo shirt. "I'll have your gear ready and the team briefed on the session objectives."
As you headed for the door, Rafayel's voice stopped you. "What's your name?"
You paused, turning back. "I introduced myself when I came in."
"You said you were looking forward to working with me. You didn't actually tell me your name."
Heat crept up your neck. He was right. "It's (Y/N)"
You told him, and he repeated it slowly, as if testing how it sounded in his mouth.
"Interesting," he murmured, leaning back in his chair. "Most people are more... overwhelmed when they first meet me. Nervous. You seem remarkably composed."
"Should I be nervous?" you asked genuinely. "You're very successful, obviously. Five-time world champion, youngest driver to achieve multiple wins at Monaco. But right now, you're my boss who needs to get to practice on time."
Rafayel stared at you for a long moment, his usual confidence wavering slightly. "Just your boss?"
"Well," you said, hand on the door handle, "an exceptionally talented boss who's about to be late if he doesn't move in the next ten minutes."
The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but something close to it.
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Three weeks into your employment, you'd developed a routine that seemed to work. Rafayel was demanding, particular, and had opinions about everything from the ambient temperature in his driver's room to the exact angle his water bottle should be positioned on his desk. But unlike your predecessors, you didn't find his perfectionism offensive—just precise.
The Spa-Francorchamps paddock hummed with activity as you made your morning rounds. Belgium in late August was unpredictable, and the weather radar showed possible rain for qualifying. You'd already adjusted the tire strategy meeting and coordinated with the meteorology team.
"The track temperature is dropping faster than anticipated," Marco, the chief engineer, explained as you reviewed the data in the garage. "We might need to reconsider the wing setup if conditions deteriorate."
You made notes on your tablet, already calculating the ripple effects on Rafayel's schedule. "I'll brief him before he gets in the car. Any word on the power unit changes?"
"All within regulations. Ferrari's been conservative this weekend—we want maximum reliability." Marco glanced toward the motorhome. "How's he been? Usually by now he's made at least three assistants question their career choices."
"Focused," you said diplomatically. "He knows what he wants."
What you didn't mention was how Rafayel had started lingering after meetings, asking your opinion on strategy calls. Or how he'd begun requesting specific foods based on your casual mentions of preferences. Small things that probably meant nothing but felt like something.
"Acceptable work this morning," came a familiar voice behind you.
You turned to find Rafayel approaching, already in his race suit, helmet tucked under his arm. His hair was slightly messy from pulling on his balaclava, and there was a focus in his eyes that only appeared before he got in the car.
"Track temperature's dropping," you reported, falling into step beside him as he headed toward the garage. "Marco recommends staying flexible on wing settings."
"Agreed. And tire allocation?"
"Weather dependent. I've kept options open for both scenarios."
He nodded approvingly. "Efficient."
From anyone else, it might have sounded like faint praise. From Rafayel, it felt like a victory.
The garage buzzed with pre-session energy as mechanics made final adjustments to the car. Rafayel went through his usual pre-practice routine—checking seat position, testing radio communication, reviewing telemetry from previous sessions. You watched from the timing stand, noting his methodical approach to preparation.
"He's different with you," observed Sarah, the team's PR manager, joining you at the monitors. "Usually he's more... theatrical before getting in the car. Demanding more attention."
"Maybe he's just focused on the championship," you replied, though you'd noticed it too. The way he seemed calmer, more centered when you were around.
"Or maybe," Sarah said with a knowing smile, "he's found someone who doesn't treat him like a temperamental celebrity."
Before you could respond, Rafayel's voice crackled through the radio as he completed his installation lap. "Car feels good. Balance is neutral, maybe a touch of understeer in the slow corners."
"Copy that," came Marco's response. "We'll adjust for the next run."
You watched the timing screens as Rafayel's lap times dropped consistently, each sector faster than the last. He had this way of finding speed that seemed almost supernatural—small adjustments, perfect lines, an intuitive understanding of what the car needed.
When he finally climbed out of the cockpit after the session, his hair was matted with sweat and his eyes bright with satisfaction. P1 in both practice sessions, with a margin that suggested the car had more pace in reserve.
"Good session," you said as he approached, offering him a towel and water bottle.
"Adequate," he replied, but there was a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "The car responded well to our setup changes."
"Your setup changes," you corrected. "I just scheduled the meetings."
"Perhaps. But you ensured the right people were in the room at the right time." He paused, looking at you with an expression you couldn't quite read. "Details matter in this sport. I... appreciate thoroughness."
It was the closest thing to praise you'd received from him, and warmth bloomed in your chest despite your attempts to remain professional.
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The Singapore Grand Prix was always a spectacle—night racing under blazing artificial suns, the city's skyline providing a glittering backdrop to one of the most demanding circuits on the calendar. The humidity was oppressive even after sunset, and the Marina Bay Street Circuit's unforgiving barriers left no room for error.
You'd been working for Rafayel for two months now, and the rhythm between you had evolved into something seamless. He anticipated your organizational methods; you anticipated his needs. What you hadn't anticipated was how the lines between professional and personal would begin to blur.
"The stewards want to discuss the incident from practice," you informed him as he toweled off after climbing out of the car. Qualifying had been intense—P2, just three hundredths behind his championship rival.
"Which incident?" Rafayel's tone was sharp with irritation. "The one where Hamilton forced me off track, or the one where the stewards failed to notice?"
"The defending into turn seven. They want to review the footage."
He muttered something in what sounded like a mixture of languages, none of them particularly complimentary. "Schedule it after the media briefing. I want Marco there too."
"Already done. Also, your physiotherapist wants to see you about the shoulder tension before tomorrow."
Rafayel paused in drying his hair, looking at you with surprise. "You scheduled that?"
"I noticed you favoring your left shoulder getting out of the car. High-downforce tracks put extra strain on the neck and shoulders, especially with the humidity here." You kept your tone professional, though something in his expression made your pulse quicken. "I thought it would be prudent."
"You notice a lot of things," he said quietly.
Before you could respond, Thomas appeared with a small crowd of team members trailing behind him. "Rafayel, we need to discuss tire strategy for tomorrow. The weather forecast has changed."
The moment broke, but you felt Rafayel's gaze linger on you as the group moved toward the debriefing room.
The meeting ran long, as they always did in Singapore. The combination of heat, humidity, and the physical demands of the circuit meant every detail mattered. You took notes on your tablet, tracking the various strategic scenarios being discussed.
"If it rains in the first stint, do we pit early or wait?" Thomas asked, pulling up weather radar on the main screen.
"Depends on the intensity," Marco replied. "Light rain favors staying out, but if it's heavy..."
"We pit," Rafayel interjected. "I'd rather lose track position than risk aquaplaning into a barrier."
It was a mature call, showing the kind of calculated thinking that separated champions from merely fast drivers. You made a note about tire warming procedures, knowing the details would matter if the weather turned.
By the time the meeting ended, it was nearly midnight. The paddock was quieter now, most teams having finished their preparations for race day. You were packing your tablet when you realized you were alone with Rafayel in the conference room.
"Long day," you observed, stifling a yawn.
"They usually are, during race weekends." He was still studying telemetry data on his phone, but his attention seemed divided. "You don't have to stay this late. Most of the... logistics can wait until morning."
"I don't mind. Besides, someone needs to make sure you actually go back to the hotel instead of obsessing over data until sunrise."
He looked up then, really looked at you, and something shifted in the air between you. "Is that what you think I do?"
"I think you're a perfectionist who has trouble turning off the analytical part of your brain." You kept your voice light, but there was honesty underneath. "I also think you put more pressure on yourself than anyone else possibly could."
The silence that followed was charged with something neither of you wanted to name. Rafayel set down his phone, his full attention focused on you for the first time since the meeting had ended.
"Most people see the wins, the champagne, the glory," he said quietly. "They don't see the weight of expectations. The knowledge that one mistake, one moment of imperfection, can cost everything."
"Is that why you work so hard to control everything around you?"
"Control is..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Control is the difference between winning and losing. Between success and failure."
"Between being safe and being vulnerable," you added softly.
His eyes widened slightly, as if you'd touched on something he'd never voiced aloud. "Perhaps."
The hotel shuttle's horn honked outside, breaking the moment. You both gathered your things in silence, but something had fundamentally shifted. As you walked toward the paddock exit, you were hyperaware of his presence beside you—the way he moved with unconscious grace, the subtle scent of his cologne mixed with the lingering smell of racing fuel.
"Thank you," he said as you reached the shuttle.
"For what?"
"For staying. For... understanding." He hesitated, then added, "Most people don't."
As the shuttle pulled away from the circuit, you caught his reflection in the window, watching you with an expression you'd never seen before. It looked almost like longing.
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Race day in Singapore dawned—or rather, didn't dawn—hot and humid. The afternoon sun baked the circuit as teams made final preparations for the night race. You'd been up since 6 AM coordinating last-minute changes to Rafayel's schedule, reviewing weather updates, and ensuring every detail was perfect.
The Ferrari garage hummed with controlled chaos. Mechanics performed final checks on the car while engineers analyzed data from morning warm-up. Rafayel moved through his pre-race routine with practiced efficiency, but you noticed the subtle signs of tension—the way he adjusted his gloves repeatedly, the slight tightness around his eyes.
"Weather's holding steady," you reported as he finished his final driver briefing. "Track temperature optimal for the tire compounds we selected."
"Good." His response was clipped, professional, but his eyes lingered on you longer than necessary.
The race was vintage Singapore—processional for the first half, then chaos erupted with a safety car that bunched the field. Rafayel had been running third when the yellow flags came out, caught behind his championship rival who was nursing tire degradation.
"Gap to Hamilton is 1.2 seconds," Marco's voice crackled through the radio. "DRS enabled after turn fourteen."
You watched from the timing stand as Rafayel stalked his prey, waiting for the perfect moment. The overtake, when it came, was pure artistry—a late-braking move into turn seven that left commentators speechless and the crowd roaring.
He went on to win by twelve seconds.
The victory celebration was typically Rafayel—controlled, professional, with just enough emotion to satisfy the cameras. But as he climbed from the car, his eyes sought you out in the crowd of team members. When your gazes met across the garage, his face split into a genuine smile that made your heart skip.
"Exceptional drive," you said when he finally made his way over, champagne still dripping from his hair.
"Exceptional strategy," he countered, and there was something warm in his voice that made several nearby team members glance between you curiously.
The post-race procedures took hours—media obligations, technical scrutineering, debrief meetings that stretched well past midnight. By the time you were both free to leave, the paddock was nearly empty.
"Hungry?" Rafayel asked as you walked toward the hotel shuttle.
You looked at him in surprise. "It's nearly 2 AM."
"I know a place. Twenty-four hours, good food." He paused, then added with uncharacteristic hesitancy, "If you want company."
Every professional instinct told you to politely decline, to maintain appropriate boundaries. Instead, you heard yourself saying, "I could eat."
The restaurant was tucked away in Chinatown, the kind of place that served perfect wonton noodles and didn't care if you were a Formula 1 driver or a janitor. Rafayel had changed from his team polo into a simple black t-shirt and jeans, looking more relaxed than you'd ever seen him.
"You come here often?" you asked, watching him navigate the menu with familiarity.
"When I can. It's... quiet. Anonymous." He glanced around the nearly empty restaurant. "In my world, that's rare."
You ordered in comfortable silence, the events of the day settling between you like a shared secret. When the food arrived, Rafayel ate with genuine appetite rather than his usual precise consumption of nutritionally optimized meals.
"Can I ask you something?" you said, twirling noodles around your chopsticks.
"Of course."
"Why Formula 1? You could have been successful at anything—you're brilliant, driven, analytical. Why choose something so public, so..."
"Exposed?" he finished. "Honestly? Because when I'm in the car, going 300 kilometers per hour, it's the only time my mind goes quiet. All the noise, the expectations, the constant analysis—it all disappears. There's just the track, the car, and pure instinct."
"And the rest of the time?"
His smile was rueful. "The rest of the time, I try to control everything else to maintain that feeling of... clarity."
"Is it working?"
"Until recently, I thought so." He met your eyes across the small table. "But lately, I've realized that control and clarity might not be the same thing."
The implication hung between you, heavy with possibility and danger. You were his employee. He was one of the most famous athletes in the world. The complications were endless.
"We should probably get back," you said finally, though neither of you made any move to leave.
"Probably," he agreed, but his eyes never left yours.
When you finally returned to the hotel, he walked you to your door despite his room being on a different floor. The hallway was quiet, lit only by soft emergency lighting.
"Thank you," he said. "For dinner. For... everything today."
"It's my job," you replied automatically, but the words felt inadequate.
"Is it?" His voice was soft, questioning. "Because it feels like more than that."
Before you could respond, he stepped closer, close enough that you could see the flecks of red in his purple eyes, could smell his cologne mixed with the faint scent of champagne from the podium celebration.
"Rafayel..." you started, but the words died as he raised his hand to cup your cheek.
"I know this complicates everything," he whispered. "I know there are a thousand reasons why this is a terrible idea. But I can't pretend anymore that what I feel for you is purely professional."
Your heart hammered against your ribs as he leaned closer, his lips barely brushing yours in a kiss so gentle it felt like a question. When you didn't pull away, he deepened it slightly, his other hand coming to rest on your waist.
When you finally broke apart, you were both breathing unsteadily.
"This is..." you began.
"Complicated," he finished. "I know."
"We work together."
"I know."
"The media would have a field day."
"I know." His thumb traced across your cheekbone. "But I also know that you're the first person in years who's made me want something more than just the next victory."
You closed your eyes, leaning into his touch despite every rational thought screaming at you to step away. "What are we doing?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "But I'd like to find out. If you want to."
You opened your eyes to find him watching you with an expression so vulnerable it took your breath away. This wasn't the confident champion the world knew—this was just a man, asking for a chance.
"We take it slow," you said finally. "We figure out what this is before we do anything that could jeopardize both our careers."
Relief flooded his features. "Slow," he agreed. "Professional during work hours."
"Professional during work hours," you confirmed, even as he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.
As you finally entered your hotel room, your mind raced with the implications of what had just happened. You were falling for your boss—not just any boss, but one of the most famous athletes in the world. It was reckless, complicated, and potentially career-ending.
It was also, you realized as you touched your lips where his had been, absolutely inevitable.
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The weeks following Singapore blurred together in a haze of races, flights, and stolen moments. Outwardly, nothing changed—you remained the efficient, professional assistant, and Rafayel remained the demanding, perfectionist champion. But underneath the surface, everything was different.
It was in the way he now made sure you ate during long strategy meetings, quietly having food delivered without asking if you wanted it. It was in how you began anticipating his needs before he voiced them, reading his moods and energy levels with increasing accuracy. It was in the lingering touches when he handed you documents, the way conversations stretched longer than necessary after official business was concluded.
The Japanese Grand Prix at Suzuka brought its own challenges. The figure-eight circuit was notoriously demanding, and championship pressure was mounting as the season entered its final phase. Rafayel was leading the standings, but his closest rival was only eight points behind.
"Weather forecast is showing possible rain for qualifying," you reported during the morning briefing, your voice steady and professional despite the way Rafayel's eyes seemed to track your every movement around the conference room.
"Tire allocation?" asked Marco, pulling up the meteorological data on his tablet.
"We've reserved extra intermediates, but if it's heavy rain, we'll need full wets for Q1 and Q2," you replied, consulting your notes. "The track surface here doesn't drain as well as some circuits."
"Agreed," Rafayel interjected. "I'd rather have the right tires and not need them than be caught without options."
Thomas nodded approvingly. "Conservative approach makes sense given the championship situation."
After the meeting dispersed, you were organizing your files when Rafayel approached, lingering by the window that overlooked the circuit.
"Walk with me," he said quietly.
It wasn't unusual for him to want to discuss strategy or schedule changes privately, so you followed him out of the motorhome and along one of the quieter paths that wound through the paddock forest. The October air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and the distant smell of racing fuel.
"How are you handling all this?" he asked when you were far enough from the track that the sound of engines was just a distant hum.
"All what?"
"The pressure. The scrutiny. Us." The last word was spoken so softly you almost missed it.
You'd been wondering the same thing. The past few weeks had been a careful dance of maintaining professional boundaries while navigating the growing attraction between you. There had been no more kisses, no overt displays of affection, but the tension was constant.
"I'm managing," you said, though it wasn't entirely true. You'd caught team members giving you speculative looks, noticed photographers paying more attention to your interactions. The paddock was a small world where rumors traveled fast.
"Are you?" He stopped walking, turning to face you. "Because I've seen how some of the media photographers follow you around now. How certain team members watch us during meetings."
Your stomach tightened. "Have people been saying things?"
"Nothing direct. But this world... people notice when dynamics change." His expression was troubled. "I don't want you to be uncomfortable because of my feelings."
"And what about your feelings?" you asked, stepping closer despite the risk of being observed. "Are you uncomfortable?"
His laugh was humorless. "Uncomfortable? No. Terrified? Absolutely."
"Of what?"
"Of how much I look forward to seeing you every morning. Of how your opinion on everything from tire strategy to restaurant choices has become more important to me than championship standings." He ran a hand through his hair, messing up his usually perfect styling. "Of the fact that I've started making decisions based on what would make you proud of me rather than what would generate the best headlines."
The vulnerability in his admission made your chest tight. "Rafayel..."
"I know it's selfish," he continued. "I know that pursuing this puts you in an impossible position. But I can't seem to help myself."
Before you could respond, the sound of footsteps on the path made you both step apart quickly. Sarah, the PR manager, appeared around the bend with her phone pressed to her ear.
"Oh, there you are," she said to Rafayel, ending her call. "The FIA wants to discuss the new technical regulations for next season. They need you in the stewards' office in fifteen minutes."
"Of course they do," Rafayel muttered, then looked at you. "Can you reschedule the sponsor call? This might run long."
"Already done," you replied, falling back into professional mode even as your heart continued to race from your interrupted conversation. "I moved it to after the engineering debrief."
As the three of you walked back toward the paddock, Sarah glanced between you and Rafayel with obvious curiosity. "You two seem to work well together," she observed.
"Efficient coordination is essential for optimal performance," Rafayel replied smoothly, but you caught the slight tension in his shoulders.
"Right," Sarah said, though her tone suggested she wasn't entirely convinced by the professional explanation.
That evening, after a long day of practice sessions and meetings, you found yourself alone in the motorhome organizing files for the next day. Most of the team had gone to dinner, and the paddock was quieter than usual.
"Working late again?" Rafayel's voice made you look up from your laptop.
"Just finishing up tomorrow's briefing materials." You gestured at the scattered documents on the table. "How did the FIA meeting go?"
"Tedious. But productive." He moved to stand beside your chair, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body. "You know, when I was younger, I used to think success meant never needing anyone else. Being completely self-sufficient."
"And now?"
"Now I realize that the best victories are meaningless if you don't have someone to share them with." His hand came to rest on your shoulder, thumb tracing small circles through the fabric of your shirt. "Someone who understands what it took to get there."
You leaned into his touch despite the risk, closing your eyes as his fingers worked at the tension you'd been carrying all day.
"We should be careful," you murmured, even as you made no move to pull away.
"I know." His other hand joined the first, working at the knots in your shoulders with surprising skill. "But right now, it's just us. No cameras, no speculation, no complications."
For a few minutes, you allowed yourself to exist in that bubble—just the two of you in the quiet motorhome, his hands gentle on your shoulders, the soft sound of his breathing mixing with the distant hum of the paddock winding down for the evening.
"Better?" he asked eventually, his hands stilling.
"Much." You opened your eyes, turning in your chair to face him. "Thank you."
The space between you was minimal, his face close enough that you could count his eyelashes. For a moment, the temptation to close that gap was overwhelming.
"We should probably get back to the hotel," you said, though neither of you moved.
"Probably," he agreed, his voice rough with barely controlled desire.
The sound of voices outside broke the moment, and you both stepped apart as team members returned from dinner. But as you gathered your things, you felt Rafayel's eyes following your every movement, and you knew that your careful professional boundaries were becoming harder to maintain with each passing day.
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The mistake happened during qualifying at the Brazilian Grand Prix.
Interlagos was always unpredictable—elevation changes, variable weather, and a track surface that could go from perfect grip to skating rink in minutes. You'd been monitoring the radar all morning, tracking storm cells that threatened to disrupt the session.
"Current track temperature is 42 degrees," you reported to the strategy team as Q2 began. "Weather radar shows possible precipitation in fifteen minutes."
Marco nodded, studying the data. "We'll send Rafayel out early, get a banker lap before conditions deteriorate."
It was a sound strategy. Conservative, calculated, the kind of measured approach that won championships. But as you watched the other teams' approaches, doubt crept in.
"Mercedes is waiting," observed one of the junior engineers. "They're gambling on the rain holding off."
You checked the radar again. The storm cell had slowed, maybe another ten minutes before it reached the circuit. If Rafayel could improve his lap time...
"Tell him to stay out," you said suddenly. "One more flying lap before the rain hits."
Marco looked at you in surprise. "The plan was to pit after the banker lap."
"The radar shows we have time. If he can find two tenths, he'll start P3 instead of P6."
It was a split-second decision, the kind that defined careers. Marco hesitated, then keyed his radio.
"Rafayel, stay out for one more push lap. Track conditions are optimal."
"Copy," came his response, and you could hear the focus in his voice.
You watched the timing screens as he began the lap, sectors flashing purple as he found speed. Sector one was perfect. Sector two was even better.
Then the rain started.
It came down in torrents, the kind of tropical downpour that turned racing circuits into rivers. Rafayel was in the middle of sector three when his car snapped sideways, tires unable to cope with the sudden change in conditions.
The impact with the barrier was sickening. Not high-speed, but hard enough to destroy the car and send your heart into your throat. For endless seconds, there was silence from his radio.
"Rafayel, are you okay?" Marco's voice was tight with concern.
"I'm fine," came the eventual response, but you could hear the fury underneath. "Car's finished though."
P12. Starting from the sixth row because of your call.
The garage fell silent as the reality settled in. In a championship fight this tight, grid position could determine the title. And it was your fault.
"It was the right call," Marco said quietly, but his words felt hollow. "The data supported staying out."
You stared at the destroyed car being loaded onto a flatbed truck, championship hopes potentially going with it. Around you, the team began the grim process of analyzing what could be salvaged for tomorrow's race.
When Rafayel finally returned to the garage after medical clearance, his race suit was dirty and his hair disheveled, but his eyes were what made your stomach drop. Cold. Furious. Calculating.
He didn't speak to you directly, instead addressing his comments to Marco and Thomas. But you felt his gaze like a physical weight as he reviewed the session data.
"We need to discuss strategy for tomorrow," he said finally, his voice professionally neutral. "Given our compromised grid position."
The meeting was torture. Forty minutes of analyzing different scenarios while Rafayel treated you like a stranger. Professional courtesy, nothing more. No acknowledgment of the personal relationship that had been developing, no softness in his interactions.
When the others finally left, you lingered, hoping for a private word. Rafayel was still studying telemetry data, his jaw tight with concentration.
"I'm sorry," you said finally. "The call was mine, and it was wrong."
He looked up then, and the coldness in his purple eyes made you step back involuntarily.
"Sorry?" His voice was dangerously quiet. "Do you understand what that decision cost? Not just today, but potentially the entire championship?"
"The data suggested—"
"The data suggested caution. Experience suggested caution. Every instinct I've developed over fifteen years of racing suggested caution." He stood, moving around the desk until he was close enough that you could see the barely controlled fury in his expression. "But I trusted your judgment. I trusted you."
The accusation hit like a physical blow. "It was a calculated risk—"
"It was a mistake," he cut you off. "A grave mistake that could cost me everything I've worked for." His voice dropped to barely above a whisper, but each word cut like ice. "I trusted your judgment over my own experience, and look where it got me."
You felt tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but refused to let them fall. Not here. Not in front of him when he was looking at you like you were just another incompetent assistant who'd failed him.
"You're right," you said, your voice steadier than you felt. "It was my call, and I was wrong. I take full responsibility."
"Responsibility." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "How generous of you. Unfortunately, responsibility doesn't fix a destroyed car or recover lost championship points."
Each word was carefully chosen to wound, and they found their target with surgical precision. This was Rafayel at his cruelest—the version of him that had made four previous assistants quit in tears.
"What do you want me to do?" you asked quietly.
"I want you to remember that you're not a strategist. You're not an engineer. You're my assistant." His eyes were arctic. "Your job is to coordinate my schedule and ensure my preferences are met. Leave the racing decisions to people who actually understand what's at stake."
The dismissal stung more than any shouting match could have. He was reducing you to nothing more than a glorified secretary, erasing weeks of growing partnership and trust with clinical efficiency.
"Understood," you managed, proud that your voice didn't shake.
He turned back to his telemetry data, effectively dismissing you. "Make sure the car is ready for morning warm-up. And next time, stick to what you're actually qualified to do."
You left without another word, walking through the paddock on unsteady legs. The Brazilian evening was warm and humid, but you felt cold all over. Other team members gave you sympathetic looks—bad qualifying sessions were part of the sport, and everyone understood the pressure.
What they didn't understand was that this felt like more than professional disappointment. It felt like heartbreak.
Back at the hotel, you sat on your bed staring at your laptop screen, trying to focus on tomorrow's logistics. But Rafayel's words kept echoing in your mind: stick to what you're actually qualified to do.
Maybe he was right. Maybe you had overstepped, gotten too comfortable in your role, forgotten the boundaries that should exist between an assistant and a five-time world champion. Maybe the growing feelings between you had clouded your judgment in more ways than one.
Your phone buzzed with a text from Sarah: Heard about quali. Don't let him get to you - we all make strategy calls that don't work out.
You stared at the message for a long time before typing back: Thanks. See you tomorrow.
But as you tried to sleep, all you could think about was the coldness in Rafayel's eyes and the growing certainty that whatever had been developing between you was over before it had really begun.
🏁…………🏎💨..…………🏎💨..…………🏎💨..……🏎💨..
Race day dawned gray and overcast, matching your mood perfectly. You'd been up since 5 AM, triple-checking every detail of Rafayel's schedule and race preparation. If he wanted you to stick to basic assistant duties, you'd be the most thorough, professional assistant he'd ever had.
The Ferrari garage hummed with controlled urgency. Starting P12 meant an uphill battle, but the team had worked through the night to optimize the car's setup for overtaking. You moved through your tasks with mechanical efficiency—confirming pit stop procedures, coordinating with catering, ensuring his driver's room was prepared exactly to his specifications.
Rafayel arrived an hour before his usual time, already in his race suit with his helmet bag slung over his shoulder. He looked like he hadn't slept either, dark circles visible under his eyes, but his expression was set in determined lines.
"Good morning," you said professionally as he passed your workstation. "Your pre-race briefing has been moved to the conference room to accommodate the revised strategy discussion."
He nodded curtly without looking at you. "Fine. Is the physiotherapy session confirmed?"
"Yes, and I've arranged for your preferred sports drink to be available at the pit wall in case the race runs long."
"Adequate."
It was like talking to a stranger. Gone was the man who had shared late dinners and gentle touches, replaced by the cold perfectionist who treated you like any other team member. You told yourself it was better this way—cleaner, more professional.
It didn't feel better.
The strategy meeting was tense. Starting from P12 in a championship fight required aggressive tactics, and every option carried significant risk.
"We need to be opportunistic," Marco explained, pulling up various scenarios on the main screen. "Undercut opportunities, safety car windows, alternate tire strategies."
"Weather?" asked Thomas.
You consulted your tablet. "Dry start, but there's a thirty percent chance of rain in the final third of the race."
"So we stay flexible," Rafayel said, his voice flat. "Monitor conditions, react to opportunities as they arise."
It was a mature approach—patient, calculated. The kind of racing that won championships rather than individual battles. You made notes automatically, but couldn't shake the feeling that his restraint was somehow connected to yesterday's confrontation.
After the meeting dispersed, you were organizing your files when Marco approached.
"Tough day yesterday," he said quietly. "But the call wasn't wrong—just unlucky with the timing."
"It was my responsibility," you replied, not looking up from your tablet.
"Strategy is everyone's responsibility. That's why we discuss it as a team." He paused. "Rafayel's under a lot of pressure right now. The championship fight, the media attention, the expectations. Sometimes that makes him... harder than he needs to be."
You finally looked up. "He was right, though. I overstepped."
Marco frowned. "You did your job. Part of coordinating race operations is understanding strategy implications. You've been doing excellent work—don't let one difficult moment make you doubt that."
His words were kind, but they couldn't erase the memory of Rafayel's cold dismissal. You managed a smile. "Thanks, Marco. I should get back to prep work."
The race itself was a masterclass in patience and precision. Rafayel drove like a man possessed, picking off cars one by one with calculated aggression. P12 to P8 in the first stint. P8 to P5 after the first round of pit stops. P5 to P3 when rain began to fall in the final fifteen laps.
You watched from the timing stand, heart in your throat every time he made a move. This was Rafayel at his absolute best—complete focus, perfect execution, turning a potential disaster into a championship-extending performance.
When he crossed the line in P2, gaining crucial points on his rival who finished fourth, the garage erupted in celebration. It wasn't a win, but it felt like one given the circumstances.
As Rafayel climbed from the car, his usual post-race routine began—media obligations, technical debriefing, sponsor commitments. You coordinated it all with quiet efficiency, ensuring every detail was handled seamlessly.
He didn't acknowledge your work once during the entire process.
Later, after the paddock had mostly cleared and the team had gone to celebrate, you found yourself alone in the motorhome finishing paperwork. The race analysis, travel logistics for the next event, schedule confirmations—the mundane details that kept a Formula 1 operation running.
"Still working?"
You looked up to find Rafayel in the doorway, changed into casual clothes but still carrying the tension of the day in his shoulders.
"Just finishing the race report," you said, keeping your voice neutral. "Everything's ready for Abu Dhabi."
He moved into the room, and for a moment the air felt charged with the memory of other late nights, other conversations. But his expression remained carefully controlled.
"About yesterday," he began.
"You don't need to explain," you cut him off. "You were right. I overstepped my role, and it cost the team. It won't happen again."
Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe disappointment. "That's not what I—"
"I've learned my lesson," you continued, gathering your papers with deliberate calm. "I'll stick to coordination and logistics. Leave strategy to the strategists."
"Stop," he said sharply, and you froze at the command in his voice. "Just... stop."
You looked at him then, really looked, and saw something vulnerable beneath his controlled exterior.
"I was wrong," he said quietly. "Yesterday, after qualifying. I was angry and frustrated, and I took it out on you."
"You were under pressure—"
"That's not an excuse." He ran a hand through his hair, messing up the perfect styling. "The call was reasonable. The timing was unlucky. And even if it had been the wrong call, you didn't deserve what I said to you."
The apology hung between you, fragile and uncertain. You wanted to accept it, to return to the growing closeness you'd been developing. But the memory of his cold dismissal was still too fresh.
"It's fine," you said. "We both learned something."
"Did we?" His voice was rough with something that might have been regret. "Because what I learned is that I care more about your good opinion than I do about championship points. And that terrifies me."
The confession made your chest tight, but you couldn't let yourself soften. Not yet.
"Rafayel..." you started.
"I know I hurt you," he said before you could finish. "I can see it in the way you've been looking at me today. Professional. Distant. Like we're strangers."
"Maybe that's better," you said quietly. "Maybe professional distance is what this situation requires."
His face fell, and for a moment he looked younger, more vulnerable than you'd ever seen him.
"Is that what you want?"
The question hung in the air between you, loaded with implications neither of you was ready to fully confront. Because the truth was, you didn't know what you wanted anymore. The past twenty-four hours had shown you both how easily personal feelings could complicate professional relationships—and how much it hurt when those complications exploded.
"I want to do my job well," you said finally. "I want to help you win the championship."
"And after that?"
You looked at him, at the hope and fear warring in his expression, and realized you didn't have an answer. Not yet.
"One race at a time," you said, echoing the philosophy that had carried him through fifteen years of competition.
He nodded slowly, accepting the non-answer for what it was. "One race at a time," he agreed.
As you left the motorhome together, you felt the weight of everything unspoken between you. Abu Dhabi loomed—the final race, the championship decider, and maybe the end of whatever this complicated thing between you had become.
One race at a time. But somehow, you suspected that race would determine much more than just who lifted the championship trophy.
🏁…………🏎💨..…………🏎💨..…………🏎💨..……🏎💨..
The Yas Marina Circuit gleamed under the desert sun, its modern architecture a stark contrast to the traditional racing venues you'd visited throughout the season. Abu Dhabi always felt like the future—all clean lines, cutting-edge technology, and artificial perfection designed for television cameras.
It was also where championships were decided.
Rafayel arrived at the circuit eight points ahead of his nearest rival, Hamilton. Mathematically, he only needed to finish fifth or higher to secure his sixth world title, regardless of where Hamilton placed. It should have felt comfortable, secure.
Instead, the paddock buzzed with nervous energy.
"Weather's perfect," you reported during the morning briefing, your voice professionally neutral. "Twenty-eight degrees ambient, optimal tire operating windows for all compounds."
The relationship between you and Rafayel had settled into something carefully cordial over the past week. Professional courtesy, efficient coordination, nothing more. The team had noticed—you caught knowing looks between Marco and Thomas, Sarah's occasional concerned glances—but nobody said anything directly.
"Strategy remains conservative," Thomas continued, pulling up the race scenarios. "We're not here to win the race; we're here to win the championship."
Rafayel nodded, but you could see the tension in his jaw. He hated racing conservatively, hated the idea of settling for points rather than victory. It went against every instinct that had made him a champion.
"What if Hamilton has issues?" asked one of the junior strategists. "If he's out early, we could afford to be more aggressive."
"We stick to the plan," Marco said firmly. "Conservative approach until we're mathematically certain."
After the meeting, you found yourself alone with Rafayel as he reviewed telemetry data from practice. The silence stretched between you, filled with everything neither of you had said since Brazil.
"Nervous?" you asked finally, unable to bear the quiet.
He looked up, surprised by the personal question. "Should I be?"
"Most people would be. It's not every day you have the chance to win a sixth world championship."
"I've been here before." His voice was carefully controlled, but you could see the tension in his shoulders. "The car's good, the strategy is sound. Just need to execute."
"And if Hamilton tries something desperate?"
"Then I trust my instincts and fifteen years of experience." He paused, then added quietly, "And I trust that certain people have learned from their mistakes."
The barb was gentle, almost teasing, but it still stung. You turned back to your tablet, focusing on the logistics checklist.
"Your parents called," you said, changing the subject. "They're watching from Monaco. Wanted to wish you luck."
Something softened in his expression. "Did they sound nervous?"
"Terrified," you admitted, allowing a small smile. "Your mother made me promise to text her updates every ten laps."
"She always worries more than I do." He was quiet for a moment, then: "Will you? Text her, I mean?"
"Of course. It's part of the job."
The words came out more sharply than you intended, and his face shuttered again. The brief moment of connection evaporated.
"Right," he said quietly. "The job."
Qualifying went according to plan—P3 for Rafayel, Hamilton on pole. Close enough to capitalize on opportunities, far enough back to avoid early-race chaos. Perfect championship positioning.
But as you watched him climb from the car after the session, you couldn't shake the feeling that something was building toward a breaking point. The careful politeness between you was wearing thin, and the unresolved tension from Brazil hung over everything like a storm cloud.
Race day dawned clear and bright. The paddock hummed with championship energy—media everywhere, celebrities in the garage, the kind of circus atmosphere that surrounded title deciders.
You moved through your pre-race routine with mechanical precision. Schedule confirmations, logistics coordination, ensuring every detail was perfect. If this was going to be your last race working together—and you'd been wondering more and more if it might be—you wanted it to be flawless.
"Everything ready?" Rafayel asked as he arrived for the final briefing, already in his race suit.
"All confirmed. Your parents' flight landed an hour ago, and I've arranged for them to watch from the Ferrari hospitality suite."
He nodded, then hesitated. "Thank you. For taking care of them."
"It's—"
"Don't say it's your job," he interrupted, voice soft. "Please. Not today."
The vulnerability in his request made your chest tight. You wanted to say something meaningful, something that acknowledged what this moment meant for both of you. Instead, you just nodded.
The race itself was a chess match played at 300 kilometers per hour. Hamilton led from the start, but Rafayel shadowed him patiently, waiting for opportunities. No desperate moves, no risky overtakes. Just smooth, calculated racing that protected his championship lead.
You watched from the pit wall, headset crackling with radio chatter, heart pounding with every sector time. This was it—everything Rafayel had worked for, everything the team had built toward.
Lap thirty: Hamilton's engine began showing signs of strain.
Lap thirty-five: Smoke from Hamilton's car, a precautionary pit stop that dropped him to P6.
Lap forty: Rafayel inherited the lead and, with it, mathematical certainty of the championship.
The garage erupted, but you found yourself oddly calm. Watching him cross the line to win both the race and the title felt inevitable, like the conclusion of a story that had been written long before you'd become part of it.
As Rafayel climbed from the car, champagne already spraying, his eyes found yours across the chaos. For a moment, the celebration faded into background noise. He was smiling—genuinely, completely happy—and the expression transformed his entire face.
Then someone pulled him away for interviews, and the moment was gone.
The championship celebration lasted hours. Photos, interviews, champagne showers, trophy presentations. You coordinated it all from the background, ensuring every obligation was met while staying carefully out of the spotlight.
It was nearly midnight by the time the paddock finally quieted. Most of the team had gone to the official afterparty, but you'd stayed behind to handle final logistics and pack up the motorhome.
"Hiding from the party?"
You looked up to find Rafayel in the doorway, still in his race suit but with the champagne washed from his hair. The championship trophy sat on the desk beside him, gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
"Someone needs to make sure everything's ready for packing tomorrow," you said, gesturing at the organized chaos of documents and equipment.
"It can wait." He moved into the room, and suddenly the space felt smaller. "Six championships, and you're doing paperwork."
"Congratulations," you said, meaning it despite everything. "You drove brilliantly today."
"Did I? Or did I just avoid making mistakes while Hamilton's engine gave up?"
"You did what champions do. You maximized every opportunity and minimized every risk. That's not luck—that's skill."
He was quiet for a moment, studying your face. "You really believe that?"
"I've watched you race for months. I've seen how you prepare, how you analyze, how you execute under pressure. Yes, I believe it."
Something shifted in his expression, walls coming down for the first time since Brazil.
"I wanted you to be proud of me today," he said quietly.
The admission caught you off guard. "Rafayel..."
"I know things have been... difficult between us. I know I hurt you, and I know you're probably planning to leave after this weekend."
Your silence confirmed his suspicion, and pain flickered across his face.
"I don't want you to go," he continued. "But I understand if you feel you have to."
"It's complicated," you said finally.
"Everything about this is complicated." He stepped closer, close enough that you could see the exhaustion and exhilaration warring in his expression. "But complications don't change how I feel about you."
"How do you feel about me?"
The question hung between you, loaded with months of growing attraction, professional boundaries, and the memory of harsh words that couldn't be taken back.
"Like you're the best part of my day, every day," he said simply. "Like your opinion matters more than any trophy or championship point. Like I'd rather lose a race with you by my side than win it alone."
Tears pricked at your eyes despite your attempts to maintain composure. "You can't say things like that."
"Why not? Because it's unprofessional? Because it complicates our working relationship?" He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "I just won my sixth world championship, and the only thing I want to do is share it with you. If that's not love, it's close enough to terrify me."
The word hung in the air between you, impossible to ignore or take back.
"Rafayel..." you started, but he shook his head.
"You don't have to say anything. I just needed you to know. Whatever happens next, whatever you decide about staying or leaving, I needed you to know that this—us—it's real for me. It's the most real thing in my life."
Before you could respond, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, lingering for just a moment.
"Think about it," he murmured against your skin. "Please."
Then he was gone, leaving you alone with his championship trophy and the weight of everything unsaid between you.
Outside, the celebration continued, but inside the quiet motorhome, you sat surrounded by the detritus of a championship season and tried to figure out what came next.
One race at a time had gotten you this far.
But now the season was over, and it was time to decide what you really wanted.
🏁…………🏎💨..…………🏎💨..…………🏎💨..……🏎💨..
You stared at Rafayel's championship trophy for a long time after he left, its gold surface reflecting the harsh fluorescent lighting of the motorhome. Six world championships. The pinnacle of motorsport achievement. And he'd told you it meant nothing without someone to share it with.
Your phone buzzed with a text from his mother: Thank you for taking such good care of him this season. He's lucky to have you.
The irony wasn't lost on you. She thought you were just doing your job well, unaware that her son had just confessed his love in this very room.
You finished packing mechanically, muscle memory taking over while your mind spun in circles. Every rational thought screamed that leaving was the right choice—the professional choice. Working relationships that became personal rarely ended well, especially when one person was a global superstar and the other was decidedly ordinary.
But then you remembered the vulnerability in his voice when he'd said your opinion mattered more than championship points. The way he'd looked lost after his harsh words in Brazil, like he'd surprised himself with his cruelty. The careful distance he'd maintained since then, respecting boundaries even when it clearly cost him.
Your phone rang. Sarah's name flashed on the screen.
"Hey," you answered, grateful for the distraction.
"Still at the track? The party's just getting started—you should come celebrate."
"Someone needs to handle the logistics," you said automatically.
"Someone needs to have some fun occasionally too." Sarah's voice turned serious. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Are you planning to leave?"
The directness of the question caught you off guard. "What makes you ask that?"
"The way you and Rafayel have been tiptoeing around each other since Brazil. The way you both look miserable despite him just winning the championship." Sarah paused. "Also, Thomas asked me to sound you out about renewal negotiations."
Your contract expired at the end of the year. In all the chaos of the championship fight, you'd managed to avoid thinking about what came next.
"I don't know," you admitted.
"Want some unsolicited advice?"
"Do I have a choice?"
Sarah laughed. "I've been in this paddock for eight years. I've seen drivers come and go, seen team dynamics shift, seen relationships implode in spectacular fashion. But I've never seen someone change the way Rafayel has since you started working with him."
"Changed how?"
"He's... calmer. More grounded. Still demanding as hell, but there's less desperation underneath it. Like he's not constantly trying to prove something to the world." Sarah's voice softened. "Whatever's happening between you two, it's made him better. Not just as a driver, but as a person."
"It's complicated," you said, echoing your earlier words to Rafayel.
"The best things usually are. Just... think about what you actually want, not what you think you should want."
After she hung up, you sat in the quiet motorhome considering her words. What did you want?
You wanted to see Rafayel's genuine smile when he achieved something difficult. You wanted to be the person he sought out after victories and defeats alike. You wanted to wake up every morning excited about the day ahead because it meant working alongside someone who challenged and inspired you in equal measure.
You wanted him.
The realization hit like a physical blow. Despite all your careful professional boundaries, despite the complications and power dynamics and potential for disaster, you were in love with him too.
The question was whether you were brave enough to do anything about it.
🏁…………🏎💨..…………🏎💨..…………🏎💨..……🏎💨..
The Ferrari factory in Maranello was buzzing with off-season activity when you arrived three weeks after Abu Dhabi. Development for next year's car was already underway, and the familiar sounds of engineering discussions and wind tunnel tests filled the building.
You'd spent those three weeks thinking, weighing options, and ultimately making a decision that terrified and exhilarated you in equal measure.
Thomas looked surprised when you knocked on his office door. "I thought you were taking time off to consider your contract renewal."
"I was. I have." You sat down across from his desk, hands steady despite your racing heart. "I'd like to renew, but with some modifications to my role."
His eyebrows rose. "What kind of modifications?"
"I want to transition into race strategy coordination. Work more closely with Marco and the engineering team, develop the analytical skills that would make me genuinely useful beyond logistics."
It was a request you'd been considering since Brazil, when Rafayel's harsh words had contained a kernel of truth. If you wanted to be more than just an assistant, you needed to become more than just an assistant.
"That's... ambitious," Thomas said carefully. "It would mean additional training, probably starting at a junior level despite your experience with Rafayel."
"I understand. I'm willing to put in the work."
"And Rafayel? Have you discussed this with him?"
You hadn't seen or spoken to Rafayel since Abu Dhabi. He'd sent a few professional text messages about schedule confirmations for upcoming promotional events, but nothing personal. The space between you felt charged with possibility and uncertainty.
"Not yet. But I think he'd approve of me expanding my skill set."
Thomas leaned back in his chair, studying you with the calculating look that had made him successful in Formula 1 politics.
"There's been some... speculation about your working relationship with Rafayel," he said carefully.
Your stomach dropped. "What kind of speculation?"
"Nothing concrete. But people notice dynamics, especially when they change. The question is whether those dynamics would interfere with your ability to do an expanded role effectively."
"They wouldn't," you said firmly. "Professional is professional, regardless of... other factors."
"And the other factors?"
You took a deep breath. "Are something Rafayel and I need to discuss privately."
Thomas nodded slowly. "Fair enough. The strategy coordinator position is yours if you want it. We'll start the transition in January."
As you left his office, relief and terror warred in your chest. You'd bought yourself time and a legitimate reason to stay, but the bigger questions remained unanswered.
It was time to find Rafayel.
You found him in the simulator, working through setup changes for the first race of the next season. Through the glass partition, you could see his intense concentration as he navigated the virtual circuit, making minute adjustments to find optimal performance.
When the session ended, he climbed out of the rig looking slightly disoriented—the way drivers always did when transitioning from simulation back to reality. It took him a moment to notice you standing outside the control room.
"You're here," he said, and something in his voice suggested he wasn't entirely surprised.
"Thomas offered me the strategy coordinator position."
Interest flickered in his eyes. "And?"
"I accepted."
"Good." He moved closer to the glass partition, close enough that you could see the approval in his expression. "You'll be excellent at it."
"Even after Brazil?"
"Especially after Brazil. Making difficult calls under pressure is exactly what strategy coordinators do. The fact that one didn't work out doesn't negate your analytical capabilities."
The professional confidence in his assessment warmed something in your chest that had been cold since that awful confrontation.
"Can we talk?" you asked. "Privately?"
He glanced around the busy technical center, then nodded toward a conference room. "Ten minutes before my next session."
The conference room was sterile and corporate, all Ferrari red accents and championship trophies in glass cases. Nothing like the intimate motorhome spaces where your relationship had developed, but it would have to do.
"I've been thinking about what you said in Abu Dhabi," you began, then stopped. The words felt inadequate for everything you wanted to express.
"And?" His voice was carefully neutral, but you could see the tension in his shoulders.
"And I think you were right. About it being real. About it being the most real thing in either of our lives."
Hope flickered across his face, quickly suppressed. "But?"
"But we need to be smart about this. The power dynamics, the media attention, the potential for professional complications—none of that has changed."
"What are you suggesting?"
You took a breath, committing to the leap. "I'm suggesting we figure it out together. Slowly, carefully, with clear boundaries between personal and professional."
"You want to try," he said, and his voice held wonder like he hadn't dared hope for this outcome.
"I want to try. If you still want to."
His smile was radiant, transforming his entire face. "I never stopped wanting to."
He stepped closer, close enough that you could see the blue flecks in his purple eyes, could smell the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the technical smell of the simulator.
"So what happens now?" he asked softly.
"Now we take it one day at a time. We figure out how to be colleagues and... whatever this is... without destroying either."
"Whatever this is," he repeated, amused. "Are we not ready to call it what it is?"
"What is it?"
"Love," he said simply. "Complicated, inconvenient, probably inadvisable love."
"Love," you agreed, testing the word. It felt right, settled and sure despite all the uncertainty surrounding it.
He reached up to cup your face, thumb tracing along your cheekbone with infinite gentleness. "I love you," he said, like he was testing the words too.
"I love you too."
The kiss was soft, tentative—nothing like the desperate passion you might have expected after weeks of separation and uncertainty. Instead, it felt like a promise, a beginning rather than a culmination.
When you broke apart, you were both smiling.
"One day at a time?" he asked.
"One day at a time," you confirmed.
Through the conference room window, the Ferrari factory continued its relentless preparation for another season. There would be challenges ahead—media scrutiny, professional complications, the constant pressure of life in the Formula 1 spotlight.
But for the first time since Brazil, the future felt full of possibility rather than uncertainty.
You had each other, you had work you both loved, and you had time to figure out how to make it all work.
It was, you thought as Rafayel's thumb traced patterns on your hand, perfect conditions for whatever came next.
Six Months Later 🏁…………🏎💨..…………🏎💨..………
Monaco Grand Prix Weekend
"Tire temperatures are optimal," you reported through the radio, watching the data streams from your position in the strategy booth. "Track evolution suggests we can extend this stint by three laps."
"Copy," came Marco's response from the pit wall. "Rafayel, you're clear to push. Gap to second place is 2.8 seconds."
You watched the timing screens as Rafayel responded, his lap times dropping consistently. P1 at Monaco—the most prestigious victory in Formula 1, and he was making it look effortless.
The transition to race strategy had been challenging but rewarding. Six months of intensive training, of learning to read data patterns and tire degradation curves, of making split-second decisions that could determine race outcomes. It helped that you had the best teachers in the sport and unlimited access to historical data analysis.
It also helped that your boss was incredibly motivated to see you succeed.
"Beautiful sector two," you murmured into your headset, more to yourself than anyone else.
"I can hear you smiling," came Rafayel's voice through the radio, amusement clear despite the concentration required for Monaco's barriers.
"Radio discipline," Marco chided, but you could hear his own smile.
The past six months had required careful navigation of professional boundaries. At the track, you were colleagues—he was the driver, you were part of the strategy team. Clear hierarchy, professional interactions, no special treatment.
Away from the track... away from the track was different.
"Gap increasing," you reported as Rafayel continued to build his lead. "Strategy is working perfectly."
Twenty laps later, he crossed the line to win Monaco for the third time in his career. The team erupted in celebration, but your focus remained on the data, analyzing the race for the post-event debrief.
"Exceptional strategy coordination," Marco said, clapping you on the shoulder as the team began packing up the timing equipment. "The stint extensions were perfectly calculated."
"Team effort," you replied, but the praise warmed you nonetheless.
It was hours before the paddock finally quieted. Media obligations, technical inspections, team celebrations—the usual post-race routine that you now coordinated from the background rather than managing directly.
You were finishing your race analysis when Rafayel appeared beside your workstation, still in his race suit but with his hair damp from champagne.
"Good strategy today," he said formally, aware of the team members still within earshot.
"Good driving," you replied in the same professional tone.
But his eyes were warm with private meaning, and when he handed you a data printout, his fingers brushed yours deliberately.
"Dinner later?" he asked quietly. "To discuss... tire strategy for next weekend."
"I think that would be very productive," you agreed solemnly.
It had become your code. Dinner invitations disguised as work discussions, weekend trips framed as pre-race preparation, stolen moments in hotel corridors that had nothing to do with racing.
The media still speculated occasionally—you'd been photographed together at enough team events that rumors circulated. But your professional competence in the new role had earned respect throughout the paddock, and most people seemed to view your relationship as simply good colleagues working well together.
Those who suspected more were discrete enough to keep their speculation private.
Later that evening, away from cameras and team obligations, you sat across from each other at a quiet restaurant overlooking Monaco harbor. The Prince's yacht bobbed in the distance, and the lights of the principality glittered on the water.
"Six months," Rafayel said, raising his wine glass. "How are we doing?"
"Better than I expected," you admitted, touching your glass to his. "Though I still get nervous when photographers are around."
"They're getting used to seeing us together. Work colleagues who happen to enjoy each other's company."
"Is that what we are?"
His smile was soft, private. "Among other things."
Under the table, his foot touched yours, a small intimacy hidden from public view. It was how your relationship had evolved—carefully concealed affection, professional boundaries maintained in public, private moments stolen when possible.
"I'm proud of you," he said quietly. "The strategy work, the way you've handled everything. It can't have been easy."
"Having a good teacher helped."
"I didn't teach you analytical thinking or decision-making under pressure. Those were already there." His expression grew serious. "I just helped you find confidence in abilities you already possessed."
The praise made you warm in ways that had nothing to do with the wine.
"So what happens now?" you asked. "We've proven we can make the professional thing work..."
"Now we keep taking it one day at a time," he said, echoing the phrase that had become your motto. "See where it leads."
"And if it leads somewhere that makes the professional thing more complicated?"
He was quiet for a moment, considering. "Then we'll figure that out when we get there. Together."
It wasn't a perfect answer—there were still so many variables, so many ways the delicate balance you'd built could be disrupted. But it was honest, and it was real, and it acknowledged that some things were worth the risk of complication.
"Together," you agreed, and meant it.
As you walked back through Monaco's narrow streets after dinner, Rafayel's hand found yours in the shadows between streetlights. Brief touches, careful timing, affection expressed in the spaces between public moments.
It wasn't conventional, and it certainly wasn't simple. But it was yours, built on mutual respect and genuine care and the kind of trust that developed through shared challenges.
Tomorrow there would be debrief meetings and travel logistics and preparation for the next race. The familiar rhythm of Formula 1 life, with all its pressures and complications.
But tonight, walking through Monaco with your hand in his, the future felt full of possibility.
Perfect conditions, you thought, for whatever came next.
Rafayel genuinely believes he's a gift to humanity—five Formula 1 championships and a face that launched a thousand sponsorship deals will do that to a man. His last assistant quit because she was "overwhelmed by his excellence" definitely not because of the seventeen schedule rewrites for "aesthetic reasons". You're supposed to be different—professional, unimpressed, immune to his particular brand of beautiful arrogance. But somewhere between managing his impossible demands and witnessing his rare moments of vulnerability, the lines start blurring. The real danger isn't losing your job when feelings get complicated—it's discovering that the man behind the legend might actually be worth the risk.
⚠️ Please read responsibly - Self-worth issues and perfectionism & brief mentions of racing accidents/crashes
🐚 Author's Note: I'm a Red Bull girl, through and through but ya can't lie that Ferrari has the best aesthetics and I definitely love seeing Rafayel in red 🤤
🫧 Comment and reblog are deeply appreciated <3
The Ferrari hospitality suite buzzed with tension as Thomas, team principal, dropped yet another resignation letter onto the mahogany desk. The late afternoon sun streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows caught the gold embossing on the letterhead, making it gleam mockingly.
"Your fourth assistant this year just quit," Thomas announced, his voice thick with exasperation. "She said, and I quote, 'Working for him is like trying to please a beautiful, temperamental cat who also happens to be a perfectionist with impossible standards.'"
Rafayel didn't look up from his phone, where he was scrolling through Instagram posts about his latest victory at Silverstone. Purple hair fell across his forehead as he tilted his head, completely unbothered by the news. His race suit was unzipped to his waist, revealing a pristine white designer t-shirt that probably cost more than most people's monthly salary.
"She lacked the necessary skills for the position," he said, voice flat with disinterest.
"She had a Master's degree in Sports Management from Oxford and spoke four languages fluently."
"Yet she couldn't remember that I prefer my espresso at exactly 65 degrees Celsius." Rafayel finally glanced up, sharp purple eyes meeting Thomas's with mild annoyance. "She also had the audacity to suggest I 'be more flexible' with interview timing. Mediocrity has no place in my organization, Thomas. You know this."
Thomas pinched the bridge of his nose. In his twenty-three years managing Formula 1 teams, he'd never encountered anyone quite like Rafayel. Five-time world champion, unquestionably the most talented driver on the grid, and absolutely impossible to work with on a personal level.
"We've hired someone new," Thomas said carefully. "She come highly recommended. Previous experience in motorsport coordination, excellent references, and..." He paused, choosing his words carefully, "she seem to have a strong tolerance for... demanding personalities."
"Good." Rafayel returned to his phone. "Brief them on my requirements. Standard protocol."
"Rafayel." Thomas's voice carried a warning. "Try not to make this one cry on her first day."
"I don't make people cry, Thomas." Rafayel's tone was matter-of-fact, almost confused by the accusation. "I simply maintain the standards necessary for championship-level performance. If she can't handle excellence, perhaps she should consider a career in a less demanding sport."
Thomas left without another word, already mentally preparing an apology speech for when this arrangement inevitably imploded within the month.
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The Ferrari motorhome at the Hungaroring buzzed with pre-practice energy. Mechanics fine-tuned suspension settings, engineers pored over telemetry data, and the familiar scent of racing fuel mixed with Hungarian summer air created that distinctive paddock atmosphere that you'd grown to love over your years in motorsport.
You'd been up since 5 AM, reviewing weather reports, tire allocation strategies, and Rafayel's schedule for the Hungarian Grand Prix weekend. Your predecessor had left detailed notes—mostly warnings about his preferences and pet peeves—but you'd always found it better to form your own impressions.
The motorhome office was pristine, all clean lines and Ferrari red accents. Through the window, you could see mechanics wheeling the cars toward the garage, their scarlet livery gleaming under the morning sun.
"You must be the new assistant," a voice said behind you.
You turned to find Rafayel leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. He was exactly as striking in person as he appeared on television—sharp cheekbones, piercing purple eyes, and an aura of absolute confidence that seemed to fill the room. His race suit hung unzipped around his waist, and his hair was perfectly styled despite the early hour.
"You must be Rafayel," you replied, setting down your tablet and extending your hand. "I'm looking forward to working with you."
He glanced at your outstretched hand but didn't take it, instead moving to settle behind his desk. "I assume Thomas briefed you on my requirements?"
"Some of them." You pulled out the chair across from his desk and sat down, opening your tablet. "I have your schedule for today, weather updates, and the tire strategy meeting has been moved to 9:30 to accommodate the track temperature analysis."
Rafayel paused, clearly thrown off his usual rhythm. Most people waited for permission before sitting in his presence. "I didn't tell you to sit."
"You didn't tell me not to." You met his gaze steadily, noting the flicker of surprise that crossed his features. "Your practice session starts in forty-five minutes. The engineers want to discuss the front wing adjustments, and your trainer is waiting in the gym. Also, your espresso is getting cold."
He glanced at the cup on his desk—perfectly prepared, still steaming slightly. "How did you know about the temperature preference?"
"Thomas mentioned you were particular about coffee. I used to work at a specialty café before getting into motorsport." You stood, smoothing down your Ferrari polo shirt. "I'll have your gear ready and the team briefed on the session objectives."
As you headed for the door, Rafayel's voice stopped you. "What's your name?"
You paused, turning back. "I introduced myself when I came in."
"You said you were looking forward to working with me. You didn't actually tell me your name."
Heat crept up your neck. He was right. "It's (Y/N)"
You told him, and he repeated it slowly, as if testing how it sounded in his mouth.
"Interesting," he murmured, leaning back in his chair. "Most people are more... overwhelmed when they first meet me. Nervous. You seem remarkably composed."
"Should I be nervous?" you asked genuinely. "You're very successful, obviously. Five-time world champion, youngest driver to achieve multiple wins at Monaco. But right now, you're my boss who needs to get to practice on time."
Rafayel stared at you for a long moment, his usual confidence wavering slightly. "Just your boss?"
"Well," you said, hand on the door handle, "an exceptionally talented boss who's about to be late if he doesn't move in the next ten minutes."
The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but something close to it.
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Three weeks into your employment, you'd developed a routine that seemed to work. Rafayel was demanding, particular, and had opinions about everything from the ambient temperature in his driver's room to the exact angle his water bottle should be positioned on his desk. But unlike your predecessors, you didn't find his perfectionism offensive—just precise.
The Spa-Francorchamps paddock hummed with activity as you made your morning rounds. Belgium in late August was unpredictable, and the weather radar showed possible rain for qualifying. You'd already adjusted the tire strategy meeting and coordinated with the meteorology team.
"The track temperature is dropping faster than anticipated," Marco, the chief engineer, explained as you reviewed the data in the garage. "We might need to reconsider the wing setup if conditions deteriorate."
You made notes on your tablet, already calculating the ripple effects on Rafayel's schedule. "I'll brief him before he gets in the car. Any word on the power unit changes?"
"All within regulations. Ferrari's been conservative this weekend—we want maximum reliability." Marco glanced toward the motorhome. "How's he been? Usually by now he's made at least three assistants question their career choices."
"Focused," you said diplomatically. "He knows what he wants."
What you didn't mention was how Rafayel had started lingering after meetings, asking your opinion on strategy calls. Or how he'd begun requesting specific foods based on your casual mentions of preferences. Small things that probably meant nothing but felt like something.
"Acceptable work this morning," came a familiar voice behind you.
You turned to find Rafayel approaching, already in his race suit, helmet tucked under his arm. His hair was slightly messy from pulling on his balaclava, and there was a focus in his eyes that only appeared before he got in the car.
"Track temperature's dropping," you reported, falling into step beside him as he headed toward the garage. "Marco recommends staying flexible on wing settings."
"Agreed. And tire allocation?"
"Weather dependent. I've kept options open for both scenarios."
He nodded approvingly. "Efficient."
From anyone else, it might have sounded like faint praise. From Rafayel, it felt like a victory.
The garage buzzed with pre-session energy as mechanics made final adjustments to the car. Rafayel went through his usual pre-practice routine—checking seat position, testing radio communication, reviewing telemetry from previous sessions. You watched from the timing stand, noting his methodical approach to preparation.
"He's different with you," observed Sarah, the team's PR manager, joining you at the monitors. "Usually he's more... theatrical before getting in the car. Demanding more attention."
"Maybe he's just focused on the championship," you replied, though you'd noticed it too. The way he seemed calmer, more centered when you were around.
"Or maybe," Sarah said with a knowing smile, "he's found someone who doesn't treat him like a temperamental celebrity."
Before you could respond, Rafayel's voice crackled through the radio as he completed his installation lap. "Car feels good. Balance is neutral, maybe a touch of understeer in the slow corners."
"Copy that," came Marco's response. "We'll adjust for the next run."
You watched the timing screens as Rafayel's lap times dropped consistently, each sector faster than the last. He had this way of finding speed that seemed almost supernatural—small adjustments, perfect lines, an intuitive understanding of what the car needed.
When he finally climbed out of the cockpit after the session, his hair was matted with sweat and his eyes bright with satisfaction. P1 in both practice sessions, with a margin that suggested the car had more pace in reserve.
"Good session," you said as he approached, offering him a towel and water bottle.
"Adequate," he replied, but there was a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "The car responded well to our setup changes."
"Your setup changes," you corrected. "I just scheduled the meetings."
"Perhaps. But you ensured the right people were in the room at the right time." He paused, looking at you with an expression you couldn't quite read. "Details matter in this sport. I... appreciate thoroughness."
It was the closest thing to praise you'd received from him, and warmth bloomed in your chest despite your attempts to remain professional.
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The Singapore Grand Prix was always a spectacle—night racing under blazing artificial suns, the city's skyline providing a glittering backdrop to one of the most demanding circuits on the calendar. The humidity was oppressive even after sunset, and the Marina Bay Street Circuit's unforgiving barriers left no room for error.
You'd been working for Rafayel for two months now, and the rhythm between you had evolved into something seamless. He anticipated your organizational methods; you anticipated his needs. What you hadn't anticipated was how the lines between professional and personal would begin to blur.
"The stewards want to discuss the incident from practice," you informed him as he toweled off after climbing out of the car. Qualifying had been intense—P2, just three hundredths behind his championship rival.
"Which incident?" Rafayel's tone was sharp with irritation. "The one where Hamilton forced me off track, or the one where the stewards failed to notice?"
"The defending into turn seven. They want to review the footage."
He muttered something in what sounded like a mixture of languages, none of them particularly complimentary. "Schedule it after the media briefing. I want Marco there too."
"Already done. Also, your physiotherapist wants to see you about the shoulder tension before tomorrow."
Rafayel paused in drying his hair, looking at you with surprise. "You scheduled that?"
"I noticed you favoring your left shoulder getting out of the car. High-downforce tracks put extra strain on the neck and shoulders, especially with the humidity here." You kept your tone professional, though something in his expression made your pulse quicken. "I thought it would be prudent."
"You notice a lot of things," he said quietly.
Before you could respond, Thomas appeared with a small crowd of team members trailing behind him. "Rafayel, we need to discuss tire strategy for tomorrow. The weather forecast has changed."
The moment broke, but you felt Rafayel's gaze linger on you as the group moved toward the debriefing room.
The meeting ran long, as they always did in Singapore. The combination of heat, humidity, and the physical demands of the circuit meant every detail mattered. You took notes on your tablet, tracking the various strategic scenarios being discussed.
"If it rains in the first stint, do we pit early or wait?" Thomas asked, pulling up weather radar on the main screen.
"Depends on the intensity," Marco replied. "Light rain favors staying out, but if it's heavy..."
"We pit," Rafayel interjected. "I'd rather lose track position than risk aquaplaning into a barrier."
It was a mature call, showing the kind of calculated thinking that separated champions from merely fast drivers. You made a note about tire warming procedures, knowing the details would matter if the weather turned.
By the time the meeting ended, it was nearly midnight. The paddock was quieter now, most teams having finished their preparations for race day. You were packing your tablet when you realized you were alone with Rafayel in the conference room.
"Long day," you observed, stifling a yawn.
"They usually are, during race weekends." He was still studying telemetry data on his phone, but his attention seemed divided. "You don't have to stay this late. Most of the... logistics can wait until morning."
"I don't mind. Besides, someone needs to make sure you actually go back to the hotel instead of obsessing over data until sunrise."
He looked up then, really looked at you, and something shifted in the air between you. "Is that what you think I do?"
"I think you're a perfectionist who has trouble turning off the analytical part of your brain." You kept your voice light, but there was honesty underneath. "I also think you put more pressure on yourself than anyone else possibly could."
The silence that followed was charged with something neither of you wanted to name. Rafayel set down his phone, his full attention focused on you for the first time since the meeting had ended.
"Most people see the wins, the champagne, the glory," he said quietly. "They don't see the weight of expectations. The knowledge that one mistake, one moment of imperfection, can cost everything."
"Is that why you work so hard to control everything around you?"
"Control is..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Control is the difference between winning and losing. Between success and failure."
"Between being safe and being vulnerable," you added softly.
His eyes widened slightly, as if you'd touched on something he'd never voiced aloud. "Perhaps."
The hotel shuttle's horn honked outside, breaking the moment. You both gathered your things in silence, but something had fundamentally shifted. As you walked toward the paddock exit, you were hyperaware of his presence beside you—the way he moved with unconscious grace, the subtle scent of his cologne mixed with the lingering smell of racing fuel.
"Thank you," he said as you reached the shuttle.
"For what?"
"For staying. For... understanding." He hesitated, then added, "Most people don't."
As the shuttle pulled away from the circuit, you caught his reflection in the window, watching you with an expression you'd never seen before. It looked almost like longing.
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Race day in Singapore dawned—or rather, didn't dawn—hot and humid. The afternoon sun baked the circuit as teams made final preparations for the night race. You'd been up since 6 AM coordinating last-minute changes to Rafayel's schedule, reviewing weather updates, and ensuring every detail was perfect.
The Ferrari garage hummed with controlled chaos. Mechanics performed final checks on the car while engineers analyzed data from morning warm-up. Rafayel moved through his pre-race routine with practiced efficiency, but you noticed the subtle signs of tension—the way he adjusted his gloves repeatedly, the slight tightness around his eyes.
"Weather's holding steady," you reported as he finished his final driver briefing. "Track temperature optimal for the tire compounds we selected."
"Good." His response was clipped, professional, but his eyes lingered on you longer than necessary.
The race was vintage Singapore—processional for the first half, then chaos erupted with a safety car that bunched the field. Rafayel had been running third when the yellow flags came out, caught behind his championship rival who was nursing tire degradation.
"Gap to Hamilton is 1.2 seconds," Marco's voice crackled through the radio. "DRS enabled after turn fourteen."
You watched from the timing stand as Rafayel stalked his prey, waiting for the perfect moment. The overtake, when it came, was pure artistry—a late-braking move into turn seven that left commentators speechless and the crowd roaring.
He went on to win by twelve seconds.
The victory celebration was typically Rafayel—controlled, professional, with just enough emotion to satisfy the cameras. But as he climbed from the car, his eyes sought you out in the crowd of team members. When your gazes met across the garage, his face split into a genuine smile that made your heart skip.
"Exceptional drive," you said when he finally made his way over, champagne still dripping from his hair.
"Exceptional strategy," he countered, and there was something warm in his voice that made several nearby team members glance between you curiously.
The post-race procedures took hours—media obligations, technical scrutineering, debrief meetings that stretched well past midnight. By the time you were both free to leave, the paddock was nearly empty.
"Hungry?" Rafayel asked as you walked toward the hotel shuttle.
You looked at him in surprise. "It's nearly 2 AM."
"I know a place. Twenty-four hours, good food." He paused, then added with uncharacteristic hesitancy, "If you want company."
Every professional instinct told you to politely decline, to maintain appropriate boundaries. Instead, you heard yourself saying, "I could eat."
The restaurant was tucked away in Chinatown, the kind of place that served perfect wonton noodles and didn't care if you were a Formula 1 driver or a janitor. Rafayel had changed from his team polo into a simple black t-shirt and jeans, looking more relaxed than you'd ever seen him.
"You come here often?" you asked, watching him navigate the menu with familiarity.
"When I can. It's... quiet. Anonymous." He glanced around the nearly empty restaurant. "In my world, that's rare."
You ordered in comfortable silence, the events of the day settling between you like a shared secret. When the food arrived, Rafayel ate with genuine appetite rather than his usual precise consumption of nutritionally optimized meals.
"Can I ask you something?" you said, twirling noodles around your chopsticks.
"Of course."
"Why Formula 1? You could have been successful at anything—you're brilliant, driven, analytical. Why choose something so public, so..."
"Exposed?" he finished. "Honestly? Because when I'm in the car, going 300 kilometers per hour, it's the only time my mind goes quiet. All the noise, the expectations, the constant analysis—it all disappears. There's just the track, the car, and pure instinct."
"And the rest of the time?"
His smile was rueful. "The rest of the time, I try to control everything else to maintain that feeling of... clarity."
"Is it working?"
"Until recently, I thought so." He met your eyes across the small table. "But lately, I've realized that control and clarity might not be the same thing."
The implication hung between you, heavy with possibility and danger. You were his employee. He was one of the most famous athletes in the world. The complications were endless.
"We should probably get back," you said finally, though neither of you made any move to leave.
"Probably," he agreed, but his eyes never left yours.
When you finally returned to the hotel, he walked you to your door despite his room being on a different floor. The hallway was quiet, lit only by soft emergency lighting.
"Thank you," he said. "For dinner. For... everything today."
"It's my job," you replied automatically, but the words felt inadequate.
"Is it?" His voice was soft, questioning. "Because it feels like more than that."
Before you could respond, he stepped closer, close enough that you could see the flecks of red in his purple eyes, could smell his cologne mixed with the faint scent of champagne from the podium celebration.
"Rafayel..." you started, but the words died as he raised his hand to cup your cheek.
"I know this complicates everything," he whispered. "I know there are a thousand reasons why this is a terrible idea. But I can't pretend anymore that what I feel for you is purely professional."
Your heart hammered against your ribs as he leaned closer, his lips barely brushing yours in a kiss so gentle it felt like a question. When you didn't pull away, he deepened it slightly, his other hand coming to rest on your waist.
When you finally broke apart, you were both breathing unsteadily.
"This is..." you began.
"Complicated," he finished. "I know."
"We work together."
"I know."
"The media would have a field day."
"I know." His thumb traced across your cheekbone. "But I also know that you're the first person in years who's made me want something more than just the next victory."
You closed your eyes, leaning into his touch despite every rational thought screaming at you to step away. "What are we doing?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "But I'd like to find out. If you want to."
You opened your eyes to find him watching you with an expression so vulnerable it took your breath away. This wasn't the confident champion the world knew—this was just a man, asking for a chance.
"We take it slow," you said finally. "We figure out what this is before we do anything that could jeopardize both our careers."
Relief flooded his features. "Slow," he agreed. "Professional during work hours."
"Professional during work hours," you confirmed, even as he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.
As you finally entered your hotel room, your mind raced with the implications of what had just happened. You were falling for your boss—not just any boss, but one of the most famous athletes in the world. It was reckless, complicated, and potentially career-ending.
It was also, you realized as you touched your lips where his had been, absolutely inevitable.
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The weeks following Singapore blurred together in a haze of races, flights, and stolen moments. Outwardly, nothing changed—you remained the efficient, professional assistant, and Rafayel remained the demanding, perfectionist champion. But underneath the surface, everything was different.
It was in the way he now made sure you ate during long strategy meetings, quietly having food delivered without asking if you wanted it. It was in how you began anticipating his needs before he voiced them, reading his moods and energy levels with increasing accuracy. It was in the lingering touches when he handed you documents, the way conversations stretched longer than necessary after official business was concluded.
The Japanese Grand Prix at Suzuka brought its own challenges. The figure-eight circuit was notoriously demanding, and championship pressure was mounting as the season entered its final phase. Rafayel was leading the standings, but his closest rival was only eight points behind.
"Weather forecast is showing possible rain for qualifying," you reported during the morning briefing, your voice steady and professional despite the way Rafayel's eyes seemed to track your every movement around the conference room.
"Tire allocation?" asked Marco, pulling up the meteorological data on his tablet.
"We've reserved extra intermediates, but if it's heavy rain, we'll need full wets for Q1 and Q2," you replied, consulting your notes. "The track surface here doesn't drain as well as some circuits."
"Agreed," Rafayel interjected. "I'd rather have the right tires and not need them than be caught without options."
Thomas nodded approvingly. "Conservative approach makes sense given the championship situation."
After the meeting dispersed, you were organizing your files when Rafayel approached, lingering by the window that overlooked the circuit.
"Walk with me," he said quietly.
It wasn't unusual for him to want to discuss strategy or schedule changes privately, so you followed him out of the motorhome and along one of the quieter paths that wound through the paddock forest. The October air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and the distant smell of racing fuel.
"How are you handling all this?" he asked when you were far enough from the track that the sound of engines was just a distant hum.
"All what?"
"The pressure. The scrutiny. Us." The last word was spoken so softly you almost missed it.
You'd been wondering the same thing. The past few weeks had been a careful dance of maintaining professional boundaries while navigating the growing attraction between you. There had been no more kisses, no overt displays of affection, but the tension was constant.
"I'm managing," you said, though it wasn't entirely true. You'd caught team members giving you speculative looks, noticed photographers paying more attention to your interactions. The paddock was a small world where rumors traveled fast.
"Are you?" He stopped walking, turning to face you. "Because I've seen how some of the media photographers follow you around now. How certain team members watch us during meetings."
Your stomach tightened. "Have people been saying things?"
"Nothing direct. But this world... people notice when dynamics change." His expression was troubled. "I don't want you to be uncomfortable because of my feelings."
"And what about your feelings?" you asked, stepping closer despite the risk of being observed. "Are you uncomfortable?"
His laugh was humorless. "Uncomfortable? No. Terrified? Absolutely."
"Of what?"
"Of how much I look forward to seeing you every morning. Of how your opinion on everything from tire strategy to restaurant choices has become more important to me than championship standings." He ran a hand through his hair, messing up his usually perfect styling. "Of the fact that I've started making decisions based on what would make you proud of me rather than what would generate the best headlines."
The vulnerability in his admission made your chest tight. "Rafayel..."
"I know it's selfish," he continued. "I know that pursuing this puts you in an impossible position. But I can't seem to help myself."
Before you could respond, the sound of footsteps on the path made you both step apart quickly. Sarah, the PR manager, appeared around the bend with her phone pressed to her ear.
"Oh, there you are," she said to Rafayel, ending her call. "The FIA wants to discuss the new technical regulations for next season. They need you in the stewards' office in fifteen minutes."
"Of course they do," Rafayel muttered, then looked at you. "Can you reschedule the sponsor call? This might run long."
"Already done," you replied, falling back into professional mode even as your heart continued to race from your interrupted conversation. "I moved it to after the engineering debrief."
As the three of you walked back toward the paddock, Sarah glanced between you and Rafayel with obvious curiosity. "You two seem to work well together," she observed.
"Efficient coordination is essential for optimal performance," Rafayel replied smoothly, but you caught the slight tension in his shoulders.
"Right," Sarah said, though her tone suggested she wasn't entirely convinced by the professional explanation.
That evening, after a long day of practice sessions and meetings, you found yourself alone in the motorhome organizing files for the next day. Most of the team had gone to dinner, and the paddock was quieter than usual.
"Working late again?" Rafayel's voice made you look up from your laptop.
"Just finishing up tomorrow's briefing materials." You gestured at the scattered documents on the table. "How did the FIA meeting go?"
"Tedious. But productive." He moved to stand beside your chair, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body. "You know, when I was younger, I used to think success meant never needing anyone else. Being completely self-sufficient."
"And now?"
"Now I realize that the best victories are meaningless if you don't have someone to share them with." His hand came to rest on your shoulder, thumb tracing small circles through the fabric of your shirt. "Someone who understands what it took to get there."
You leaned into his touch despite the risk, closing your eyes as his fingers worked at the tension you'd been carrying all day.
"We should be careful," you murmured, even as you made no move to pull away.
"I know." His other hand joined the first, working at the knots in your shoulders with surprising skill. "But right now, it's just us. No cameras, no speculation, no complications."
For a few minutes, you allowed yourself to exist in that bubble—just the two of you in the quiet motorhome, his hands gentle on your shoulders, the soft sound of his breathing mixing with the distant hum of the paddock winding down for the evening.
"Better?" he asked eventually, his hands stilling.
"Much." You opened your eyes, turning in your chair to face him. "Thank you."
The space between you was minimal, his face close enough that you could count his eyelashes. For a moment, the temptation to close that gap was overwhelming.
"We should probably get back to the hotel," you said, though neither of you moved.
"Probably," he agreed, his voice rough with barely controlled desire.
The sound of voices outside broke the moment, and you both stepped apart as team members returned from dinner. But as you gathered your things, you felt Rafayel's eyes following your every movement, and you knew that your careful professional boundaries were becoming harder to maintain with each passing day.
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The mistake happened during qualifying at the Brazilian Grand Prix.
Interlagos was always unpredictable—elevation changes, variable weather, and a track surface that could go from perfect grip to skating rink in minutes. You'd been monitoring the radar all morning, tracking storm cells that threatened to disrupt the session.
"Current track temperature is 42 degrees," you reported to the strategy team as Q2 began. "Weather radar shows possible precipitation in fifteen minutes."
Marco nodded, studying the data. "We'll send Rafayel out early, get a banker lap before conditions deteriorate."
It was a sound strategy. Conservative, calculated, the kind of measured approach that won championships. But as you watched the other teams' approaches, doubt crept in.
"Mercedes is waiting," observed one of the junior engineers. "They're gambling on the rain holding off."
You checked the radar again. The storm cell had slowed, maybe another ten minutes before it reached the circuit. If Rafayel could improve his lap time...
"Tell him to stay out," you said suddenly. "One more flying lap before the rain hits."
Marco looked at you in surprise. "The plan was to pit after the banker lap."
"The radar shows we have time. If he can find two tenths, he'll start P3 instead of P6."
It was a split-second decision, the kind that defined careers. Marco hesitated, then keyed his radio.
"Rafayel, stay out for one more push lap. Track conditions are optimal."
"Copy," came his response, and you could hear the focus in his voice.
You watched the timing screens as he began the lap, sectors flashing purple as he found speed. Sector one was perfect. Sector two was even better.
Then the rain started.
It came down in torrents, the kind of tropical downpour that turned racing circuits into rivers. Rafayel was in the middle of sector three when his car snapped sideways, tires unable to cope with the sudden change in conditions.
The impact with the barrier was sickening. Not high-speed, but hard enough to destroy the car and send your heart into your throat. For endless seconds, there was silence from his radio.
"Rafayel, are you okay?" Marco's voice was tight with concern.
"I'm fine," came the eventual response, but you could hear the fury underneath. "Car's finished though."
P12. Starting from the sixth row because of your call.
The garage fell silent as the reality settled in. In a championship fight this tight, grid position could determine the title. And it was your fault.
"It was the right call," Marco said quietly, but his words felt hollow. "The data supported staying out."
You stared at the destroyed car being loaded onto a flatbed truck, championship hopes potentially going with it. Around you, the team began the grim process of analyzing what could be salvaged for tomorrow's race.
When Rafayel finally returned to the garage after medical clearance, his race suit was dirty and his hair disheveled, but his eyes were what made your stomach drop. Cold. Furious. Calculating.
He didn't speak to you directly, instead addressing his comments to Marco and Thomas. But you felt his gaze like a physical weight as he reviewed the session data.
"We need to discuss strategy for tomorrow," he said finally, his voice professionally neutral. "Given our compromised grid position."
The meeting was torture. Forty minutes of analyzing different scenarios while Rafayel treated you like a stranger. Professional courtesy, nothing more. No acknowledgment of the personal relationship that had been developing, no softness in his interactions.
When the others finally left, you lingered, hoping for a private word. Rafayel was still studying telemetry data, his jaw tight with concentration.
"I'm sorry," you said finally. "The call was mine, and it was wrong."
He looked up then, and the coldness in his purple eyes made you step back involuntarily.
"Sorry?" His voice was dangerously quiet. "Do you understand what that decision cost? Not just today, but potentially the entire championship?"
"The data suggested—"
"The data suggested caution. Experience suggested caution. Every instinct I've developed over fifteen years of racing suggested caution." He stood, moving around the desk until he was close enough that you could see the barely controlled fury in his expression. "But I trusted your judgment. I trusted you."
The accusation hit like a physical blow. "It was a calculated risk—"
"It was a mistake," he cut you off. "A grave mistake that could cost me everything I've worked for." His voice dropped to barely above a whisper, but each word cut like ice. "I trusted your judgment over my own experience, and look where it got me."
You felt tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but refused to let them fall. Not here. Not in front of him when he was looking at you like you were just another incompetent assistant who'd failed him.
"You're right," you said, your voice steadier than you felt. "It was my call, and I was wrong. I take full responsibility."
"Responsibility." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "How generous of you. Unfortunately, responsibility doesn't fix a destroyed car or recover lost championship points."
Each word was carefully chosen to wound, and they found their target with surgical precision. This was Rafayel at his cruelest—the version of him that had made four previous assistants quit in tears.
"What do you want me to do?" you asked quietly.
"I want you to remember that you're not a strategist. You're not an engineer. You're my assistant." His eyes were arctic. "Your job is to coordinate my schedule and ensure my preferences are met. Leave the racing decisions to people who actually understand what's at stake."
The dismissal stung more than any shouting match could have. He was reducing you to nothing more than a glorified secretary, erasing weeks of growing partnership and trust with clinical efficiency.
"Understood," you managed, proud that your voice didn't shake.
He turned back to his telemetry data, effectively dismissing you. "Make sure the car is ready for morning warm-up. And next time, stick to what you're actually qualified to do."
You left without another word, walking through the paddock on unsteady legs. The Brazilian evening was warm and humid, but you felt cold all over. Other team members gave you sympathetic looks—bad qualifying sessions were part of the sport, and everyone understood the pressure.
What they didn't understand was that this felt like more than professional disappointment. It felt like heartbreak.
Back at the hotel, you sat on your bed staring at your laptop screen, trying to focus on tomorrow's logistics. But Rafayel's words kept echoing in your mind: stick to what you're actually qualified to do.
Maybe he was right. Maybe you had overstepped, gotten too comfortable in your role, forgotten the boundaries that should exist between an assistant and a five-time world champion. Maybe the growing feelings between you had clouded your judgment in more ways than one.
Your phone buzzed with a text from Sarah: Heard about quali. Don't let him get to you - we all make strategy calls that don't work out.
You stared at the message for a long time before typing back: Thanks. See you tomorrow.
But as you tried to sleep, all you could think about was the coldness in Rafayel's eyes and the growing certainty that whatever had been developing between you was over before it had really begun.
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Race day dawned gray and overcast, matching your mood perfectly. You'd been up since 5 AM, triple-checking every detail of Rafayel's schedule and race preparation. If he wanted you to stick to basic assistant duties, you'd be the most thorough, professional assistant he'd ever had.
The Ferrari garage hummed with controlled urgency. Starting P12 meant an uphill battle, but the team had worked through the night to optimize the car's setup for overtaking. You moved through your tasks with mechanical efficiency—confirming pit stop procedures, coordinating with catering, ensuring his driver's room was prepared exactly to his specifications.
Rafayel arrived an hour before his usual time, already in his race suit with his helmet bag slung over his shoulder. He looked like he hadn't slept either, dark circles visible under his eyes, but his expression was set in determined lines.
"Good morning," you said professionally as he passed your workstation. "Your pre-race briefing has been moved to the conference room to accommodate the revised strategy discussion."
He nodded curtly without looking at you. "Fine. Is the physiotherapy session confirmed?"
"Yes, and I've arranged for your preferred sports drink to be available at the pit wall in case the race runs long."
"Adequate."
It was like talking to a stranger. Gone was the man who had shared late dinners and gentle touches, replaced by the cold perfectionist who treated you like any other team member. You told yourself it was better this way—cleaner, more professional.
It didn't feel better.
The strategy meeting was tense. Starting from P12 in a championship fight required aggressive tactics, and every option carried significant risk.
"We need to be opportunistic," Marco explained, pulling up various scenarios on the main screen. "Undercut opportunities, safety car windows, alternate tire strategies."
"Weather?" asked Thomas.
You consulted your tablet. "Dry start, but there's a thirty percent chance of rain in the final third of the race."
"So we stay flexible," Rafayel said, his voice flat. "Monitor conditions, react to opportunities as they arise."
It was a mature approach—patient, calculated. The kind of racing that won championships rather than individual battles. You made notes automatically, but couldn't shake the feeling that his restraint was somehow connected to yesterday's confrontation.
After the meeting dispersed, you were organizing your files when Marco approached.
"Tough day yesterday," he said quietly. "But the call wasn't wrong—just unlucky with the timing."
"It was my responsibility," you replied, not looking up from your tablet.
"Strategy is everyone's responsibility. That's why we discuss it as a team." He paused. "Rafayel's under a lot of pressure right now. The championship fight, the media attention, the expectations. Sometimes that makes him... harder than he needs to be."
You finally looked up. "He was right, though. I overstepped."
Marco frowned. "You did your job. Part of coordinating race operations is understanding strategy implications. You've been doing excellent work—don't let one difficult moment make you doubt that."
His words were kind, but they couldn't erase the memory of Rafayel's cold dismissal. You managed a smile. "Thanks, Marco. I should get back to prep work."
The race itself was a masterclass in patience and precision. Rafayel drove like a man possessed, picking off cars one by one with calculated aggression. P12 to P8 in the first stint. P8 to P5 after the first round of pit stops. P5 to P3 when rain began to fall in the final fifteen laps.
You watched from the timing stand, heart in your throat every time he made a move. This was Rafayel at his absolute best—complete focus, perfect execution, turning a potential disaster into a championship-extending performance.
When he crossed the line in P2, gaining crucial points on his rival who finished fourth, the garage erupted in celebration. It wasn't a win, but it felt like one given the circumstances.
As Rafayel climbed from the car, his usual post-race routine began—media obligations, technical debriefing, sponsor commitments. You coordinated it all with quiet efficiency, ensuring every detail was handled seamlessly.
He didn't acknowledge your work once during the entire process.
Later, after the paddock had mostly cleared and the team had gone to celebrate, you found yourself alone in the motorhome finishing paperwork. The race analysis, travel logistics for the next event, schedule confirmations—the mundane details that kept a Formula 1 operation running.
"Still working?"
You looked up to find Rafayel in the doorway, changed into casual clothes but still carrying the tension of the day in his shoulders.
"Just finishing the race report," you said, keeping your voice neutral. "Everything's ready for Abu Dhabi."
He moved into the room, and for a moment the air felt charged with the memory of other late nights, other conversations. But his expression remained carefully controlled.
"About yesterday," he began.
"You don't need to explain," you cut him off. "You were right. I overstepped my role, and it cost the team. It won't happen again."
Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe disappointment. "That's not what I—"
"I've learned my lesson," you continued, gathering your papers with deliberate calm. "I'll stick to coordination and logistics. Leave strategy to the strategists."
"Stop," he said sharply, and you froze at the command in his voice. "Just... stop."
You looked at him then, really looked, and saw something vulnerable beneath his controlled exterior.
"I was wrong," he said quietly. "Yesterday, after qualifying. I was angry and frustrated, and I took it out on you."
"You were under pressure—"
"That's not an excuse." He ran a hand through his hair, messing up the perfect styling. "The call was reasonable. The timing was unlucky. And even if it had been the wrong call, you didn't deserve what I said to you."
The apology hung between you, fragile and uncertain. You wanted to accept it, to return to the growing closeness you'd been developing. But the memory of his cold dismissal was still too fresh.
"It's fine," you said. "We both learned something."
"Did we?" His voice was rough with something that might have been regret. "Because what I learned is that I care more about your good opinion than I do about championship points. And that terrifies me."
The confession made your chest tight, but you couldn't let yourself soften. Not yet.
"Rafayel..." you started.
"I know I hurt you," he said before you could finish. "I can see it in the way you've been looking at me today. Professional. Distant. Like we're strangers."
"Maybe that's better," you said quietly. "Maybe professional distance is what this situation requires."
His face fell, and for a moment he looked younger, more vulnerable than you'd ever seen him.
"Is that what you want?"
The question hung in the air between you, loaded with implications neither of you was ready to fully confront. Because the truth was, you didn't know what you wanted anymore. The past twenty-four hours had shown you both how easily personal feelings could complicate professional relationships—and how much it hurt when those complications exploded.
"I want to do my job well," you said finally. "I want to help you win the championship."
"And after that?"
You looked at him, at the hope and fear warring in his expression, and realized you didn't have an answer. Not yet.
"One race at a time," you said, echoing the philosophy that had carried him through fifteen years of competition.
He nodded slowly, accepting the non-answer for what it was. "One race at a time," he agreed.
As you left the motorhome together, you felt the weight of everything unspoken between you. Abu Dhabi loomed—the final race, the championship decider, and maybe the end of whatever this complicated thing between you had become.
One race at a time. But somehow, you suspected that race would determine much more than just who lifted the championship trophy.
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The Yas Marina Circuit gleamed under the desert sun, its modern architecture a stark contrast to the traditional racing venues you'd visited throughout the season. Abu Dhabi always felt like the future—all clean lines, cutting-edge technology, and artificial perfection designed for television cameras.
It was also where championships were decided.
Rafayel arrived at the circuit eight points ahead of his nearest rival, Hamilton. Mathematically, he only needed to finish fifth or higher to secure his sixth world title, regardless of where Hamilton placed. It should have felt comfortable, secure.
Instead, the paddock buzzed with nervous energy.
"Weather's perfect," you reported during the morning briefing, your voice professionally neutral. "Twenty-eight degrees ambient, optimal tire operating windows for all compounds."
The relationship between you and Rafayel had settled into something carefully cordial over the past week. Professional courtesy, efficient coordination, nothing more. The team had noticed—you caught knowing looks between Marco and Thomas, Sarah's occasional concerned glances—but nobody said anything directly.
"Strategy remains conservative," Thomas continued, pulling up the race scenarios. "We're not here to win the race; we're here to win the championship."
Rafayel nodded, but you could see the tension in his jaw. He hated racing conservatively, hated the idea of settling for points rather than victory. It went against every instinct that had made him a champion.
"What if Hamilton has issues?" asked one of the junior strategists. "If he's out early, we could afford to be more aggressive."
"We stick to the plan," Marco said firmly. "Conservative approach until we're mathematically certain."
After the meeting, you found yourself alone with Rafayel as he reviewed telemetry data from practice. The silence stretched between you, filled with everything neither of you had said since Brazil.
"Nervous?" you asked finally, unable to bear the quiet.
He looked up, surprised by the personal question. "Should I be?"
"Most people would be. It's not every day you have the chance to win a sixth world championship."
"I've been here before." His voice was carefully controlled, but you could see the tension in his shoulders. "The car's good, the strategy is sound. Just need to execute."
"And if Hamilton tries something desperate?"
"Then I trust my instincts and fifteen years of experience." He paused, then added quietly, "And I trust that certain people have learned from their mistakes."
The barb was gentle, almost teasing, but it still stung. You turned back to your tablet, focusing on the logistics checklist.
"Your parents called," you said, changing the subject. "They're watching from Monaco. Wanted to wish you luck."
Something softened in his expression. "Did they sound nervous?"
"Terrified," you admitted, allowing a small smile. "Your mother made me promise to text her updates every ten laps."
"She always worries more than I do." He was quiet for a moment, then: "Will you? Text her, I mean?"
"Of course. It's part of the job."
The words came out more sharply than you intended, and his face shuttered again. The brief moment of connection evaporated.
"Right," he said quietly. "The job."
Qualifying went according to plan—P3 for Rafayel, Hamilton on pole. Close enough to capitalize on opportunities, far enough back to avoid early-race chaos. Perfect championship positioning.
But as you watched him climb from the car after the session, you couldn't shake the feeling that something was building toward a breaking point. The careful politeness between you was wearing thin, and the unresolved tension from Brazil hung over everything like a storm cloud.
Race day dawned clear and bright. The paddock hummed with championship energy—media everywhere, celebrities in the garage, the kind of circus atmosphere that surrounded title deciders.
You moved through your pre-race routine with mechanical precision. Schedule confirmations, logistics coordination, ensuring every detail was perfect. If this was going to be your last race working together—and you'd been wondering more and more if it might be—you wanted it to be flawless.
"Everything ready?" Rafayel asked as he arrived for the final briefing, already in his race suit.
"All confirmed. Your parents' flight landed an hour ago, and I've arranged for them to watch from the Ferrari hospitality suite."
He nodded, then hesitated. "Thank you. For taking care of them."
"It's—"
"Don't say it's your job," he interrupted, voice soft. "Please. Not today."
The vulnerability in his request made your chest tight. You wanted to say something meaningful, something that acknowledged what this moment meant for both of you. Instead, you just nodded.
The race itself was a chess match played at 300 kilometers per hour. Hamilton led from the start, but Rafayel shadowed him patiently, waiting for opportunities. No desperate moves, no risky overtakes. Just smooth, calculated racing that protected his championship lead.
You watched from the pit wall, headset crackling with radio chatter, heart pounding with every sector time. This was it—everything Rafayel had worked for, everything the team had built toward.
Lap thirty: Hamilton's engine began showing signs of strain.
Lap thirty-five: Smoke from Hamilton's car, a precautionary pit stop that dropped him to P6.
Lap forty: Rafayel inherited the lead and, with it, mathematical certainty of the championship.
The garage erupted, but you found yourself oddly calm. Watching him cross the line to win both the race and the title felt inevitable, like the conclusion of a story that had been written long before you'd become part of it.
As Rafayel climbed from the car, champagne already spraying, his eyes found yours across the chaos. For a moment, the celebration faded into background noise. He was smiling—genuinely, completely happy—and the expression transformed his entire face.
Then someone pulled him away for interviews, and the moment was gone.
The championship celebration lasted hours. Photos, interviews, champagne showers, trophy presentations. You coordinated it all from the background, ensuring every obligation was met while staying carefully out of the spotlight.
It was nearly midnight by the time the paddock finally quieted. Most of the team had gone to the official afterparty, but you'd stayed behind to handle final logistics and pack up the motorhome.
"Hiding from the party?"
You looked up to find Rafayel in the doorway, still in his race suit but with the champagne washed from his hair. The championship trophy sat on the desk beside him, gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
"Someone needs to make sure everything's ready for packing tomorrow," you said, gesturing at the organized chaos of documents and equipment.
"It can wait." He moved into the room, and suddenly the space felt smaller. "Six championships, and you're doing paperwork."
"Congratulations," you said, meaning it despite everything. "You drove brilliantly today."
"Did I? Or did I just avoid making mistakes while Hamilton's engine gave up?"
"You did what champions do. You maximized every opportunity and minimized every risk. That's not luck—that's skill."
He was quiet for a moment, studying your face. "You really believe that?"
"I've watched you race for months. I've seen how you prepare, how you analyze, how you execute under pressure. Yes, I believe it."
Something shifted in his expression, walls coming down for the first time since Brazil.
"I wanted you to be proud of me today," he said quietly.
The admission caught you off guard. "Rafayel..."
"I know things have been... difficult between us. I know I hurt you, and I know you're probably planning to leave after this weekend."
Your silence confirmed his suspicion, and pain flickered across his face.
"I don't want you to go," he continued. "But I understand if you feel you have to."
"It's complicated," you said finally.
"Everything about this is complicated." He stepped closer, close enough that you could see the exhaustion and exhilaration warring in his expression. "But complications don't change how I feel about you."
"How do you feel about me?"
The question hung between you, loaded with months of growing attraction, professional boundaries, and the memory of harsh words that couldn't be taken back.
"Like you're the best part of my day, every day," he said simply. "Like your opinion matters more than any trophy or championship point. Like I'd rather lose a race with you by my side than win it alone."
Tears pricked at your eyes despite your attempts to maintain composure. "You can't say things like that."
"Why not? Because it's unprofessional? Because it complicates our working relationship?" He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "I just won my sixth world championship, and the only thing I want to do is share it with you. If that's not love, it's close enough to terrify me."
The word hung in the air between you, impossible to ignore or take back.
"Rafayel..." you started, but he shook his head.
"You don't have to say anything. I just needed you to know. Whatever happens next, whatever you decide about staying or leaving, I needed you to know that this—us—it's real for me. It's the most real thing in my life."
Before you could respond, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, lingering for just a moment.
"Think about it," he murmured against your skin. "Please."
Then he was gone, leaving you alone with his championship trophy and the weight of everything unsaid between you.
Outside, the celebration continued, but inside the quiet motorhome, you sat surrounded by the detritus of a championship season and tried to figure out what came next.
One race at a time had gotten you this far.
But now the season was over, and it was time to decide what you really wanted.
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You stared at Rafayel's championship trophy for a long time after he left, its gold surface reflecting the harsh fluorescent lighting of the motorhome. Six world championships. The pinnacle of motorsport achievement. And he'd told you it meant nothing without someone to share it with.
Your phone buzzed with a text from his mother: Thank you for taking such good care of him this season. He's lucky to have you.
The irony wasn't lost on you. She thought you were just doing your job well, unaware that her son had just confessed his love in this very room.
You finished packing mechanically, muscle memory taking over while your mind spun in circles. Every rational thought screamed that leaving was the right choice—the professional choice. Working relationships that became personal rarely ended well, especially when one person was a global superstar and the other was decidedly ordinary.
But then you remembered the vulnerability in his voice when he'd said your opinion mattered more than championship points. The way he'd looked lost after his harsh words in Brazil, like he'd surprised himself with his cruelty. The careful distance he'd maintained since then, respecting boundaries even when it clearly cost him.
Your phone rang. Sarah's name flashed on the screen.
"Hey," you answered, grateful for the distraction.
"Still at the track? The party's just getting started—you should come celebrate."
"Someone needs to handle the logistics," you said automatically.
"Someone needs to have some fun occasionally too." Sarah's voice turned serious. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Are you planning to leave?"
The directness of the question caught you off guard. "What makes you ask that?"
"The way you and Rafayel have been tiptoeing around each other since Brazil. The way you both look miserable despite him just winning the championship." Sarah paused. "Also, Thomas asked me to sound you out about renewal negotiations."
Your contract expired at the end of the year. In all the chaos of the championship fight, you'd managed to avoid thinking about what came next.
"I don't know," you admitted.
"Want some unsolicited advice?"
"Do I have a choice?"
Sarah laughed. "I've been in this paddock for eight years. I've seen drivers come and go, seen team dynamics shift, seen relationships implode in spectacular fashion. But I've never seen someone change the way Rafayel has since you started working with him."
"Changed how?"
"He's... calmer. More grounded. Still demanding as hell, but there's less desperation underneath it. Like he's not constantly trying to prove something to the world." Sarah's voice softened. "Whatever's happening between you two, it's made him better. Not just as a driver, but as a person."
"It's complicated," you said, echoing your earlier words to Rafayel.
"The best things usually are. Just... think about what you actually want, not what you think you should want."
After she hung up, you sat in the quiet motorhome considering her words. What did you want?
You wanted to see Rafayel's genuine smile when he achieved something difficult. You wanted to be the person he sought out after victories and defeats alike. You wanted to wake up every morning excited about the day ahead because it meant working alongside someone who challenged and inspired you in equal measure.
You wanted him.
The realization hit like a physical blow. Despite all your careful professional boundaries, despite the complications and power dynamics and potential for disaster, you were in love with him too.
The question was whether you were brave enough to do anything about it.
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The Ferrari factory in Maranello was buzzing with off-season activity when you arrived three weeks after Abu Dhabi. Development for next year's car was already underway, and the familiar sounds of engineering discussions and wind tunnel tests filled the building.
You'd spent those three weeks thinking, weighing options, and ultimately making a decision that terrified and exhilarated you in equal measure.
Thomas looked surprised when you knocked on his office door. "I thought you were taking time off to consider your contract renewal."
"I was. I have." You sat down across from his desk, hands steady despite your racing heart. "I'd like to renew, but with some modifications to my role."
His eyebrows rose. "What kind of modifications?"
"I want to transition into race strategy coordination. Work more closely with Marco and the engineering team, develop the analytical skills that would make me genuinely useful beyond logistics."
It was a request you'd been considering since Brazil, when Rafayel's harsh words had contained a kernel of truth. If you wanted to be more than just an assistant, you needed to become more than just an assistant.
"That's... ambitious," Thomas said carefully. "It would mean additional training, probably starting at a junior level despite your experience with Rafayel."
"I understand. I'm willing to put in the work."
"And Rafayel? Have you discussed this with him?"
You hadn't seen or spoken to Rafayel since Abu Dhabi. He'd sent a few professional text messages about schedule confirmations for upcoming promotional events, but nothing personal. The space between you felt charged with possibility and uncertainty.
"Not yet. But I think he'd approve of me expanding my skill set."
Thomas leaned back in his chair, studying you with the calculating look that had made him successful in Formula 1 politics.
"There's been some... speculation about your working relationship with Rafayel," he said carefully.
Your stomach dropped. "What kind of speculation?"
"Nothing concrete. But people notice dynamics, especially when they change. The question is whether those dynamics would interfere with your ability to do an expanded role effectively."
"They wouldn't," you said firmly. "Professional is professional, regardless of... other factors."
"And the other factors?"
You took a deep breath. "Are something Rafayel and I need to discuss privately."
Thomas nodded slowly. "Fair enough. The strategy coordinator position is yours if you want it. We'll start the transition in January."
As you left his office, relief and terror warred in your chest. You'd bought yourself time and a legitimate reason to stay, but the bigger questions remained unanswered.
It was time to find Rafayel.
You found him in the simulator, working through setup changes for the first race of the next season. Through the glass partition, you could see his intense concentration as he navigated the virtual circuit, making minute adjustments to find optimal performance.
When the session ended, he climbed out of the rig looking slightly disoriented—the way drivers always did when transitioning from simulation back to reality. It took him a moment to notice you standing outside the control room.
"You're here," he said, and something in his voice suggested he wasn't entirely surprised.
"Thomas offered me the strategy coordinator position."
Interest flickered in his eyes. "And?"
"I accepted."
"Good." He moved closer to the glass partition, close enough that you could see the approval in his expression. "You'll be excellent at it."
"Even after Brazil?"
"Especially after Brazil. Making difficult calls under pressure is exactly what strategy coordinators do. The fact that one didn't work out doesn't negate your analytical capabilities."
The professional confidence in his assessment warmed something in your chest that had been cold since that awful confrontation.
"Can we talk?" you asked. "Privately?"
He glanced around the busy technical center, then nodded toward a conference room. "Ten minutes before my next session."
The conference room was sterile and corporate, all Ferrari red accents and championship trophies in glass cases. Nothing like the intimate motorhome spaces where your relationship had developed, but it would have to do.
"I've been thinking about what you said in Abu Dhabi," you began, then stopped. The words felt inadequate for everything you wanted to express.
"And?" His voice was carefully neutral, but you could see the tension in his shoulders.
"And I think you were right. About it being real. About it being the most real thing in either of our lives."
Hope flickered across his face, quickly suppressed. "But?"
"But we need to be smart about this. The power dynamics, the media attention, the potential for professional complications—none of that has changed."
"What are you suggesting?"
You took a breath, committing to the leap. "I'm suggesting we figure it out together. Slowly, carefully, with clear boundaries between personal and professional."
"You want to try," he said, and his voice held wonder like he hadn't dared hope for this outcome.
"I want to try. If you still want to."
His smile was radiant, transforming his entire face. "I never stopped wanting to."
He stepped closer, close enough that you could see the blue flecks in his purple eyes, could smell the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the technical smell of the simulator.
"So what happens now?" he asked softly.
"Now we take it one day at a time. We figure out how to be colleagues and... whatever this is... without destroying either."
"Whatever this is," he repeated, amused. "Are we not ready to call it what it is?"
"What is it?"
"Love," he said simply. "Complicated, inconvenient, probably inadvisable love."
"Love," you agreed, testing the word. It felt right, settled and sure despite all the uncertainty surrounding it.
He reached up to cup your face, thumb tracing along your cheekbone with infinite gentleness. "I love you," he said, like he was testing the words too.
"I love you too."
The kiss was soft, tentative—nothing like the desperate passion you might have expected after weeks of separation and uncertainty. Instead, it felt like a promise, a beginning rather than a culmination.
When you broke apart, you were both smiling.
"One day at a time?" he asked.
"One day at a time," you confirmed.
Through the conference room window, the Ferrari factory continued its relentless preparation for another season. There would be challenges ahead—media scrutiny, professional complications, the constant pressure of life in the Formula 1 spotlight.
But for the first time since Brazil, the future felt full of possibility rather than uncertainty.
You had each other, you had work you both loved, and you had time to figure out how to make it all work.
It was, you thought as Rafayel's thumb traced patterns on your hand, perfect conditions for whatever came next.
Six Months Later 🏁…………🏎💨..…………🏎💨..………
Monaco Grand Prix Weekend
"Tire temperatures are optimal," you reported through the radio, watching the data streams from your position in the strategy booth. "Track evolution suggests we can extend this stint by three laps."
"Copy," came Marco's response from the pit wall. "Rafayel, you're clear to push. Gap to second place is 2.8 seconds."
You watched the timing screens as Rafayel responded, his lap times dropping consistently. P1 at Monaco—the most prestigious victory in Formula 1, and he was making it look effortless.
The transition to race strategy had been challenging but rewarding. Six months of intensive training, of learning to read data patterns and tire degradation curves, of making split-second decisions that could determine race outcomes. It helped that you had the best teachers in the sport and unlimited access to historical data analysis.
It also helped that your boss was incredibly motivated to see you succeed.
"Beautiful sector two," you murmured into your headset, more to yourself than anyone else.
"I can hear you smiling," came Rafayel's voice through the radio, amusement clear despite the concentration required for Monaco's barriers.
"Radio discipline," Marco chided, but you could hear his own smile.
The past six months had required careful navigation of professional boundaries. At the track, you were colleagues—he was the driver, you were part of the strategy team. Clear hierarchy, professional interactions, no special treatment.
Away from the track... away from the track was different.
"Gap increasing," you reported as Rafayel continued to build his lead. "Strategy is working perfectly."
Twenty laps later, he crossed the line to win Monaco for the third time in his career. The team erupted in celebration, but your focus remained on the data, analyzing the race for the post-event debrief.
"Exceptional strategy coordination," Marco said, clapping you on the shoulder as the team began packing up the timing equipment. "The stint extensions were perfectly calculated."
"Team effort," you replied, but the praise warmed you nonetheless.
It was hours before the paddock finally quieted. Media obligations, technical inspections, team celebrations—the usual post-race routine that you now coordinated from the background rather than managing directly.
You were finishing your race analysis when Rafayel appeared beside your workstation, still in his race suit but with his hair damp from champagne.
"Good strategy today," he said formally, aware of the team members still within earshot.
"Good driving," you replied in the same professional tone.
But his eyes were warm with private meaning, and when he handed you a data printout, his fingers brushed yours deliberately.
"Dinner later?" he asked quietly. "To discuss... tire strategy for next weekend."
"I think that would be very productive," you agreed solemnly.
It had become your code. Dinner invitations disguised as work discussions, weekend trips framed as pre-race preparation, stolen moments in hotel corridors that had nothing to do with racing.
The media still speculated occasionally—you'd been photographed together at enough team events that rumors circulated. But your professional competence in the new role had earned respect throughout the paddock, and most people seemed to view your relationship as simply good colleagues working well together.
Those who suspected more were discrete enough to keep their speculation private.
Later that evening, away from cameras and team obligations, you sat across from each other at a quiet restaurant overlooking Monaco harbor. The Prince's yacht bobbed in the distance, and the lights of the principality glittered on the water.
"Six months," Rafayel said, raising his wine glass. "How are we doing?"
"Better than I expected," you admitted, touching your glass to his. "Though I still get nervous when photographers are around."
"They're getting used to seeing us together. Work colleagues who happen to enjoy each other's company."
"Is that what we are?"
His smile was soft, private. "Among other things."
Under the table, his foot touched yours, a small intimacy hidden from public view. It was how your relationship had evolved—carefully concealed affection, professional boundaries maintained in public, private moments stolen when possible.
"I'm proud of you," he said quietly. "The strategy work, the way you've handled everything. It can't have been easy."
"Having a good teacher helped."
"I didn't teach you analytical thinking or decision-making under pressure. Those were already there." His expression grew serious. "I just helped you find confidence in abilities you already possessed."
The praise made you warm in ways that had nothing to do with the wine.
"So what happens now?" you asked. "We've proven we can make the professional thing work..."
"Now we keep taking it one day at a time," he said, echoing the phrase that had become your motto. "See where it leads."
"And if it leads somewhere that makes the professional thing more complicated?"
He was quiet for a moment, considering. "Then we'll figure that out when we get there. Together."
It wasn't a perfect answer—there were still so many variables, so many ways the delicate balance you'd built could be disrupted. But it was honest, and it was real, and it acknowledged that some things were worth the risk of complication.
"Together," you agreed, and meant it.
As you walked back through Monaco's narrow streets after dinner, Rafayel's hand found yours in the shadows between streetlights. Brief touches, careful timing, affection expressed in the spaces between public moments.
It wasn't conventional, and it certainly wasn't simple. But it was yours, built on mutual respect and genuine care and the kind of trust that developed through shared challenges.
Tomorrow there would be debrief meetings and travel logistics and preparation for the next race. The familiar rhythm of Formula 1 life, with all its pressures and complications.
But tonight, walking through Monaco with your hand in his, the future felt full of possibility.
Perfect conditions, you thought, for whatever came next.
Rafayel genuinely believes he's a gift to humanity—five Formula 1 championships and a face that launched a thousand sponsorship deals will do that to a man. His last assistant quit because she was "overwhelmed by his excellence" definitely not because of the seventeen schedule rewrites for "aesthetic reasons". You're supposed to be different—professional, unimpressed, immune to his particular brand of beautiful arrogance. But somewhere between managing his impossible demands and witnessing his rare moments of vulnerability, the lines start blurring. The real danger isn't losing your job when feelings get complicated—it's discovering that the man behind the legend might actually be worth the risk.
⚠️ Please read responsibly - Self-worth issues and perfectionism & brief mentions of racing accidents/crashes
🐚 Author's Note: I'm a Red Bull girl, through and through but ya can't lie that Ferrari has the best aesthetics and I definitely love seeing Rafayel in red 🤤
🫧 Comment and reblog are deeply appreciated <3
The Ferrari hospitality suite buzzed with tension as Thomas, team principal, dropped yet another resignation letter onto the mahogany desk. The late afternoon sun streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows caught the gold embossing on the letterhead, making it gleam mockingly.
"Your fourth assistant this year just quit," Thomas announced, his voice thick with exasperation. "She said, and I quote, 'Working for him is like trying to please a beautiful, temperamental cat who also happens to be a perfectionist with impossible standards.'"
Rafayel didn't look up from his phone, where he was scrolling through Instagram posts about his latest victory at Silverstone. Purple hair fell across his forehead as he tilted his head, completely unbothered by the news. His race suit was unzipped to his waist, revealing a pristine white designer t-shirt that probably cost more than most people's monthly salary.
"She lacked the necessary skills for the position," he said, voice flat with disinterest.
"She had a Master's degree in Sports Management from Oxford and spoke four languages fluently."
"Yet she couldn't remember that I prefer my espresso at exactly 65 degrees Celsius." Rafayel finally glanced up, sharp purple eyes meeting Thomas's with mild annoyance. "She also had the audacity to suggest I 'be more flexible' with interview timing. Mediocrity has no place in my organization, Thomas. You know this."
Thomas pinched the bridge of his nose. In his twenty-three years managing Formula 1 teams, he'd never encountered anyone quite like Rafayel. Five-time world champion, unquestionably the most talented driver on the grid, and absolutely impossible to work with on a personal level.
"We've hired someone new," Thomas said carefully. "She come highly recommended. Previous experience in motorsport coordination, excellent references, and..." He paused, choosing his words carefully, "she seem to have a strong tolerance for... demanding personalities."
"Good." Rafayel returned to his phone. "Brief them on my requirements. Standard protocol."
"Rafayel." Thomas's voice carried a warning. "Try not to make this one cry on her first day."
"I don't make people cry, Thomas." Rafayel's tone was matter-of-fact, almost confused by the accusation. "I simply maintain the standards necessary for championship-level performance. If she can't handle excellence, perhaps she should consider a career in a less demanding sport."
Thomas left without another word, already mentally preparing an apology speech for when this arrangement inevitably imploded within the month.
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The Ferrari motorhome at the Hungaroring buzzed with pre-practice energy. Mechanics fine-tuned suspension settings, engineers pored over telemetry data, and the familiar scent of racing fuel mixed with Hungarian summer air created that distinctive paddock atmosphere that you'd grown to love over your years in motorsport.
You'd been up since 5 AM, reviewing weather reports, tire allocation strategies, and Rafayel's schedule for the Hungarian Grand Prix weekend. Your predecessor had left detailed notes—mostly warnings about his preferences and pet peeves—but you'd always found it better to form your own impressions.
The motorhome office was pristine, all clean lines and Ferrari red accents. Through the window, you could see mechanics wheeling the cars toward the garage, their scarlet livery gleaming under the morning sun.
"You must be the new assistant," a voice said behind you.
You turned to find Rafayel leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. He was exactly as striking in person as he appeared on television—sharp cheekbones, piercing purple eyes, and an aura of absolute confidence that seemed to fill the room. His race suit hung unzipped around his waist, and his hair was perfectly styled despite the early hour.
"You must be Rafayel," you replied, setting down your tablet and extending your hand. "I'm looking forward to working with you."
He glanced at your outstretched hand but didn't take it, instead moving to settle behind his desk. "I assume Thomas briefed you on my requirements?"
"Some of them." You pulled out the chair across from his desk and sat down, opening your tablet. "I have your schedule for today, weather updates, and the tire strategy meeting has been moved to 9:30 to accommodate the track temperature analysis."
Rafayel paused, clearly thrown off his usual rhythm. Most people waited for permission before sitting in his presence. "I didn't tell you to sit."
"You didn't tell me not to." You met his gaze steadily, noting the flicker of surprise that crossed his features. "Your practice session starts in forty-five minutes. The engineers want to discuss the front wing adjustments, and your trainer is waiting in the gym. Also, your espresso is getting cold."
He glanced at the cup on his desk—perfectly prepared, still steaming slightly. "How did you know about the temperature preference?"
"Thomas mentioned you were particular about coffee. I used to work at a specialty café before getting into motorsport." You stood, smoothing down your Ferrari polo shirt. "I'll have your gear ready and the team briefed on the session objectives."
As you headed for the door, Rafayel's voice stopped you. "What's your name?"
You paused, turning back. "I introduced myself when I came in."
"You said you were looking forward to working with me. You didn't actually tell me your name."
Heat crept up your neck. He was right. "It's (Y/N)"
You told him, and he repeated it slowly, as if testing how it sounded in his mouth.
"Interesting," he murmured, leaning back in his chair. "Most people are more... overwhelmed when they first meet me. Nervous. You seem remarkably composed."
"Should I be nervous?" you asked genuinely. "You're very successful, obviously. Five-time world champion, youngest driver to achieve multiple wins at Monaco. But right now, you're my boss who needs to get to practice on time."
Rafayel stared at you for a long moment, his usual confidence wavering slightly. "Just your boss?"
"Well," you said, hand on the door handle, "an exceptionally talented boss who's about to be late if he doesn't move in the next ten minutes."
The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but something close to it.
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Three weeks into your employment, you'd developed a routine that seemed to work. Rafayel was demanding, particular, and had opinions about everything from the ambient temperature in his driver's room to the exact angle his water bottle should be positioned on his desk. But unlike your predecessors, you didn't find his perfectionism offensive—just precise.
The Spa-Francorchamps paddock hummed with activity as you made your morning rounds. Belgium in late August was unpredictable, and the weather radar showed possible rain for qualifying. You'd already adjusted the tire strategy meeting and coordinated with the meteorology team.
"The track temperature is dropping faster than anticipated," Marco, the chief engineer, explained as you reviewed the data in the garage. "We might need to reconsider the wing setup if conditions deteriorate."
You made notes on your tablet, already calculating the ripple effects on Rafayel's schedule. "I'll brief him before he gets in the car. Any word on the power unit changes?"
"All within regulations. Ferrari's been conservative this weekend—we want maximum reliability." Marco glanced toward the motorhome. "How's he been? Usually by now he's made at least three assistants question their career choices."
"Focused," you said diplomatically. "He knows what he wants."
What you didn't mention was how Rafayel had started lingering after meetings, asking your opinion on strategy calls. Or how he'd begun requesting specific foods based on your casual mentions of preferences. Small things that probably meant nothing but felt like something.
"Acceptable work this morning," came a familiar voice behind you.
You turned to find Rafayel approaching, already in his race suit, helmet tucked under his arm. His hair was slightly messy from pulling on his balaclava, and there was a focus in his eyes that only appeared before he got in the car.
"Track temperature's dropping," you reported, falling into step beside him as he headed toward the garage. "Marco recommends staying flexible on wing settings."
"Agreed. And tire allocation?"
"Weather dependent. I've kept options open for both scenarios."
He nodded approvingly. "Efficient."
From anyone else, it might have sounded like faint praise. From Rafayel, it felt like a victory.
The garage buzzed with pre-session energy as mechanics made final adjustments to the car. Rafayel went through his usual pre-practice routine—checking seat position, testing radio communication, reviewing telemetry from previous sessions. You watched from the timing stand, noting his methodical approach to preparation.
"He's different with you," observed Sarah, the team's PR manager, joining you at the monitors. "Usually he's more... theatrical before getting in the car. Demanding more attention."
"Maybe he's just focused on the championship," you replied, though you'd noticed it too. The way he seemed calmer, more centered when you were around.
"Or maybe," Sarah said with a knowing smile, "he's found someone who doesn't treat him like a temperamental celebrity."
Before you could respond, Rafayel's voice crackled through the radio as he completed his installation lap. "Car feels good. Balance is neutral, maybe a touch of understeer in the slow corners."
"Copy that," came Marco's response. "We'll adjust for the next run."
You watched the timing screens as Rafayel's lap times dropped consistently, each sector faster than the last. He had this way of finding speed that seemed almost supernatural—small adjustments, perfect lines, an intuitive understanding of what the car needed.
When he finally climbed out of the cockpit after the session, his hair was matted with sweat and his eyes bright with satisfaction. P1 in both practice sessions, with a margin that suggested the car had more pace in reserve.
"Good session," you said as he approached, offering him a towel and water bottle.
"Adequate," he replied, but there was a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "The car responded well to our setup changes."
"Your setup changes," you corrected. "I just scheduled the meetings."
"Perhaps. But you ensured the right people were in the room at the right time." He paused, looking at you with an expression you couldn't quite read. "Details matter in this sport. I... appreciate thoroughness."
It was the closest thing to praise you'd received from him, and warmth bloomed in your chest despite your attempts to remain professional.
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The Singapore Grand Prix was always a spectacle—night racing under blazing artificial suns, the city's skyline providing a glittering backdrop to one of the most demanding circuits on the calendar. The humidity was oppressive even after sunset, and the Marina Bay Street Circuit's unforgiving barriers left no room for error.
You'd been working for Rafayel for two months now, and the rhythm between you had evolved into something seamless. He anticipated your organizational methods; you anticipated his needs. What you hadn't anticipated was how the lines between professional and personal would begin to blur.
"The stewards want to discuss the incident from practice," you informed him as he toweled off after climbing out of the car. Qualifying had been intense—P2, just three hundredths behind his championship rival.
"Which incident?" Rafayel's tone was sharp with irritation. "The one where Hamilton forced me off track, or the one where the stewards failed to notice?"
"The defending into turn seven. They want to review the footage."
He muttered something in what sounded like a mixture of languages, none of them particularly complimentary. "Schedule it after the media briefing. I want Marco there too."
"Already done. Also, your physiotherapist wants to see you about the shoulder tension before tomorrow."
Rafayel paused in drying his hair, looking at you with surprise. "You scheduled that?"
"I noticed you favoring your left shoulder getting out of the car. High-downforce tracks put extra strain on the neck and shoulders, especially with the humidity here." You kept your tone professional, though something in his expression made your pulse quicken. "I thought it would be prudent."
"You notice a lot of things," he said quietly.
Before you could respond, Thomas appeared with a small crowd of team members trailing behind him. "Rafayel, we need to discuss tire strategy for tomorrow. The weather forecast has changed."
The moment broke, but you felt Rafayel's gaze linger on you as the group moved toward the debriefing room.
The meeting ran long, as they always did in Singapore. The combination of heat, humidity, and the physical demands of the circuit meant every detail mattered. You took notes on your tablet, tracking the various strategic scenarios being discussed.
"If it rains in the first stint, do we pit early or wait?" Thomas asked, pulling up weather radar on the main screen.
"Depends on the intensity," Marco replied. "Light rain favors staying out, but if it's heavy..."
"We pit," Rafayel interjected. "I'd rather lose track position than risk aquaplaning into a barrier."
It was a mature call, showing the kind of calculated thinking that separated champions from merely fast drivers. You made a note about tire warming procedures, knowing the details would matter if the weather turned.
By the time the meeting ended, it was nearly midnight. The paddock was quieter now, most teams having finished their preparations for race day. You were packing your tablet when you realized you were alone with Rafayel in the conference room.
"Long day," you observed, stifling a yawn.
"They usually are, during race weekends." He was still studying telemetry data on his phone, but his attention seemed divided. "You don't have to stay this late. Most of the... logistics can wait until morning."
"I don't mind. Besides, someone needs to make sure you actually go back to the hotel instead of obsessing over data until sunrise."
He looked up then, really looked at you, and something shifted in the air between you. "Is that what you think I do?"
"I think you're a perfectionist who has trouble turning off the analytical part of your brain." You kept your voice light, but there was honesty underneath. "I also think you put more pressure on yourself than anyone else possibly could."
The silence that followed was charged with something neither of you wanted to name. Rafayel set down his phone, his full attention focused on you for the first time since the meeting had ended.
"Most people see the wins, the champagne, the glory," he said quietly. "They don't see the weight of expectations. The knowledge that one mistake, one moment of imperfection, can cost everything."
"Is that why you work so hard to control everything around you?"
"Control is..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Control is the difference between winning and losing. Between success and failure."
"Between being safe and being vulnerable," you added softly.
His eyes widened slightly, as if you'd touched on something he'd never voiced aloud. "Perhaps."
The hotel shuttle's horn honked outside, breaking the moment. You both gathered your things in silence, but something had fundamentally shifted. As you walked toward the paddock exit, you were hyperaware of his presence beside you—the way he moved with unconscious grace, the subtle scent of his cologne mixed with the lingering smell of racing fuel.
"Thank you," he said as you reached the shuttle.
"For what?"
"For staying. For... understanding." He hesitated, then added, "Most people don't."
As the shuttle pulled away from the circuit, you caught his reflection in the window, watching you with an expression you'd never seen before. It looked almost like longing.
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Race day in Singapore dawned—or rather, didn't dawn—hot and humid. The afternoon sun baked the circuit as teams made final preparations for the night race. You'd been up since 6 AM coordinating last-minute changes to Rafayel's schedule, reviewing weather updates, and ensuring every detail was perfect.
The Ferrari garage hummed with controlled chaos. Mechanics performed final checks on the car while engineers analyzed data from morning warm-up. Rafayel moved through his pre-race routine with practiced efficiency, but you noticed the subtle signs of tension—the way he adjusted his gloves repeatedly, the slight tightness around his eyes.
"Weather's holding steady," you reported as he finished his final driver briefing. "Track temperature optimal for the tire compounds we selected."
"Good." His response was clipped, professional, but his eyes lingered on you longer than necessary.
The race was vintage Singapore—processional for the first half, then chaos erupted with a safety car that bunched the field. Rafayel had been running third when the yellow flags came out, caught behind his championship rival who was nursing tire degradation.
"Gap to Hamilton is 1.2 seconds," Marco's voice crackled through the radio. "DRS enabled after turn fourteen."
You watched from the timing stand as Rafayel stalked his prey, waiting for the perfect moment. The overtake, when it came, was pure artistry—a late-braking move into turn seven that left commentators speechless and the crowd roaring.
He went on to win by twelve seconds.
The victory celebration was typically Rafayel—controlled, professional, with just enough emotion to satisfy the cameras. But as he climbed from the car, his eyes sought you out in the crowd of team members. When your gazes met across the garage, his face split into a genuine smile that made your heart skip.
"Exceptional drive," you said when he finally made his way over, champagne still dripping from his hair.
"Exceptional strategy," he countered, and there was something warm in his voice that made several nearby team members glance between you curiously.
The post-race procedures took hours—media obligations, technical scrutineering, debrief meetings that stretched well past midnight. By the time you were both free to leave, the paddock was nearly empty.
"Hungry?" Rafayel asked as you walked toward the hotel shuttle.
You looked at him in surprise. "It's nearly 2 AM."
"I know a place. Twenty-four hours, good food." He paused, then added with uncharacteristic hesitancy, "If you want company."
Every professional instinct told you to politely decline, to maintain appropriate boundaries. Instead, you heard yourself saying, "I could eat."
The restaurant was tucked away in Chinatown, the kind of place that served perfect wonton noodles and didn't care if you were a Formula 1 driver or a janitor. Rafayel had changed from his team polo into a simple black t-shirt and jeans, looking more relaxed than you'd ever seen him.
"You come here often?" you asked, watching him navigate the menu with familiarity.
"When I can. It's... quiet. Anonymous." He glanced around the nearly empty restaurant. "In my world, that's rare."
You ordered in comfortable silence, the events of the day settling between you like a shared secret. When the food arrived, Rafayel ate with genuine appetite rather than his usual precise consumption of nutritionally optimized meals.
"Can I ask you something?" you said, twirling noodles around your chopsticks.
"Of course."
"Why Formula 1? You could have been successful at anything—you're brilliant, driven, analytical. Why choose something so public, so..."
"Exposed?" he finished. "Honestly? Because when I'm in the car, going 300 kilometers per hour, it's the only time my mind goes quiet. All the noise, the expectations, the constant analysis—it all disappears. There's just the track, the car, and pure instinct."
"And the rest of the time?"
His smile was rueful. "The rest of the time, I try to control everything else to maintain that feeling of... clarity."
"Is it working?"
"Until recently, I thought so." He met your eyes across the small table. "But lately, I've realized that control and clarity might not be the same thing."
The implication hung between you, heavy with possibility and danger. You were his employee. He was one of the most famous athletes in the world. The complications were endless.
"We should probably get back," you said finally, though neither of you made any move to leave.
"Probably," he agreed, but his eyes never left yours.
When you finally returned to the hotel, he walked you to your door despite his room being on a different floor. The hallway was quiet, lit only by soft emergency lighting.
"Thank you," he said. "For dinner. For... everything today."
"It's my job," you replied automatically, but the words felt inadequate.
"Is it?" His voice was soft, questioning. "Because it feels like more than that."
Before you could respond, he stepped closer, close enough that you could see the flecks of red in his purple eyes, could smell his cologne mixed with the faint scent of champagne from the podium celebration.
"Rafayel..." you started, but the words died as he raised his hand to cup your cheek.
"I know this complicates everything," he whispered. "I know there are a thousand reasons why this is a terrible idea. But I can't pretend anymore that what I feel for you is purely professional."
Your heart hammered against your ribs as he leaned closer, his lips barely brushing yours in a kiss so gentle it felt like a question. When you didn't pull away, he deepened it slightly, his other hand coming to rest on your waist.
When you finally broke apart, you were both breathing unsteadily.
"This is..." you began.
"Complicated," he finished. "I know."
"We work together."
"I know."
"The media would have a field day."
"I know." His thumb traced across your cheekbone. "But I also know that you're the first person in years who's made me want something more than just the next victory."
You closed your eyes, leaning into his touch despite every rational thought screaming at you to step away. "What are we doing?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "But I'd like to find out. If you want to."
You opened your eyes to find him watching you with an expression so vulnerable it took your breath away. This wasn't the confident champion the world knew—this was just a man, asking for a chance.
"We take it slow," you said finally. "We figure out what this is before we do anything that could jeopardize both our careers."
Relief flooded his features. "Slow," he agreed. "Professional during work hours."
"Professional during work hours," you confirmed, even as he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.
As you finally entered your hotel room, your mind raced with the implications of what had just happened. You were falling for your boss—not just any boss, but one of the most famous athletes in the world. It was reckless, complicated, and potentially career-ending.
It was also, you realized as you touched your lips where his had been, absolutely inevitable.
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The weeks following Singapore blurred together in a haze of races, flights, and stolen moments. Outwardly, nothing changed—you remained the efficient, professional assistant, and Rafayel remained the demanding, perfectionist champion. But underneath the surface, everything was different.
It was in the way he now made sure you ate during long strategy meetings, quietly having food delivered without asking if you wanted it. It was in how you began anticipating his needs before he voiced them, reading his moods and energy levels with increasing accuracy. It was in the lingering touches when he handed you documents, the way conversations stretched longer than necessary after official business was concluded.
The Japanese Grand Prix at Suzuka brought its own challenges. The figure-eight circuit was notoriously demanding, and championship pressure was mounting as the season entered its final phase. Rafayel was leading the standings, but his closest rival was only eight points behind.
"Weather forecast is showing possible rain for qualifying," you reported during the morning briefing, your voice steady and professional despite the way Rafayel's eyes seemed to track your every movement around the conference room.
"Tire allocation?" asked Marco, pulling up the meteorological data on his tablet.
"We've reserved extra intermediates, but if it's heavy rain, we'll need full wets for Q1 and Q2," you replied, consulting your notes. "The track surface here doesn't drain as well as some circuits."
"Agreed," Rafayel interjected. "I'd rather have the right tires and not need them than be caught without options."
Thomas nodded approvingly. "Conservative approach makes sense given the championship situation."
After the meeting dispersed, you were organizing your files when Rafayel approached, lingering by the window that overlooked the circuit.
"Walk with me," he said quietly.
It wasn't unusual for him to want to discuss strategy or schedule changes privately, so you followed him out of the motorhome and along one of the quieter paths that wound through the paddock forest. The October air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and the distant smell of racing fuel.
"How are you handling all this?" he asked when you were far enough from the track that the sound of engines was just a distant hum.
"All what?"
"The pressure. The scrutiny. Us." The last word was spoken so softly you almost missed it.
You'd been wondering the same thing. The past few weeks had been a careful dance of maintaining professional boundaries while navigating the growing attraction between you. There had been no more kisses, no overt displays of affection, but the tension was constant.
"I'm managing," you said, though it wasn't entirely true. You'd caught team members giving you speculative looks, noticed photographers paying more attention to your interactions. The paddock was a small world where rumors traveled fast.
"Are you?" He stopped walking, turning to face you. "Because I've seen how some of the media photographers follow you around now. How certain team members watch us during meetings."
Your stomach tightened. "Have people been saying things?"
"Nothing direct. But this world... people notice when dynamics change." His expression was troubled. "I don't want you to be uncomfortable because of my feelings."
"And what about your feelings?" you asked, stepping closer despite the risk of being observed. "Are you uncomfortable?"
His laugh was humorless. "Uncomfortable? No. Terrified? Absolutely."
"Of what?"
"Of how much I look forward to seeing you every morning. Of how your opinion on everything from tire strategy to restaurant choices has become more important to me than championship standings." He ran a hand through his hair, messing up his usually perfect styling. "Of the fact that I've started making decisions based on what would make you proud of me rather than what would generate the best headlines."
The vulnerability in his admission made your chest tight. "Rafayel..."
"I know it's selfish," he continued. "I know that pursuing this puts you in an impossible position. But I can't seem to help myself."
Before you could respond, the sound of footsteps on the path made you both step apart quickly. Sarah, the PR manager, appeared around the bend with her phone pressed to her ear.
"Oh, there you are," she said to Rafayel, ending her call. "The FIA wants to discuss the new technical regulations for next season. They need you in the stewards' office in fifteen minutes."
"Of course they do," Rafayel muttered, then looked at you. "Can you reschedule the sponsor call? This might run long."
"Already done," you replied, falling back into professional mode even as your heart continued to race from your interrupted conversation. "I moved it to after the engineering debrief."
As the three of you walked back toward the paddock, Sarah glanced between you and Rafayel with obvious curiosity. "You two seem to work well together," she observed.
"Efficient coordination is essential for optimal performance," Rafayel replied smoothly, but you caught the slight tension in his shoulders.
"Right," Sarah said, though her tone suggested she wasn't entirely convinced by the professional explanation.
That evening, after a long day of practice sessions and meetings, you found yourself alone in the motorhome organizing files for the next day. Most of the team had gone to dinner, and the paddock was quieter than usual.
"Working late again?" Rafayel's voice made you look up from your laptop.
"Just finishing up tomorrow's briefing materials." You gestured at the scattered documents on the table. "How did the FIA meeting go?"
"Tedious. But productive." He moved to stand beside your chair, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body. "You know, when I was younger, I used to think success meant never needing anyone else. Being completely self-sufficient."
"And now?"
"Now I realize that the best victories are meaningless if you don't have someone to share them with." His hand came to rest on your shoulder, thumb tracing small circles through the fabric of your shirt. "Someone who understands what it took to get there."
You leaned into his touch despite the risk, closing your eyes as his fingers worked at the tension you'd been carrying all day.
"We should be careful," you murmured, even as you made no move to pull away.
"I know." His other hand joined the first, working at the knots in your shoulders with surprising skill. "But right now, it's just us. No cameras, no speculation, no complications."
For a few minutes, you allowed yourself to exist in that bubble—just the two of you in the quiet motorhome, his hands gentle on your shoulders, the soft sound of his breathing mixing with the distant hum of the paddock winding down for the evening.
"Better?" he asked eventually, his hands stilling.
"Much." You opened your eyes, turning in your chair to face him. "Thank you."
The space between you was minimal, his face close enough that you could count his eyelashes. For a moment, the temptation to close that gap was overwhelming.
"We should probably get back to the hotel," you said, though neither of you moved.
"Probably," he agreed, his voice rough with barely controlled desire.
The sound of voices outside broke the moment, and you both stepped apart as team members returned from dinner. But as you gathered your things, you felt Rafayel's eyes following your every movement, and you knew that your careful professional boundaries were becoming harder to maintain with each passing day.
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The mistake happened during qualifying at the Brazilian Grand Prix.
Interlagos was always unpredictable—elevation changes, variable weather, and a track surface that could go from perfect grip to skating rink in minutes. You'd been monitoring the radar all morning, tracking storm cells that threatened to disrupt the session.
"Current track temperature is 42 degrees," you reported to the strategy team as Q2 began. "Weather radar shows possible precipitation in fifteen minutes."
Marco nodded, studying the data. "We'll send Rafayel out early, get a banker lap before conditions deteriorate."
It was a sound strategy. Conservative, calculated, the kind of measured approach that won championships. But as you watched the other teams' approaches, doubt crept in.
"Mercedes is waiting," observed one of the junior engineers. "They're gambling on the rain holding off."
You checked the radar again. The storm cell had slowed, maybe another ten minutes before it reached the circuit. If Rafayel could improve his lap time...
"Tell him to stay out," you said suddenly. "One more flying lap before the rain hits."
Marco looked at you in surprise. "The plan was to pit after the banker lap."
"The radar shows we have time. If he can find two tenths, he'll start P3 instead of P6."
It was a split-second decision, the kind that defined careers. Marco hesitated, then keyed his radio.
"Rafayel, stay out for one more push lap. Track conditions are optimal."
"Copy," came his response, and you could hear the focus in his voice.
You watched the timing screens as he began the lap, sectors flashing purple as he found speed. Sector one was perfect. Sector two was even better.
Then the rain started.
It came down in torrents, the kind of tropical downpour that turned racing circuits into rivers. Rafayel was in the middle of sector three when his car snapped sideways, tires unable to cope with the sudden change in conditions.
The impact with the barrier was sickening. Not high-speed, but hard enough to destroy the car and send your heart into your throat. For endless seconds, there was silence from his radio.
"Rafayel, are you okay?" Marco's voice was tight with concern.
"I'm fine," came the eventual response, but you could hear the fury underneath. "Car's finished though."
P12. Starting from the sixth row because of your call.
The garage fell silent as the reality settled in. In a championship fight this tight, grid position could determine the title. And it was your fault.
"It was the right call," Marco said quietly, but his words felt hollow. "The data supported staying out."
You stared at the destroyed car being loaded onto a flatbed truck, championship hopes potentially going with it. Around you, the team began the grim process of analyzing what could be salvaged for tomorrow's race.
When Rafayel finally returned to the garage after medical clearance, his race suit was dirty and his hair disheveled, but his eyes were what made your stomach drop. Cold. Furious. Calculating.
He didn't speak to you directly, instead addressing his comments to Marco and Thomas. But you felt his gaze like a physical weight as he reviewed the session data.
"We need to discuss strategy for tomorrow," he said finally, his voice professionally neutral. "Given our compromised grid position."
The meeting was torture. Forty minutes of analyzing different scenarios while Rafayel treated you like a stranger. Professional courtesy, nothing more. No acknowledgment of the personal relationship that had been developing, no softness in his interactions.
When the others finally left, you lingered, hoping for a private word. Rafayel was still studying telemetry data, his jaw tight with concentration.
"I'm sorry," you said finally. "The call was mine, and it was wrong."
He looked up then, and the coldness in his purple eyes made you step back involuntarily.
"Sorry?" His voice was dangerously quiet. "Do you understand what that decision cost? Not just today, but potentially the entire championship?"
"The data suggested—"
"The data suggested caution. Experience suggested caution. Every instinct I've developed over fifteen years of racing suggested caution." He stood, moving around the desk until he was close enough that you could see the barely controlled fury in his expression. "But I trusted your judgment. I trusted you."
The accusation hit like a physical blow. "It was a calculated risk—"
"It was a mistake," he cut you off. "A grave mistake that could cost me everything I've worked for." His voice dropped to barely above a whisper, but each word cut like ice. "I trusted your judgment over my own experience, and look where it got me."
You felt tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but refused to let them fall. Not here. Not in front of him when he was looking at you like you were just another incompetent assistant who'd failed him.
"You're right," you said, your voice steadier than you felt. "It was my call, and I was wrong. I take full responsibility."
"Responsibility." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "How generous of you. Unfortunately, responsibility doesn't fix a destroyed car or recover lost championship points."
Each word was carefully chosen to wound, and they found their target with surgical precision. This was Rafayel at his cruelest—the version of him that had made four previous assistants quit in tears.
"What do you want me to do?" you asked quietly.
"I want you to remember that you're not a strategist. You're not an engineer. You're my assistant." His eyes were arctic. "Your job is to coordinate my schedule and ensure my preferences are met. Leave the racing decisions to people who actually understand what's at stake."
The dismissal stung more than any shouting match could have. He was reducing you to nothing more than a glorified secretary, erasing weeks of growing partnership and trust with clinical efficiency.
"Understood," you managed, proud that your voice didn't shake.
He turned back to his telemetry data, effectively dismissing you. "Make sure the car is ready for morning warm-up. And next time, stick to what you're actually qualified to do."
You left without another word, walking through the paddock on unsteady legs. The Brazilian evening was warm and humid, but you felt cold all over. Other team members gave you sympathetic looks—bad qualifying sessions were part of the sport, and everyone understood the pressure.
What they didn't understand was that this felt like more than professional disappointment. It felt like heartbreak.
Back at the hotel, you sat on your bed staring at your laptop screen, trying to focus on tomorrow's logistics. But Rafayel's words kept echoing in your mind: stick to what you're actually qualified to do.
Maybe he was right. Maybe you had overstepped, gotten too comfortable in your role, forgotten the boundaries that should exist between an assistant and a five-time world champion. Maybe the growing feelings between you had clouded your judgment in more ways than one.
Your phone buzzed with a text from Sarah: Heard about quali. Don't let him get to you - we all make strategy calls that don't work out.
You stared at the message for a long time before typing back: Thanks. See you tomorrow.
But as you tried to sleep, all you could think about was the coldness in Rafayel's eyes and the growing certainty that whatever had been developing between you was over before it had really begun.
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Race day dawned gray and overcast, matching your mood perfectly. You'd been up since 5 AM, triple-checking every detail of Rafayel's schedule and race preparation. If he wanted you to stick to basic assistant duties, you'd be the most thorough, professional assistant he'd ever had.
The Ferrari garage hummed with controlled urgency. Starting P12 meant an uphill battle, but the team had worked through the night to optimize the car's setup for overtaking. You moved through your tasks with mechanical efficiency—confirming pit stop procedures, coordinating with catering, ensuring his driver's room was prepared exactly to his specifications.
Rafayel arrived an hour before his usual time, already in his race suit with his helmet bag slung over his shoulder. He looked like he hadn't slept either, dark circles visible under his eyes, but his expression was set in determined lines.
"Good morning," you said professionally as he passed your workstation. "Your pre-race briefing has been moved to the conference room to accommodate the revised strategy discussion."
He nodded curtly without looking at you. "Fine. Is the physiotherapy session confirmed?"
"Yes, and I've arranged for your preferred sports drink to be available at the pit wall in case the race runs long."
"Adequate."
It was like talking to a stranger. Gone was the man who had shared late dinners and gentle touches, replaced by the cold perfectionist who treated you like any other team member. You told yourself it was better this way—cleaner, more professional.
It didn't feel better.
The strategy meeting was tense. Starting from P12 in a championship fight required aggressive tactics, and every option carried significant risk.
"We need to be opportunistic," Marco explained, pulling up various scenarios on the main screen. "Undercut opportunities, safety car windows, alternate tire strategies."
"Weather?" asked Thomas.
You consulted your tablet. "Dry start, but there's a thirty percent chance of rain in the final third of the race."
"So we stay flexible," Rafayel said, his voice flat. "Monitor conditions, react to opportunities as they arise."
It was a mature approach—patient, calculated. The kind of racing that won championships rather than individual battles. You made notes automatically, but couldn't shake the feeling that his restraint was somehow connected to yesterday's confrontation.
After the meeting dispersed, you were organizing your files when Marco approached.
"Tough day yesterday," he said quietly. "But the call wasn't wrong—just unlucky with the timing."
"It was my responsibility," you replied, not looking up from your tablet.
"Strategy is everyone's responsibility. That's why we discuss it as a team." He paused. "Rafayel's under a lot of pressure right now. The championship fight, the media attention, the expectations. Sometimes that makes him... harder than he needs to be."
You finally looked up. "He was right, though. I overstepped."
Marco frowned. "You did your job. Part of coordinating race operations is understanding strategy implications. You've been doing excellent work—don't let one difficult moment make you doubt that."
His words were kind, but they couldn't erase the memory of Rafayel's cold dismissal. You managed a smile. "Thanks, Marco. I should get back to prep work."
The race itself was a masterclass in patience and precision. Rafayel drove like a man possessed, picking off cars one by one with calculated aggression. P12 to P8 in the first stint. P8 to P5 after the first round of pit stops. P5 to P3 when rain began to fall in the final fifteen laps.
You watched from the timing stand, heart in your throat every time he made a move. This was Rafayel at his absolute best—complete focus, perfect execution, turning a potential disaster into a championship-extending performance.
When he crossed the line in P2, gaining crucial points on his rival who finished fourth, the garage erupted in celebration. It wasn't a win, but it felt like one given the circumstances.
As Rafayel climbed from the car, his usual post-race routine began—media obligations, technical debriefing, sponsor commitments. You coordinated it all with quiet efficiency, ensuring every detail was handled seamlessly.
He didn't acknowledge your work once during the entire process.
Later, after the paddock had mostly cleared and the team had gone to celebrate, you found yourself alone in the motorhome finishing paperwork. The race analysis, travel logistics for the next event, schedule confirmations—the mundane details that kept a Formula 1 operation running.
"Still working?"
You looked up to find Rafayel in the doorway, changed into casual clothes but still carrying the tension of the day in his shoulders.
"Just finishing the race report," you said, keeping your voice neutral. "Everything's ready for Abu Dhabi."
He moved into the room, and for a moment the air felt charged with the memory of other late nights, other conversations. But his expression remained carefully controlled.
"About yesterday," he began.
"You don't need to explain," you cut him off. "You were right. I overstepped my role, and it cost the team. It won't happen again."
Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe disappointment. "That's not what I—"
"I've learned my lesson," you continued, gathering your papers with deliberate calm. "I'll stick to coordination and logistics. Leave strategy to the strategists."
"Stop," he said sharply, and you froze at the command in his voice. "Just... stop."
You looked at him then, really looked, and saw something vulnerable beneath his controlled exterior.
"I was wrong," he said quietly. "Yesterday, after qualifying. I was angry and frustrated, and I took it out on you."
"You were under pressure—"
"That's not an excuse." He ran a hand through his hair, messing up the perfect styling. "The call was reasonable. The timing was unlucky. And even if it had been the wrong call, you didn't deserve what I said to you."
The apology hung between you, fragile and uncertain. You wanted to accept it, to return to the growing closeness you'd been developing. But the memory of his cold dismissal was still too fresh.
"It's fine," you said. "We both learned something."
"Did we?" His voice was rough with something that might have been regret. "Because what I learned is that I care more about your good opinion than I do about championship points. And that terrifies me."
The confession made your chest tight, but you couldn't let yourself soften. Not yet.
"Rafayel..." you started.
"I know I hurt you," he said before you could finish. "I can see it in the way you've been looking at me today. Professional. Distant. Like we're strangers."
"Maybe that's better," you said quietly. "Maybe professional distance is what this situation requires."
His face fell, and for a moment he looked younger, more vulnerable than you'd ever seen him.
"Is that what you want?"
The question hung in the air between you, loaded with implications neither of you was ready to fully confront. Because the truth was, you didn't know what you wanted anymore. The past twenty-four hours had shown you both how easily personal feelings could complicate professional relationships—and how much it hurt when those complications exploded.
"I want to do my job well," you said finally. "I want to help you win the championship."
"And after that?"
You looked at him, at the hope and fear warring in his expression, and realized you didn't have an answer. Not yet.
"One race at a time," you said, echoing the philosophy that had carried him through fifteen years of competition.
He nodded slowly, accepting the non-answer for what it was. "One race at a time," he agreed.
As you left the motorhome together, you felt the weight of everything unspoken between you. Abu Dhabi loomed—the final race, the championship decider, and maybe the end of whatever this complicated thing between you had become.
One race at a time. But somehow, you suspected that race would determine much more than just who lifted the championship trophy.
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The Yas Marina Circuit gleamed under the desert sun, its modern architecture a stark contrast to the traditional racing venues you'd visited throughout the season. Abu Dhabi always felt like the future—all clean lines, cutting-edge technology, and artificial perfection designed for television cameras.
It was also where championships were decided.
Rafayel arrived at the circuit eight points ahead of his nearest rival, Hamilton. Mathematically, he only needed to finish fifth or higher to secure his sixth world title, regardless of where Hamilton placed. It should have felt comfortable, secure.
Instead, the paddock buzzed with nervous energy.
"Weather's perfect," you reported during the morning briefing, your voice professionally neutral. "Twenty-eight degrees ambient, optimal tire operating windows for all compounds."
The relationship between you and Rafayel had settled into something carefully cordial over the past week. Professional courtesy, efficient coordination, nothing more. The team had noticed—you caught knowing looks between Marco and Thomas, Sarah's occasional concerned glances—but nobody said anything directly.
"Strategy remains conservative," Thomas continued, pulling up the race scenarios. "We're not here to win the race; we're here to win the championship."
Rafayel nodded, but you could see the tension in his jaw. He hated racing conservatively, hated the idea of settling for points rather than victory. It went against every instinct that had made him a champion.
"What if Hamilton has issues?" asked one of the junior strategists. "If he's out early, we could afford to be more aggressive."
"We stick to the plan," Marco said firmly. "Conservative approach until we're mathematically certain."
After the meeting, you found yourself alone with Rafayel as he reviewed telemetry data from practice. The silence stretched between you, filled with everything neither of you had said since Brazil.
"Nervous?" you asked finally, unable to bear the quiet.
He looked up, surprised by the personal question. "Should I be?"
"Most people would be. It's not every day you have the chance to win a sixth world championship."
"I've been here before." His voice was carefully controlled, but you could see the tension in his shoulders. "The car's good, the strategy is sound. Just need to execute."
"And if Hamilton tries something desperate?"
"Then I trust my instincts and fifteen years of experience." He paused, then added quietly, "And I trust that certain people have learned from their mistakes."
The barb was gentle, almost teasing, but it still stung. You turned back to your tablet, focusing on the logistics checklist.
"Your parents called," you said, changing the subject. "They're watching from Monaco. Wanted to wish you luck."
Something softened in his expression. "Did they sound nervous?"
"Terrified," you admitted, allowing a small smile. "Your mother made me promise to text her updates every ten laps."
"She always worries more than I do." He was quiet for a moment, then: "Will you? Text her, I mean?"
"Of course. It's part of the job."
The words came out more sharply than you intended, and his face shuttered again. The brief moment of connection evaporated.
"Right," he said quietly. "The job."
Qualifying went according to plan—P3 for Rafayel, Hamilton on pole. Close enough to capitalize on opportunities, far enough back to avoid early-race chaos. Perfect championship positioning.
But as you watched him climb from the car after the session, you couldn't shake the feeling that something was building toward a breaking point. The careful politeness between you was wearing thin, and the unresolved tension from Brazil hung over everything like a storm cloud.
Race day dawned clear and bright. The paddock hummed with championship energy—media everywhere, celebrities in the garage, the kind of circus atmosphere that surrounded title deciders.
You moved through your pre-race routine with mechanical precision. Schedule confirmations, logistics coordination, ensuring every detail was perfect. If this was going to be your last race working together—and you'd been wondering more and more if it might be—you wanted it to be flawless.
"Everything ready?" Rafayel asked as he arrived for the final briefing, already in his race suit.
"All confirmed. Your parents' flight landed an hour ago, and I've arranged for them to watch from the Ferrari hospitality suite."
He nodded, then hesitated. "Thank you. For taking care of them."
"It's—"
"Don't say it's your job," he interrupted, voice soft. "Please. Not today."
The vulnerability in his request made your chest tight. You wanted to say something meaningful, something that acknowledged what this moment meant for both of you. Instead, you just nodded.
The race itself was a chess match played at 300 kilometers per hour. Hamilton led from the start, but Rafayel shadowed him patiently, waiting for opportunities. No desperate moves, no risky overtakes. Just smooth, calculated racing that protected his championship lead.
You watched from the pit wall, headset crackling with radio chatter, heart pounding with every sector time. This was it—everything Rafayel had worked for, everything the team had built toward.
Lap thirty: Hamilton's engine began showing signs of strain.
Lap thirty-five: Smoke from Hamilton's car, a precautionary pit stop that dropped him to P6.
Lap forty: Rafayel inherited the lead and, with it, mathematical certainty of the championship.
The garage erupted, but you found yourself oddly calm. Watching him cross the line to win both the race and the title felt inevitable, like the conclusion of a story that had been written long before you'd become part of it.
As Rafayel climbed from the car, champagne already spraying, his eyes found yours across the chaos. For a moment, the celebration faded into background noise. He was smiling—genuinely, completely happy—and the expression transformed his entire face.
Then someone pulled him away for interviews, and the moment was gone.
The championship celebration lasted hours. Photos, interviews, champagne showers, trophy presentations. You coordinated it all from the background, ensuring every obligation was met while staying carefully out of the spotlight.
It was nearly midnight by the time the paddock finally quieted. Most of the team had gone to the official afterparty, but you'd stayed behind to handle final logistics and pack up the motorhome.
"Hiding from the party?"
You looked up to find Rafayel in the doorway, still in his race suit but with the champagne washed from his hair. The championship trophy sat on the desk beside him, gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
"Someone needs to make sure everything's ready for packing tomorrow," you said, gesturing at the organized chaos of documents and equipment.
"It can wait." He moved into the room, and suddenly the space felt smaller. "Six championships, and you're doing paperwork."
"Congratulations," you said, meaning it despite everything. "You drove brilliantly today."
"Did I? Or did I just avoid making mistakes while Hamilton's engine gave up?"
"You did what champions do. You maximized every opportunity and minimized every risk. That's not luck—that's skill."
He was quiet for a moment, studying your face. "You really believe that?"
"I've watched you race for months. I've seen how you prepare, how you analyze, how you execute under pressure. Yes, I believe it."
Something shifted in his expression, walls coming down for the first time since Brazil.
"I wanted you to be proud of me today," he said quietly.
The admission caught you off guard. "Rafayel..."
"I know things have been... difficult between us. I know I hurt you, and I know you're probably planning to leave after this weekend."
Your silence confirmed his suspicion, and pain flickered across his face.
"I don't want you to go," he continued. "But I understand if you feel you have to."
"It's complicated," you said finally.
"Everything about this is complicated." He stepped closer, close enough that you could see the exhaustion and exhilaration warring in his expression. "But complications don't change how I feel about you."
"How do you feel about me?"
The question hung between you, loaded with months of growing attraction, professional boundaries, and the memory of harsh words that couldn't be taken back.
"Like you're the best part of my day, every day," he said simply. "Like your opinion matters more than any trophy or championship point. Like I'd rather lose a race with you by my side than win it alone."
Tears pricked at your eyes despite your attempts to maintain composure. "You can't say things like that."
"Why not? Because it's unprofessional? Because it complicates our working relationship?" He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "I just won my sixth world championship, and the only thing I want to do is share it with you. If that's not love, it's close enough to terrify me."
The word hung in the air between you, impossible to ignore or take back.
"Rafayel..." you started, but he shook his head.
"You don't have to say anything. I just needed you to know. Whatever happens next, whatever you decide about staying or leaving, I needed you to know that this—us—it's real for me. It's the most real thing in my life."
Before you could respond, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, lingering for just a moment.
"Think about it," he murmured against your skin. "Please."
Then he was gone, leaving you alone with his championship trophy and the weight of everything unsaid between you.
Outside, the celebration continued, but inside the quiet motorhome, you sat surrounded by the detritus of a championship season and tried to figure out what came next.
One race at a time had gotten you this far.
But now the season was over, and it was time to decide what you really wanted.
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You stared at Rafayel's championship trophy for a long time after he left, its gold surface reflecting the harsh fluorescent lighting of the motorhome. Six world championships. The pinnacle of motorsport achievement. And he'd told you it meant nothing without someone to share it with.
Your phone buzzed with a text from his mother: Thank you for taking such good care of him this season. He's lucky to have you.
The irony wasn't lost on you. She thought you were just doing your job well, unaware that her son had just confessed his love in this very room.
You finished packing mechanically, muscle memory taking over while your mind spun in circles. Every rational thought screamed that leaving was the right choice—the professional choice. Working relationships that became personal rarely ended well, especially when one person was a global superstar and the other was decidedly ordinary.
But then you remembered the vulnerability in his voice when he'd said your opinion mattered more than championship points. The way he'd looked lost after his harsh words in Brazil, like he'd surprised himself with his cruelty. The careful distance he'd maintained since then, respecting boundaries even when it clearly cost him.
Your phone rang. Sarah's name flashed on the screen.
"Hey," you answered, grateful for the distraction.
"Still at the track? The party's just getting started—you should come celebrate."
"Someone needs to handle the logistics," you said automatically.
"Someone needs to have some fun occasionally too." Sarah's voice turned serious. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Are you planning to leave?"
The directness of the question caught you off guard. "What makes you ask that?"
"The way you and Rafayel have been tiptoeing around each other since Brazil. The way you both look miserable despite him just winning the championship." Sarah paused. "Also, Thomas asked me to sound you out about renewal negotiations."
Your contract expired at the end of the year. In all the chaos of the championship fight, you'd managed to avoid thinking about what came next.
"I don't know," you admitted.
"Want some unsolicited advice?"
"Do I have a choice?"
Sarah laughed. "I've been in this paddock for eight years. I've seen drivers come and go, seen team dynamics shift, seen relationships implode in spectacular fashion. But I've never seen someone change the way Rafayel has since you started working with him."
"Changed how?"
"He's... calmer. More grounded. Still demanding as hell, but there's less desperation underneath it. Like he's not constantly trying to prove something to the world." Sarah's voice softened. "Whatever's happening between you two, it's made him better. Not just as a driver, but as a person."
"It's complicated," you said, echoing your earlier words to Rafayel.
"The best things usually are. Just... think about what you actually want, not what you think you should want."
After she hung up, you sat in the quiet motorhome considering her words. What did you want?
You wanted to see Rafayel's genuine smile when he achieved something difficult. You wanted to be the person he sought out after victories and defeats alike. You wanted to wake up every morning excited about the day ahead because it meant working alongside someone who challenged and inspired you in equal measure.
You wanted him.
The realization hit like a physical blow. Despite all your careful professional boundaries, despite the complications and power dynamics and potential for disaster, you were in love with him too.
The question was whether you were brave enough to do anything about it.
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The Ferrari factory in Maranello was buzzing with off-season activity when you arrived three weeks after Abu Dhabi. Development for next year's car was already underway, and the familiar sounds of engineering discussions and wind tunnel tests filled the building.
You'd spent those three weeks thinking, weighing options, and ultimately making a decision that terrified and exhilarated you in equal measure.
Thomas looked surprised when you knocked on his office door. "I thought you were taking time off to consider your contract renewal."
"I was. I have." You sat down across from his desk, hands steady despite your racing heart. "I'd like to renew, but with some modifications to my role."
His eyebrows rose. "What kind of modifications?"
"I want to transition into race strategy coordination. Work more closely with Marco and the engineering team, develop the analytical skills that would make me genuinely useful beyond logistics."
It was a request you'd been considering since Brazil, when Rafayel's harsh words had contained a kernel of truth. If you wanted to be more than just an assistant, you needed to become more than just an assistant.
"That's... ambitious," Thomas said carefully. "It would mean additional training, probably starting at a junior level despite your experience with Rafayel."
"I understand. I'm willing to put in the work."
"And Rafayel? Have you discussed this with him?"
You hadn't seen or spoken to Rafayel since Abu Dhabi. He'd sent a few professional text messages about schedule confirmations for upcoming promotional events, but nothing personal. The space between you felt charged with possibility and uncertainty.
"Not yet. But I think he'd approve of me expanding my skill set."
Thomas leaned back in his chair, studying you with the calculating look that had made him successful in Formula 1 politics.
"There's been some... speculation about your working relationship with Rafayel," he said carefully.
Your stomach dropped. "What kind of speculation?"
"Nothing concrete. But people notice dynamics, especially when they change. The question is whether those dynamics would interfere with your ability to do an expanded role effectively."
"They wouldn't," you said firmly. "Professional is professional, regardless of... other factors."
"And the other factors?"
You took a deep breath. "Are something Rafayel and I need to discuss privately."
Thomas nodded slowly. "Fair enough. The strategy coordinator position is yours if you want it. We'll start the transition in January."
As you left his office, relief and terror warred in your chest. You'd bought yourself time and a legitimate reason to stay, but the bigger questions remained unanswered.
It was time to find Rafayel.
You found him in the simulator, working through setup changes for the first race of the next season. Through the glass partition, you could see his intense concentration as he navigated the virtual circuit, making minute adjustments to find optimal performance.
When the session ended, he climbed out of the rig looking slightly disoriented—the way drivers always did when transitioning from simulation back to reality. It took him a moment to notice you standing outside the control room.
"You're here," he said, and something in his voice suggested he wasn't entirely surprised.
"Thomas offered me the strategy coordinator position."
Interest flickered in his eyes. "And?"
"I accepted."
"Good." He moved closer to the glass partition, close enough that you could see the approval in his expression. "You'll be excellent at it."
"Even after Brazil?"
"Especially after Brazil. Making difficult calls under pressure is exactly what strategy coordinators do. The fact that one didn't work out doesn't negate your analytical capabilities."
The professional confidence in his assessment warmed something in your chest that had been cold since that awful confrontation.
"Can we talk?" you asked. "Privately?"
He glanced around the busy technical center, then nodded toward a conference room. "Ten minutes before my next session."
The conference room was sterile and corporate, all Ferrari red accents and championship trophies in glass cases. Nothing like the intimate motorhome spaces where your relationship had developed, but it would have to do.
"I've been thinking about what you said in Abu Dhabi," you began, then stopped. The words felt inadequate for everything you wanted to express.
"And?" His voice was carefully neutral, but you could see the tension in his shoulders.
"And I think you were right. About it being real. About it being the most real thing in either of our lives."
Hope flickered across his face, quickly suppressed. "But?"
"But we need to be smart about this. The power dynamics, the media attention, the potential for professional complications—none of that has changed."
"What are you suggesting?"
You took a breath, committing to the leap. "I'm suggesting we figure it out together. Slowly, carefully, with clear boundaries between personal and professional."
"You want to try," he said, and his voice held wonder like he hadn't dared hope for this outcome.
"I want to try. If you still want to."
His smile was radiant, transforming his entire face. "I never stopped wanting to."
He stepped closer, close enough that you could see the blue flecks in his purple eyes, could smell the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the technical smell of the simulator.
"So what happens now?" he asked softly.
"Now we take it one day at a time. We figure out how to be colleagues and... whatever this is... without destroying either."
"Whatever this is," he repeated, amused. "Are we not ready to call it what it is?"
"What is it?"
"Love," he said simply. "Complicated, inconvenient, probably inadvisable love."
"Love," you agreed, testing the word. It felt right, settled and sure despite all the uncertainty surrounding it.
He reached up to cup your face, thumb tracing along your cheekbone with infinite gentleness. "I love you," he said, like he was testing the words too.
"I love you too."
The kiss was soft, tentative—nothing like the desperate passion you might have expected after weeks of separation and uncertainty. Instead, it felt like a promise, a beginning rather than a culmination.
When you broke apart, you were both smiling.
"One day at a time?" he asked.
"One day at a time," you confirmed.
Through the conference room window, the Ferrari factory continued its relentless preparation for another season. There would be challenges ahead—media scrutiny, professional complications, the constant pressure of life in the Formula 1 spotlight.
But for the first time since Brazil, the future felt full of possibility rather than uncertainty.
You had each other, you had work you both loved, and you had time to figure out how to make it all work.
It was, you thought as Rafayel's thumb traced patterns on your hand, perfect conditions for whatever came next.
Six Months Later 🏁…………🏎💨..…………🏎💨..………
Monaco Grand Prix Weekend
"Tire temperatures are optimal," you reported through the radio, watching the data streams from your position in the strategy booth. "Track evolution suggests we can extend this stint by three laps."
"Copy," came Marco's response from the pit wall. "Rafayel, you're clear to push. Gap to second place is 2.8 seconds."
You watched the timing screens as Rafayel responded, his lap times dropping consistently. P1 at Monaco—the most prestigious victory in Formula 1, and he was making it look effortless.
The transition to race strategy had been challenging but rewarding. Six months of intensive training, of learning to read data patterns and tire degradation curves, of making split-second decisions that could determine race outcomes. It helped that you had the best teachers in the sport and unlimited access to historical data analysis.
It also helped that your boss was incredibly motivated to see you succeed.
"Beautiful sector two," you murmured into your headset, more to yourself than anyone else.
"I can hear you smiling," came Rafayel's voice through the radio, amusement clear despite the concentration required for Monaco's barriers.
"Radio discipline," Marco chided, but you could hear his own smile.
The past six months had required careful navigation of professional boundaries. At the track, you were colleagues—he was the driver, you were part of the strategy team. Clear hierarchy, professional interactions, no special treatment.
Away from the track... away from the track was different.
"Gap increasing," you reported as Rafayel continued to build his lead. "Strategy is working perfectly."
Twenty laps later, he crossed the line to win Monaco for the third time in his career. The team erupted in celebration, but your focus remained on the data, analyzing the race for the post-event debrief.
"Exceptional strategy coordination," Marco said, clapping you on the shoulder as the team began packing up the timing equipment. "The stint extensions were perfectly calculated."
"Team effort," you replied, but the praise warmed you nonetheless.
It was hours before the paddock finally quieted. Media obligations, technical inspections, team celebrations—the usual post-race routine that you now coordinated from the background rather than managing directly.
You were finishing your race analysis when Rafayel appeared beside your workstation, still in his race suit but with his hair damp from champagne.
"Good strategy today," he said formally, aware of the team members still within earshot.
"Good driving," you replied in the same professional tone.
But his eyes were warm with private meaning, and when he handed you a data printout, his fingers brushed yours deliberately.
"Dinner later?" he asked quietly. "To discuss... tire strategy for next weekend."
"I think that would be very productive," you agreed solemnly.
It had become your code. Dinner invitations disguised as work discussions, weekend trips framed as pre-race preparation, stolen moments in hotel corridors that had nothing to do with racing.
The media still speculated occasionally—you'd been photographed together at enough team events that rumors circulated. But your professional competence in the new role had earned respect throughout the paddock, and most people seemed to view your relationship as simply good colleagues working well together.
Those who suspected more were discrete enough to keep their speculation private.
Later that evening, away from cameras and team obligations, you sat across from each other at a quiet restaurant overlooking Monaco harbor. The Prince's yacht bobbed in the distance, and the lights of the principality glittered on the water.
"Six months," Rafayel said, raising his wine glass. "How are we doing?"
"Better than I expected," you admitted, touching your glass to his. "Though I still get nervous when photographers are around."
"They're getting used to seeing us together. Work colleagues who happen to enjoy each other's company."
"Is that what we are?"
His smile was soft, private. "Among other things."
Under the table, his foot touched yours, a small intimacy hidden from public view. It was how your relationship had evolved—carefully concealed affection, professional boundaries maintained in public, private moments stolen when possible.
"I'm proud of you," he said quietly. "The strategy work, the way you've handled everything. It can't have been easy."
"Having a good teacher helped."
"I didn't teach you analytical thinking or decision-making under pressure. Those were already there." His expression grew serious. "I just helped you find confidence in abilities you already possessed."
The praise made you warm in ways that had nothing to do with the wine.
"So what happens now?" you asked. "We've proven we can make the professional thing work..."
"Now we keep taking it one day at a time," he said, echoing the phrase that had become your motto. "See where it leads."
"And if it leads somewhere that makes the professional thing more complicated?"
He was quiet for a moment, considering. "Then we'll figure that out when we get there. Together."
It wasn't a perfect answer—there were still so many variables, so many ways the delicate balance you'd built could be disrupted. But it was honest, and it was real, and it acknowledged that some things were worth the risk of complication.
"Together," you agreed, and meant it.
As you walked back through Monaco's narrow streets after dinner, Rafayel's hand found yours in the shadows between streetlights. Brief touches, careful timing, affection expressed in the spaces between public moments.
It wasn't conventional, and it certainly wasn't simple. But it was yours, built on mutual respect and genuine care and the kind of trust that developed through shared challenges.
Tomorrow there would be debrief meetings and travel logistics and preparation for the next race. The familiar rhythm of Formula 1 life, with all its pressures and complications.
But tonight, walking through Monaco with your hand in his, the future felt full of possibility.
Perfect conditions, you thought, for whatever came next.
After two weeks apart, you return home to find your boyfriend missing and unresponsive. When you track him down, you discover he's been transformed by an experimental aphrodisiac—complete with horns, glowing red eyes, and an insatiable supernatural hunger that only you can satisfy.
⚠️ Please read responsibly - This story contains themes of dubious consent and penetrative sex, m → f that may be triggering for some readers.
🐚 Author’s Note: My smut debut!!! I’m so happy that I finally get to experience writing a proper smut with my beloved Sea God 🥹🎉 props to all of the smut writers because I almost went bald writing this fic (ﾉ´ｰ`)ﾉ
🫧 Comment and reblog are deeply appreciated ‹𝟹
The past two weeks had been torture disguised as duty.
Your field training assignment had you stationed in the wilderness, grinding through Wanderer combat simulations from dawn to dusk. Every muscle ached, every nerve was frayed, but the moment you collapsed into your cot each night, there was Rafayel—bathed in the warm glow from the studio lights, violet eyes heavy with longing as he asked about your day in that honeyed voice that made your chest tight with missing him.
"Did my sweet darling miss me today?" he'd purr into the camera, artistic fingers tracing lazy patterns on his chest. "Tell me what you're wearing. Better yet, show me."
Those late-night video calls were your lifeline. Even with his own hectic schedule—flying across the country with Thomas for his upcoming exhibition, managing interviews and gallery visits—Rafayel always made time for you. He'd prop his phone against his easel during breaks, painting with one hand while the other traced suggestive patterns in the air, describing in exquisite detail what he planned to do to you when you returned.
"I've been sketching you from memory," he'd whisper during one particularly heated call, his voice dropping to that dangerous octave that made your thighs clench. "Want to see how I imagine you spread out on my silk sheets? How I remember the way you arch when I—"
"Rafayel," you'd breathe, already reaching for yourself.
"That's my good girl. Let me watch you come undone for me."
But on day ten, the calls stopped.
Your phone sat silent. Messages went unread. The absence of his teasing voice, his ridiculous pet names, his constant digital affection—it carved a hollow ache in your chest that grew deeper with each passing hour.
By day twelve, worry had transformed into hurt. By day fourteen, hurt had crystallized into anger.
Your transport touched down in Linkon City under gray skies, and finally—finally—your phone buzzed.
[Rafayel 📱: Welcome home, cutie.]
[Rafayel 📱: Still away for work. Don't wait up.]
The message was ice-cold. Clinical. Nothing like the man who usually greeted your returns with paragraphs of purple prose about how the city had been colorless without you.
Your fingers moved to Find My before you could stop them.
His location pulsed steadily: Mo Art Studio.
Home.
The betrayal hit like a physical blow. He was lying to you. After two weeks of radio silence, he was lying to your face.
Twenty minutes later, you stood before his door, keycard trembling in your grip. The evening air should have been cool, but heat seemed to radiate from behind the entrance like a furnace.
You knocked. Waited. Knocked harder.
Nothing.
Your keycard beeped softly as the lock disengaged.
The moment you stepped inside, the heat hit you like a wall. Suffocating, humid, wrong. Rafayel's home was always perfectly climate-controlled—he claimed his Lemurian blood made him sensitive to temperature fluctuations, though you suspected he just liked giving you excuses to warm him up.
"Rafayel!" Your voice echoed in the dim space. Curtains drawn, lights off, the air thick enough to taste. "I know you're here!"
Silence.
You climbed the stairs on unsteady legs, following the oppressive heat to its source. His bedroom door stood ajar, and through the gap, you could see a figure curled on the bed.
The room was an oven. Dark as a cave. And there he was—shirtless, trembling, breath coming in sharp gasps like he was drowning on dry land.
"Rafayel." All your anger dissolved into concern. "Why haven't you answered me? Why did you lie about being away?"
He didn't respond. Didn't even acknowledge your presence.
You reached for his shoulder, and the moment your fingers made contact, you jerked back with a gasp. His skin was burning—not fever-hot, but scalding, like touching a heated stone.
"Jesus, you're sick—we need to get you to a hospital—"
"Don't." His voice was barely a rasp. "Please, cutie. Don't touch me. You need to leave."
He tried to roll away from you, but the movement was weak, uncoordinated. When he finally turned to face you, your heart stopped.
His eyes—those beautiful amethyst eyes that sparkled with mischief and adoration—were nearly crimson. Glowing like embers in the darkness.
"What happened to you?" You knelt beside the bed, hands hovering over him, afraid to cause more pain. "Rafayel, talk to me. Please."
He squeezed his eyes shut, whole body shuddering. "Thomas's colleague. New bar opening in the arts district. They served us some experimental cocktail—said it was a prototype aphrodisiac for Valentine's Day. I thought it was just marketing nonsense."
Understanding crashed over you like cold water. "How long?"
"Three days." His laugh was bitter, broken. "Three days of hell. I can't eat, can't sleep, can't think about anything but you. Every nerve in my body is on fire, and the only thing that helps is—" He cut himself off with a groan.
You reached for his hand instinctively, and his fingers latched onto yours with desperate strength.
The contact seemed to send electricity through him. His breathing hitched, back arching off the bed.
"You have to go," he gasped, but his grip on your hand tightened. "I'm barely holding on. If you stay, I don't know if I can control myself. I don't want to hurt you, don't want to scare you—"
His words dissolved into a tortured moan, his whole body convulsing as if he were fighting a war within himself—and losing. "No, no, no," he gasped, clawing at his own chest as the transformation began to consume him. Dark markings erupted across his skin like living shadows, spreading from his heart outward in intricate, pulsing patterns that seemed to writhe and breathe with malevolent life. The black ink-like designs carved themselves deeper into his flesh, glowing faintly with each ragged breath he took.
His canines stretched into razor-sharp fangs with an audible crack, and you watched in horrified fascination as two elegant horns tore through the skin of his temples, curving back through his disheveled hair like a dark crown. Blood trickled down his face from where they emerged.
Then he laughed—a low, dangerous sound that was nothing like his usual warm chuckle. It was predatory, unhinged, utterly inhuman. When his eyes snapped open, they blazed with primal hunger, all traces of your gentle artist boyfriend buried beneath the creature that now possessed him.
His grip on your hand, which had been weak and trembling moments before, suddenly tightened like a vice, fingers digging into your skin with supernatural strength.
"Too late to run now, cutie," he whispered, voice layered with dark promise.
Then he yanked you down onto the bed with him, his strength making it effortless as he dragged you against his burning body. His lips crashed against yours with desperate hunger, hands tangling in your hair as he kissed you like a man drowning. You could feel the heat radiating from his skin, scalding even through your clothes, his body trembling with barely restrained need. Despite the transformation, his touch was still reverent, still unmistakably him beneath the hunger that consumed him.
When he finally pulled back, you were gasping, vision blurred, completely at his mercy on the rumpled sheets beneath him.
"I'm sorry," he purred against your lips, voice dripping with dark amusement. "I'm not gonna stop until this fire burns itself out, and you're gonna take everything I give you right, cutie? Don't worry—I'll be gentle… mostly. Now why don't you be a good little hunter for me, yeah?"
His mouth found your throat, pressing hot kisses to your pulse point while his hands worked at your clothes with precision. Each piece of fabric that fell away earned you praise whispered against your skin.
"Perfect," he murmured, mouth trailing down to worship your exposed chest. "I've been dreaming of this. Sketching these curves from memory until my fingers cramped."
He took his time despite the urgency thrumming through him—lavishing attention on every inch of skin, building you up with touches and kisses until you were arching beneath him, completely pliant.
His hands smoothly unclasped your bra, fingers reverent as they traced your curves. Without wasting a moment, his mouth was on your breasts, tongue swirling around your nipples before he sucked them into his mouth, drawing desperate whimpers from your lips.
"Rafayel," you gasped, back arching as he lavished attention on your chest. "Please—"
"Shh, cutie," he murmured against your skin, mouth trailing hot kisses down your belly. "Let me worship you properly."
His hands urgently undid your pants, sliding them down your legs with agonizing slowness. When he finally settled between your thighs, he inhaled deeply, eyes rolling back in bliss.
"I can smell your arousal," he growled, voice rough with need. "So sweet, so perfect. I've been through hell trying to control myself. Do you know how many times I've imagined this? How many sketches I've ruined thinking about eating you?"
"Rafayel, please," you whimpered, hips bucking toward his face. "I need—"
"I know exactly what you need," he whispered, voice dropping to a dangerous octave as those burning red eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your breath catch. His expression was beautifully terrifying—tender love warring with predatory hunger. "Now I'm going to worship this beautiful cunt until you forget everything but my name."
He dove in with feral hunger, tongue dragging broad, possessive strokes up your slit before attacking your clit with relentless precision. His mouth devoured you—lapping, sucking, biting gently at your most sensitive flesh with desperate, animalistic need. Every sound he made was pure worship, muffled moans of satisfaction vibrating against you.
"Oh god, oh god," you cried, hands fisting in his hair as he pushed his tongue inside you, fucking you with wet, sinful strokes. "Don't stop, please don't stop—"
He moaned against your core like a starving man at a feast, the vibrations resonating through your bones and setting every nerve ending ablaze. Each desperate movement of his tongue was calculated to feed the supernatural hunger clawing at his insides while simultaneously destroying every defense you had left.
"Christ, you taste like heaven," he groaned between ravenous licks, pulling back just enough to watch your face contort with pleasure. "You're so addicting. I could spend eternity right here, drinking every drop you give me."
Your first orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, spine bowing impossibly as you screamed his name with raw, broken desperation. But he was merciless—couldn't be anything else—his mouth never leaving you as he lapped up every tremor, every aftershock, prolonging your climax until you were sobbing from the intensity.
"Too much," you gasped, trying to push his head away, but he caught your wrists.
"No such thing," he purred, and dove back in, making you cum again on his tongue until you were sobbing with oversensitivity.
When he finally pulled away, face glistening with your arousal, he cupped your tear-stained cheeks lovingly. "Look at you, already crying for me. We're far from finished, Y/N."
Rafayel rose to his knees, hands moving to unzip his pants with desperate urgency. When he finally freed his cock, it was flushed and angry, precum beading at the tip from hours of torment and anticipation. His burning red eyes locked onto you—taking in the sight of you panting and sprawled beneath him, eyes half-lidded and completely wrecked from his mouth. The vision alone made his cock twitch violently, demanding immediate relief.
"So beautiful," he breathed, voice thick with reverence and lust. "So ready for me."
He wrapped his hand around his lenght, stroking slowly edging himself while his gaze devoured every inch of your trembling form. The sight of you, so perfectly wrecked and waiting, had him practically salivating with anticipation.
With deliberate, torturous slowness, he dragged the head of his cock from your entrance up to your clit, collecting your arousal along the way. The teasing made you mewl desperately beneath him, hips bucking for more contact.
"Please," you whimpered, but he just smirked, slapping his cock against your sensitive cunt with wet, obscene sounds.
The heat radiating from your core, the slick wetness coating him, the way you clenched around nothing—it all made him hiss in pure pleasure.
"So wet for me," he groaned, continuing his torturous teasing.
"Think you can take me, cutie?" His voice was low and teasing as you felt him playing at your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against your opening. The stretch was burning and delicious—until he pulled out completely, leaving you feeling empty and desperate.
"I don't think so," he murmured against your ear, his breath hot on your skin.
You almost felt like crying from his relentless teasing. Without a second thought, you abandoned all pride and begged for his mercy. "Please, Rafayel... I want it. I want you so badly."
"Yeah?" He was still teasing, pressing soft kisses to your tear-dampened eyes with surprising tenderness.
"Yeah," you breathed, your voice barely a whisper.
For a moment he held your gaze, studying your face as you gave him the most pleading look you could muster, hoping your puppy eyes would finally make him cave. Something shifted in his expression—desire winning over his need to torment you.
Finally, he positioned himself at your entrance again, the head of his cock nudging against your opening. Both of you moaned in unison as he began to slide into you slowly, savoring every inch as he filled you completely. The stretch was overwhelming after your orgasms, making you whimper and claw at his shoulders.
"That's it, take all of me," he breathed, bottoming out with a groan. "You're gripping me so tight. Like your body doesn't want to let me go."
"I don't," you gasped, wrapping your legs around his waist. "Never want you to leave me again."
He began to move, thrusts deep and reverent, hands mapping every curve of your body like he was committing you to memory for his next masterpiece. His own moans and whimpers filled the air, the desperate sounds making you even wetter.
"You're taking me so perfectly," he praised, voice breaking with emotion. "Like you were made for this cock. Gods, I missed how warm you are inside, how you flutter around me when you're close."
"Rafayel," you moaned, already feeling another orgasm building. "You feel so good, so deep—"
"That's my girl," he groaned, angling his hips to hit that spot that made you see stars. "Let me hear how good I make you feel."
You were cock-drunk fast, lost in the rhythm of his hips and the filthy praise spilling from his lips. When you came again, clenching around him, he nearly lost control.
"More," you gasped against his lips. "Need more of you."
Something primal flashed in his eyes. In one fluid motion, he flipped you onto your hands and knees, the sudden change making you cry out.
"You want more?" he growled, hands gripping your hips as he drove into you from behind. "I-ah-can't refuse you."
This angle was devastating—each thrust hitting that perfect spot inside you while his hands roamed your body possessively. You could feel yourself getting wetter soaking the bed sheet underneath you, the obscene sounds of your coupling filling the room.
"Listen to how wet you are," he panted, one hand sliding up to cup your breast. "So fucking beautiful like this, taking my cock so well. You're mine, aren't you? Tell me you're mine."
"Yours," you sobbed, face pressed into the pillows. "Always yours, Raf— Rafayel!"
"That's right," he groaned, thrusts becoming more demanding. "My petite artiste, so messy and desperate for me."
But he needed more. Needed to see you fall apart in every way possible.
"On your back," he commanded, and when you complied on shaking legs, he pulled your legs up into a mating press, folding you nearly in half. The new angle made you scream, overwhelmed by how deep he could go.
"Look at me," he demanded, his glowing eyes boring into yours. "I want to see those pretty eyes when you cum for me again. Want to watch you fall apart."
The intensity was too much—the way he watched every expression cross your face, the desperate love and lust warring in his gaze. Your eyes rolled back as he hit that perfect spot over and over, tears streaming down your cheeks from the overwhelming pleasure.
"There you are," he whispered, voice filled with dark satisfaction. "Look at you, so beautiful when you're completely gone for me."
When your orgasm crashed over you, it was earth-shattering. You came with a broken scream, body convulsing around him as he moaned your name like a prayer. The intensity of watching you fall apart, of feeling you clench around him so perfectly, made blood drip from his nose onto your chest, the incubus potion overwhelming even his supernatural constitution.
"I can't cum anymore," you sobbed, thighs shaking from overstimulation, mascara running down your cheeks. "Please, Rafayel, I can't—"
But your pleas only seemed to spur him on. The sadistic part of the incubus potion loved seeing you so wrecked, so desperate, so perfectly ruined.
"Of course you can, cutie," he purred, pulling out only to maneuver you into his lap. "Look at this tear-stained face—so pitiful, so drunk on my cock. Makes me wanna fuck you even more."
"Please," you whimpered, but whether you were begging him to stop or continue, neither of you knew.
"One more," he coaxed, guiding you down onto his cock. "You have no idea what you do to me"
Face to face now, you could see every expression cross his beautiful, dangerous features. His hands roamed your body possessively while you rocked against him, completely lost in sensation.
"That's my good girl," he whispered against your ear, then bit down gently on your earlobe. "Taking everything I give you, even when you're crying from how good it feels. You're so perfect, so intoxicating when you're falling apart for me."
"Rafayel," you gasped, eyes rolling back again as he hit that spot that made you see white. "I'm going to—"
"I know, baby. Let go for me one last time."
Your final orgasm was devastating, your vision going white as your body convulsed around him. You came with a silent scream, completely overwhelmed by sensation, and watching you reach that peak of pleasure pushed him over the edge.
He came with a broken moan, holding you tight against him as he spilled inside you, nose bleeding more heavily now from the sheer intensity of the moment.
The last thing you remembered was his face above you, handsome and ethereal with his horns and glowing eyes, completely drunk on pleasure as he buried himself deep inside you, whispering your name like a benediction and the satisfaction of finally being able to touch you after days of torment. Your own face was a mess of tears and smeared makeup, eyes glassy and unfocused from being thoroughly claimed by your temporarily-incubus lover.
When consciousness returned, golden morning light was streaming through the curtains, and the softest lips were pressing tender kisses along your cheek like butterfly touches.
"Morning, my sweet darling," Rafayel murmured, his voice back to its familiar warm velvet. The horns had vanished, his eyes returned to that beloved amethyst shade, though delicate traces of the dark markings still lingered like watercolor stains across his skin. "Sleep well?"
You groaned softly, every muscle in your body singing a chorus of pleasant aches as you tried to stretch. "You're absolutely impossible."
He grinned with zero remorse, looking devastatingly handsome in the morning light. "And you love me anyway. Want to take a warm bath? I'll wash your hair and tell you about all the masterpieces I'm going to paint inspired by last night."
Despite your mock indignation, you couldn't suppress the smile tugging at your lips. "You're buying me breakfast first. The fancy kind. And coffee—really good coffee."
"Anything for you," he agreed easily, then leaned down to nuzzle into the curve of your neck, his voice dropping to that achingly familiar teasing whisper. "But first... want to hear about this incredible dream I had about you in my bathtub?"
You were glad Rafayel was back to normal, but if you were being honest with yourself, Incubus Rafayel was kind of hot… You wondered if he'd be willing to be one for Halloween this year.
After two weeks apart, you return home to find your boyfriend missing and unresponsive. When you track him down, you discover he's been transformed by an experimental aphrodisiac—complete with horns, glowing red eyes, and an insatiable supernatural hunger that only you can satisfy.
⚠️ Please read responsibly - This story contains themes of dubious consent and penetrative sex, m → f that may be triggering for some readers.
🐚 Author’s Note: My smut debut!!! I’m so happy that I finally get to experience writing a proper smut with my beloved Sea God 🥹🎉 props to all of the smut writers because I almost went bald writing this fic (ﾉ´ｰ`)ﾉ
🫧 Comment and reblog are deeply appreciated ‹𝟹
The past two weeks had been torture disguised as duty.
Your field training assignment had you stationed in the wilderness, grinding through Wanderer combat simulations from dawn to dusk. Every muscle ached, every nerve was frayed, but the moment you collapsed into your cot each night, there was Rafayel—bathed in the warm glow from the studio lights, violet eyes heavy with longing as he asked about your day in that honeyed voice that made your chest tight with missing him.
"Did my sweet darling miss me today?" he'd purr into the camera, artistic fingers tracing lazy patterns on his chest. "Tell me what you're wearing. Better yet, show me."
Those late-night video calls were your lifeline. Even with his own hectic schedule—flying across the country with Thomas for his upcoming exhibition, managing interviews and gallery visits—Rafayel always made time for you. He'd prop his phone against his easel during breaks, painting with one hand while the other traced suggestive patterns in the air, describing in exquisite detail what he planned to do to you when you returned.
"I've been sketching you from memory," he'd whisper during one particularly heated call, his voice dropping to that dangerous octave that made your thighs clench. "Want to see how I imagine you spread out on my silk sheets? How I remember the way you arch when I—"
"Rafayel," you'd breathe, already reaching for yourself.
"That's my good girl. Let me watch you come undone for me."
But on day ten, the calls stopped.
Your phone sat silent. Messages went unread. The absence of his teasing voice, his ridiculous pet names, his constant digital affection—it carved a hollow ache in your chest that grew deeper with each passing hour.
By day twelve, worry had transformed into hurt. By day fourteen, hurt had crystallized into anger.
Your transport touched down in Linkon City under gray skies, and finally—finally—your phone buzzed.
[Rafayel 📱: Welcome home, cutie.]
[Rafayel 📱: Still away for work. Don't wait up.]
The message was ice-cold. Clinical. Nothing like the man who usually greeted your returns with paragraphs of purple prose about how the city had been colorless without you.
Your fingers moved to Find My before you could stop them.
His location pulsed steadily: Mo Art Studio.
Home.
The betrayal hit like a physical blow. He was lying to you. After two weeks of radio silence, he was lying to your face.
Twenty minutes later, you stood before his door, keycard trembling in your grip. The evening air should have been cool, but heat seemed to radiate from behind the entrance like a furnace.
You knocked. Waited. Knocked harder.
Nothing.
Your keycard beeped softly as the lock disengaged.
The moment you stepped inside, the heat hit you like a wall. Suffocating, humid, wrong. Rafayel's home was always perfectly climate-controlled—he claimed his Lemurian blood made him sensitive to temperature fluctuations, though you suspected he just liked giving you excuses to warm him up.
"Rafayel!" Your voice echoed in the dim space. Curtains drawn, lights off, the air thick enough to taste. "I know you're here!"
Silence.
You climbed the stairs on unsteady legs, following the oppressive heat to its source. His bedroom door stood ajar, and through the gap, you could see a figure curled on the bed.
The room was an oven. Dark as a cave. And there he was—shirtless, trembling, breath coming in sharp gasps like he was drowning on dry land.
"Rafayel." All your anger dissolved into concern. "Why haven't you answered me? Why did you lie about being away?"
He didn't respond. Didn't even acknowledge your presence.
You reached for his shoulder, and the moment your fingers made contact, you jerked back with a gasp. His skin was burning—not fever-hot, but scalding, like touching a heated stone.
"Jesus, you're sick—we need to get you to a hospital—"
"Don't." His voice was barely a rasp. "Please, cutie. Don't touch me. You need to leave."
He tried to roll away from you, but the movement was weak, uncoordinated. When he finally turned to face you, your heart stopped.
His eyes—those beautiful amethyst eyes that sparkled with mischief and adoration—were nearly crimson. Glowing like embers in the darkness.
"What happened to you?" You knelt beside the bed, hands hovering over him, afraid to cause more pain. "Rafayel, talk to me. Please."
He squeezed his eyes shut, whole body shuddering. "Thomas's colleague. New bar opening in the arts district. They served us some experimental cocktail—said it was a prototype aphrodisiac for Valentine's Day. I thought it was just marketing nonsense."
Understanding crashed over you like cold water. "How long?"
"Three days." His laugh was bitter, broken. "Three days of hell. I can't eat, can't sleep, can't think about anything but you. Every nerve in my body is on fire, and the only thing that helps is—" He cut himself off with a groan.
You reached for his hand instinctively, and his fingers latched onto yours with desperate strength.
The contact seemed to send electricity through him. His breathing hitched, back arching off the bed.
"You have to go," he gasped, but his grip on your hand tightened. "I'm barely holding on. If you stay, I don't know if I can control myself. I don't want to hurt you, don't want to scare you—"
His words dissolved into a tortured moan, his whole body convulsing as if he were fighting a war within himself—and losing. "No, no, no," he gasped, clawing at his own chest as the transformation began to consume him. Dark markings erupted across his skin like living shadows, spreading from his heart outward in intricate, pulsing patterns that seemed to writhe and breathe with malevolent life. The black ink-like designs carved themselves deeper into his flesh, glowing faintly with each ragged breath he took.
His canines stretched into razor-sharp fangs with an audible crack, and you watched in horrified fascination as two elegant horns tore through the skin of his temples, curving back through his disheveled hair like a dark crown. Blood trickled down his face from where they emerged.
Then he laughed—a low, dangerous sound that was nothing like his usual warm chuckle. It was predatory, unhinged, utterly inhuman. When his eyes snapped open, they blazed with primal hunger, all traces of your gentle artist boyfriend buried beneath the creature that now possessed him.
His grip on your hand, which had been weak and trembling moments before, suddenly tightened like a vice, fingers digging into your skin with supernatural strength.
"Too late to run now, cutie," he whispered, voice layered with dark promise.
Then he yanked you down onto the bed with him, his strength making it effortless as he dragged you against his burning body. His lips crashed against yours with desperate hunger, hands tangling in your hair as he kissed you like a man drowning. You could feel the heat radiating from his skin, scalding even through your clothes, his body trembling with barely restrained need. Despite the transformation, his touch was still reverent, still unmistakably him beneath the hunger that consumed him.
When he finally pulled back, you were gasping, vision blurred, completely at his mercy on the rumpled sheets beneath him.
"I'm sorry," he purred against your lips, voice dripping with dark amusement. "I'm not gonna stop until this fire burns itself out, and you're gonna take everything I give you right, cutie? Don't worry—I'll be gentle… mostly. Now why don't you be a good little hunter for me, yeah?"
His mouth found your throat, pressing hot kisses to your pulse point while his hands worked at your clothes with precision. Each piece of fabric that fell away earned you praise whispered against your skin.
"Perfect," he murmured, mouth trailing down to worship your exposed chest. "I've been dreaming of this. Sketching these curves from memory until my fingers cramped."
He took his time despite the urgency thrumming through him—lavishing attention on every inch of skin, building you up with touches and kisses until you were arching beneath him, completely pliant.
His hands smoothly unclasped your bra, fingers reverent as they traced your curves. Without wasting a moment, his mouth was on your breasts, tongue swirling around your nipples before he sucked them into his mouth, drawing desperate whimpers from your lips.
"Rafayel," you gasped, back arching as he lavished attention on your chest. "Please—"
"Shh, cutie," he murmured against your skin, mouth trailing hot kisses down your belly. "Let me worship you properly."
His hands urgently undid your pants, sliding them down your legs with agonizing slowness. When he finally settled between your thighs, he inhaled deeply, eyes rolling back in bliss.
"I can smell your arousal," he growled, voice rough with need. "So sweet, so perfect. I've been through hell trying to control myself. Do you know how many times I've imagined this? How many sketches I've ruined thinking about eating you?"
"Rafayel, please," you whimpered, hips bucking toward his face. "I need—"
"I know exactly what you need," he whispered, voice dropping to a dangerous octave as those burning red eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your breath catch. His expression was beautifully terrifying—tender love warring with predatory hunger. "Now I'm going to worship this beautiful cunt until you forget everything but my name."
He dove in with feral hunger, tongue dragging broad, possessive strokes up your slit before attacking your clit with relentless precision. His mouth devoured you—lapping, sucking, biting gently at your most sensitive flesh with desperate, animalistic need. Every sound he made was pure worship, muffled moans of satisfaction vibrating against you.
"Oh god, oh god," you cried, hands fisting in his hair as he pushed his tongue inside you, fucking you with wet, sinful strokes. "Don't stop, please don't stop—"
He moaned against your core like a starving man at a feast, the vibrations resonating through your bones and setting every nerve ending ablaze. Each desperate movement of his tongue was calculated to feed the supernatural hunger clawing at his insides while simultaneously destroying every defense you had left.
"Christ, you taste like heaven," he groaned between ravenous licks, pulling back just enough to watch your face contort with pleasure. "You're so addicting. I could spend eternity right here, drinking every drop you give me."
Your first orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, spine bowing impossibly as you screamed his name with raw, broken desperation. But he was merciless—couldn't be anything else—his mouth never leaving you as he lapped up every tremor, every aftershock, prolonging your climax until you were sobbing from the intensity.
"Too much," you gasped, trying to push his head away, but he caught your wrists.
"No such thing," he purred, and dove back in, making you cum again on his tongue until you were sobbing with oversensitivity.
When he finally pulled away, face glistening with your arousal, he cupped your tear-stained cheeks lovingly. "Look at you, already crying for me. We're far from finished, Y/N."
Rafayel rose to his knees, hands moving to unzip his pants with desperate urgency. When he finally freed his cock, it was flushed and angry, precum beading at the tip from hours of torment and anticipation. His burning red eyes locked onto you—taking in the sight of you panting and sprawled beneath him, eyes half-lidded and completely wrecked from his mouth. The vision alone made his cock twitch violently, demanding immediate relief.
"So beautiful," he breathed, voice thick with reverence and lust. "So ready for me."
He wrapped his hand around his lenght, stroking slowly edging himself while his gaze devoured every inch of your trembling form. The sight of you, so perfectly wrecked and waiting, had him practically salivating with anticipation.
With deliberate, torturous slowness, he dragged the head of his cock from your entrance up to your clit, collecting your arousal along the way. The teasing made you mewl desperately beneath him, hips bucking for more contact.
"Please," you whimpered, but he just smirked, slapping his cock against your sensitive cunt with wet, obscene sounds.
The heat radiating from your core, the slick wetness coating him, the way you clenched around nothing—it all made him hiss in pure pleasure.
"So wet for me," he groaned, continuing his torturous teasing.
"Think you can take me, cutie?" His voice was low and teasing as you felt him playing at your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against your opening. The stretch was burning and delicious—until he pulled out completely, leaving you feeling empty and desperate.
"I don't think so," he murmured against your ear, his breath hot on your skin.
You almost felt like crying from his relentless teasing. Without a second thought, you abandoned all pride and begged for his mercy. "Please, Rafayel... I want it. I want you so badly."
"Yeah?" He was still teasing, pressing soft kisses to your tear-dampened eyes with surprising tenderness.
"Yeah," you breathed, your voice barely a whisper.
For a moment he held your gaze, studying your face as you gave him the most pleading look you could muster, hoping your puppy eyes would finally make him cave. Something shifted in his expression—desire winning over his need to torment you.
Finally, he positioned himself at your entrance again, the head of his cock nudging against your opening. Both of you moaned in unison as he began to slide into you slowly, savoring every inch as he filled you completely. The stretch was overwhelming after your orgasms, making you whimper and claw at his shoulders.
"That's it, take all of me," he breathed, bottoming out with a groan. "You're gripping me so tight. Like your body doesn't want to let me go."
"I don't," you gasped, wrapping your legs around his waist. "Never want you to leave me again."
He began to move, thrusts deep and reverent, hands mapping every curve of your body like he was committing you to memory for his next masterpiece. His own moans and whimpers filled the air, the desperate sounds making you even wetter.
"You're taking me so perfectly," he praised, voice breaking with emotion. "Like you were made for this cock. Gods, I missed how warm you are inside, how you flutter around me when you're close."
"Rafayel," you moaned, already feeling another orgasm building. "You feel so good, so deep—"
"That's my girl," he groaned, angling his hips to hit that spot that made you see stars. "Let me hear how good I make you feel."
You were cock-drunk fast, lost in the rhythm of his hips and the filthy praise spilling from his lips. When you came again, clenching around him, he nearly lost control.
"More," you gasped against his lips. "Need more of you."
Something primal flashed in his eyes. In one fluid motion, he flipped you onto your hands and knees, the sudden change making you cry out.
"You want more?" he growled, hands gripping your hips as he drove into you from behind. "I-ah-can't refuse you."
This angle was devastating—each thrust hitting that perfect spot inside you while his hands roamed your body possessively. You could feel yourself getting wetter soaking the bed sheet underneath you, the obscene sounds of your coupling filling the room.
"Listen to how wet you are," he panted, one hand sliding up to cup your breast. "So fucking beautiful like this, taking my cock so well. You're mine, aren't you? Tell me you're mine."
"Yours," you sobbed, face pressed into the pillows. "Always yours, Raf— Rafayel!"
"That's right," he groaned, thrusts becoming more demanding. "My petite artiste, so messy and desperate for me."
But he needed more. Needed to see you fall apart in every way possible.
"On your back," he commanded, and when you complied on shaking legs, he pulled your legs up into a mating press, folding you nearly in half. The new angle made you scream, overwhelmed by how deep he could go.
"Look at me," he demanded, his glowing eyes boring into yours. "I want to see those pretty eyes when you cum for me again. Want to watch you fall apart."
The intensity was too much—the way he watched every expression cross your face, the desperate love and lust warring in his gaze. Your eyes rolled back as he hit that perfect spot over and over, tears streaming down your cheeks from the overwhelming pleasure.
"There you are," he whispered, voice filled with dark satisfaction. "Look at you, so beautiful when you're completely gone for me."
When your orgasm crashed over you, it was earth-shattering. You came with a broken scream, body convulsing around him as he moaned your name like a prayer. The intensity of watching you fall apart, of feeling you clench around him so perfectly, made blood drip from his nose onto your chest, the incubus potion overwhelming even his supernatural constitution.
"I can't cum anymore," you sobbed, thighs shaking from overstimulation, mascara running down your cheeks. "Please, Rafayel, I can't—"
But your pleas only seemed to spur him on. The sadistic part of the incubus potion loved seeing you so wrecked, so desperate, so perfectly ruined.
"Of course you can, cutie," he purred, pulling out only to maneuver you into his lap. "Look at this tear-stained face—so pitiful, so drunk on my cock. Makes me wanna fuck you even more."
"Please," you whimpered, but whether you were begging him to stop or continue, neither of you knew.
"One more," he coaxed, guiding you down onto his cock. "You have no idea what you do to me"
Face to face now, you could see every expression cross his beautiful, dangerous features. His hands roamed your body possessively while you rocked against him, completely lost in sensation.
"That's my good girl," he whispered against your ear, then bit down gently on your earlobe. "Taking everything I give you, even when you're crying from how good it feels. You're so perfect, so intoxicating when you're falling apart for me."
"Rafayel," you gasped, eyes rolling back again as he hit that spot that made you see white. "I'm going to—"
"I know, baby. Let go for me one last time."
Your final orgasm was devastating, your vision going white as your body convulsed around him. You came with a silent scream, completely overwhelmed by sensation, and watching you reach that peak of pleasure pushed him over the edge.
He came with a broken moan, holding you tight against him as he spilled inside you, nose bleeding more heavily now from the sheer intensity of the moment.
The last thing you remembered was his face above you, handsome and ethereal with his horns and glowing eyes, completely drunk on pleasure as he buried himself deep inside you, whispering your name like a benediction and the satisfaction of finally being able to touch you after days of torment. Your own face was a mess of tears and smeared makeup, eyes glassy and unfocused from being thoroughly claimed by your temporarily-incubus lover.
When consciousness returned, golden morning light was streaming through the curtains, and the softest lips were pressing tender kisses along your cheek like butterfly touches.
"Morning, my sweet darling," Rafayel murmured, his voice back to its familiar warm velvet. The horns had vanished, his eyes returned to that beloved amethyst shade, though delicate traces of the dark markings still lingered like watercolor stains across his skin. "Sleep well?"
You groaned softly, every muscle in your body singing a chorus of pleasant aches as you tried to stretch. "You're absolutely impossible."
He grinned with zero remorse, looking devastatingly handsome in the morning light. "And you love me anyway. Want to take a warm bath? I'll wash your hair and tell you about all the masterpieces I'm going to paint inspired by last night."
Despite your mock indignation, you couldn't suppress the smile tugging at your lips. "You're buying me breakfast first. The fancy kind. And coffee—really good coffee."
"Anything for you," he agreed easily, then leaned down to nuzzle into the curve of your neck, his voice dropping to that achingly familiar teasing whisper. "But first... want to hear about this incredible dream I had about you in my bathtub?"
You were glad Rafayel was back to normal, but if you were being honest with yourself, Incubus Rafayel was kind of hot… You wondered if he'd be willing to be one for Halloween this year.
In Regency England, where beauty is currency and marriage is business, Lady Reader finds herself invisible in the marriage mart. In a world obsessed with perfection, can two hearts find their perfect match in each other's flaws?
⚠️ Please read responsibly - This story contains themes of body image struggles, attempted sexual violence, and emotional trauma that may be triggering for some readers.
🫧 Comment and reblog are deeply appreciated ‹𝟹
The ballroom glittered like a constellation of diamonds, each chandelier casting dancing shadows across the polished marble floor. Ladies in their finest silks swirled past in a kaleidoscope of pastels, their laughter tinkling like wind chimes in the evening air. Yet you remained pressed against the wall, a forgotten bloom among the garden's prized roses.
Your fingers worried the fabric of your deep emerald gown—chosen specifically by your mother to "bring out your eyes," though you suspected it was more to camouflage your fuller figure against the wallpaper. At three and twenty, you had endured four seasons of being overlooked, dismissed, or worse—mocked behind painted fans and knowing smiles.
"Miss Y/N," your mother's voice cut through your reverie, sharp with barely concealed desperation. "Lord Pemberton's son approaches. Please, for once, do not retreat to the refreshment table."
You straightened, forcing a smile as a young man with thinning hair and a weak chin made his way toward you. But before he could reach you, his gaze swept over your form, his expression shifting from polite interest to barely concealed distaste. He veered away at the last moment, suddenly very interested in examining a nearby painting.
The familiar sting of rejection burned in your chest. You had grown accustomed to it, yet it never seemed to hurt any less.
"Perhaps some fresh air," you murmured to yourself, gathering your skirts to step onto the terrace.
The cool night air was a blessed relief from the stifling ballroom. You moved to the stone balustrade, gazing out at the moonlit gardens, when a voice like velvet and midnight spoke behind you.
"Escaping the marriage mart as well?"
You turned, and your breath caught. Leaning against the doorframe with casual elegance was the most beautiful man you had ever seen. His dusk-violet hair caught the moonlight, and those legendary amethyst eyes—shifting between violet and silver in the darkness—fixed on you with an intensity that made your pulse quicken.
Lord Rafayel Qi. Even you, who barely moved in the highest circles, knew of him. Young, devastatingly handsome, wealthy beyond measure, and the subject of countless scandals that somehow only seemed to enhance his allure.
"I... I beg your pardon?" you stammered, acutely aware of how you must look—a plain, round girl caught gaping at her betters.
His lips curved in a smile that could have inspired sonnets. "The hunting grounds in there," he gestured toward the ballroom with a lazy wave. "Everyone stalking their prey, trying to make the most advantageous match. It grows tedious, don't you think?"
You blinked in surprise. "You find it tedious? But surely you are the most sought-after prize in there."
He laughed, a rich sound that sent warmth spiraling through your chest. "Perhaps. But being hunted loses its appeal when you realize the hunters only see the title and the fortune, never the man."
There was something in his voice—a loneliness that resonated with your own. "I wouldn't know," you said softly. "I'm rarely hunted at all."
His amethyst eyes sharpened, studying your face with an artist's intensity. "Then they are fools."
The simple statement, delivered with such sincerity, made heat rise in your cheeks. "You're very kind, my lord, but—"
"Rafayel," he corrected, pushing off from the doorframe to move closer. "And I'm not being kind. I'm being honest."
Before you could respond, your mother's voice called from the doorway. "Y/N! There you are. Come, Lord Arthur Blackwood wishes to be introduced."
Your heart sank. You had heard whispers about Lord Blackwood—a man with gambling debts and a reputation for cruelty. But he was titled, and your parents were growing desperate.
"Go," Rafayel said quietly, though his eyes had hardened at the mention of Blackwood's name. "But be careful, Miss Wallflower. Not all who show interest have honorable intentions."
˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖
Lord Arthur Blackwood was handsome in a cold, calculating way. His blonde hair was perfectly styled, his clothes immaculate, and his smile never quite reached his pale green eyes. For two weeks, he had been the perfect suitor—sending flowers, requesting walks in the park, engaging you in conversation about literature and art.
For the first time in your life, you felt wanted. Desired, even. The attention was intoxicating after years of being invisible.
"You have such unique perspectives on poetry, Miss Y/N," Arthur said as you strolled through your family's garden, your maid trailing at a discrete distance. "Most ladies of my acquaintance can barely manage to discuss the weather intelligently."
You felt a flush of pleasure at the compliment. "I've always loved reading. My father has an extensive library."
"I should very much like to see it," he said, his voice dropping to a more intimate tone. "Perhaps you could show me sometime when we might have more... privacy."
Something in his tone made you glance at him sharply, but his expression remained pleasant. Still, you remembered Lord Rafayel's warning about honorable intentions.
"Perhaps when my parents are at home," you said carefully.
His smile tightened almost imperceptibly. "Of course."
The following afternoon, Arthur called while your parents were out paying social calls. You knew you should have turned him away, but he claimed urgent business that couldn't wait, and your naive heart believed him.
"Your library is magnificent," he said, running his fingers along the leather spines. But his eyes weren't on the books—they were on you, and something in his gaze made your skin crawl.
"Perhaps we should return to the drawing room," you suggested, moving toward the door.
He was there before you, his hand flat against the wooden panel, blocking your exit. "So eager to leave? And here I thought you enjoyed my company."
"I do, but—"
"But nothing." His voice had changed, become harder, hungrier. "Do you know what they say about you, Y/N? That you're desperate. That your father would pay handsomely to see you wed to anyone who would have you."
The cruel words hit you like physical blows. "That's not... I don't..."
"Oh, but it is." He stepped closer, backing you against the bookshelf. "And I've decided to take advantage of that desperation. You see, I have certain... appetites... that require a woman of your particular attributes. You're perfect for what I have in mind."
Your blood ran cold. "What do you mean?"
His hand came up to cup your face with mock tenderness. "I mean, my dear, that you'll make an excellent mistress. I have no intention of marrying you—I need a wife who can grace my arm without causing snickers. But for my private entertainments? You'll do nicely."
"No," you whispered, trying to push past him. "I won't—"
His grip tightened, fingers digging into your arms. "You will. Because what choice do you have? No one else wants you. This is the best offer you'll ever receive."
"Let me go!" You struggled against his hold, but he was stronger, pressing you back against the books.
"Stop fighting," he snarled, his breath hot against your ear. "You should be grateful someone finds you desirable at all."
His hands began to roam, and panic flooded your system. You opened your mouth to scream when the library door burst open with a thunderous crash.
"I suggest," came a voice like silk wrapped around steel, "that you remove your hands from the lady immediately."
Lord Rafayel stood in the doorway, his usually playful expression replaced by something deadly. His amethyst eyes blazed with fury, and his tall frame radiated menace despite his elegant appearance.
Arthur's hands fell away from you as if burned. "Lord Qi. This is a private matter—"
"Is it?" Rafayel's voice was conversational, but he moved into the room like a predator stalking prey. "Because from where I stand, it appears you were assaulting an unwilling woman."
"Assaulting?" Arthur laughed, but it sounded nervous. "Hardly. Miss Y/N and I were merely discussing our understanding."
"Understanding?" Rafayel's gaze flicked to you, taking in your disheveled appearance and terrified expression. Something dangerous flashed in those amethyst depths. "I think there's been a misunderstanding indeed."
What happened next was almost too fast to follow. One moment Arthur was standing beside you, the next he was on the floor, blood streaming from his nose, and Rafayel was shaking out his knuckles with casual grace.
"I do hope I've made myself clear," Rafayel said pleasantly, as if he hadn't just delivered a devastating blow. "Miss Y/N is under my protection now. Should you come near her again, should you even speak her name, I will ensure you regret it in ways your limited imagination cannot conceive."
Arthur scrambled to his feet, fury and humiliation warring in his expression. "You'll regret this, Qi. Both of you will."
After he left, you collapsed into a chair, your whole body shaking. Rafayel was beside you in an instant, his earlier coldness replaced by gentle concern.
"Are you hurt?" His hands hovered over you, wanting to comfort but not daring to touch without permission.
"No, I... thank you." You looked up at him, tears blurring your vision. "How did you know?"
"I've been watching him," Rafayel admitted, his jaw tight. "Men like Blackwood prey on women they perceive as vulnerable. I couldn't let him hurt you."
The tenderness in his voice, the way he'd risked scandal to protect you, made your heart ache with a confused mixture of gratitude and something deeper.
"Why?" you whispered. "Why would you care what happens to me?"
His answer was interrupted by the sound of voices in the hall—your parents returning home. But his eyes held yours for a long moment, filled with something that made your breath catch.
"Because you matter," he said simply. "More than you know."
˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖
The scandal broke like a summer storm—swift, vicious, and devastating.
By the next morning, all of London was buzzing with the tale of how Miss Y/N L/N had shamelessly thrown herself at Lord Rafayel Qi while already engaged to Lord Arthur Blackwood. The story grew more salacious with each telling, painting you as a wanton seductress who had used her feminine wiles to ensnare the most eligible bachelor in the ton.
You knew it was Arthur's revenge, but knowing did nothing to stop the whispers, the pointing fingers, the way former acquaintances turned away when they saw you approach.
Your father paced the length of his study like a caged animal. "Ruined," he muttered for the hundredth time. "Completely ruined. What gentleman will have you now? The family name is destroyed."
Your mother sat in stony silence, her disappointment radiating from her in waves. You huddled in your chair, wishing you could disappear entirely.
The butler's announcement came like a lifeline: "Lord Rafayel Qi to see you, sir."
Your father's head snapped up. "Send him in immediately."
Rafayel entered with his usual graceful confidence, but you could see the tension in the set of his shoulders. He was dressed impeccably in a dark blue coat that made his amethyst eyes seem to glow, his dusk-violet hair perfectly styled. He looked every inch the powerful nobleman he was.
"Lord Y/L/N," he said with a formal bow. "I believe we need to discuss the current situation regarding your daughter."
Your father's face was a mask of barely controlled desperation. "My lord, I assure you, whatever stories are circulating—"
"Are complete fabrications," Rafayel finished smoothly. "I am well aware of Lord Blackwood's character and his capacity for vindictive lies."
Hope flickered in your chest, but Rafayel's next words changed everything.
"However, the damage to Miss Y/N's reputation is considerable. There is only one way to salvage both her honor and your family's standing."
The silence stretched taut as a bowstring.
"I am prepared to offer for Miss Y/N's hand in marriage."
The words hit you like a physical blow. You stared at him in shock, but his expression remained carefully neutral, giving nothing away.
Your father's relief was palpable. "My lord, that is... that is extraordinarily generous. But surely you cannot wish to tie yourself to such scandal—"
"The scandal will die quickly enough once we are wed," Rafayel said with quiet authority. "I have weathered worse storms than this, and my reputation can withstand whatever gossip London wishes to invent."
"But why?" The question tore from your throat before you could stop it. "Why would you sacrifice yourself for me?"
His amethyst eyes found yours, and for a moment, the careful mask slipped. What you saw there made your breath catch—a longing so deep it seemed to reach into your very soul.
"Perhaps," he said quietly, "I don't see it as a sacrifice."
Your father was already nodding eagerly. "Yes, yes of course. When would you wish the ceremony to take place?"
"As soon as possible. The banns can be read, or we can obtain a special license. I leave the details to your discretion."
Everything was happening so fast. Your head spun with the implications. Marriage. To Lord Rafayel Qi. It seemed like a dream—or perhaps a nightmare.
"I..." you began, but your father cut you off.
"She accepts, of course. Don't you, Y/N?"
All eyes turned to you. Your father's pleading, your mother's hopeful, and Rafayel's... unreadable. You realized you had no choice. Your reputation was in ruins, your family's name was at stake, and this man—this beautiful, mysterious man—was offering to save you.
"Yes," you whispered. "I accept."
Rafayel's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes—relief, perhaps, or satisfaction.
"Excellent," he said, moving to take your hand. His fingers were warm, strong, and the touch sent an unexpected thrill through you. "Then allow me to welcome you to the family, my dear."
He raised your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles. The gesture was perfectly proper, yet it felt intimate in a way that made your cheeks burn.
"I shall call tomorrow to discuss the arrangements," he told your father. Then, to you: "I hope you will be happy, Miss Y/N. That is my greatest wish."
After he left, you sat in stunned silence, staring at your hand where his lips had touched. In the space of a few moments, your entire life had changed. You were to be married. To a man you barely knew, no matter how he made your heart race.
The question that haunted you through the sleepless night that followed was simple: Did he truly care for you, or were you merely a problem to be solved, a good deed to be done?
Only time would tell.
˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖
The wedding was a small, elegant affair—nothing like the grand celebration you had once dreamed of as a young girl. You stood at the altar in your mother's pearl-adorned gown, altered to fit your fuller figure, watching as Rafayel repeated his vows with perfect composure.
He looked magnificent in his dark formal wear, his dusk-violet hair catching the light from the church's stained glass windows. When he spoke the words "to love and to cherish," his amethyst eyes met yours with an intensity that made your heart skip, but you couldn't tell if what you saw there was genuine affection or merely duty.
The kiss that sealed your union was brief, proper, and left you wondering if your new husband felt anything for you beyond obligation.
The wedding breakfast passed in a blur of congratulations and well-wishes from the small gathering of family and close friends. You smiled and nodded and played the part of the blushing bride, all while feeling like you were watching someone else's life unfold.
It wasn't until you were alone with Rafayel in the carriage heading to his—now your—estate that the reality of your situation truly hit you.
"You're very quiet," he observed, his voice gentle. "Having second thoughts?"
You looked at him, this stranger who was now your husband, and felt a confusing mix of attraction and terror. "Are you?"
Something flickered across his features—too quick to interpret. "No," he said simply. "I am exactly where I wish to be."
The words should have been comforting, but there was something in his tone that made them feel rehearsed, like lines from a play he had memorized but didn't quite believe.
Mo Art Manor was even grander than you had imagined. The limestone facade gleamed in the afternoon sun, and the manicured gardens stretched as far as the eye could see. It was beautiful, impressive, and utterly intimidating.
"Welcome home," Rafayel said, helping you down from the carriage. His touch was gentle but brief, and you found yourself wishing he would hold your hand a moment longer.
The staff had assembled to greet their new mistress, and you were introduced to what felt like an endless parade of faces and names. The housekeeper, Mrs. Aldridge, was a kindly woman who seemed genuinely pleased to welcome you, but you could see the curiosity in the servants' eyes as they tried to reconcile their master's legendary charm with his rather ordinary new bride.
"I've had the Rose Suite prepared for you," Rafayel said as he showed you through the magnificent halls. "I thought you might prefer your own space while you adjust to your new circumstances."
Your own space. Separate bedrooms. The message was clear—this was a marriage of convenience, nothing more. The realization stung more than you cared to admit.
"That's very thoughtful," you managed, hoping your voice didn't betray your disappointment.
He showed you to a beautiful suite of rooms decorated in soft pinks and golds, with a view of the rose garden that gave the rooms their name. Everything was perfect, luxurious, and utterly lonely.
"I hope you'll be comfortable here," he said, lingering in the doorway. "If you need anything, anything at all, please don't hesitate to ask."
"Thank you." You turned to face him, this beautiful man who was your husband but felt like a stranger. "Rafayel, I... I want you to know that I'm grateful. For everything. I know this wasn't the marriage you planned—"
"Neither of us planned this," he interrupted gently. "But perhaps that doesn't mean it cannot be good. In time."
Hope flickered in your chest. "In time?"
But instead of elaborating, he simply smiled—one of those devastating smiles that made your knees weak. "Rest well, Y/N. Tomorrow, I'll show you the portrait gallery. There are some rather scandalous ancestors you should know about."
The next morning, you woke to find a note slipped under your door. Rafayel's elegant handwriting informed you that urgent business had called him away, and he was uncertain when he would return.
Days stretched into weeks, and weeks into months. You settled into a routine at Mo Art Manor, learning to manage the household, exploring the extensive grounds, and spending long hours in the magnificent library. Mrs. Aldridge was kind but professional, and while the staff was respectful, you felt the weight of your solitude keenly.
You received occasional letters from Rafayel—brief, polite inquiries about your health and happiness, but nothing that gave you any real insight into where he had gone or why. The loneliness was crushing, made worse by the growing whispers from the servants and the pitying looks from the neighbors who called to pay their respects.
"Such a shame," you overheard Lady Pemberton telling her daughter during one particularly painful social call. "The poor girl is so plain, and now abandoned by her husband barely a month after the wedding. He must have realized what a mistake he'd made."
"Mother says he's probably taken a mistress in London," the daughter replied with cruel relish. "Someone beautiful and sophisticated. Can you imagine being married to someone so... substantial?"
Their laughter followed you as you fled to the sanctuary of your rooms, where you could cry in private. The old insecurities came flooding back with a vengeance. Of course Rafayel had left. Of course he regretted marrying you. You had been a fool to hope for anything different.
The worst part was that despite everything, you found yourself falling in love with your absent husband. Every letter made your heart race. Every mention of his name made you long for his return. You studied the portraits of him throughout the house, memorizing every detail of his face, and cursed yourself for being such a romantic fool.
Five months. Five long, lonely months passed before you heard the sound of carriage wheels on the gravel drive and knew, with a certainty that made your pulse quicken, that your husband had finally come home.
˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖
You were in the morning room, attempting to focus on your embroidery when you heard the familiar sound of Rafayel's voice echoing through the front hall. Your needle slipped, pricking your finger, and you watched a drop of blood bead on your skin as panic flooded your system.
He was home. After five months of silence, of wondering if you had been completely abandoned, your husband had returned.
You heard his footsteps approaching, and every instinct screamed at you to flee. You couldn't face him—not after months of his absence had confirmed every cruel whisper about why he'd left. You gathered your skirts and tried to slip out through the garden doors, but his voice stopped you cold.
"Running away, wife?"
You froze, your back still turned to him. His voice was exactly as you remembered—rich, warm, with that hint of amusement that had once made your heart flutter. Now it just made you feel exposed, vulnerable.
"I was just... going for a walk," you said, not turning around.
"Without looking at your husband? I'm wounded."
Despite yourself, you turned. And immediately regretted it.
Five months away had only made Rafayel more beautiful. His dusk-violet hair was slightly longer, tousled from travel, and his amethyst eyes seemed to glow in the morning light. He was dressed in a deep burgundy coat that emphasized his tall, lean frame, and when he smiled at you—that devastating smile that had haunted your dreams—you felt your knees go weak.
"Hello, Y/N," he said softly. "You look... radiant."
The compliment felt like mockery. You were pale from too many sleepless nights, your eyes probably red-rimmed from crying, and your dress was a practical brown wool that did nothing for your figure.
"You're very kind," you said stiffly. "I trust your business went well?"
Something flickered in his expression—guilt, perhaps? "It was... complicated. But necessary."
"Of course." You clutched your embroidery hoop like a shield. "I should leave you to settle in. You must be tired from your journey."
You tried to move past him, but he caught your arm gently. The touch sent electricity through your entire body, and you hated yourself for the reaction.
"Y/N, wait. I know my absence was... difficult. I want to explain—"
"There's nothing to explain," you said quickly, pulling away from his touch. "You had business to attend to. I understand completely."
"Do you?" His amethyst eyes searched your face intently. "Because you seem upset."
Upset. As if five months of abandonment could be summed up in such a simple word.
"I'm perfectly fine," you lied. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have household matters to attend to."
This time, you managed to escape, fleeing to the safety of your rooms where you could fall apart in private. But even there, you weren't safe from him.
Over the following days, Rafayel seemed determined to corner you at every turn. He appeared in the library when you were trying to read, joined you for meals despite your obvious discomfort, and even had the audacity to knock on your bedroom door one evening.
"Go away," you called through the wood, not trusting yourself to face him.
"I brought you something," he said, his voice muffled but still dangerously appealing. "From my travels."
Despite yourself, curiosity won. You cracked the door open to find him holding a small wrapped package, his expression hopeful.
"I don't want anything from you," you said, but your treacherous eyes were already fixed on the gift.
"It's a book," he said quickly. "A collection of poetry I found in a small shop in Bath. The proprietor said it was translated from ancient Greek—love poems, originally written by women. I thought you might find them interesting."
The thoughtfulness of the gift caught you off guard. He had been thinking of you, even while he was away? But no—that was dangerous thinking.
"Thank you," you said formally, taking the package. "That was very considerate."
"Y/N—"
You closed the door in his face before he could say anything else. But later, alone in your bed, you unwrapped the book and found an inscription in his elegant handwriting: "For my wife, who sees beauty in words as I see beauty in her. —R"
You cried yourself to sleep that night, the book pressed against your chest.
˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖
Two weeks after Rafayel's return, you were taking tea in the blue drawing room when Mrs. Aldridge announced visitors.
"Lord and Lady Qi to see you, my lady."
Your blood turned to ice. Rafayel's parents. You had never met them, though you'd heard they were traveling on the continent during your wedding. Now they were here, no doubt to inspect their son's unfortunate choice of bride.
"Show them in," you managed, frantically smoothing your hair and checking your appearance in the mirror above the mantelpiece. The reflection that stared back was pale, anxious, and utterly inadequate for the role of viscountess.
Lord and Lady Qi swept into the room like a pair of elegant swans, and you immediately understood where Rafayel had inherited his devastating beauty. His father was tall and distinguished, with silver hair and the same amethyst eyes. His mother was breathtaking—ethereal features, graceful movement, and an ageless beauty that made you feel like a troll by comparison.
"My dear," Lady Qi said, gliding forward to take your hands. "At last we meet. I am so sorry we missed the wedding—dreadful timing, really. But you are every bit as lovely as Rafayel described."
The lie was delivered with such practiced grace that you almost believed it.
"Thank you, my lady. You're too kind."
"Please, call me Vivienne. We're family now, after all." Her smile was warm, but her eyes were assessing, cataloging every detail of your appearance with the precision of a jeweler examining a questionable stone.
Lord Qi—"Remy, please"—was equally charming, and the three of you settled into polite conversation about your adjustment to married life, the estate, and various social matters. They were genuinely lovely people, you realized, which only made you feel worse about disappointing them.
Rafayel joined you for dinner, and you watched in fascination as he interacted with his parents. The playful facade he usually wore seemed to relax into something more genuine, and you caught glimpses of the man beneath the carefully constructed image.
"So," Vivienne said as the dessert course was served, "you've been married nearly six months now. Remy and I are simply dying to know—when might we expect to welcome our first grandchild?"
The question hit you like a physical blow. You felt the blood drain from your face as all three pairs of eyes turned to you expectantly.
"I... we... that is..." you stammered, unable to form a coherent response.
Rafayel's hand found yours under the table, his fingers intertwining with yours in a gesture of support that made your heart ache.
"These things take time, Mother," he said smoothly. "We're in no rush."
"Of course, of course," Vivienne said quickly, but you could see the disappointment in her eyes. "I simply thought... well, you know how eager we are to spoil grandchildren."
Remy chuckled. "Give them time, my dear. They're still newlyweds, after all."
The conversation moved on to other topics, but you remained acutely aware of Rafayel's hand holding yours, of the way his thumb traced gentle circles on your skin. It was the most intimate contact you'd had since your wedding day, and your body responded in ways that confused and frightened you.
After his parents retired for the evening, you found yourself alone with Rafayel in the drawing room. The silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken words.
"I'm sorry about that," he said finally. "They mean well, but they can be rather... direct."
"They're wonderful," you said honestly. "And beautiful. I can see where you get your looks."
He smiled at that—a real smile, not one of his practiced ones. "They like you, you know. My mother told me she thinks you're exactly what I need."
"A plain wife to keep you grounded?" The bitter words slipped out before you could stop them.
His expression darkened. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Put yourself down. I've told you before, I don't like it."
"I'm only being realistic—"
"You're being cruel. To yourself and to me." He moved closer, his amethyst eyes intense. "Do you have so little faith in my judgment? Do you think I'm the sort of man who would marry someone I found repulsive?"
The question hung in the air between you, charged with possibility and danger.
"I think," you said carefully, "that you're the sort of man who would sacrifice himself to save a lady's reputation. Even if it meant tying yourself to someone you could never truly want."
Something flashed in his eyes—frustration, perhaps, or something deeper.
"Is that what you think this is? A sacrifice?"
"Isn't it?"
For a moment, you thought he might answer honestly. His lips parted, and you saw something raw and vulnerable in his expression. But then the mask slipped back into place, and he turned away.
"I should let you retire," he said formally. "My parents will want to spend time with you tomorrow before they leave."
The dismissal stung, but you nodded and gathered your skirts. At the doorway, you paused.
"Rafayel?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For defending me tonight. Even if it was just for show."
You didn't wait for his response, but as you climbed the stairs to your lonely room, you could feel his eyes following you.
That night, you lay awake staring at the ceiling, your body still tingling from the memory of his touch. The question his mother had asked echoed in your mind, bringing with it a host of confusing emotions.
What would it be like to share his bed? To know him as a wife should know her husband? The thought terrified and thrilled you in equal measure.
But more than that, it highlighted the central problem of your marriage: you were falling in love with a man who had married you out of duty, not desire. And eventually, that truth would destroy you both.
˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖
The tension in the house was palpable the evening after his parents left. You had successfully avoided Rafayel for most of the day, taking your meals in your room and claiming a headache when he knocked on your door. But you couldn't hide forever, and when you finally emerged to retrieve a book from the library, you found him waiting for you like a beautiful, predatory cat.
He was standing by the window, his tall frame silhouetted against the dying light. His dusk-violet hair caught the last rays of the sun, and when he turned to face you, his amethyst eyes seemed to glow with an inner fire.
"Avoiding me again?" he asked, his voice deceptively casual.
"I've been resting," you said, not meeting his gaze. "I had a headache."
"Liar."
The word was spoken softly, but it hit you like a slap. Your eyes flew to his face, and what you saw there made your breath catch. Gone was the polite mask he usually wore. In its place was something raw, intense, and utterly compelling.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me." He moved closer, and you felt like prey being stalked by a predator. "You've been lying to me for weeks. Hiding from me. Pretending you don't feel this thing between us."
"There's nothing between us," you said quickly, backing away until you hit the bookshelf. "You married me out of duty, nothing more."
"Is that what you think?" He was close now, close enough that you could smell his cologne—something dark and masculine that made your head spin. "That I married you because I felt sorry for you?"
"Didn't you?"
His hands came up to brace against the bookshelf on either side of your head, trapping you between his arms. The position was intimate, threatening, and made your pulse race in ways that had nothing to do with fear.
"Let me make something very clear," he said, his voice low and intense. "I have never, not once in my entire life, done anything purely out of pity. When I married you, it was because I wanted you. Because I had wanted you from the moment I saw you on that terrace, looking like a lost angel who had wandered into the wrong garden."
The words hit you like a physical blow. "You're lying."
"Am I?" His amethyst eyes searched your face with an intensity that made you feel exposed. "Then explain this."
Before you could react, his mouth was on yours.
The kiss was nothing like the brief, proper one at your wedding. This was fire and passion and desperate hunger. His lips moved against yours with a skill that made your knees go weak, and when his tongue traced the seam of your mouth, you opened for him without thinking.
The taste of him was intoxicating—wine and warmth and something uniquely him. Your hands came up to fist in his coat, whether to push him away or pull him closer, you weren't sure. But when he finally broke the kiss, you were breathless and trembling.
"Does that feel like pity to you?" he asked, his voice rough with emotion.
You stared at him in shock, your lips still tingling from his kiss. "I... I don't understand."
"Don't you?" He cupped your face gently, his thumbs brushing across your cheekbones. "I've wanted you from the beginning, Y/N. Wanted to court you properly, to win your heart the way you deserved. But that bastard Blackwood forced my hand."
"Then why did you leave?" The question tore from your throat, raw with months of pain. "Why did you abandon me for five months if you wanted me so much?"
Something flickered across his features—guilt, regret, and something that looked almost like fear.
"Because I was a coward," he said simply. "Because I knew that if I stayed, I would want more than you were ready to give. I thought... I thought if I gave you time, space, you might come to care for me on your own."
"So you left me alone," you whispered, tears beginning to fall. "You left me to face the whispers and the pity and the certainty that you regretted marrying me."
"God, no." His expression crumpled with remorse. "Y/N, I never meant for you to feel that way. I was trying to protect you—"
"From what?"
"From me!" The words exploded from him with a force that made you flinch. "From the way I want you, from the way I need you. Do you have any idea what it's like to be married to someone you're desperately in love with, knowing they only see you as a convenient solution to their problems?"
The confession hung in the air between you, shocking in its honesty. You stared at him, this beautiful, tormented man who had just admitted to loving you, and felt your world tilt on its axis.
"In love with me?" you repeated, hardly daring to believe it.
"Completely. Utterly. Hopelessly." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "From the moment you told me you were rarely hunted at all, I was lost. You were so honest, so genuine, so different from every other woman I'd ever met. And when I saw you with Blackwood, saw the way he was hurting you..." His jaw tightened with remembered fury. "I would have killed him if he'd gone any further."
You were crying openly now, overwhelmed by the revelation. "But I'm not... I'm not beautiful like your mother, like the other ladies—"
"Stop." His voice was fierce, commanding. "Don't you dare finish that sentence. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, and I will not allow you to disparage yourself in my presence."
"How can you say that?" you sobbed. "Look at me, Rafayel. Really look at me."
"I am looking at you," he said softly, his amethyst eyes tender. "And I see the woman who read poetry in the garden while everyone else gossiped about scandal. I see the woman who was kind to my servants from the first day, who learned their names and asked about their families. I see the woman who managed my household flawlessly while I was away, who won the respect and affection of everyone who met her."
His thumbs wiped away your tears with infinite gentleness.
"I see the woman who has haunted my dreams for months, who makes me ache with wanting her, who I love so desperately it terrifies me."
"You really mean that?" you whispered.
"Every word." He pressed his forehead against yours, his breath warm on your face. "I love you, Y/N. Not your dowry, not your family connections, not what marrying you could do for my reputation. I love you—your mind, your heart, your beautiful soul. And if you'll let me, I'd like to spend the rest of my life proving it to you."
The words you had longed to hear for months finally spoken, you felt something break open in your chest—a dam of emotion that had been held back by fear and insecurity.
"I love you too," you whispered, and watched his eyes blaze with joy. "I think I've loved you since that first night on the terrace, when you called me a wallflower and made it sound like something precious."
He kissed you again then, softer this time but no less passionate. When you broke apart, you were both breathing hard.
"I have a confession to make," he said, his voice rough with desire. "My parents' visit wasn't coincidental. I asked them to come."
"You did?"
"I needed... encouragement. Courage. I've been going mad wanting you, and when my mother asked about grandchildren..." He swallowed hard. "I realized I couldn't wait any longer. I need to know if you could ever want me the way I want you."
The question hung between you, heavy with implication. You looked at this man—your husband, your love—and felt desire coil in your belly like a living thing.
"I want you," you said simply. "I've wanted you for so long I thought I might die from it."
His eyes darkened with desire so intense it made you shiver. "Y/N..."
"Please," you whispered, hardly believing your own boldness. "I want to be your wife. In every way."
He stared at you for a long moment, as if trying to convince himself you were real. Then, with infinite care, he lifted you into his arms.
"Are you certain?" he asked as he carried you toward the door. "Because once we do this, there's no going back. You'll be mine, completely and irrevocably."
"I'm already yours," you said, pressing a kiss to his throat. "I have been from the beginning."
˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖
Rafayel carried you through the halls of Mo Art Manor as if you weighed nothing, his strong arms cradling you against his chest. You could feel the steady beat of his heart, the warmth of his body through his clothes, and it made your own pulse race with anticipation and fear.
He paused outside your bedroom door, his amethyst eyes searching your face in the candlelit hallway.
"Are you certain?" he asked again, his voice rough with barely contained desire. "We can wait. I've waited this long—"
"No more waiting," you said firmly, though your voice trembled. "I need you, Rafayel. I need to know that this is real."
He pushed open the door and carried you inside, setting you down gently beside the bed. The room was bathed in golden light from the fire crackling in the hearth, and suddenly the magnitude of what was about to happen hit you like a physical blow.
This was your wedding night. Six months late, but finally here.
Rafayel seemed to sense your nervousness, because he made no move to touch you. Instead, he simply stood there, letting you look at him, letting you adjust to the reality of having him in your private space.
"You're trembling," he observed softly.
"I'm nervous," you admitted. "I don't... I've never..."
"I know." His voice was infinitely gentle. "We'll go slowly. If you want to stop at any point, just tell me."
He reached up slowly, giving you time to pull away, and began to remove the pins from your hair. The [hair colour] waves fell around your shoulders in a cascade of silk, and you heard his sharp intake of breath.
"Beautiful," he murmured, running his fingers through the strands. "So beautiful."
His hands moved to the buttons of your dress, and this time you couldn't suppress a shiver of fear. You had imagined this moment countless times, but now that it was here, all your insecurities came rushing back.
"Rafayel, wait." You caught his hands, stopping him. "I need you to know... I'm not like the other women you've known. I'm not small or delicate or—"
"Perfect," he finished, his amethyst eyes blazing with sincerity. "You're perfect exactly as you are."
But even as he said the words, you could see the doubt in your own eyes reflected in the mirror across the room. Your fuller figure, your soft curves, your very ordinary face—how could a man like him truly want someone like you?
As if reading your thoughts, Rafayel's expression grew tender. "Let me show you," he said softly. "Let me show you how perfect you are."
His hands returned to your buttons, and this time you didn't stop him. Slowly, reverently, he began to undress you, his fingers brushing against your skin with each revealed inch. When your dress pooled at your feet, leaving you in just your chemise and stockings, you instinctively moved to cover yourself.
"No," he said gently, catching your hands. "Don't hide from me. Please."
But you couldn't help it. The fear was too strong, the lifetime of feeling inadequate too deeply ingrained. You pulled away from him, wrapping your arms around yourself.
"I can't," you whispered, your voice breaking. "I can't do this. You'll see me and you'll realize... you'll realize you've made a terrible mistake."
The words hung in the air between you, and you watched as something crumbled in Rafayel's expression. For a moment, he looked utterly devastated.
"Is that what you think?" he asked quietly. "That I would find you lacking?"
"I know I am," you said, tears beginning to fall. "I'm not blind, Rafayel. I know what I look like. I know what you deserve."
"What I deserve?" His voice was dangerously quiet. "What I deserve is a wife who trusts me. Who believes me when I tell her she's beautiful. What I deserve is the woman I fell in love with, not this... this stranger who thinks so little of my judgment."
The words hit you like physical blows, and you saw the truth in his eyes—hurt, disappointment, and something that looked like the beginning of withdrawal.
"I'm sorry," you whispered. "I'm sorry, I just... I can't..."
He stared at you for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "I understand," he said formally, his voice carefully neutral. "Perhaps we should wait until you're more... comfortable with the idea."
He moved toward the door, and panic flooded through you. "Where are you going?"
"To my room. To give you space." He paused at the threshold, not looking back. "Good night, Y/N."
The door closed behind him with a quiet click, leaving you alone with your fears and your regrets.
˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖
The next few weeks passed in a haze of polite distance and careful avoidance. Rafayel was unfailingly courteous, but the warmth that had begun to bloom between you was gone, replaced by a cool formality that broke your heart.
He took his meals in his study, claiming work that needed his attention. He spent long hours riding the estate boundaries or locked away in his art studio—a room you had never seen and now suspected you never would. When you did encounter each other, he was polite but distant, as if you were merely an acquaintance rather than his wife.
The worst part was that you could see the hurt in his eyes—hurt that you had put there with your inability to trust in his desire for you. He had laid his heart bare, confessed his love, and you had rejected him in the most fundamental way possible.
You tried to approach him several times, but each attempt was met with polite deflection. He would smile that careful, practiced smile and find some excuse to leave your presence. You were losing him, and you didn't know how to stop it.
It was Mrs. Aldridge who finally gave you the push you needed.
"Begging your pardon, my lady," she said one morning as she helped you dress, "but you look terrible."
You laughed humorlessly. "Thank you, Mrs. Aldridge. Your honesty is refreshing."
"I'm not trying to be cruel," she said gently. "I'm trying to help. You're miserable, and so is his lordship. The whole house can feel it."
"I don't know what you mean."
"Don't you?" She fixed you with a knowing look. "That man loves you, my lady. Loves you something fierce. And you're breaking his heart with all this tiptoeing around."
"It's not that simple—"
"Isn't it?" She set down the hairbrush and turned to face you fully. "You think you're not good enough for him. But let me tell you something—I've worked for this family for twenty years. I've seen Lord Rafayel with countless women, and I've never seen him look at any of them the way he looks at you."
"He doesn't look at me anymore," you said sadly.
"Because you broke his heart," she said bluntly. "He opened himself up to you, made himself vulnerable, and you rejected him. Of course he's protecting himself now."
The words stung because they were true. You had rejected him, not because you didn't want him, but because you were too afraid to believe he could want you.
"I don't know how to fix it," you admitted.
Mrs. Aldridge smiled. "Yes, you do. You just need to find the courage to try."
That evening, you made your decision. You couldn't continue living in this limbo, couldn't bear the thought of losing him entirely. If you were going to save your marriage, you had to be brave enough to fight for it.
You found him in the library, sitting in his favorite chair with a book in his lap, though you could tell he wasn't actually reading. He looked up when you entered, and for a moment, his careful mask slipped enough for you to see the longing in his amethyst eyes.
"Y/N," he said, closing the book. "Is there something you need?"
"Yes," you said, moving closer. "I need to talk to you. Really talk to you."
He gestured to the chair across from him. "Of course."
But you didn't sit. Instead, you knelt beside his chair, your hands resting on the arm. The position put you at his eye level, and you could see the surprise in his expression.
"I need to apologize," you said quietly. "For that night. For hurting you. For being too much of a coward to accept what you were offering me."
His jaw tightened. "You don't need to apologize for not wanting—"
"But I do want," you interrupted. "I want you so much it terrifies me. That's why I ran. Not because I don't desire you, but because I couldn't believe you could truly desire me."
He stared at you, his amethyst eyes searching your face. "Y/N..."
"Please," you said, reaching out to touch his hand. "Let me finish. I know I hurt you. I know I damaged something precious between us. But I need you to know that it wasn't because I don't love you. It's because I love you too much to bear the thought of disappointing you."
"You could never disappoint me," he said fiercely. "Don't you understand that?"
"I'm trying to," you said honestly. "I'm trying to see myself the way you see me. But it's hard when I've spent my whole life believing I was unworthy of love."
Something shifted in his expression—the coldness melting into something warmer, more vulnerable.
"You are worthy," he said softly. "You are worthy of love, of desire, of everything good in this world. And I will spend the rest of my life proving it to you if you'll let me."
"I want you to," you whispered. "I want to be your wife in every way. I want to share your bed, bear your children, grow old with you. I want all of it, Rafayel. I want you."
For a moment, neither of you moved. Then, slowly, he reached out to cup your face in his hands.
"Are you certain?" he asked, his voice rough with emotion. "Because I don't think I can bear to be rejected again."
"I'm certain," you said, pressing a kiss to his palm. "I love you, and I want to show you how much. If you'll have me."
His answer was to kiss you, soft and sweet and full of promise. When you broke apart, you were both smiling.
"Come," he said, standing and offering you his hand. "Let me show you how much I love you."
This time, when he led you to your bedroom, you didn't hesitate. This time, you were ready to trust in his love—and in your own worth.
˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖
The moonlight poured in through the lace-curtained windows, soft and pale as milk, casting silver halos on the edge of the bed where your husband knelt before you.
You stood with your back to him, your hands trembling as you reached to unfasten the topmost button of your nightdress. He had said nothing since leading you into your chambers, since closing the door and brushing your cheek with his lips, reverent as a priest before an altar. But the silence between you hummed with something molten—hunger buried beneath restraint, tenderness tethered to longing.
“I can do it,” you whispered, breathless, as your fingers fumbled uselessly.
A pause. Then his voice, low and rough with devotion. “Please. Let me.”
You nodded, unable to find your voice.
He rose behind you. His hands were warm against your spine, careful, steady. Each button he loosened sent a ripple through you, like the slow, certain toll of a bell before a storm. Your chemise slid from your shoulders, catching at your elbows, then falling to the floor in a soft whisper of silk.
You stood bare beneath him, every part of you exposed. Not just your skin—but your history. Your doubt. Your scars, seen and unseen.
You couldn’t move.
Then—his arms wrapped around you from behind. He did not grope. He did not claim. He simply held.
“I’m going to kiss every inch of you,” Rafayel murmured, his lips at your ear, his voice reverent. “And if you tremble, I’ll hold you steady. If you cry, I’ll kiss away the tears. But you will not look away from me. Not tonight.”
Your knees nearly buckled.
He guided you gently to the bed, settling you atop the cool sheets, then knelt again—this time between your knees, his hands sliding reverently up your calves. “You are not a body I must endure. You are a temple I have longed to worship.”
Your breath hitched. He leaned down to kiss the inside of your thigh—tender, slow—then moved upward in a trail of devotion. Your skin lit beneath his lips.
“You smell like jasmine,” he said, nuzzling against your stomach. “And honey. Did you know that?”
“No,” you whispered, voice cracking.
“I’ve dreamed of this.” He kissed your belly, just above your navel. “I’ve imagined it a hundred times. None of them come close to the real you.”
“Rafayel…”
“I’m here.”
He climbed over you, bracing himself on his elbows, his bare chest hovering above yours. His skin was warm, the lines of him elegant but strong. His hair fell loose across his brow. He looked like a dream—but he kissed you like a man starved.
The first press of his lips against yours was gentle. The second—desperate. His hands cupped your face, tilting you into him, deepening the kiss until your moan spilled against his mouth like wine poured too fast.
“Say it again,” he murmured.
“Say what?”
“That you want me. That this is what you want.”
“I want you,” you gasped, arching against him. “God, Rafayel, I want this.”
He groaned—low, guttural, the sound of years of restraint beginning to fray—and kissed you again with a hunger so raw it threatened to undo you. His mouth moved down your neck, your shoulder, the soft underside of your breast. He lavished each curve with praise and touch, his fingers mapping you like sacred scripture, his tongue reverent where your skin was most sensitive.
When he finally reached the apex of your thighs, he paused, breath hot against you.
“You are already soaked for me,” he whispered, eyes glazed with awe. “So sweet. So eager. So mine.”
You cried out when his mouth met you there—his tongue gentle but insistent, his fingers gripping your thighs as if anchoring himself to this moment. You writhed beneath him, your hands buried in his hair, gasps turning to moans, moans to sobs of pleasure you never knew your body could feel.
“Please—please—” you panted, hips trembling.
He kissed his way back up your body, his mouth slick with your desire, his eyes dark and wild. “Tell me what you need.”
“You,” you begged. “Inside me. Now.”
He didn’t make you wait.
He positioned himself above you, his hand guiding himself to your entrance, eyes locked on yours. “It may hurt,” he said gently. “But I will go slowly. I will listen to every breath, every flinch. You are in control.”
You nodded, tears welling again—this time not from pain or fear, but from being seen.
He entered you in slow, shallow thrusts, murmuring praise between kisses. You gasped, your body stretching to accommodate him, but he held you like something fragile, cherished.
When he was fully inside you, he stilled. “You feel like heaven,” he breathed, his voice breaking. “I could die like this and die content.”
“Move,” you whispered. “Please, Rafayel.”
And he did.
He moved with a rhythm that was both worship and hunger, hips rocking into you as though he wanted to bury every part of himself inside you—not just his body, but his love, his soul, his devotion. You met each thrust with your own, your gasps turning louder, your fingers raking down his back.
“Say my name,” he moaned into your shoulder. “Say it. Let me know you’re mine.”
“Rafayel,” you cried out, over and over. “Rafayel—Rafayel—”
Your release crested like a wave and crashed through you, shuddering and blinding and fierce. He followed with a groan of your name, his release hot and pulsing inside you, his body shaking as he spilled himself with a guttural sound of completion.
For a long time, there was nothing but the sound of your breathing, tangled limbs, and the crackle of the fire.
He rolled to his side and pulled you into his chest, your legs still trembling, his fingers stroking lazily down your back.
“You are not just my wife,” he whispered into your hair. “You are my art. My muse. My heart.”
You nestled against him, your body still thrumming with pleasure, and whispered back, “And you are mine.”
At last, your wedding night was not a title borrowed from custom—but a truth forged in fire and love.
˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖
The portrait was nearly finished.
You sat in Rafayel's studio, wearing a gown of deep sapphire that brought out the color of your eyes, watching as your husband added the final touches to his masterpiece. The woman in the painting was beautiful—not in the conventional sense, perhaps, but with a radiance that seemed to glow from within.
"She looks happy," you observed, studying the painted version of yourself.
"She is happy," Rafayel said, not looking up from his work. "Deliriously, perfectly happy. It shows in everything about her—the way she holds herself, the light in her eyes, the curve of her smile."
"You're biased," you said with a laugh.
"Completely," he agreed, finally setting down his brush and turning to face you. "But I'm also right. You are beautiful, Y/N. More beautiful now than ever."
You rose from your pose and moved to stand beside him, studying the portrait with new eyes. The woman looking back at you was confident, loved, radiant with joy. She bore little resemblance to the frightened wallflower you had once been.
"When did I become her?" you asked wonderingly.
"You were always her," Rafayel said, wrapping his arms around you from behind. "You just needed someone to help you see it."
You leaned back against his chest, feeling his hands settle over the slight swell of your belly where your child—your and Rafayel's child—was growing. The pregnancy had been a surprise, but a welcome one. Your husband had been impossibly tender and protective, treating you as if you were made of spun glass.
"Your parents will be pleased," you said, thinking of the letter you had received from Vivienne that morning. "They're already planning to spoil their grandchild terribly."
"They'll have to get in line," Rafayel said, pressing a kiss to your temple. "I intend to be the most disgracefully doting father in all of England."
"I don't doubt it," you said with a smile. "Just promise me you won't teach our daughter to be as charming as you are. The world isn't ready for another Qi with your particular talents."
"What if it's a son?"
"Then God help us all," you said, turning in his arms to face him. "One of you is quite enough for any household."
He laughed and kissed you, and you marveled at how easy it was now—this love, this happiness, this life you had built together. The fears and insecurities that had once plagued you seemed like distant memories, replaced by a deep and abiding knowledge of your own worth.
"I have something for you," Rafayel said, releasing you to retrieve a small package from his desk.
Inside was a locket—exquisite, delicate, and clearly expensive. But it was the inscription that made your breath catch: "To my wallflower, who bloomed into a garden."
"It's beautiful," you whispered, touched beyond words.
"Not as beautiful as you," he said, fastening the locket around your neck. "But it will have to do."
As you looked at yourself in the mirror, the locket gleaming against your throat, you thought about the journey that had brought you here. From that first night on the terrace to this moment of perfect happiness, it had been a path fraught with obstacles, misunderstandings, and fears. But it had led you to this—to love, to joy, to a man who saw you as you truly were and cherished you for it.
"Thank you," you said softly, meeting his eyes in the mirror.
"For what?"
"For seeing me," you said. "For loving me. For showing me that I was never just a wallflower—I was a woman waiting to bloom."
He smiled that devastating smile that had captured your heart from the beginning, and you knew that no matter what challenges life might bring, you would face them together. Because you had learned the most important lesson of all: that love, true love, sees not what is lacking but what is precious, not what is flawed but what is perfect in its imperfection.
And in Rafayel's eyes, you would always be perfect.
From the very beginning of your relationship with Rafayel, the two of you have always been careful— intimate, yet protective. Boundaries were respected. Desires tempered with responsibility. But when your dear friend confides in you about the overwhelming intimacy of being creampied, curiosity begins to bloom. A hunger to experience that same raw connection stirs inside you. Will he give in to your request? Or will love, lust and trust collide in a night that changes everything?
Trigger warning: creampie
🫧 comment and reblog are deeply appreciated <3
The decision came on a slow morning in bed, wrapped in sheets that smelled like his cologne and your skin. The kind of morning where everything is soft — his voice, the light streaming through the window, the way his thumb traced lazy circles on your bare hip.
“No kids,” you said, your head tucked under his chin.
“No kids,” Rafayel agreed, almost instantly, the conviction in his voice wrapping around you like a warm blanket.
You both smiled.
You didn’t need more than that. You had each other. The art, the city, the laughter between studio walls and nighttime walks after closing hours. The way he’d press kisses behind your ear when you sat on his lap, or how his touch could turn your bones to syrup when he whispered your name like a prayer.
It wasn’t that you didn’t love deeply. You did, possibly too deeply. But maybe that was why the thought of children felt too heavy. You were already navigating a universe made entirely of the two of you. You didn’t need anything more.
But still, the curiosity lingered.
It started as a joke, once, after a brunch date with your friend who couldn’t stop gushing about how incredible it felt when her boyfriend— “She said it’s like… this flood. Of warmth. Of love,” you’d told him one night, sprawled together on the couch, your legs tangled over his. “Like she could feel him in her for hours.”
Rafayel stiffened beneath you.
You looked up at him, amused. “You okay?”
His jaw ticked. “That’s… not something I’ve ever heard you want before.”
“I didn’t say I wanted it.” You paused. “I just said I’m curious.”
He shifted beneath you, pulling you a little tighter. “I wouldn’t be able to control myself.”
The way he said it low, conflicted, almost vulnerable — made something deep inside you ache.
“Is that so bad?” you whispered, half-teasing, half-meaning it.
He didn’t answer.
But the thought stuck with both of you.
Tonight, you wore the red dress.
Not for the occasion. For him.
Dinner had been intoxicating — not the wine, but him — the way he looked at you across the table, hand on your thigh, voice a velvet murmur in your ear when he leaned too close.
“You’re making it very hard to behave,” he’d said, teeth grazing your earlobe.
“You never behave,” you’d whispered back.
By the time you both stumbled back to his studio, your lipstick was smudged from kisses in the car, your breath shallow, your thighs pressed together with unbearable ache.
He pinned you lightly against the door of Mo Art, kissing you like he’d waited a century for this moment.
“Let’s continue this in our bedroom, yeah?” he murmured, voice rough, eyes molten.
You nodded, dizzy with anticipation.
The lights were low. His paintings stood witness from every wall, but you only saw him — his flushed cheeks, the hunger in his gaze, the way he gently, reverently, slid the zipper of your dress down and kissed every inch he revealed.
“Beautiful,” he whispered. “Always so fucking beautiful…”
When he laid you down, it wasn’t rushed. It was worship.
The way his hands caressed you — slow, thorough, like he was sketching your body into memory. The way he kissed your chest, your stomach, your thighs, murmuring your name like it was holy.
When he slid the condom on, you felt the weight of it between you, not disappointment, but… distance. A soft barrier you suddenly wished wasn’t there.
But you let it happen. At first.
Because the way he sank into you in missionary, the way he groaned your name into your mouth and whispered, “I love you,” was still everything.
“Ah—Rafayel,” you moaned, arching into him.
“You feel so good, cutie,” he panted, rocking into you, strong and slow. “So tight. You always take me so well.”
You kissed his throat, clutched his back, wrapped your legs around him.
But something inside you begged for more. For everything.
And when he shifted the angle and your body trembled with how deep he reached, you knew.
Now was the moment.
Your hips roll up to meet his. Each thrust hits deep, precise, intimate. But that thin layer — that barrier — it's all you can think about.
You wanted him. All of him.
His cock, his heat, his surrender. The rawness of nothing between you but love and sweat and skin.
He’s murmuring against your lips, “God, you feel so good, cutie. You’re squeezing me so tight... fuck—just like that... I love you.”
You look up at him — flushed, his curls damp with sweat, eyes hooded and glassy with need. And your heart, your soul, everything that is you reaches out.
You pull him in for a kiss, long and lingering. Then gently push him back.
“Lie down,” you whisper.
He blinks. “What?”
“I want to ride you.”
He grins, breathless. “You’re trying to kill me.”
You shake your head. “I want to feel you.”
He exhales hard, nods, lets you push him gently to the mattress. You straddle him, bodies slick and trembling, hearts pounding in tandem. He watches with reverence as you guide him back in, already pulsing for you.
You start to move slow, controlled, hypnotic. Your hands on his chest, your head thrown back.
And then, in that moment — you do it.
Fingers slide down to the base of him.
And you pull the condom off.
His eyes shoot open.
“Wait—what are you—?”
You look down at him, lips parted, chest rising and falling with every breath.
“Please,” you whisper. “I need this. I need you.”
He stares up at you, torn between fear and lust and love so deep it makes his voice crack. “I’ll lose control.”
You nod slowly. “That’s what I want.”
His hands grip your hips like he’s trying to ground himself. “I’ll go too deep. I’ll come too fast. I’ll—fuck—I might not be able to stop.”
“Then don’t,” you whisper, lowering yourself onto him.
And he breaks.
The moment he slides inside you bare, it’s like your whole body seizes — not in pain, but in shock.
“Ah—fuck—” you both gasp in unison.
It’s different.
He’s thicker, hotter, every ridge and vein pressing into your most tender places. Every inch of him stretching you, claiming you. No barrier. No separation. Just him.
And he feels everything.
Every shiver of your walls. Every flutter, every tremble. You’re wet, so wet, and he’s drowning in it.
“Oh my god,” you moan, head falling back. “You feel—so deep, Rafayel. So full.”
He’s biting his lip, hands digging into your thighs. “Shit, shit—fuck, you’re perfect. You feel perfect. I can’t—honey, you’re gonna ruin me.”
You start to move, riding him in slow, deep waves, and he’s not surviving this. He’s shaking, breathless, eyes locked on the spot where your bodies meet.
“You’re squeezing me so tightly,” he growls, voice hoarse. “I can feel your pulse, cutie—fuck.”
You clench around him on purpose and he groans, hands flying to your hips. “D-Don’t do that—you’re gonna make me come!—”
“That’s the point,” you breathe, leaning over him. “I want you to. Inside me.”
He grabs you, flips you under him so fast you gasp. Now he’s on top, pounding into you with raw, unfiltered need, the sounds of your skin slapping echoing through the room.
He moans against your neck, voice wrecked. “I’m not gonna last—I’m not—ah, fuck—I’m sorry—”
“Do it,” you cry. “Please, baby. Fill me. Claim me. I want to feel all of you.”
And with a strangled groan, he bites the side of your neck — not hard, just enough to mark — and then...
He lets go.
He collapses over you, shuddering.
Your fingers thread into his damp curls, stroking, soothing. His breath is ragged against your neck. He hasn’t pulled out. You can feel the warmth inside you, thick and real, and the slow, delicious weight of him softening but still buried deep.
Neither of you moves for a long moment.
The silence is not empty. It’s swollen with something raw and full.
“…fuck,” he finally whispers, voice barely there. “…I came inside you.”
You hold him tighter. “I know.”
“I didn’t mean to—I mean—” He lifts his head, looking into your eyes. “I meant it, but I didn’t plan it. You— you looked at me like that and I lost every ounce of control I thought I had. I couldn’t say no to you.”
You smile, brushing his sweaty hair from his forehead. “You didn’t need to.”
He groans softly, burying his face into the crook of your neck. “You’re going to ruin me.”
“You already are,” you whisper, tilting your head to give him better access. “You’re so deep in me, Rafayel. I can still feel you…”
His hips twitch involuntarily, and he lets out a helpless moan. “Fuck, don’t say that—”
“But it’s true,” you murmur. “You’re leaking out of me and it’s the most intimate thing I’ve ever felt.”
That stuns him into silence.
He finally pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are full with concern, with awe, with something fragile and breaking. “Are you… okay?”
You nod. “More than okay.”
“I didn’t hurt you?”
You shake your head. “You loved me.”
He exhales shakily, then leans down to kiss your lips, your jaw, your cheeks — over and over like he’s trying to convince himself this moment is real.
“I love you so much it terrifies me,” he confesses, pressing his forehead to yours.
Your hand finds his. “Then we’re terrified together.”
He smiles. It’s that rare, boyish smile — the one that only comes out when his armor drops.
You both stay tangled like that, long past the moment his body finally slides out of yours. He kisses the inside of your thighs, cleaning you with trembling fingers and reverent care, whispering apologies and praises in equal measure.
Later, under the covers, when the tremors have subsided and the world is quiet again, he pulls you close and murmurs:
“No more condoms?”
You laugh, curling into his chest. “Let’s see how long we last.”
He chuckles, low and wicked in your ear. “Not too long, cutie. Not if you keep looking at me the way you did tonight.”
You smile, content and sated. “Good.”
Because you don’t need anything else.
Just him.
Just this.
Just the two of you — raw, messy, vulnerable, and in love.
Word Count: 11,064
Pairing: Treasure Hunter Rafayel x Marine Biologist F!reader
Warnings: Dark!, kidnapping, "hostage", "you're mine now", oral f receiving, stealing?, dubious consent?, p in v sex, controlling behavior from male lead.
A/N: I am not responsible for your media consumption, if you find at any point that you dislike the way this story goes you're able to just stop reading. Continuing to read after you're no longer comfortable is not my problem and it never will be. Cater your internet experience for yourself. That being said this is not the darkest media I've ever written, its incredibly tame. :3
AO3 Link
She hit the deck hard, her body still damp and glistening from the sea, the scent of salt and brine thick in the air. The rough hands that had dragged her from the water weren’t gentle, nor had they been for the last ten minutes. She’d had guns pointed at her no less than three damn times, and now she was being thrown in front of their captain like some prize catch.
Rafayel.
The name rolled through her head, half-heard from the crew’s murmurs. He stood near the helm, tall and steady, the kind of presence that made men straighten their backs and rethink their choices. His plum-colored hair shifted slightly in the ocean breeze, and those gradient eyes—one part deep blue, the other burning red—settled on her with a certainty that sent heat crawling up her spine.
She glared, breath coming fast, chest rising and falling beneath the tight neoprene of her wet suit. “I don’t know what the hell you think I was doing down there, but I sure as hell wasn’t stealing from you.”
A slow, lazy smirk pulled at Rafayel’s lips. He stepped closer, his boots heavy against the deck, his hands sliding casually into the deep pockets of his black slacks. “Is that so?” His voice was smooth, low, like the undertow of a current pulling you deeper before you even realized you were drowning. “And yet, you were where you shouldn’t be. Swimming around my wreck. I don’t believe in coincidences, cutie.”
His men chuckled behind her. She clenched her fists, the sea still dripping from her fingers onto the wooden deck. “Your wreck?” she scoffed. “Didn’t realize you had the rights to the ocean now.”
His grin widened. “I take what interests me.” His gaze flicked over her, deliberate, appraising. “And you’ve made yourself very interesting.”
A shiver ran through her that had nothing to do with the cool sea breeze. She was no stranger to men looking at her, but this was different. There was no idle curiosity in his expression. No hesitation. Just knowing. A claiming. Like he’d already made the decision, and she was simply going to have to deal with it.
Her chin lifted. “I was looking at the wildlife,” she bit out. “Not your damned treasure.”
One of his men—big, ugly, with a scar slicing through his jaw—let out a grunt. “Could be lyin’, boss. No normal diver goes down alone like that. What if she’s scoutin’?”
Rafayel didn’t even spare the man a glance. His eyes never left her. “I don’t think she’s lying,” he mused. “I think she really was just admiring the fish.”
She let out a breath—relief, maybe—but it was cut short when he crouched in front of her. He moved slowly, controlled, forearms resting on his knees.
“But here’s the thing,” he murmured, his voice dropping into something that scraped along her nerves. “I don’t really care what you were doing.”
She stiffened. “Then let me go.”
The smirk returned. Amused. Playful. Infuriating. “No.”
Her pulse slammed against her ribs. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”
“I mean you’re mine now.”
The words were simple. Unshaken. Not a threat, but a fact. He reached out, fingers brushing against her wet sleeve, toying with the neoprene like he had all the time in the world.
Her breath caught. “You can’t just—”
“Oh, but I can,” he said smoothly, standing again, towering over her like the sea itself. “See, I keep the things I like.” His hand lifted, tipping her chin up with a single finger. The touch was light, barely there, but it sent a jolt through her body.
“And I think I like you.”
Her stomach twisted. Part fear. Part something else.
His men chuckled darkly behind her, but Rafayel didn’t look away. Didn’t move. Just watched her like he was waiting to see how she’d react, how far she’d fight.
She swallowed hard, but she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of backing down. “You really think you can just claim people like you do your treasure?”
He grinned. “Cutie, I already have.”
The quarters were better than a cell, but not by much. The walls were dark, heavy wood, the furniture polished and rich, everything smelling faintly of salt and something deeper—like leather and spice, like him. The bed she’d been given was small but comfortable, pressed against the far wall, a silent reminder that she wasn’t entirely his yet, but close enough.
She’d changed into the dry clothes they’d left her—a loose, thin linen shirt and soft drawstring pants that felt far too casual for captivity. The food they’d given her sat untouched on the table. She wasn’t sure she had the stomach for it.
She had just started pacing when the door opened.
Rafayel stepped in like he owned the air in the room, like he’d already decided how this conversation would go before it even started. His plum-colored hair was slightly tousled from the sea breeze, those gradient eyes unreadable but focused, sharp with something she couldn’t name.
She crossed her arms, squaring her shoulders. “Finally come to tell me what the hell you’re planning to do with me?”
His smirk was slow, amused, as he shut the door behind him. “Something like that.”
He leaned against the table, crossing his arms in an almost casual way. “I’ve decided on a few rules for you,” he said, watching her reaction closely. “I expect you to follow them.”
Her stomach twisted. “Rules?”
He nodded once. “First rule—what I say goes. No questioning me.”
Her mouth opened, but his eyes darkened slightly, a silent challenge for her to test him already. She swallowed hard, pressing her lips together.
“Second,” he continued, “you’ll stay by my side at all times. Consider it a privilege. You’ll have your own bed, for now, but it’s adjacent to mine. You won’t be locked up. You won’t be mistreated. But you will be mine.”
Her hands clenched at her sides. “You think you can just—”
“I do,” he cut in smoothly. “And I will.”
She took a slow, controlled breath, willing herself to keep her voice even. “I just wanted to look at the goddamn fish. I wasn’t stealing from you, I wasn’t doing anything, and now I’m supposed to just… stay?”
His smirk deepened. “That brings me to rule three. You can conduct your research. I’ll even allow it. When I decide we have time for it. And only for specific amounts of time.” He tilted his head, his voice dipping into something quieter, something that made her skin prickle. “I might miss you, after all.”
She stiffened.
His eyes held hers, steady. “Rule four—you can leave when I say you can. If I say you can. But that doesn’t mean I won’t find you again. Doesn’t mean I won’t bring you back.”
A chill ran through her. There was no malice in his voice. No theatrics. Just fact.
“And the last one,” he murmured, stepping toward her, closing the space between them in a way that made her breath hitch. “Just like this wreck… I found you. And now?” His fingers brushed against her chin, just enough to tilt it up slightly, just enough to make her feel it—his claim. His certainty.
“You belong to me.”
Her pulse pounded against her ribs.
He held her there for a moment, just watching, just waiting. Then, slowly, he let his fingers drop and turned for the door.
“Get some sleep,” he said easily. “You start getting used to things tomorrow.”
And with that, he was gone, leaving nothing but his rules lingering in the air between them.
The ocean stretched wide before her, an endless sapphire expanse, broken only by the occasional ripple of movement beneath the surface. Schools of fish darted in flashes of silver. Somewhere farther out, she swore she’d seen the arch of a dolphin’s back cutting through the waves. This was why she dove. Why she put on the wetsuit, strapped on the tanks, and disappeared beneath the surface—because down there, the world was quiet. Safe. Hers.
She exhaled, fingers gripping the railing as she leaned forward just slightly, letting the sea air cool her face.
And then—him.
The warmth of his body pressed against her back, solid and deliberate, his arms bracketing her on either side. Not touching, but close enough that she could feel him, the heat of him sinking into her skin through the thin fabric of her borrowed clothes.
His breath ghosted against the side of her neck, his voice smooth and amused.
"See anything good, cutie?"
Her fingers tensed against the railing. “Don’t call me that.”
Rafayel chuckled, low and teasing. “Would you prefer something else?”
“I’d prefer if you moved.”
His hands didn’t budge. He was caging her in without actually holding her, a game of proximity that she refused to acknowledge was working.
His lips tilted into a smirk against her ear. “You didn’t answer my question.”
She swallowed, eyes flicking back toward the water, not focusing on the fact that his voice was deep enough to feel in her ribs. “A pod of dolphins,” she muttered, watching the horizon. “They were passing by.”
“Hm.” His voice was thoughtful, but she could feel his attention still fixed on her, not the ocean. “You like them?”
She rolled her eyes. “They’re beautiful. Intelligent. Playful.”
“So am I.”
Her head snapped toward him, her lips parting in incredulous disbelief. “You—”
His grin was pure arrogance, his eyes glittering like the reflection of sun on dark water.
She groaned, turning back toward the sea. “Oh, my god.”
“I don’t mind the comparison,” he continued easily, tilting his head slightly, like he was considering it. “Fast. Clever. Dangerous if provoked. I’d say it fits.”
“Dolphins don’t go around kidnapping people.”
“Mm, depends on the dolphin,” he mused. “You’re a marine biologist and you don’t know their behavior?” He tsked, “Dolphins are known for keeping female dolphins hostage for breeding—its well documented, I’m surprised you don’t know about it.” His voice dipped, something slow and deliberate curling around his words.
Her pulse stuttered.
His meaning sat thick in the air between them, as heavy as the weight of his presence against her back.
She inhaled sharply, pushing off the railing and turning to shove at his chest. He let her, stepping back just enough to give her room, though his smirk didn’t fade in the slightest.
“You are so full of yourself,” she muttered, brushing past him.
“I prefer the term confident.”
She didn’t answer, didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking back as she strode away—ignoring the fact that her heartbeat was far too quick, her skin far too warm.
And behind her, Rafayel chuckled under his breath, watching her go like a man who had all the time in the world.
She didn’t trust it.
The moment she stepped into his cabin, she knew it was a trap. Not the kind with chains or locked doors—no, Rafayel was playing a longer game. One where the bindings weren’t physical, but mental. Emotional. Seductive.
The lights were dim, casting a golden glow over everything. Candles flickered in scattered placements, their flames swaying with the subtle movement of the ship. A faint melody played from somewhere unseen, low and rich, threading through the air like smoke curling around bare skin. And the food—she caught the scent immediately. Fresh seafood, seasoned just right, the kind of meal that would have cost her a small fortune at a coastal restaurant.
Her stomach betrayed her before she could stop it, twisting in hunger.
Rafayel, standing near the table, caught the movement in her throat when she swallowed. His lips curved—just slightly, just enough.
“I figured we should have dinner together,” he said smoothly, gesturing toward the chair opposite his own. “I’d rather not keep my new possession starved.”
She stiffened, meeting his gaze with a glare. “I’m not your possession.”
He sighed, shaking his head as he moved toward her, slow and deliberate. “You keep saying that,” he murmured, stopping just in front of her, forcing her to tilt her chin up to hold his stare. “And yet, here you are. On my ship, in my quarters, wearing the clothes I gave you.” His head tilted slightly, his gaze heavy-lidded, lazy in that way that somehow still felt predatory. “You belong to me, cutie. The sooner you accept it, the easier things will be.”
Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. “I don’t belong to anyone.”
Rafayel sighed, almost as if he found her insistence adorable. He lifted a hand and, before she could react, hooked his fingers into the collar of her borrowed shirt. Just lightly. Just enough to pull her closer—barely an inch, but it made all the difference.
Her breath hitched.
His eyes traced over her face, slow and searching. Then, with infuriating amusement, he released her and stepped back.
“Sit,” he said, gesturing toward the table again. “Eat. I’d hate for you to faint before we’ve had a proper conversation.”
She didn’t want to obey. Didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. But hunger gnawed at her insides, and her body, treacherous as it was, wasn’t willing to endure more suffering for the sake of her pride.
She sat.
Rafayel’s smirk was damn near victorious as he followed suit.
The food was, unsurprisingly, incredible. Perfectly grilled fish, succulent shrimp, sides that tasted like something pulled straight from a high-end coastal kitchen. Every bite soothed her body’s needs even as her mind screamed at her not to relax.
Rafayel watched her eat with an expression that was equal parts pleased and knowing. “See?” he mused, swirling the dark liquid in his glass. “Not everything I offer is cruel.”
She swallowed her bite before leveling him with a look. “And what am I supposed to do? Be grateful that my kidnapper is feeding me?”
He chuckled, tipping his glass in her direction before taking a slow sip. “You say ‘kidnapper,’ I say ‘rescuer.’”
Her brow twitched. “Rescuer?”
“Of course.” He leaned back in his chair, stretching one arm along the table’s edge. “You were alone, vulnerable. Who knows what kind of danger could have found you down there?” His eyes gleamed in the candlelight. “Lucky for you, it was me.”
Her jaw clenched. “That’s not how luck works.”
Rafayel smirked again, setting his glass down before leaning forward. The playful facade dimmed just slightly, something deeper flickering beneath.
“I don’t think you’ve realized yet, cutie,” he murmured, voice dipping lower, rougher, “but there’s not a single part of this where your say matters.”
Her fingers clenched around her fork.
His grin returned, slow and wicked. “The only question left is how long you plan to fight before you admit you like it here.”
The worst part?
Her stomach was full, her body warm from the wine and the food and the damn way he looked at her.
And she had no answer.
Rafayel extended his hand, fingers relaxed but expectant, palm up, as if this was a choice—as if she had any real options here.
She hesitated, her gaze flickering up to his.
That look—
It wasn’t impatient, not quite. But there was something behind it, something dark and waiting, something that said: Push me, and see what happens.
Her throat tightened. Shit.
Reluctantly, she slid her hand into his. His fingers curled around hers instantly, firm and warm, a contrast to the cool air slipping in through the open windows. Before she could talk herself out of it, he pulled her up, steady and controlled, and in one effortless motion, he guided her into him.
The music swelled, slow and deep, the kind that moved like liquid through the air.
And Rafayel?
Rafayel was too close.
One hand rested at her waist, possessive, fingers pressing just firmly enough to keep her there. The other cradled her own, leading her into a slow, measured rhythm. He moved like he owned this moment, like he owned her reaction to it.
Her pulse was unsteady, and she knew he felt it.
She refused to meet his eyes, keeping her gaze locked somewhere—anywhere—that wasn’t his face.
"Shy now?" he murmured, his voice a quiet tease, his breath skimming just over her cheek.
"Hardly," she muttered, though it sounded weaker than she wanted it to.
His chuckle was low and knowing.
For a few moments, he simply moved with her, letting the music stretch between them. Then, his voice hummed against her skin.
"You'll be pleased to know we pulled some beautiful things from the wreck," he said, like they were having a casual conversation, like they were simply two people dancing and not a captor and his unwilling prize.
She swallowed. "Yeah? Should I be impressed?"
"Yes," he said easily. "Gold coins, ornate goblets—one of my men nearly pissed himself when he found a dagger with rubies in the hilt." He turned his head slightly, and she could feel his smirk even if she didn’t see it. "But I think the jewelry was my favorite."
Something in his tone made her wary. "...And why is that?"
He hummed. "Because I was thinking about what would suit you."
Her breath caught.
Rafayel's hand at her waist flexed slightly, like he felt her reaction. He continued, his voice smooth and lazy, dragging over her senses like silk and rope.
"A simple gold chain," he mused. "Thin, delicate. Something that would catch the light when it sits against your throat."
Her fingers twitched in his grip.
"And bracelets," he went on, thoughtful. "Maybe something beaded, something you could wear when you're diving. Wouldn’t want you to forget about me, even when you’re down in the deep."
She forced a scoff. "Right. Because I'm so likely to think about you while I'm working."
His smirk was undeniable. "Oh, you will."
She barely had time to bristle before his voice dropped lower, the heat in it curling into something unmistakable.
"Or," he murmured, his breath warm as his nose brushed along her cheek, "maybe just the chain."
Her breath hitched.
"Or maybe," he mused, his lips barely ghosting the line of her jaw now, "nothing at all."
A sharp jolt of heat shot through her, completely against her will.
Her fingers dug into his shoulder. "Pig," she bit out.
Rafayel only grinned. His nose trailed up her neck, slow and unhurried, until his mouth hovered near her ear.
"I just know what I want," he murmured, voice like sin and satisfaction.
And the worst part?
So did she.
The water embraced her, cool and endless, wrapping around her body in a way that always made her feel weightless, untethered. Free.
Or at least, she should have felt that way.
But Rafayel was there.
Even beneath the waves, even surrounded by the marine life she loved, he was the only thing she could really focus on.
He moved like he belonged here. Like the ocean had made him. Where she had to kick and adjust her buoyancy, where she had to work to stay steady, he simply was—his body cutting through the water in smooth, effortless strokes, his movements graceful in a way that made her stomach twist.
He was beautiful in a way that felt almost unnatural.
A predator in his home.
She tried to focus. Tried to keep her attention on the coral formations, the darting flashes of silver fish weaving through them, the notes she scrawled in her waterproof notebook.
But he was there. Always there.
A shadow in the periphery of her vision. A flicker of motion that drew her eyes no matter how hard she fought it.
And worse?
He knew it.
He would swim close—too close—pointing out a fish or a sunken relic, his body gliding just near enough that she could feel the warmth of him even through the water. He would look at her through the glass of his mask, those mismatched eyes catching the light in an eerie, knowing way. Every glance, every shift in his presence, was a silent reminder: I see you watching me.
She hated that he was right.
He dove deeper.
She hesitated, watching him disappear into the shadows below. The wreck was farther down, half-buried in the seafloor, and she followed his path with her eyes, pulse quickening as he moved like a specter, his body cutting through the water like he belonged to it.
And then he paused—his hand reaching out, brushing against something half-buried in the sand.
A glint of gold. A chain.
She barely had time to react before he turned and came for her.
A sharp tug at her leg—strong fingers wrapping around her calf, dragging her down, down, until she was pressed against him, her body slotted to his in the weightlessness of the sea.
Her breath caught, trapped behind the regulator in her mouth.
His grip on her was firm, unyielding, his hand sliding up to the curve of her hip, anchoring her to him as he lifted the necklace—something old, something shimmering, the gold catching the sparse beams of sunlight filtering through the depths.
And then—he clasped it around her neck.
His fingers brushed her skin, slow and deliberate, the weight of the jewelry settling against her collarbone.
She shivered.
He pulled back just enough to look at her.
Even through the mask, even in the eerie blue of the deep, she could feel his satisfaction.
His claim.
His lips tilted in a smirk behind his regulator, his eyes gleaming, pleased.
Like he had just put her exactly where she was meant to be.
The ocean cradled them in a weightless embrace, the world above shifting in liquid ribbons of sunlight. Tiny bubbles slipped between them, shimmering against their skin, rising toward the surface like scattered pearls.
His hand was still on her, firm and unmoving.
They were nearly there—just feet away from breaking the surface, from dragging in air and separating back into whatever this was. But Rafayel?
He stopped.
And then, without hesitation, he reached up and removed his regulator.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
He let the gear drift beside him, his mask following, his gradient eyes locking onto hers like the salt didn’t burn at all. Like he didn’t need the barrier. Like he saw her clearer this way.
Then his hand was on her again—moving with that same unshaken purpose.
Before she could react, before she could even think, he was pulling at her gear, sliding the regulator from her mouth, stripping away the mask until she was just as bare as him.\
His mouth crashed against hers.
Salt. Pressure. Heat. She surrendered to him, and he stole it.
His fingers cradled her jaw, thumbs stroking over her skin, his grip firm like he was keeping her from floating away. The kiss was deep, consuming, his lips moving against hers like he had waited for this, like he knew she would surrender the moment he took her breath for himself.
She should fight it.
She should push him away, should thrash against the water, should be panicking at the lack of oxygen.
But instead, she melted.
Her body, already weightless in the water, went slack against him, her fingers twitching before rising—grasping at his shoulders, at his skin, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.
Her head swam, a dizzy, liquid haze of salt and him, her lungs burning with something that had nothing to do with the dwindling air.
It was the most reckless, insane thing she had ever let happen. It was the most romantic thing she had ever experienced, would likely ever experience because this wasn’t just a kiss.
It was possession.
It was a claim.
And somewhere, deep in the sinking fog of lust and oxygen deprivation, she let it happen.
The moment she stepped onto the raft, the world tilted. It wasn’t just the waves shifting beneath them—it was him. Rafayel. The heat in his mismatched eyes, the way his breath came rough and uneven, his pupils blown wide with something raw and dark. He wanted her. He wanted her so badly that his body trembled with it, every muscle coiled tight, his control stretched so thin she could practically feel it fraying under her fingertips.
And yet, he didn’t take.
Not here. Not with his men’s eyes on them.
She barely had time to catch her breath before he was moving, hauling himself onto the raft beside her. His hands found her waist, gripping just enough to steady her, just enough to remind her that she wasn’t going anywhere—not unless he allowed it.
“Get up there.” His voice was a growl, low and rough, scraping against her skin like sandpaper.
She hesitated.
His fingers flexed.
“Now.”
Something in the way he said it sent a shiver down her spine, and for once, she obeyed. She pulled herself up onto the raft, water streaming from her body as she collapsed onto her hands and knees, lungs still burning from the stolen air he’d kissed from her lips.
Rafayel was right behind her.
The raft rocked beneath his weight as he knelt, his presence a furnace against her back, his breath still coming hot and fast. She didn’t dare look at him, didn’t dare meet his eyes, because she knew what she’d see—knew that if she saw it, she might do something reckless.
Like let him pull her back under.
The ship loomed in the distance, dark and waiting. His men were already preparing to haul them aboard.
But all she could think about was the way his mouth had claimed hers, the way his body had fit against hers in the endless blue abyss, the way she had let him.
Let him.
The word burned.
She should fight. Should push back. Should hate him for this.
But she didn’t.
Not entirely.
Back on the ship, she showered in silence.
Salt and sweat and the lingering ghost of his hands washed away beneath the hot spray, but the memory of him remained. It was in the way her fingers shook when she reached for the soap. It was in the heat pooling low in her stomach, a traitorous, unwelcome thrum of something she refused to name.
She scrubbed harder.
But no amount of scalding water or sharp nails could scrape him from her skin. When she emerged, fresh clothes clinging to her damp skin, the ship felt different.
She felt different.
Rafayel had taken her. Not just from the ocean. Not just from her work. He had taken something deeper, something intangible.
And the worst part?
She wasn’t entirely sure she wanted it back. She swallowed hard, fingers toying with the delicate gold chain around her throat—the one he had fastened there, deep beneath the waves, his hands brushing against her pulse like a silent promise.
A claim.
Her stomach twisted. What was she supposed to do now? Fight him? Give in? Pretend none of it had happened, even as her skin still tingled from the ghost of his touch?
She didn’t know.
But as she stepped into the dimly lit cabin, as she felt the heat of his gaze find her across the room, as she saw the slow, knowing smirk curve his lips—
She knew one thing for certain.
Rafayel had no intention of letting her go.
The way Rafayel watched her was feline—hungry, patient, like a predator toying with its meal. The candlelight cast shifting shadows across his face, making his mismatched eyes gleam as he took another slow sip of wine, the deep red liquid staining his lips for a fleeting second before his tongue swept over them. A sigh escaped him, something between indulgence and restraint, and then—his gaze flickered to hers, dark and knowing.
With a slow, deliberate motion, he poured a second glass, the rich crimson filling the delicate curve of crystal before he pressed it into her hand. His fingers brushed hers, lingering just a moment too long.
“You can’t ignore me now,” he murmured, tilting his head with a mock pout, as if wounded by her attempts at defiance.
She sighed, leveling him with a flat look, but still—she drank.
And damn.
It was good. Too good. The kind of wine that melted across her tongue, warm and velvety, slipping down her throat like a whispered promise. It tasted of dark fruit and spice, of something heady and ancient, like temptation bottled and poured just for her.
Rafayel watched her the entire time, his smirk sharpening at the way her lips parted around the rim of the glass, at the soft noise she made when the flavor hit her tongue.
Like he was drinking her in just as deeply.
Before she could lower the glass, he moved—smooth and deliberate, caging her in against the heavy wooden table fixed into the floor.
Her breath caught.
His body was heat and shadow, pressing close, stealing the space between them, his scent wrapping around her—salt, spice, and something deep, something uniquely him.
He plucked the wine glass from her fingers, his knuckles grazing the inside of her wrist as he set it aside with an ease that felt almost lazy.
Then his mouth was on hers.
Not soft. Not careful.
Hot. Messy. Taking.
He swallowed the startled gasp that slipped from her lips, twisting it into something deeper, something that sent fire curling in her gut. His hands found her jaw, rough fingertips stroking over her cheek before angling her chin up—forcing her to open for him, to give him more.
She did.
And he devoured it.
His teeth scraped her lower lip, biting just enough to make her whimper, just enough to leave a sharp sting before his tongue soothed the mark with slow, deliberate strokes.
A growl rumbled from his chest, vibrating against her skin as he dragged his lips down—along her jaw, the slope of her throat, tracing the places where her pulse beat wildly beneath his mouth.
Bite.
A sharp, wicked thing, sinking into the delicate skin just beneath her ear.
She gasped, her hands flying up, gripping at his arms, his shoulders—needing something to hold onto as heat licked through her veins, as her body arched into his without thinking.
He chuckled against her skin, dark and knowing, his tongue flicking over the bruise he’d just made before he did it again—nipping, sucking, claiming his way down her neck.
Each mark was deliberate.
Each one a silent declaration: Mine.
Her knees went weak.
Her breath came ragged.
And when he pulled back just enough to meet her gaze again, his lips swollen, his pupils blown wide with hunger—she knew.
She was in trouble.
His stare was unwavering, dark and molten, locking her in place with nothing more than the weight of his gaze.
Rafayel wet his lips, slow and deliberate, savoring the anticipation thick in the air between them. His fingers skimmed along her jaw, tilting her chin just enough to make sure she was looking at him—seeing him.
"Listen to me, cutie," he murmured, his voice low, rough with promise. "I'm going to take you apart, one bit at a time."
His thumb traced over her lips, dragging across the softness before he continued.
"I'm not going to fuck you tonight—not yet." His mismatched eyes flickered with amusement, with restraint. "As much as I'd love to."
His breath ghosted over her mouth, teasing, tempting.
"But I'm going to show you why you're mine. And why you'll never regret it."
Her pulse pounded, her skin prickling with heat as he slowly, methodically stripped her down. He didn’t rush—no, he took his time, unbuttoning, unfastening, peeling away the layers between them like he was unwrapping a gift meant only for him.
Every inch of newly bared skin was met with his mouth. Lips pressing, tongue tasting, teeth grazing just enough to make her shiver.
By the time he had her naked beneath him, spread out across the heavy wooden dining table, she was trembling.
He looked starved.
His hands skimmed down her sides, firm and possessive, before gripping her thighs and spreading them wider, exposing her completely to his hungry gaze.
“Fuck,” he muttered, almost to himself, his fingers tightening. “I could eat from you every night and have no complaints.”
His voice was thick, syrupy with want, as he straightened. The sound of fabric shifting filled the dimly lit room, and when she lifted her gaze, she saw him—his shirt discarded, muscles flexing beneath golden skin, one hand stroking over his stomach before dipping lower.
Palming himself through his pants, slow and lazy, his breaths coming just a little heavier, a little rougher. He leaned down, his mouth found the heat between her thighs, and fuck. He was slow at first. So slow.
Long, deliberate licks, dragging his tongue through the wetness pooling there, savoring her like she was the richest thing he’d ever tasted. A groan, the sound vibrating against her skin as he delved deeper, his tongue working her open, hot and messy and unrelenting.
It wasn’t just eating, it was devouring.
Like a passionate kiss, but between her legs, his mouth moving with the same demanding, practiced rhythm he’d used against her lips.
His hands pressed against her thighs, keeping her exactly where he wanted her, exactly where he needed her. Ahen he flicked his tongue just right, when her back arched and a gasp tore from her throat, Rafayel grinned.
Because he knew she was already his.
Rafayel lapped at her like he had all the time in the world, slow and indulgent, dragging his tongue over every inch of her with the kind of focus that made her stomach coil tight. His hands pressed against her thighs, spreading her wide, holding her still—keeping her at his mercy and fuck, was she at his mercy.
His tongue traced her folds, slick and deliberate, before dipping inside, stroking deep, teasing, tasting. He groaned into her, the vibration sending sharp sparks of pleasure up her spine.
She gasped, her fingers flying to his hair, threading through the silky strands, tugging—desperate for something to ground her.
Rafayel only hummed, pleased, and did it again.
His mouth moved like he was memorizing her, mapping every reaction, every shift in her breathing, every twitch of her thighs. His tongue curled, flicked, pressed just right her back arched, a ragged sound escaping her lips, her thighs trembling in his grip.
Rafayel chuckled, the sound deep and dark against her skin, his hands tightening as he pushed her hips down, keeping her still even as she writhed against his mouth.
"That's it," he murmured against her, voice thick with satisfaction. "Take it."
Then he went deeper.
Slow, messy, obscene.
The wet, lewd sounds of his mouth working her filled the air, his tongue moving with lazy precision, like he enjoyed this—like he could stay between her thighs forever, just drinking her in.
One of his hands slid up, dragging along the softness of her stomach before finding her breast, palming the weight of it, rolling her nipple between his fingers.
She cried out, body jerking at the sudden spike of pleasure.
He groaned against her, lips wrapping around her clit, sucking, her whole body shook.
Her nails dug into his scalp, her breath coming in shallow, desperate pants.
She was close. Too close.
And Rafayel knew it.
His grip tightened, his tongue quickening, dragging her toward the edge, pushing her closer, closer—
Until she shattered.
Her thighs clenched around his head, her back arching off the table, her breath choking on a scream as the pleasure crashed through her.
Rafayel growled against her, fucking her through it with his tongue, dragging out every last aftershock, making sure she felt it, making sure she knew she was his.
When she finally sagged against the table, her limbs boneless, her body wrung out and trembling, he pulled back just slightly, his lips glistening, his tongue sweeping over them with a satisfied hum.
Then he leaned up, hovering over her, his chest heaving, his hands framing her hips.
And when he smirked, his voice came rough, thick with promise.
“Now,” he murmured, pressing a kiss against her swollen lips, letting her taste herself on his tongue.
“That was just the beginning.”
The next few days dragged on.
She dove, but it wasn’t the same—not without him there, not without the ever-present weight of his eyes on her, not without his teasing remarks and the way he moved through the water like he belonged to it. Instead, she was left to her own devices, waiting in her room while Rafayel spent long hours behind closed doors with his men, speaking in low voices about something he clearly didn’t want her involved in.
And fuck, was she bored.
At first, she told herself she didn’t care. That this was good. That space would help clear her head, help remind her of who she was before all of this—before him.
But instead, all she did was think about him.
About the way his voice curled around her name like something owned, about the way his mismatched eyes darkened whenever she challenged him. About the way he kissed—hot and hungry, like he needed her.
And the way he didn’t kiss her now.
That was the worst part.
Because no matter how much she told herself this was a break, no matter how much she reminded herself that she was still technically his captive—it didn’t change the fact that she missed him.
It was infuriating.
In his office, Rafayel leaned back against the heavy oak desk, his fingers tapping a slow rhythm against the wood as he listened to his two most trusted men.
“It’s the Corsairs,” Mateo said, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw. “We spotted their ship a few miles out yesterday. If they’re after the wreck too, we might have a problem.”
“We’ve dealt with worse,” Cyrus muttered, arms crossed over his broad chest.
Rafayel exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders. “I don’t like surprises,” he said. “Last thing I need is a goddamn crew of bottom-feeders sniffing around what’s mine.”
Cyrus smirked. “Which part of ‘yours’ are we talking about?”
Rafayel shot him a look, but the bastard just grinned wider.
Mateo sighed, rubbing his temples. “Can we not? I’d rather focus on how we don’t get our throats slit in our sleep.”
Rafayel waved a hand. “We’ll be fine. Just keep the men alert. We go at dawn.”
Neither of them argued. They knew he wasn’t worried—but they also knew he hated being caught off guard.
And this? This had the potential to be messy.
Dinner that night was different.
It wasn’t that Rafayel was tense, exactly, but there was something quieter about him, something coiled just beneath the surface.
She noticed it in the way he toyed with his knife, in the way his mind seemed elsewhere. In the way his eyes flickered over her more often than usual, as if he were grounding himself in her presence.
When the meal was finished, he leaned back, studying her for a moment before speaking.
“Stay.”
She blinked. “What?”
He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “I won’t touch you,” he promised, and the seriousness in his voice made her pulse skip. “I just… need you close.”
There was something almost vulnerable about it and that? That was dangerous.
Because she should have told him no. Should have walked out and reminded herself that she didn’t belong to him, that she wasn’t his.
But instead—
She nodded.
And later that night, she found herself curled against him in his bed, the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing filling the silence.
It was warm. Too warm. Comfortable.
And it was the best sleep she’d ever had.
She woke to the first rays of dawn slipping through the porthole, stretching golden across the sheets.
For a moment, she didn’t move.
She just… watched him.
Rafayel looked different like this. Relaxed. Peaceful in a way he never was when awake. His breathing was deep, his lips slightly parted, his hair tousled against the pillows.
Something in her chest tightened.
She should hate him.
She should.
She should hate the way he touched her. Should hate the way he made her feel things—deep, dangerous things that left her breathless and aching.
But she didn’t.
And the worst part?
She didn’t want him to let her go.
The realization hit her like a weight to the ribs, knocking the air from her lungs.
Her fingers moved before she could stop them, brushing lightly against the side of his neck, tracing the warmth of his skin, the steady thrum of his pulse beneath her palm.
She cupped his jaw, her thumb skimming along the sharp angle of it, feeling the faint scratch of stubble against her skin.
His eyes fluttered open.
For a moment, he was still.
A slow, sleepy smile curved his lips. Fuck, she was gone.
She leaned in without thinking, closing the distance between them, pressing her lips to his in something soft, something slow.
Rafayel moaned.
A deep, needy sound, his mouth parting for her immediately, his arms tightening around her as if to pull her in, to keep her there.
Because finally, finally, she was kissing him.
All that careful control he had been holding onto for days—weeks, even—snaps.
Rafayel growls against her mouth, a low, primal sound as he moves, his body shifting until he’s over her, pressing her into the soft mattress, his weight settling between her thighs. The warmth of him, the heat of his skin, the way his mismatched eyes burn into hers, it’s too much and not enough all at once.
"Finally, cutie," he breathes, his voice thick with sleep, tinged with something deeper. He brushes his nose against hers, his breath warm, his lips curling into something dark, something satisfied.
"Don't you get it now?" he whispers, trailing kisses along the corner of her mouth, down the slope of her jaw. "We were destined to meet." He devours her.
His mouth moves over hers with purpose, with possession, with all the hunger he’s barely managed to keep caged. His tongue pushes past her lips, deep and slow, curling against hers as if he’s reminding her of every other time he’s stolen her breath—underwater, on the ship, against the dining table but this is different.
There is no stopping this time.
They’re done pretending.
Her fingers tangle into his hair, tugging, nails scraping against his scalp as she arches up into him. His body is solid, his muscles tensing beneath her touch, his skin hot against hers.
She wants more.
She needs more.
Clothing becomes an obstacle neither of them will tolerate.
His hands move first, slipping beneath her shirt, fingers trailing up the soft planes of her stomach before tugging it over her head. She shivers as the cool air kisses her skin, but he’s already there—his mouth pressing against the newly exposed flesh, his tongue flicking over a nipple before his teeth scrape lightly, making her gasp.
She shoves at his shoulders, desperate to rid him of his own clothing, and he lets her, sitting up just long enough to yank his shirt off, the dim morning light casting sharp shadows across his golden skin, his lean muscles taut with barely contained restraint.
His hands are everywhere. Skimming her sides, gripping her hips, sliding lower until his fingers tease the edge of her underwear. He hooks his thumbs beneath the fabric, pulling it down, his gaze never leaving hers, his lips twitching in satisfaction as she lifts her hips to help.
"Desperate for me already?" he murmurs, voice thick, teasing, but there’s no real mockery there—only want.
Her response is a sharp tug at his waistband, shoving at his pants, and he chuckles, deep and wicked, before making quick work of them himself, then nothing between them.
Skin against skin, heat against heat, him against her.
Rafayel’s breath shudders as he shifts between her thighs, one hand sliding down, fingers ghosting over her slickness before pushing inside. Two fingers, stretching her just enough, moving slow, deliberate. His mismatched eyes flick to hers, dark and focused.
"So fucking wet for me," he murmurs, pressing his thumb against her clit, circling lazily as his fingers curl inside her. She whimpers, her nails digging into his shoulders, her body arching up to take more.
"Patience," he breathes, pressing a kiss to her throat, sucking lightly before whispering against her skin. "I told you, cutie, I’m going to take my time."
But fuck, she’s already falling apart.
And she knows, without a doubt, that he's going to ruin her. His length is heavy in her palm, thick and hot, pulsing against her fingers as she wraps her hand around it, and fuck, her fingertips don’t even touch.
Her breath catches, something wary flickering in her eyes as she looks up at him.
Rafayel watches her closely, his own breathing unsteady, his muscles trembling beneath the strain of his own restraint. He reaches down, brushing his knuckles over her cheek before shaking his head, lips quirking into something both wicked and reassuring.
"We'll make it fit," he murmurs, voice dark and sure.
Fuck, he does. Slow.
So fucking slow.
He lines himself up, the thick head of his cock pressing against her entrance, teasing, stretching. His breath shudders as he pushes forward, easing just the tip inside—hot, throbbing—and already, her body is straining to take him.
She whimpers, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her thighs trembling around his waist.
"Shh," he soothes, covering her mouth with his own, swallowing every gasped plea, every whine, every ragged breath.
He wants her, needs her, but more than that, he needs to be inside her.
There’s no other way around it. The only way is through.
He presses deeper, inch by agonizing inch, his hands gripping her hips, holding her still as he works her open, stretching her so slowly he can feel every flutter of her walls around him.
"Fuck," he groans into her mouth, his forehead pressing against hers. "So goddamn tight."
She gasps, her nails biting into his skin, her body clenching around him like she’s trying to pull him in, fuck, he gives in. He sinks into her, fully, completely, until there’s nothing left between them, until she’s stretched wide around his cock, until she’s his.
His lips brush against her temple, his breath ragged, his body shaking with the effort of not pounding into her immediately.
"You feel that, cutie?" he murmurs, rolling his hips just slightly, enough to make her whimper.
"Told you we'd make it fit." Then he starts to move.
At first, his thrusts are slow—controlled. Each measured stroke sinking deep, stretching her, filling her in a way that has her clawing at his back, gasping against his lips.
But then—
His eyes flash, dark and hungry, and suddenly, that restraint is gone.
His grip tightens on her hips as he pulls back and slams into her, knocking the breath from her lungs.
Again.
And again.
The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room, sharp and wet, mingling with her breathless moans and his ragged groans.
His hand moves, trailing up her body before wrapping around her throat—firm, pressing just enough to make her feel it, to make her aware of every nerve in her body, every pulse of pleasure snapping through her veins.
His lips crash over hers, tongue dominating, devouring her cries, swallowing her pleasure as if it belongs to him.
And fuck, he’s talking—
Filthy, filthy things that make her head spin, that make her walls clench around him, that make her dizzy with how much she wants this.
"You feel that, cutie?" he growls against her lips, thrusting deep, making her scream. "The way you’re squeezing my cock? Like you're trying to keep me inside?"
His fingers flex around her throat, his lips dragging along her jaw, his breath hot and wicked against her skin.
"You love it, don’t you?" Another sharp thrust, making her cry out. "Being stretched so fucking wide around me. Made to take me."
Her nails dig into his shoulders, her body tightening, pulsing, breaking.
"Fuck, you’re perfect," he groans, his pace brutal, every thrust hitting so deep she can feel him in her stomach.
She can’t think, can’t breathe. Can’t do anything but take it.
"Cum for me," he demands, his voice rough, desperate. "Now."
She shatters. It’s too much. Her vision blurs, her body convulses, pleasure slamming through her so hard it’s like her soul is leaving her body.
He growls, his grip tightening, his rhythm stuttering as he slams into her one last time, burying himself deep, spilling inside her with a ragged moan.
"Fuck, yes," he groans, his body shuddering as he fills her, his arms wrapping tight around her, pinning her against him.
"I’ll keep you like this, cutie."
A slow thrust, his cum dripping from her. "Full of me. Always."
The afternoon was quiet—too quiet.
Rafayel sat at his desk, hunched over a map, his fingers trailing the worn edges as his other hand flicked through the GPS. He was searching for something specific, cross-referencing coordinates, making calculations that should have had his full attention.
But it didn’t.
Because she was there.
Curled up on the small couch across the cabin, seemingly content in nothing but a pair of soft cotton shorts and one of his shirts—too big on her, the fabric slipping off one shoulder, baring skin that still bore faint traces of his teeth from that morning.
His grip on the pen tightened as heat licked through him, his cock twitching against his thigh at the memory.
The way she had looked at him in the dim morning light, her fingers tracing his jaw before she kissed him slow and deep, before she let him have her—
He exhaled sharply, shaking his head.
Focus.
He needed to focus.
Because no matter how good this felt, no matter how right it seemed to have her here, dressed in his clothes, wrapped up in the scent of him—this life was dangerous.
And if he wasn’t careful, if he let himself slip—
She could get hurt.
The thought alone sent something dark and cold twisting in his chest, and he had half a mind to get up, to pull her into his lap, to tell her—
Gunshot.
A sharp, violent crack split the air, echoing through the ship like a warning shot across his nerves.
Rafayel was on his feet before he even thought about it, his body moving instinctively, reaching for the handgun stashed in the drawer.
"Stay here," he snapped, but the second he saw the wide-eyed tension in her face, he knew that wouldn’t be enough.
He cursed under his breath, grabbing a second gun before striding toward her.
"Do you know how to shoot?"
She shook her head, pulse hammering, eyes flicking toward the door where muffled shouts were beginning to break through the chaos.
"Fuck."
No time.
He grabbed her wrist, pressed the cool weight of the gun into her palm.
"Alright, listen carefully," he said, voice sharp, focused. He moved behind her, his chest pressing against her back as he wrapped his hands around hers, guiding her fingers into place. "Safety’s here." He flipped the small switch, making sure she saw. "Never put your finger on the trigger unless you're gonna pull it."
She swallowed, nodding quickly, her breath shaky.
"Both hands," he murmured, adjusting her grip, his fingers covering hers. "Don’t lock your elbows. Keep your arms steady, but let them move with the recoil."
The gun felt too heavy in her hands, too real, but Rafayel wasn’t finished.
"It’s a hair trigger—you don’t have to squeeze hard," he said, voice dropping lower, firmer. His lips brushed the shell of her ear as he added, "And keep your goddamn eyes open. You close them, you miss. You miss, you die."
She exhaled sharply, trying to focus, but it was too much—his body so close, his scent wrapping around her, the heat of him sinking into her back.
This wasn’t the time to be flustered.
But fuck, how could she not be?
There was another gunshot. Closer this time.
Rafayel pulled back, grabbed his second firearm, flicked off the safety, and looked at her. She wasn’t ready for that look, because there was something cold in his expression now, something deadly—a side of him she’d never seen up close.
It sent a shiver down her spine. "Get in the bathroom," he ordered.
She hesitated. "Now."
Her fingers clenched around the gun, and she turned quickly, stepping toward the small attached room. Before she could close the door, Rafayel’s voice stopped her—quieter, but harder.
"Coral."
She blinked. "What?"
"Our password," he said, keeping his eyes on the door. "If someone tries to come in, you ask for the password. If they don’t say ‘coral’…"
His gaze flicked to her. "You shoot them."
Her stomach dropped. She opened her mouth—to argue, to protest, to say that she couldn’t, Rafayel was already turning away, already moving toward the door, gun raised, shoulders tense.
Her pulse thundered. The bathroom door clicked shut, she was alone.
Gun in her hands. Heartbeat pounding. Waiting for the next sound. Waiting to see if she’d have to pull the trigger.
It felt like ages.
The gun was too heavy in her hands, her pulse too loud in her ears, drowning out everything but the violent chaos just beyond the door.
Gunshots. Yelling. The ship shuddered beneath her, vibrating the walls, the floor, her bones.
And then—
A boom.
Not another gunshot—something bigger, something that sent a shockwave rippling through the hull. The force rattled the glass bottles on the counter, making the bathroom mirror quiver in its frame. The floor beneath her feet shook, and for a brief, breathless moment, she thought—
Are we sinking?
But the ship held.
She pressed herself against the wall, forcing down the rising panic, straining to listen.
Footsteps.
Voices.
People moving past the wall, arguing in hushed, urgent tones. Some too deep to be familiar, others—
The bedroom door creaked open.
Her fingers clenched around the gun.
Then—
"Cutie?"
Rafayel's voice. Steady. Calm. But beneath it, there was something else—something low, strained.
"You can come out."
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
She swallowed. "What's the password?"
Silence.
Then—
A small, breathy chuckle.
"Good girl."
And then, softer—
"Coral."*
Her hands shook as she set the gun down, her legs weak as she moved to the door, her fingers trembling as she twisted the knob.
The moment she stepped out, she ran to him.
She buried herself against his chest, her arms wrapping tight around his waist, her fingers fisting into the fabric of his shirt like she could anchor herself there, like she could make sure he was real.
He caught her without hesitation, his own arms closing firmly around her, tight, his grip possessive, like he had no intention of letting her go.
His knuckles were bruised.
His gun was still warm.
There was blood—splattered across his arm, smeared along the collar of his shirt.
But it wasn’t his.
He was fine.
Her breath came out in a shuddering exhale, her fingers curling against his ribs.
Rafayel pressed his lips to the top of her head, his own breath unsteady, his heartbeat strong and solid beneath her ear.
"It’s done," he murmured against her hair. "It’s okay."
His fingers stroked through the strands, slow, soothing, grounding.
She squeezed her eyes shut, breathing him in, letting his warmth seep into her, letting the tension bleed from her bones.
For the first time since the gunshots started she believed him.
She stared at him, searching his face, waiting for something—guilt, remorse, hesitation. There was nothing. Just the same lazy amusement, the same confidence, the same unbothered certainty.
“You shot them?” Her voice came out sharper than intended, her pulse still erratic from the way he’d grabbed her only moments before.
Rafayel didn’t even glance at her. He stretched out in his chair, legs spread wide, the candlelight catching in his mismatched eyes—one burning red, one deep and endless blue. The colors gleamed as he swirled his drink, taking a slow sip before answering.
“They were in my way,” he said simply. “They were taking what’s mine. So, I gave them something to think about.” A smirk, sharp and edged. “I didn’t have time for negotiations.”
Her stomach twisted. “Are they dead?”
He let the question hang for a second too long. “Doubt it.” A lazy shrug. “But if they are, well—” He grinned at her now, eyes gleaming. “Not my problem.”
She swallowed. “You don’t even care.”
“Why should I?” He leaned forward now, elbows braced on his knees, gaze locking onto hers with an intensity that made her breath hitch. “You think this ocean is full of kind men? That they would’ve been merciful if they caught me off guard instead?”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. He already knew.
Rafayel chuckled, slow and dark. “That wreck is mine,” he said. “And I keep what’s mine.”
The wreck is still there, and it’s his. He curls his hand around her neck—"Kind of like you are."
The air between them changed. Thickened. His fingers brushed her skin first—light, teasing, barely there. Then they curled, firm, slow, wrapping around the delicate column of her throat like he was testing the fit. A perfect grip. A claim.
Her pulse jumped against his palm. He felt it. She knew he felt it. His smirk was slow, knowing, predatory.
Her breath stilled.
She should have shoved him away. Should have wrenched his fingers off her, thrown his own damn words back at him. But she didn’t. Her feet stayed planted. Her body stayed still. Her breath stayed uneven.
His thumb brushed over her pulse, slow and deliberate. “You feel that?” he murmured. “The way it races?” He tilted his head, watching her, drinking her in. “Your body always knows before your mind does.”
Her teeth clenched. “I’m not yours.”
Rafayel’s smirk widened. “Sure you aren’t, cutie.”
And then he makes a vow.
His grip tightened—just slightly. Just enough to make her aware of it, to make her feel it. Not cruel. Not painful. Just control. Just certainty.
His voice dropped, low and absolute.
“No one will ever hurt you while I’m around. Ever.” His fingers flexed. His mismatched eyes burned. “If they even thought about it, they would die on the spot.”
The words landed heavy, like the weight of the sea pressing down, slow and inescapable.
She swallowed, her throat shifting against his palm.
“You’re insane,” she whispered.
Rafayel grinned. “Maybe.”
The moment stretched between them, thick and heavy, her pulse still racing beneath his fingers. But then—just like that—he sighed, running a hand through his hair, making a mess of already tousled strands.
"I know it's been just under two weeks since I found you, cutie," he murmured, almost thoughtful, though there was something sharper beneath his voice. "But I can’t ever let you go. So, I’m giving you this."
His other hand slipped into his pocket.
She barely had time to process before he pulled out a small box and flipped it open.
A ring.
She sucked in a sharp breath, her heart thudding against her ribs, her body going still as he plucked the piece of jewelry from its velvet cushion and, without hesitation, slid it onto her finger.
The fit was perfect. Of course it was.
"We’ll get married soon," Rafayel said, his voice calm, like this was just another inevitability. "It’s only right, after all."
Her fingers twitched, and throat tightened.
She lifted her gaze to his, her lips parting before she found her voice. "You’re not even going to ask me properly?"
There was a tease in her tone—she hated that it was there, hated that her body betrayed her like this, hated that she didn’t rip the ring off and shove it back into his chest.
Rafayel tilted his head, his smirk lazy, smug.
"Hm." He hummed, his thumb brushing against her knuckles, his fingers tightening around hers as he played with the ring. "You’d say yes."
Her stomach twisted and breath hitched as Rafayel’s mouth descended on hers—hot, demanding, all-consuming. His lips crushed against hers with a hunger that stole her breath, his grip on her tightening as he pulled her flush against him. She barely had time to process, barely had time to think, before his tongue was sliding against hers, coaxing, claiming.
A groan rumbled deep in his chest, reverberating against her skin as his fingers tangled in her hair, tilting her head to deepen the kiss. It was slow and filthy, his teeth scraping against her lower lip, his tongue licking into her mouth with the kind of confidence that made her knees weak.
Sliding down, slipping beneath the waistband of her shorts, fingers finding bare skin, tracing the heat between her thighs.
He grinned against her mouth. "We should celebrate," he murmured, voice thick with want, teasing, wicked. His fingers dipped lower, brushing against the dampness gathering between her legs. "It’s not every day we get engaged, cutie." His breath was hot against her lips, his smirk unmistakable. "I want to live in sin with you just a little longer."
Before she could react, before she could tell him just how ridiculous he was—his fingers pressed against her clit, rubbing slow, deliberate circles.
Her gasp was swallowed by his mouth as he kissed her again, swallowing every whimper, every sharp inhale, every sound she made as he worked her open with slow, purposeful strokes.
She barely had time to whine before he was lifting her, his hands gripping her thighs, hoisting her up like she weighed nothing. Her legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, her arms clinging to his shoulders as he carried her across the cabin, his steps unhurried, confident, like he had all the time in the world.
The bed.
She barely had time to register the shift before he was on top of her, pinning her beneath him, his body heavy, solid, warm. His mismatched eyes burned as he looked down at her, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw, tilting her chin up.
"You look good like this," he murmured, dragging his thumb over her kiss-swollen lips. "All mine."
Before she could snap at him, before she could tell him she wasn’t his, he was moving again.
His hands were everywhere—skimming over her stomach, pushing up her shirt, sliding it over her head in one swift motion. His lips followed, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses against every inch of newly exposed skin, his tongue flicking over her nipple before his teeth scraped, making her arch beneath him.
He hooked his fingers into the waistband, tugging them down, dragging them over the curve of her ass, past her thighs, until they were nothing but fabric discarded on the floor.
She was bare beneath him now, exposed to his hungry gaze, the way he looked at her. Like he was starving, as if he was seconds away from devouring her whole.
His own clothes were next—his shirt, his belt, his pants—gone in a blur of movement. And then he was there, between her legs, his body pressing her down into the mattress, his cock hot and hard against her thigh.
He grabbed her wrist, guiding her hand between them.
"Feel that?" he murmured, his voice rough, strained. "That’s what you do to me."
Her fingers wrapped around him, and he groaned, his head dropping for a moment, his breath unsteady. Rafayel lined himself up, the thick head of his cock pressing against her entrance, teasing, stretching.
His gaze locked onto hers, sharp, unyielding. "Say it," he demanded, his voice dark, rough. "Say you’re mine."
Her lips parted, her breath coming fast, but she refused.
Rafayel’s smirk returned. "Still stubborn, huh?" He pushed in, slow, and deep.
Stretching her open, inch by inch, forcing her to take every last bit of him.
She gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders, her back arching as he filled her completely, as her body struggled to accommodate his size.
"Fuck," he groaned, his grip on her thighs tightening. "You feel that, cutie?" His hips rolled, pressing even deeper. "The way you squeeze me?"
She whimpered, her fingers tangling in his hair, her body burning, overwhelmed, too much and not enough all at once.
Rafayel chuckled, low and dark. "Don’t worry," he murmured, dragging his lips down her throat, his tongue flicking over her pulse.
"I’ll make sure you can take it."
Slow at first, each thrust deep, deliberate, designed to make her feel every inch of him. Harder. Faster. His control snapped, and suddenly, he was fucking her like he meant it.
The bed rocked beneath them, the headboard slamming against the wall with each sharp thrust, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room.
Her moans were muffled against his shoulder, her body writhing beneath him, her nails leaving red lines down his back.
"That’s it," he growled, his breath hot against her ear. "Take it."
She was unraveling, her body coiling tighter, pleasure building fast, too fast.
Rafayel felt it.
He smirked, his hand slipping between them, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing in quick, precise circles.
"Come on, cutie," he murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "Cum for me."
Her body obeyed before she could fight it. The pleasure crashed over her in waves, her vision going white, her legs tightening around his waist as she came apart beneath him, her body pulsing, clenching around him.
Rafayel groaned, his grip on her hips bruising as he fucked her through it, chasing his own release, his pace stuttered.
A deep growl tore from his throat as he buried himself inside her one last time, his body tensing, his cock throbbing as he came, filling her with hot, thick pulses of his release. For a moment, neither of them moved.
His weight pressed against her, his breath ragged against her skin, his heart hammering against hers. Then he shifted, rolling them over so she was sprawled on top of him, her body still trembling, still dazed.
His fingers traced slow, lazy patterns along her spine.
"See?" he murmured, lips brushing against her forehead. "Marriage is gonna be fun."
---
౨ৎ virgin!reader who really wants fratboy!satoru to take her v-card.
"just the tip," you breathe, the words a soft plea against his lips. they're swollen and tender from his kisses, and his fingers gently brush a stray strand of hair from your flushed cheek. you're perched so prettily on his lap, your pupils blown wide, face flushed.
satoru clicks his tongue, shaking his head, a small, regretful smile playing on his lips. "sorry, cherry. no can do."
a frustrated whine escapes you, a puff of warm air against his skin. "but… why?"
"because," he says, his thumbs lightly tracing the curve of your jaw, "it never ends up being just the tip. the second i try to do what you want, i know i'll cave." he playfully squishes your cheeks together, forcing a pout that doesn't quite reach your heated eyes.
"well, is that such a bad thing?" you ask, your voice thick with lust. "don't you want to have sex with me?"
"obviously, i want to have sex with you," satoru says, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest as he rolls his eyes. "i just… i want us to take it slow, okay?"
you groan, throwing your head back in exasperation. "seriously? we've been taking it slow. just. the. tip. baby steps, right?"
satoru chews on his bottom lip, feeling shameful for even considering it. he'd promised himself he wouldn't rush this, that he'd give you the best first time possible. you deserve that.
but then there you are. his girl. right here. your discarded shirt lies on the floor, and the lace of your bra does little to hide the tempting press of your perky nipples. it isn't entirely his fault if his resolve is crumbling.
and crumble it does.
"just the tip," he repeats, his voice a husky murmur, his gaze dropping and then flicking back to yours, heavy with unspoken need. he's hovering over you now, the slick head of his cock aligned perfectly with your glistening pussy.
"yeah, yeah," you mumble, impatient, your hands reaching up to hook around his neck, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.
"cherry, i mean it," he says, his eyes locked on yours, a warning and a plea all in one.
"uh-huh. can you just… can you put it in now?"
satoru sighs, the sound laced with a mock reluctance that does little to hide the tremor in his hands as he grips your thighs. it's just the tip, a gentle press against your slick folds, and a gasp escapes your lips, a feeling of fullness hitting instantly.
he finds himself mentally reciting the names of this year's football teams, a desperate attempt to cling to some semblance of control, to not climax this early. and he's supposed to be the experienced one.
"'toru," you whine, your inner muscles clenching around him, a delicious squeeze that sends a jolt of pure pleasure through him. his hand comes up to gently caress your cheek, his thumb stroking the soft skin, and you lean into his touch.
"shit, cherry," he grunts, his control fraying at the edges. "please don't squeeze like that. i c— can barely…"
"you— you should just put all of it in," you whisper, your fingers tangling in his impossibly white hair, tugging gently.
"no," he mumbles, the denial a weak protest. keeping you away from this sweet release, even though you could probably come from this alone. "you feel so good. so… so tight."
"all the more reason—"
"no." this isn't how it's supposed to happen. your first time deserves more than a stolen moment in the middle of a forgotten study session. there should be flowers, maybe candles… it should be perfect.
he's already made up his mind, the decision firm despite the insistent throb of his cock. satoru’s thumb brushes lightly across your swollen clit, and a small whimper escapes your lips.
"satoru, i really need you." and then you look up at him, your eyes glossed with unshed tears, desperate and raw.
fuck it.
as long as it's here, with you, it'll be perfect. besides, he vaguely remembers seeing some dusty candles in the back of the storage closet.
I’m keeping this rare interaction here, it happens once and never again after that. I also don’t know how I triggered this. I thought I lost it, thank goodness I had it saved in iCloud 😭😭😭😭
