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Dr. Miles Edgeworth neatly files away everything related to his last patient as the nurse for the day calls in the next, one Mr. Phoenix Wright. Hearing shuffling footsteps, he looks up to see a man with unusually spiky black hair enter with his hands in the pockets of his blue hoodie. The patient sits down in the consultation chair and, as blue eyes meet grey, Miles realizes that his new patient is very handsome. Tired, a little pale, but nevertheless very handsome and exactly his type.
It's not till he hears the door click shut behind the nurse as she leaves that he realizes they have been staring at each other in silence, and it's probably getting awkward right about now.
Miles clears his dry throat. "Well, good afternoon, Mr. Wright. What can I do for you today?"
"Uh… Me…" Blue eyes widen. "Me? I— I've been having awful diarrhoea since yesterday evening. A—and I think there may have been blood in it the last time, but I'm not too sure…"
It takes a moment for Miles to remember he's supposed to be writing this down, and he hurriedly stops gaping long enough to do so. "And when was this?"
"Around four in the morning."
"What did you have before it started, and how many times have you been to the bathroom since it did?"
"I went for burgers with my colleagues at around seven. The diarrhoea started around nine, and I went every hour until midnight, then I passed out from exhaustion and woke up once at four to go again before returning to sleep."
Miles willfully focuses on scribbling down the salient points of that story instead of the siren's voice telling it. "Any history of gastrointestinal issues? Any known allergies or food intolerances?"
"Not that I know of." Wright squirms a bit, as if trying to get comfortable in his jeans.
Well, he'll be taking them off soon enough. Miles shakes his head to clear it. "Any other symptoms?"
"Some stomachache, a bit of cold sweat."
"Nothing else?"
Wright shakes his head slowly.
"Any family members with similar problems? Did any of your colleagues report similar symptoms?"
He shakes his head again.
"All right." Miles stands, smooths out his lab coat. "Well, we'll need a stool sample to test for fecal occult blood and microbiology—"
"Now?" The man slumps. "I don't think… I haven't dared to eat anything since those burgers."
Miles checks his watch — it's two in the afternoon. "Well, maybe you can come back for that, but in the meantime, I need you to come over to the examination table back here for your abdominal examination and DRE."
Gingerly, with effort, the patient stands, and Miles offers him a hand none too soon — Wright sways, and Miles hurriedly catches him… along with a whiff of mixed cologne and deodorant that make an oddly pleasant combination.
"Sorry." He leans heavily on Miles as they make their way to the examination table, breathing deeply.
Is he… smelling me? Miles dismisses the thought as he helps Wright sit down on the examination table. "You haven't eaten in seventeen hours. I'll get the nurse to bring you a small glucose drink with the gown."
"Thank you."
Miles heads to the adjoining room to make that request and goes back to his desk to review what he has so far in an attempt at actually doing his job while the nurse takes care of making sure Wright finishes the drink and changes into the gown. Assuming there really is blood, he'll have to figure out where the bleeding is coming from before drawing any conclusions. Otherwise, it could just be food poisoning.
He locks the door behind the nurse for privacy when she leaves and hovers outside the blue curtain around the examination table. "Mr. Wright, are you ready?"
There's a moment's silence before, "Yes."
Miles slips past the curtain to find the man already lying down and the blue patient gown leaving little to the imagination, never mind he's about to lift it. He reaches out to push the thin fabric up out of the way, lets his hands casually brush over the man's nipples as he works and pretends he doesn't notice the slight squirming.
But then he gets a good look, and his mouth runs dry.
Wright isn't very bulky, but the muscles of his torso are well-defined, and the smattering of black hair dusted over his fair skin makes a nice contrast. Miles tells himself he's checking for visible abnormalities, but his eyes keep drifting back to those pert rosy nipples and the man's gorgeous penis nestled between lean thighs on a bed of black curls. Well, okay, Miles admits there isn't anything truly extraordinary about it, but it completes an already delectable picture, and all he can think about is how much he wants—
"Dr. Edgeworth?"
"Yes?" That came out way too hoarse. He swallows to moisten his parched throat and tries again. "There are no visible abnormalities. Are you cold?"
"No, I'm fine. But you're very hot, doctor."
They gasp as one.
"Uh, I mean— Your face is very flushed!" Wright almost squeaks, mortified. "M—maybe you need it to be colder!"
Oh. Oh. "Uh…"
"P—please just continue," the other pleads in a small voice, refusing to look at him and blushing a bright scarlet.
"R—right."
He really does need to make a diagnosis, so he puts his stethoscope into his ears and listens past the man's racing pulse for any sign of abdominal abnormalities, but he can't hear anything unexpected. He takes it off, then continues with the percussion check — some gas, still nothing unexpected. He asks Wright to roll onto his side, his hands lingering on slim hips as he helps, and oh, the man has a rather fine ass too, but he'll have full view of that soon.
By this point, lying on his back again, Wright is sweating lightly, and it's a nice sheen on his skin. The blush has travelled down his neck and chest, and it's more appealing than it has any right to be. Miles' fingers sweep over a nipple as he counts to the last rib to begin palpation — the man's breath hitches, then goes staccato, and it's difficult to time the pressure.
He clears his throat. "Mr. Wright." Blue eyes snap to his, blown with desire, and the words die on his tongue.
"Yes?" Oh God, his voice has turned a little husky, and it's gone straight to Miles' groin.
"I need—" to climb onto this table and have my way with you, but I'm facing a lawsuit and license revocation as it is — Miles Edgeworth, you are a fool.
"Yes…?" Breathless, hopeful.
Oh dear God. "Could you take slow, deep breaths for me?"
And Wright even looks disappointed as he complies.
Miles moves his hands, applying light pressure and feeling for abnormalities of the various organs in the abdominal area, somewhere between genuinely trying to get to a diagnosis of the man's health and savoring the feeling of this beautiful man's warm skin and smooth planes of muscle shifting beneath his palms. As he gets further down, he feels the other shiver in what might be anticipation and can't help staring at that rosy, semi-erect penis that he really should have covered with a sheet earlier, but—
"When was your last testicular exam?" W—what am I saying?!
Blue eyes snap to grey, wide with shock. Then Wright breaks into a conspiratorial grin. "Oh, I don't know…" Still holding his gaze, the other sits up. "Back when I was a teenager, probably. Why, doctor, do you think I'm due for one?"
He's flirting. Flirting. This man is the Devil, and Miles is an idiot Satanist about to sacrifice all his sleepless nights in medical school.
"Yes," he manages, resolve waning. "Would you like one?"
"That depends." Wright smirks, warm hands covering his own where they're resting on bare thighs, and Miles' breath quickens. "Are you charging?"
Damn him. "Not unless I find any irregularities."
Before either of them can change their minds, Miles wraps a hand around Wright's penis and honestly checks for abnormalities in the half-beat before the other groans softly, blue eyes fluttering closed and tightening his hold on the hand he still has as his erection swells.
"Do you get this a lot, doctor?" he asks, soft and breathy.
"Don't worry." Miles doesn't think he sounds very reassuring. "This is a perfectly normal reaction, and I haven't found any abnormalities so far." All true though.
Wright falls against him, chest heaving, when he strokes firmly, and buries his face in Miles' shoulder to muffle a louder moan, splaying his legs wider to allow more access.
"Let me check these too," Miles cups the testes below, "see if there are any tumors." He runs his fingers over them, and—
"Ngh… hah…" Wright's toes curl as his free hand comes up to grip Miles' shoulder, and Miles turns to say he hasn't found any lumps and they feel right, but then Wright kisses him.
Grey eyes flutter shut, and Miles realizes he's a goner. This fiend has found his one true weakness, and Phoenix Wright doesn't kiss like they're strangers who just met less than an hour ago. No, he kisses like he knows exactly what makes Miles' heart skip a beat and knees go weak, or it's just biochemistry playing tricks with his head, but either way, their tongues twine, and Miles knows he hasn't seen the last of Phoenix Wright.
Somehow, somehow, Wright has managed to undo his maroon slacks with one hand, and he's turned to wrap his arms and legs around Miles. And somehow, Miles' arms are around him too, one hand buried in hair that is so much softer than it looks as Wright captures his lips again and again, like he can't get enough. Miles can only kiss back, pressing his forehead to the other's when they part, and he's immeasurably relieved to find that Wright looks just as unhinged, if not more.
"Oh my God… You are not real," Wright breathes, chuckling.
Before Miles can ask, warm fingers glide over his erection through the smooth fabric of his boxer briefs, and he curls in on the other man with a soft whine as precum leaks into a growing wet spot.
"Is that black silk? You must have walked out of my fantasies."
Then his hand slips in to free the trapped organ, but leaves heavy testes under the waistband, and Miles trembles as the pad of his thumb spreads precum all over the glans and down. The tug and the pressure intensifies the sensations as Wright keeps playing, and Miles doesn't remember the last time anyone touched him, but when he guides Wright by the back of his neck into another kiss, Wright still tastes of the grape-flavored glucose mix they keep around for hypoglycemia, and the realization reminds Miles that he really needs to complete that DRE.
"W—we need to move on to that DRE," he whispers over wet lips as they gasp for air, even as his hips buck.
"Yeah…"
Wright stops, licks his fingers, and eagerly shifts into position, bending over the examination table with his ass in the air, and only years of training have Miles reaching for the disinfecting lubricant and examination gloves.
He can't see anything outwardly wrong with the man's anus. No, it's delectably rosy, and all he wants is to kiss it, taste it, slide his tongue in and worship it with his mouth until Wright either comes or begs for it, but the vestiges of sanity tell him that's a massive health risk, especially if Wright has some kind of infection underlying that diarrhoea.
So instead, he ruts into the other's inner thigh, smears precum on heated skin, and kneads unmarred glutes apart. "Someone's eager. You've taken it like this before?"
"Yeah." Then Wright tenses. "I—I'm clean, I swear!"
Miles kisses the small of Wright's back, soothing, as he pulls on a glove. He's so far gone — he hadn't even thought to ask. "As am I. I don't… often do this."
"At all or with your patients?"
Miles jerks away as if burned. Damn it, he's right. He's—
"Wait, wait, no, I'm sorry, Miles." Wright hurriedly turns to catch him by the elbow he's gripping. "Can I call you 'Miles'? Please don't stop. I didn't mean—"
"No, you're right. We shouldn't—"
"We have," Wright points out firmly, and Miles flinches. "So finish it, and if you never want to see me again, I won't cause you any trouble, I promise."
"But I do!" Miles blurts, going red in the face at the other's surprise. "Want to see you again, I mean," he mumbles, looking away. "And not… not like this."
Wright breaks into a brilliant smile, taking his hands. "Great! Great, me too. So you have nothing to worry about. Now come back here and complete the exam, so we have something to show for all the time we've spent in here."
It's true that they need to get this DRE done if he even hopes to feign innocence after this. So he lets Wright lead him back to the examination table, lets himself fall into those twinkling blue eyes and another breathtaking kiss. Like in a dream, they get back to where they were earlier, and he mouths his way up the other's spine as he covers his gloved fingers generously in the lubricant and spreads the gel liberally over that puckered opening. Wright grabs the pillow from the head of the bed and buries his face in it to moan as Miles keeps dipping his fingertips in only to move away again — the next best thing to what he originally had in mind.
"Please, Miles," Wright whispers, lacing the fingers of their left hands as he writhes beneath Miles. "Please," and he presses in without a second thought.
The other's breath hitches, and that ring of muscle clenches briefly around his finger, then relaxes as he explores. It's smooth, and the tiny part of his brain that's still working tells him that's a good sign. Then he finds the man's prostate, and the way Wright cries out, even into the pillow, leaves him immensely grateful for the soundproofing on the room to maintain doctor-patient confidentiality. He rubs over it gently, genuinely feeling for the sulcus and any irregularities, but Wright thrusts back, wanton, so he ups the pressure, adds a second finger and crooks them and—
Wright freezes.
Then he's screaming Miles' name into the pillow as he comes, and it's almost, almost enough. Miles' hips stutter against the other's as he fingers Wright through his orgasm, and he can feel the man —possibly— come a second time before slumping, but he doesn't stop, and Wright doesn't tell him to. So he scissors his fingers and changes it up — switching sides, alternating pressure, tapping and stroking that sensitive gland as Wright whimpers, shaking, still dripping, and it isn't till he tests the stretch again that Wright turns, eyes damp.
"Hngh… n—no, wait."
It's winded, barely audible, but Miles only taps again, and Wright exhales shakily as his hips twitch. Good God.
Miles smacks his ass.
Wright hisses as the sharp impact resounds in the room. "W—what was that for?"
Unnecessary feelings, he wants to say, but it's completely irrational. You're criminal, but he doesn't have the right — he was utterly complicit and the more wrong for it. Finally, he withdraws his fingers and admits, "I was hoping to come up with an excuse while doing that… I didn't."
To his surprise, Wright laughs, short and breathless but with genuine mirth, so Miles runs with it.
"Please excuse my unprofessionalism, Mr. Wright." He offers an exaggerated bow. "I simply couldn't help myself."
"Phoenix," the other corrects, shaking his head and chuckling with palpable affection. "Call me Phoenix. And you're perfect, Miles. Completely and unbelievably perfect."
But now Miles is staring at his gloved fingers, the ones that had been inside the other man, and there's… nothing out of the ordinary.
"While we're on the subject of unprofessionalism," Phoenix continues almost conversationally, "I have a confession."
Right… "You're not sick," Miles surmises.
"No," he agrees, looking up with unmistakable fondness. "But I'm terribly lactose intolerant, and I drank a large milkshake at dinner because I desperately wanted today and tomorrow off work."
"Why?"
Phoenix grins, head resting on folded arms. "They're auditioning for my dream role tomorrow. I deliberately chose a clinic I've never been to, so they wouldn't have my medical history on file. But what I'm saying is… you can do whatever it is you're thinking about."
"W—what makes you think I'm thinking about— Ahh!"
Phoenix is stroking his long-neglected erection languidly. "Let me take care of you, Miles. How do you want me?" The words send a shiver down his spine. "Like this? Kneeling on the floor to s— Haahh!"
Miles is already kneeling on the step, ignoring the chemical taste as he licks in to tug at the ring of muscle. Slipping out, he traces the rim with the tip of his tongue, then dips back in again, and Phoenix all but sobs into the pillow he's clutching to his face. Past the gel, he can taste Phoenix, and the man is fluttering, trembling for him as Miles kisses him, much like Phoenix kissed him earlier, exploring with his tongue, and Phoenix clenches around him with a desperate cry when he sucks on it — hot and tight and Miles can't wait a second longer. He stands and slicks himself up with another pump of lubricant before plunging in, and Phoenix groans deeply into the pillow. In some fiendish feat of stamina, Phoenix is already hard again, and Miles doesn't think he'll last.
"T—take off the glove," Phoenix gasps, and Miles obligingly tosses it into the bin before resuming.
Phoenix thrusts into his fist, so he moves, and it takes maybe three or four thrusts before Miles sees stars, leaving a mark where he was mouthing at Phoenix's shoulder.
He's been so close for so long, and Phoenix feels amazing.
Miles tugs the gown out of the way to pepper the back of the man's neck with kisses, finds Phoenix just mumbling his name again and again, looking utterly debauched. He shifts, slipping out, and Phoenix makes a sound that might be pain.
"Hey, a—are you all right?"
The only response is incoherent, so he checks Phoenix's vitals — nothing worrying. It's probably exhaustion, overstimulation.
He fixes his clothes, then rearranges the gown on Phoenix before lifting the other man fully onto the examination table. Then he quickly cleans all signs of their activities off the floor and furniture before attempting to rouse Phoenix.
"Phoenix, you can't sleep here. There are other patients waiting." It hasn't actually been that long, but he's worried that people will suspect.
Phoenix smiles, though, and doesn't wince when Miles wipes him clean. "You've ruined me, Miles." He sits up to press his lips lightly to Miles' again. "Promise you'll call me."
"Promise you won't come back as a patient and get my license revoked."
Phoenix giggles. "Pinky swear?"
Miles stares at the other's extended little finger, feeling foolish, but caves in and hooks his own around it.
Grinning widely, Phoenix hugs him and says, "I'll get changed."
Miles nods and returns to his desk to finish up the paperwork.
"So… about that MC…" Phoenix comes over, back in his hoodie and jeans.
"Two days. Food poisoning." He holds it out.
"Three," Phoenix presses, leaning in.
They stare each other down. And Miles knows, he knows Phoenix has all the leverage here, but…
"Only if day three is date night." He won't use it.
Phoenix lights up. "Deal."
He amends the number, and their fingers brush as Phoenix takes the piece of paper.
"Say." A thought occurs to Miles as Phoenix turns to leave. "What auditions are you going for tomorrow?" What is this dream role that you'd make yourself sick just for a shot at? He should learn more about his soon-to-be partner.
Phoenix's face colors. "You'll laugh at me."
"I won't."
"You will."
Miles raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms. "Try me."
Phoenix takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, bracing himself. "The Steel Samurai."
For a moment, it's as if time itself has stopped. Then he hears Miles stand.
"Phoenix Wright."
Blue eyes fly open, then fall on the figurine in a display case inside the cabinet Miles just opened.
"I will kill you if you don't land that role."