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Miles Edgeworth did not often run his own errands, but something as important as this could only be done himself. He tucked the mylar bag containing Steel Samurai Stories Issue #1 under his arm and opened the door to the Wright & Co. Law Office.
As usual, the reception desk was empty. The only time he'd seen it manned, in fact, had been the time Ms Fey painted her toenails lime green; she’d had her feet propped up on the desk and dripped nail polish on her robes. Miles walked further inside.
In the kitchenette, a post-it on the fridge reminded Wright they were out of milk, Cheerios, potato chips, American cheese, instant ramen, and, actually, a whole host of edible things. The list ran off the sheet and around the other side. If this is a regular shopping list, Miles thought, no wonder Wright is perennially strapped for cash.
He checked his watch. Ms Fey had told him to drop by the office any time after 3pm and it was 3.10 now. The door had been unlocked and the sign flipped around to open. Miles let out a puff of air and straightened his spine. If Wright could work in the same room in which his mentor died then Miles could certainly spend two minutes there in order to lend a comic book to a friend.
The door was slightly ajar. Someone was obviously inside - Miles heard breathing, some mumbled words - so he pushed the door open and stepped through.
Any thoughts of Mia Fey, her unfortunate demise, and his first career hiccup immediately fled his mind.
Wright was masturbating on the client couch.
This knowledge did not arrive at once. Miles was distracted, at first, by the state of him. Jacket tossed aside. Sleeves rolled to mid-forearm. Head tipped back. A long column of poorly shaven neck, exposed and vulnerable. An unbuttoned collar and a tie somewhere, hanging loose, but by the time Miles’ eyes got there they were already being dragged further down to the man’s open suit pants where he had his fist tightly curled around his erection.
Miles own cock, hard and held tight against his thigh, throbbed with arousal.
“Ungf,” Wright grunted, sliding his hand back down the shaft. “Fuck.”
He bit his lip before the ‘F’, drawing out the consonant. It was unbearably erotic.
Miles blinked and freed himself from his shock. This… this was not something he was intended to witness. Thankfully, Wright was so consumed in his activity that he hadn’t noticed Miles walking in. Therefore, he would take the opportunity given to him to save them both the embarrassment and walk back out of the office. He would then knock - loudly - giving Wright enough time to clean himself up and pretend he wasn't shamelessly jerking off in the middle of a workday. That was the plan.
Instead, the mylar bag slipped out from under his arm. It landed on the wooden floor with a SLAP!
Wright’s eyes flew open. His jaw dropped and his hand faltered between his legs. “Miles? Miles! Oh, fuck!”
His hips twitched, his back arched off the couch and he came, ejaculate shooting out between his fingers and on to -
on to the newspaper laid out on the coffee table in front of him. The newspaper with a front-page article about his, Miles Edgeworth’s, latest trial. Featuring a large, colour photograph of his face, now covered in a streak of Phoenix Wright's come.
“Miles! I m-mean Edgeworth! I didn't - the door was - should have been - fuck, let me do up my pants.”
“You will do no such thing.”
They both stopped. Wright stopped pulling at his fly. Miles stopped breathing because he had no idea where the command had come from but he'd been the one to say it; much like his behaviour during The State v. Powers, the words were yanked out of his mouth without his brain’s input.
Miles picked up Steel Samurai Stories. He walked across the room to the coffee table and put the book down. Wright followed the movements with his eyes and they widened in surprise when Miles plucked up the now despoiled edition of the LA Times and held it out to him.
“What is this?”
Wright's Adam’s apple bobbed. His hands clenched and unclenched on his knees, bunching up the cheap material of his slacks. He licked his lips and dropped his gaze.
“Ah, come on, Edgeworth -”
“From the evidence in front of me,” Miles tapped the newspaper somewhere around the headline, just high enough that he didn't disturb the disgusting mess spilled across the page, “it looks like you already have.” Wright’s head shot up again and their eyes met. Miles took another step closer, now within arm’s reach. “Clean it up.”
Wright shivered. His pupils were so dark, now, and glossy enough they made his eyes look wet. He shifted on the couch, bringing himself to the edge, and lapped at the come-stained paper Miles held out for him.
There was absolutely no attempt to hide the obscenity of what he was doing: he maintained eye contact, filtered through his top lashes, and licked over the spill in full strokes of his pink tongue. He made a choked moan. Brought his tongue into his mouth to swallow, and then he returned to the page with enthusiasm.
Miles was lightheaded. Drunk, on the sight of Phoenix Wright debasing himself right in front of him. “You slut,” he said, croaked, barely, with his throat tight with lust. “Is this what you wanted?” A whine from the other man, muffled by the newspaper. “Did you want me to discover you touching yourself and fuck you?”
“Yes, fuck, Miles. Please.” Phoenix’s face rested on the damp paper, his expression desperate, pleading. “Fuck me.”
“Why should I reward you?” Miles was unbuttoning his jacket, though, was moving on to the cuffs of his shirt. The newspaper was thrown aside, falling to the floor and scattering. “You’ve already pleasured yourself to my image. Perhaps,” he had his fly undone and his hand through his boxers, fuck, he was so hard, “perhaps I should be allowed the same, ah, opportunity.”
Phoenix gaped up at him in this beautiful, artless way, mouth hung loose on a slack jaw. The sight of Miles stroking his cock in front of him had apparently stunned him. Miles smirked. He squeezed the shaft and ran his hand up to the tip, rolling his palm over the head to gather the precome which had collected there. Down again, pressure and pleasure, but not slick enough still.
Miles cupped Phoenix’s chin with his spare hand, his fingers curling around his jaw. He skimmed his lower lip with his thumb and Phoenix gave it a cat-like lick, a flick of his tongue that sent heat shimmering down Miles’ spine.
Another brush of his thumb over Phoenix’s lip. “You look so good with your mouth open,” he told him, and pushed the thumb inside.
Immediately Phoenix sucked on the pad, drawing it further into his mouth. His lips sealed around the thumb and his tongue swirled over it, not disguising for a moment what sexual act he was simulating. Miles was transfixed by the sight, how brazen he was, how eager; they’d been dancing around each other for years and in the end it was almost too easy.
He removed his thumb and thrust two fingers into Phoenix’s mouth. Soon his hand was coated in saliva, a warm pool of it sitting in his palm and dripping on to his wrist. Miles took his fingers out and spread Phoenix’s spit over his dick; when he resumed stroking himself, the movements were lubricated, sliding in smooth motions that had him curling his toes.
Phoenix watched him like a starving man.
“You’re being terribly accomodating,” he sneered, scrambling for some composure even as he touched himself in front of an avid audience. “Do you do this to all the men who walk into your office?”
The thought of Phoenix with someone else was too sharp, too bright; it made his stomach churn in a horrible mix of arousal and anger. It made his blood turn molten and his dick throbbed in his grip. He worked himself harder, panting now as he felt the first sparks of an approaching orgasm.
“Miles,” Phoenix said, softly, and not without condescension, “you know it’s only ever been you.”
The words pulled the rug out from under him; he skipped the last step climbing the stairs and stumbled into his climax before he was ready. Pleasure burned through him, so intense it winded him and left him breathless. In hot pulses, he came on Phoenix’s face and oh, he thought, I should have warned him, I’m still a gentleman, damn it.
His orgasmed waned. Miles returned to his cold, clammy body. In front of him, Phoenix was painted in streaks of white. Ejaculate clung to his lips; had landed in his mouth and on the bridge of his nose. He swallowed and swiped at what he could with his tongue but the rest was out of reach.
Miles pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. “Here. I - uh, let me.” He carefully cleaned the excess away from Phoenix’ s skin, avoiding making eye contact even as he tilted his chin this way and that. “I apologise, for a great many things. Not least of all for finishing on your face without permission.”
“It’s fine,” Phoenix grinned. “Now we’re even.”
“Only if I’m polite enough to believe it's the first time you've done this.” With the come cleaned away, Miles was left with a disgusting cloth. He discarded it with a grimace, letting it fall onto a sheet of newspaper on the floor. “Regarding what you said…”
Phoenix dimmed somewhat, his bright demeanour shaded with doubt. “Miles - I - I didn't mean to make you - I should’ve -”
“You should have told me years ago,” Miles finished for him, firmly, case closed. “It would have been a lot less messy, and we could have kissed first.”
He emphasised this by holding Phoenix’s face in his hands again and kissing him deeply on the mouth.
Later, when Maya arrived back at the office, sheepish and with an apology boba tea in hand, she found the place empty, the mint condition Steel Samurai Stories Issue #1 on the coffee table, and the day’s newspaper curiously missing.