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It is nine thirty-three in the evening. August is balmy. His office, despite the air conditioning, is miserably hot.
Miles Edgeworth has been reading the same sentence over and over again for the past twenty minutes in the dim light of his office. The sun has already set well beyond the horizon and he's still trying to make his way through this particular case's evidence load. So far he's trying to draw out the order of operations between an incredibly abused-looking neon green jump rope, an empty and water-logged stamp collection, and a photo of the victim stuck all over with said stamp collection. Needless to say, he has had very little luck on his part. Phoenix had said it was a case of "hate mail." Edgeworth had thusly ignored him.
Granted, it would help more if he could actually focus on the particular task at hand.
"Hey," a voice behind him murmurs, and Miles shifts ever so slightly and lets out an irritated huff as he rakes fingers through the front of his hair, growling. Just the sound of Wright's voice over his shoulder makes the skin on the nape of his neck prickle. "Miles—"
"What?" he snaps. "What is it?"
Silence, blessed silence, for all of three seconds. Miles hears his own heartbeat in his ears, thundering loudly with blood.
Phoenix clears his throat, marinates in the moment just before he ruins it as he always does.
"I'm done with this page."
Miles' boiling point takes another hit. He laughs and it's sharp, a forced little gunshot of haughtiness past his teeth.
"And this is why you're always so ill-prepared in court," Miles murmurs, shuffling the pages noisily in his grasp, spreading them out as if he's found some great thread of relevance between each item in this utterly useless menagerie of evidence. "Perhaps if you took your time examining everything in your grasp instead of just racing through it like you're some subpar thoroughbred in the Kentucky Derb—"
Miles' voice catches on an embarrassingly high pitch and then stops soundlessly. Phoenix has moved a fraction too much (he knows what he's doing) and a wave of sensation threatens to overwhelm him from his place: seated quite fully on the length of Phoenix Wright's cock trying to give him a thorough lashing. There are numerous reasons that Miles could rattle off as to why this was a terrible idea, but considering he's here, considering he is very willingly enthroned upon him... well, let the court see that all of the evidence points to Miles Edgeworth being the most willing accomplice. He's just as guilty if not more—all he'd wanted was the sensation of Phoenix filling him, something he couldn't deny after a frustrating stalemate in court.
"I think you're just having some trouble focusing," Phoenix says, his arms stretched out behind him, a great, wretched king who uses far too much hair product and far too little common sense. Miles stares downwards at the mess on his desk, uncharacteristically strewn about. He's been trying to find something to anchor his brain into, but all he's been able to do is moor himself on the beach of Phoenix's lap, his breath beginning to peak with every movement of Phoenix behind him, beneath him, inside him.
"If my seat was a bit more cooperative—"
"If the King of Prosecutors was a little nicer to his... uh... throne."
Miles bristles, Phoenix is insufferable. The cycle continues as he tries to get his breath evened out and under control. Phoenix's hands creep towards his naked hips, holding onto them and beginning to ease Miles flush to his chest. Miles would pull away, but the moment he makes to lift his hips, Phoenix's grip tightens and he's left gasping, the tips of his toes braced against the ground.
"No objection?" Phoenix whispers after a beat, his mouth close to Miles' ear, the chair shifting forward just a bit more. He's gone from innocent to conniving in just two seconds, a skill that most criminals have. Phoenix just has it because he's basically a cartoon character that's somehow sprung to life in his office like some galumphingly horny Galatea.
"Nothing to object to , Wright," he says after a moment of collecting himself, swallowing the wavering tone of his voice. Miles has decided that no matter what happens within the four walls of his office, he will be victorious.
"You sure?"
Miles squeezes his eyes tightly, elbows digging into the desk as Phoenix places a hand on his bare thigh, sending every nerve flashing brilliantly in Miles' body, a veritable set of fireworks laying close beneath his skin. That hand begins to spread said thigh apart, leaving him that much more vulnerably spread.
"Quite."
The problem is that Miles is at a deep disadvantage, he's already counting the ways. Phoenix is depraved, so clever but so conniving with his wretched silver tongue. Miles had been hoping he would be left to his own devices to review for tomorrow's case, but instead Phoenix had cornered him. A bid to eat dinner together had turned into Phoenix pouring out most of Miles' cherished cognac (meant for a rainy day, not for debauchery, decadent as it is) into two mugs. Truly nothing could epitomize Phoenix Wright in his all-encompassing chaotic dervish than this singular act.
An hour later and he's lost his trousers, his jacket too, and they're just woefully folded over the back of the couch, mocking him in how easily he'd let Phoenix divest him of his armor. He's in his barely-buttoned shirt and stockings, his garters still holding on despite the late hour, pinching into his skin at this point. He looks the picture of a complete degenerate and should someone find the means to storm in—say, the cleaning staff—well, that'd certainly make the rounds, miserable gossips that they are. They find the remnants of a dinner for two in the trash (damning evidence) one time and the rumor mill is set alight. Miles can't escape it.
"Miles," Phoenix begs softly into the curve of his ear, bouncing a knee softly so that Miles is forced to feel every sensation it gives back to him. "It's late..."
"Very. And the sooner you still yourself, the sooner I can finish, Wright," he whispers hurriedly, trying to pull his desk together into some semblance of order once more, reaching for papers, a pen to put between his trembling fingers, a Montblanc in petrol blue that only serves to remind him of who is at his back, who is inside of him. Sometimes Miles wonders how he got into this mess. Wright wasn't his type—in fact, no one was really his type, ranging from men with shiningly spotless grins to women of all varieties, buxom, brunette, blonde, waifish, full-figured, muscular. Their reasons for hanging onto Miles had run the gamut of using him for his reputation to simply using him to feel something.
Miles seldom felt much, which is why most never really got off the ground with him to begin with.
There was a sneaking suspicion in him at one point that he was a hopeless case. He didn't mind that. It was a quiet realization that he used to allow most of the latent desire to sink into the pits of his own personal Tartarus, never to see the light of day again. You can't be used by others if you don't give them the chance, so Miles retreated and retreated—
And then came Phoenix Wright in all of his bumbling, luck-driven glory. He arrived like a perfect storm of determination and scrappiness, he pulled scraps of salvation from the looming jaws of a guilty verdict, astonishing everyone who bore witness to his deeds.
"Miles," another whine, like a poorly trained dog pawing at his leg. He feels the jerk at his hips and a sound escapes him. His socked toes attempt to find purchase on the lacquered floors but are left slipping so that he can only lean against the desk, chest pressing into the very edge of it.
This is a less than advantageous position, left to squirm on Phoenix's cock, barely able to take hold of the ground, meant to bob like a starved, wonton creature and beg for his release. He feels the flush rise over his cheeks as Phoenix's arms flank him, removing the pages from Miles' grasp. Phoenix straightens and perches his chin on his shoulder, humming as he begins to slowly flick through the list of evidence. He's being pinned, incapable of moving save for the wriggling that he can barely keep control over. He can't get his feet under himself, he can't do anything. And then it hits him.
This was his plan, Miles thinks, brow furrowing as sweat begins to form at the nape of his neck. Phoenix adjusts inside of him and in one moment, Miles feels his body wash over in heat. He hits that warm bundle of sensation inside of him, making him curl his toes.
"Whoa, whoa... Miles, take it easy," Phoenix soothes in that voice of his, Miles knows the one, trying to appeal to his better nature when really all it does is infuriate him. He's woefully trapped, Phoenix jostling his hips with purpose as he's left to take it, a soft gasp falling past his lips as he's then pushed fully against the desk, the chair rolling to settle them both further in. "Remember what you said earlier? Just let me finish up here... and then you can finish up."
Miles' poor, ignored cock jumps at the prospect. Touch? Yes, please, do . Finish? Absolutely .
The grin on Wright's face deserves a slap, damnable cat in the process of eating the canary, showing the yellow feathers and all between his teeth. Miles refrains from doing anything he'd regret, his expression blushing and sour all at once as Phoenix's hands continue to knead slowly along his thighs, back up to his hips.
He's a prisoner here in his own office, disarmed and debased. His cock, which has been patiently leaking a bit of pre here or there without consequence is aching, and Phoenix isn't making it any better by him ho-humming over papers that have little to no bearing on the situation at hand. Mostly because they are upside down.
They've been upside down for the past twenty minutes, which is probably while Miles has been having so much trouble progressing in his investigations in the first place.
"Well, you know what they say when you're stuck on a problem," Phoenix sighs. There's no room for witty repartee on Miles' part as if he'd be able to give it with how tightly his teeth are grit. "Just fuck it." The papers go flying in an instant, fluttering wildly to the floor in disarray. The chair rolls outwards and Phoenix is on his feet, forcing Miles to his as well finally. Knees nudged apart, thighs spread, shirt pushed up along his spine. Base. Animal. He crawls further on his elbows to lean over the desk in full, uncaring now as a hand swats over his ass and has him letting out a stifled cry.
He refuses to beg, pushing his face into his arms as Phoenix continues to slink over him like a terrible, monstrous ooze that smells like cheap burgers and fries. The scent shouldn't be comforting in how it clings to Phoenix at this moment, but beggars can't be choosers and law makes meals difficult. One gets them where they can—
Why is he making excuses for Wright's utter inability to smell of anything but greasy food?
Damn it.
The problem is, Phoenix isn't fucking him, he's just standing there smoothing his hands up along Miles' waist and lingering in where he's pushed into him at the root, his sac pressed up warmly against the curves of Miles' body. He wants Wright to move, but won't beg him, so instead, he digs his fingers into his palms, neatly manicured nails gouging half-moons into his skin as he begins to shift his hips slightly from side to side. Again: base, animal, wrong, but it's the only way to get Phoenix to scratch that particular itch he's been sitting on ever since he arrived and enthroned Miles' right on his cock with a kiss and a packet of brand name lubricant tucked away in Phoenix's pocket.
"Enough," Miles growls, lifting his hips up just a bit more, trying to get Phoenix to press just a bit more, to land a bullseye like he always seems to do in court after a few errant throws.
A hand wraps around his cock, something soft sliding down the length of his shaft, moving behind the unbearable heaviness of his balls. As it curls around them, begins to meet at the base of his cock, his eyes widen and his breath quickens. Phoenix ties him off, just enough to be uncomfortable, the length of silk hanging between his thighs.
"You'll get yours," Phoenix soothes with a pat to his thigh, a jockey soothing a horse foaming at the mouth. Miles' fingers dig into the edge of the desk as Phoenix coaxes him high on his toes, his hips canted upwards. The angle is perfect and the moment Phoenix pulls out and drives back in, a sound unearths itself from the confines of Miles' chest, drawn-out, magician's scarves past his lips without any sign of stopping. He's at the point where all he can think of is how deep Phoenix is fucking him, how tight and hot he feels between his thighs, how the sweat is starting to turn his starched white shirt translucent and wrinkled as he rocks back and forth against his desk.
There will be bruises on his hips for a week, but perhaps it will all have been worth it with the way that Phoenix begins to truly pound into him in earnest. The polished, broad desk serves as the scene of the crime and the victim is Miles Edgeworth, being thrust into over and over again, forced to delay the inevitable with a cheap, crimson tie wound around his balls. It's just one piece of incriminating evidence in his office as Phoenix suddenly pushes him onto his back, thrusts him onto the desk.
"Phoenix—" The name comes out as more of a shocked yelp than an angry growl, the latter of which being what he means to do as his Steel Samurai mug teeters off the edge of the desk. Miles seldom admits to having beloved things, but the sight of Phoenix's eyes catching the light and his reflexes reaching out to snatch the mug by its stylized handle…
"Gotcha…" he whispers in relief.
Miles' arms reach out instantly, hands making their way up to grab at what's yet to be undone of Phoenix's shirt, kissing him hungrily on his slack-jawed mouth. The mug hangs between Phoenix's fingers a moment longer before being placed on the ledge behind him, allowing them to safely resume, though Miles is loathe to release his mouth, opting for the flashing of Phoenix's throat instead, the cut of his jaw. The lamp, the pen, the papers, books—they're all necessary casualties, but the mug is… oddly precious. Very few things in Miles Edgeworth's life are such.
"Back, back, back," Phoenix mutters, pushing Miles fully onto the desk again, shoving open his shirt so that his chest is bared to the lukewarm air of the room. The air conditioning in the office is quite poor here with how sweat is just clinging to his skin. Surely he can speak with someone about this later, the unbearable heat as Phoenix drives into him, denies him the orgasm he wants with some cheap silk tie, soaked with sweat and pre and lube.
"Burn this tie," he gasps as Phoenix reaches down between his thighs, touches his too-sensitive cock, and strokes up to the swollen head of it over and over again. He's practically shaking Phoenix by his shirt collar with every thrust, begging the only way he knows how, with defiance, demanding Phoenix to look him in the eye with every thrust and stroke until he's trembling, incapable of feeling anything but heat and the sensation of Phoenix rocking both Miles' body and even the sturdy desk with every thrust.
In an instant, Miles blinks and the tie is gone. Release grabs him by the neck and slams him into the desk, makes his head reel as the overwhelming pressure releases and spills over his belly missing his shirt nearly completely with how it's splayed out by his arms, coming off his shoulders and trapping his wrists as his cock trembles with his orgasm and Phoenix rises up to meet him. The unexpected second wave of Phoenix coating him in his spend has his head fully tipping back and Phoenix panting into his neck as he bows over him, as they both tremble together, spent cocks pushing close against one another on the comedown.
Miles holds a fistful of Phoenix's hair at the nape of his neck, thumb smoothing up and down as he fuzzily looks up at him. Flashes of Phoenix flit across his vision, standing opposite him in the courtroom overlapping with the proximity of their faces at this moment, Phoenix is close enough to breathe in, all burgers and pomade and sweat and the tenderness of his hand as it pushes hair from Miles' eyes, presses their foreheads and their… mess together... He'd oppose, but Phoenix is already kissing him and his thighs don't know how to do anything but lazily push against Phoenix's hips, ankles hooked together.
One of his garters sinks uselessly down, having fought and lost the one battle it had to lose.
Victory? Maybe next time.