#es writes

Kyle never considered himself to be a believer in mortality. Well, he knew that life and death were a nonmoving fact and that he was even more susceptible with his profession, but it wasn’t real to him. It wasn’t real to any of them, just a casual tidbit that floated around like a wayward piece of lint as they put their helmets on and got into their cars. A hushed thought that quivered at their unbroken confidence that once they were strapped into that car, they were Gods. Immortal, untouchable - able to go so fast that they were all but flying. 

He looked across the garage to catch Johnny’s blue eyes. Crinkled and sparkling, he looked like he was on an adrenaline high already. He always did, he lived and breathed this shit. Sunk into the racecar like he wanted to become one with it, gripped the steering wheel like a lifeline. Kyle felt warmth in his chest, Johnny’s smile beaming right into his soul. A hand out of the cockpit waved at him as Johnny passed him on track, a tether tying them together. A reminder of their climb together, of their shared joy, of being larger than life. 

Tire tracks cut across the track, blurring together as he gained speed. The stands became one long barrier, a tunnel focusing in on the tail lights in front of him. On the back wing of Johnny’s car, always one step ahead. Kyle always chasing, trying to catch up but never being able to. Not that he wanted to, he was happy to be doing this with him. 

The car ran faster and faster, building to total elation. To the high of racing, what everyone craves. Johnny’s tail lights disappeared as he pulled away, he always had more pace than Kyle. It didn’t matter, the feeling of the car practically flying was what he chased. 

A red flag stopped the session. The radio was silent, no updates were available. He coasted around the circuit on the way back to the pit lane and took in the shocked faces in the crowd. Concern brewed but he shoved it down. It couldn’t be that bad, it was probably just a car in the middle of the road. A normal practice accident, albeit a dramatic one. 

What if it was worse?

It couldn’t be. It wouldn’t be. That didn’t happen to them.

He passed the car on the road. The smoldering remains of it.

No. That didn’t happen to them.

It was unrecognizable. He tried to take stock of who he saw on the track so far. He’d seen most of everyone, Johnny had been ahead of him so he had probably cleared this. 

Johnny had been ahead.

No.

It wasn’t. It couldn’t. 

He turned his head to look at it again as he passed the edge of the wreck and saw it. That fucking back wing.

It couldn’t be real. That didn’t happen to them. He had to be okay, there were safety features and so much testing. He had to be okay. That didn’t happen to them, to him. They were untouchable, he was immortal to Kyle. This wasn’t. No, it wasn’t real.

It was real. It was real when a faceless member of the team placed Johnny’s helmet into his hands. It was real when his race suit hung in the driver’s room across from Kyle’s, untouched and pristine. It was real when Kyle was a pall bearer. It was real when Kyle comforted Johnny’s mum, handing her a tissue for her tears and knowing full well that Johnny could’ve been doing this with his mum instead.

He didn’t think he was a believer in mortality, but he was quickly losing his belief in immortality. Which was dangerous because once you started to doubt that you could squeeze through that gap, break a few seconds later, press the throttle earlier, you’re done. You’ve lost your edge.

It’s not that he was scared. He was never scared, none of them were. Johnny wasn’t. He practically frothed at the mouth to get into the car, to feel the steering wheel in his hands and the power he held in them. Now his car sat quiet, stagnant, devoid of the welcoming purr that Kyle had grown used to hearing. The door of the room across the hall in the hospitality building stayed shut, Johnny’s bright grin following him whenever he entered and exited his room. 

The garage was still lively and chaotic, but everyone tiptoed around the abyss growing in the room. Kyle teetered on the edge of it. 

He sat on the edge, it didn’t matter where he was - at home with the remnants of their life together or at the track where their lives bled together once more. He felt the pitying glances when he looked over to see if he could see a pair of sparkling blue eyes. 

He only felt at peace in the car. Ironically, that’s where everyone was the most worried about it. But not him, this was the one place where he wanted to be.

Once in the cockpit, he could hear a laugh from the other side of the garage. He could see a hand out of the cockpit giving him a wave, he could feel his soul anchored again to the car ahead. A set of tail lights in the distance, a familiar back wing giving him a target to chase. A set of tire tracks to follow. 

He pressed the throttle and felt the sheer power in his hands, energy ripping through his body. 

“C’mon mate, I dinnae got all day!”, a voice rumbled in his ear.

He grinned and pushed the car forward.

Immortality awaits. 

The Auditor Is a Very, Very busy man. Because of how Nevada is already along with; having to put so much effort into the Nevadian Scourge that evades his grasp, Maintain eyes on the Clown and Jesus wannabe, Look over his men and whatever the fucks going on in Nexus- He's got a lot on his plate. But he'll always make time for you.

If he can't find any time for you during the day, expect it at night when you feel him slip into the bed next to you, gently pulling you close and muttering apologies for his absence to your sleeping form. He's nice and warm to hold onto, which ends up making him an excellent cuddle partner- you're sure to sleep well!

He takes your safety as a top priority. Any base you're located in is highly fortified- and he's got a zillion and one emergency plans set Incase Wimbleton does show up. Have you ever wanted an entire facility of agents as bodyguards? Well now you've got it! He... Genuinely doesn't consider this over the top- he can't help it, he's terrified of losing you to death... So he won't let death take you, not if he can help it.

I'm sorry to say he's not a very good cook, but he'll order the chefs in the cafeteria to make you things if you have specific cravings... At least the best they can with what they have in this wasteland. Do you like Pizza? They can do Pizza. That's why they have a lot of pizza parties.

Auditor has... A few hobbies. None that he'll openly share- he has a reputation thank you. But you? You get to See, as long as you don't gush about them in public or this fire man is going to sputter out in embarrassment. But he finds it soothing to work on his hobbies with you in his free time.

That being said, he adores any hobbies of yours. You draw? He keeps every drawing you've given him in protective sheets in a safe folder he keeps in his room. Paint? It's hung up on the wall. Sew? He'll be your model (just not in public unless its... On brand for his image. Can't walk around in a onesie, sorry). Sing? Anytime you sing to him it's a concert in his mind. Any show of your talents leaves him starstruck by a glimpse of goodness in this doomed hellscape.

Over all, your happiness is the one thing to make the Auditor happy. Your smile is infectious but he'll deny it if you point out it's spread to him, your laugh is enough to cure any foul moods caused by SQ or any other organizations, and your presence helps him feel more soothed than he has in ages. Anything you want he'll try to get- you're actually kind of spoiled. Perks of having an Employer for a partner!

        ༻✦༺

Lucifer can't focus.

He's trying—he really is—to focus on the paperwork on his desk so he can submit his report to Diavolo. He wants to finish it—needs to, he thinks, so he can have you for himself tonight. (Uninterrupted, he thinks fervently. He doesn't plan to let go of you tonight, not after how sweetly you asked him for your pleasure.) But now that you're on his thigh, slick heat pressed flush against his slacks and breaths a soft shakiness in his ears, that's easier said than done.

Much easier said than done.  

He really can't focus.

Lucifer is trying to focus on the neat loops his pen makes as he writes the figures for the next council budget but—he feels your scorching heat against his thigh, the slick seeping into his slacks—and he takes a faint breath and tries again. The next council meeting needs 10% more resources, he thinks, and there has to be a greater allocation of funds because the aristocracy needs to be shown that this plan can work, so he needs, he needs—you're moaning in his ear, fingers gripping shakily onto his shoulder. He can feel your wetness on his skin, long soaked through his slacks and the wetness each time you grind—

His fingers falter, and there are ink stains on his gloves because he can't focus.  

"Lucifer.”

Lucifer hears your shaky whisper, and it feels like it sets fire pounding along his pulse. He digs his fingers into the curve of your back, and tries (and fails) to ignore the way you arch oh-so-sweetly into his touch.  

He can't focus but there's no need for you to know that, not when he started this game, when he's determined not to lose. So instead, he grabs your wrist and presses a kiss where your pulse skitters in a rhythm of ecstasy (his too, he thinks, his too).

"Are you coming already, love?" He murmurs against your skin. "Do I really feel that good to you?"

But really, he doesn't need your answer (wants to hear it anyway, always) when he can feel the tremor of your thighs against his own, and the soft gasps you can't help but give out.  

"I'd think you would know." You say, burying your head in his shoulder and he tries not to shudder at the way the heat from your lips seems to caress him. You continue, still playful despite the tremble in your voice, "Considering how your eyes haven't left me since the beginning—"

You dare—

He thrusts his thigh up at that, grinding mercilessly against your heat. The audacity, he thinks, the audacity to tease him when you're the one that made him like this. The ragged "Ah—" you give at the sudden contact makes something deeper curl in him, both desire and satisfaction, almost vindication that he can make you like this (reciprocation, his mind whispers, that to you, he is the same.)

He can feel the wetness that gushes from you at the contact, soaking into him, and it seems the moans you make beat straight along his pulse to his length. His control is a faltering thing, but he is still the Eldest, demon though he may be. And he can hold on this much—his pride wanting to make you cum before he gives into this.

And then you're coming, and he can feel your pleasure as much as he hears and sees it, from the tremble of your thighs to the way you jerk as you moan out. It's tempting, so tempting, and honestly he wants nothing more than to sweep this damned report off his desk and claim you right then and there.

But patience.

“Maybe I should have specified that you were to entertain yourself quietly,” he can't help but drawl, voice husky as he leans back in his chair to watch the way bliss blooms along your cheeks. He tilts his thigh higher, satisfaction curling through him at the way you melt onto his chest, boneless in your pleasure.

Control yourself, he thinks, but he can't help the way his fingers slide down your back or the way his lips itch to kiss the nape of your neck. He settles for ghosting his breath over the soft skin there, all crimson eyes and wide pupils as he watches the bloom of goosebumps that follow in its wake.

He can feel the way his cock throbs at the way you shift along his lap, and he can't help but think this is a sort of exquisite torture, to resist you when you're so close, so ready for him. His control is paper thin, but it's there, and he thinks he can make you come once more until—

“I thought you liked listening to music when you worked.”

Oh.

All at once his breath catches, and he can feel his power coil through him, a demonic growl reverberating through his chest as he tilts your head back to capture your lips in an almost bruising kiss.

You want to make music for him? Very well then.