A/N: …stop me. Seriously, just…stop me. Weird, smutty crack!fic, continuing vaguely in the tradition of "Wardrobe Malfunction", only not. Written for the hell of it. Enjoy.

"...and so, Mr. Sorel, we wanted to offer our sincere thanks at the substantial increase in female interest in the product due to your inclusion in the game. The ambiguous 'vampire' allure has only increased your popularity—we're getting a lot of positive feedback on that."

Mr. Smith absently fingered the stack of evaluation forms in his lap as he peered anxiously over the wide oak desk at Raphael, who had remained steadfastly, and a bit worryingly, silent throughout the meeting. The nobleman exuded stark anger and disdain even in his refusal to speak, eyes narrowed darkly, elegant fingers tight against the leather armrests of his chair as he ground his teeth.

"And so," Mr. Smith continued awkwardly, clearing his throat, "given your growing popularity with the fanbase, the boys at marketing were hoping to come up with some merchandising tie-ins, if you'd be willing to…sign off on them, of course…"

Raphael remained silent, eyes dark, fingertips leaving deep indentations in soft leather.

"Mr. Sorel?" Mr. Smith's superior, Mr. Jones, asked hesitantly. He began to lean towards the desk.

"Fine," Raphael snapped suddenly, words whipping harsh and low into the silent office. "Fine, whatever you…" He exhaled sharply through clenched teeth, and Mr. Smith slid back fearfully in his chair at the sight of his eyes simmering with scarcely-concealed rage even as he visibly fought for control. "Whatever you worthless dogs want," he continued after a moment, voice tight and angry, "is fine. I leave you to your devices. Be sure that you do so far from my noble person."

"I'm afraid it's not that simple, Mr. Sorel—" Mr. Smith began, only to receive a swift elbow to the ribs from his superior. "But, sir, you know we can't proceed without his signature on these—"

A pointed look quickly followed the equally-pointed elbow. "How many times do I have to tell you?" Mr. Jones whispered fiercely. "Remember what they taught us?"

"I know, I know…but what if…"

"But nothing. Just keep him happy and try not to draw his ire, got it?"

Mr. Smith said nothing, merely settled back uneasily in his chair.

Mr. Jones, apparently satisfied with the response, turned back to Raphael with his features schooled into a familiarly friendly smile—the one he'd spent long hours honing to perfection through an endless barrage of press conferences and publicity stunts. "Mr. Sorel," he began, "we at NAMCO certainly acknowledge your rank and station, and we are humbled that you've chosen to work for us. Indeed, we're prepared to offer you a generous cash bonus if you'd be so kind as to—"

"What on earth makes you think I need your money? I've certainly enough to—putain!" he swore darkly, slamming his head back against his chair. "As God is my witness, I will kill you!"

"I—I'm sorry, sir!" Mr. Jones stammered apologetically. "I didn't realize such an offer would insult—"

His words caught in his throat as Raphael turned cursed-red eyes, dark with murderous intent yet somehow strangely unfocused, back in his direction. "You're still here?" Raphael snarled angrily. "I could care less what ridiculous advertising campaigns you worthless fools devise, and I can assure you that I've killed men of far higher station than yourselves for disobeying my commands!"

"Let's just go, sir," Mr. Smith whispered fearfully, tugging on Mr. Jones's sleeve.

"Not with the money we stand to make!" Mr. Jones whispered back. "Mr. Sorel, if you'd just reconsider, I'm sure we could strike a deal amenable to both parties…"

He ducked just in time to avoid the sharpened letter opener streaking towards his head.

Raphael's grip upon his chair was white-knuckled, eyes narrowed to dark slits now as he stared harshly at the two men. "Out," he said between grit teeth, voice strained. "Now."

Sparing each other only the briefest glance, Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones swiftly rushed from the richly-appointed office, the heavy oak doors slamming shut behind them with a dull thud.

An oppressive silence hung in the air for a long moment, punctuated only by Raphael's harsh, angry breaths through clenched teeth. "Espèce de salope," he said finally into the stillness, voice tight with rage and something he'd never admit was dangerously close to desperation. "You miserable, wretched tease. If you don't finished what you started—"

His words trailed off as the smirk against his thigh was replaced once more by soft warmth and wetness, his control finally shattering as he reached one hand below to fist in golden-blond hair, pulling tight as she soft lips took him deep now, so deep and so damn good, sensation building, doubling, finally cresting and spilling over as he grasped the back of her head and finally, blissfully found release.

A good minute passed until Raphael felt his ragged breathing return to a fairly even pace. And even though he was thoroughly exhausted, if pleasantly spent, a slow, easy smile appeared upon his lips. He was feeling it now, the sweat dotting his brow, the dull ache of his fingers from their tight grip upon the arms of his chair, and, damned girl, she'd nearly bit him at one point…but he smiled, because he'd won.

"You can come up now, love," Raphael said in a falsely-sweet tone, interlocking his protesting fingers and placing them easily behind his head.

A beat, then Cassandra crawled out from under his desk, narrowing her eyes hatefully at him as she dusted herself off. "I hate you," she stated balefully.

"Be that as it may," he responded amicably, "I believe I won quite handily."

"Like hell you did! You were all but screaming my name the whole time. Don't think I didn't see how white-knuckled you were—not to mention the swearing and death threats."

"I suspect you were cheating."

"Hmph." Cassandra tossed her hair before sitting astride his lap, eyes glaring into his. "So was flinging a knife at those guys just so they'd get out of your office faster. It was thirty minutes, Raphael—no emotion, no dead giveaways while I'm going down on you for thirty minutes or I get that new dress and you're escorting me to Hilde's party this weekend."

"Those fools merely thought I was in a rather disagreeable mood," Raphael said dismissively. "I am not spending an evening in the midst of those wretched curs I am already forced to interact with in the series."

"You lost. Get over it. Nine on Saturday."

"No."

"I'll run off to the party anyway."

"No concern of mine."

"I'll drink too much and make really bad decisions!"

"A pity."

"I'll have drunken sex with Siegfried! And Kilik! A-and some created character! With big ears and stupid lines and a pirate hat!"

"Rubbish. You've far better taste than that." He ran his fingers along the smooth contours of her hip. "I suppose this party does mean a bit to you," Raphael observed after a moment. He swiftly wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close and settling his forehead against hers. "So, darling—how about another wager?"

"No dice," Cassandra responded flatly. "You lost, you arrogant bastard, and we're going to that party."

"Let's say…oh, thirty minutes," Raphael continued, ignoring her protests as he moved to nibble gently at her earlobe, one hand curving around her breast. "No emotion, no giveaways for thirty minutes. And I'll escort and lovingly attend to you all evening."

"You're already supposed to be doing that," Cassandra groused, but leaned into his touch despite herself. "And if you win?"

He granted her a wicked smile in response. "Far more than thirty minutes."

He'd lost—dammit, he'd already lost, at least by her interpretation of the rules. But somehow he'd done it, steeled himself and fought to conceal overwhelming pleasure until she'd finally granted him release. I guess it wouldn't be that hard…

"Thirty minutes?" she asked after a moment.

"Thirty minutes," he confirmed, slipping his hand beneath the soft linen of her chemise and brushing skilled fingers over one tightened nipple.

Her eyelids fluttered, but she bit her lip and remained silent. Before he bent his head to press lips to soft flesh, she met his gaze.

"You're on," she said with a smirk.

"I apologize for the inconvenience," Mr. Smith practiced under his breath as he rushed through the cold stone corridors to Raphael's office. "We just rushed out of there so quickly, and those papers are rather important, so…please don't kill me, sir. Sir? Lord Raphael. Mr. Sorel. Dammit, why did Jones have to send me in here?"

So preoccupied were his thoughts that he didn't recognize the richly-paneled doors to the office before he was upon them, and he didn't take note of the noise until his hand was already poised to knock, stopping mere inches from the hardwood surface as the unmistakably sharp cries of a woman in the throes of passion echoed from the other side.

"Certainly not thirty minutes, love," Raphael said with a dark laugh as Cassandra shuddered beneath him. "I suppose I've nothing left to do but take you until the desk breaks from under us." He leaned down to kiss her fiercely, slipping his tongue between her parted lips as he once more began to thrust into her.

And later, much later, far more than thirty minutes, as she lay within his embrace, all sweat-slicked skin and fairly glowing with satisfaction, Cassandra decided she was content with a draw.