Work Text:
“You, or me, Lana. Which do you prefer?”
She sets the stack of papers on top of Edgeworth’s desk. “Paperwork. From our last case together.”
“This will take all night, Ms. Skye.” He seems to be considering a polite way to ask why this isn’t someone else’s responsibility. Then he sighs, and speaks again. “I suppose it’s best we get started.”
“I’ll make tea,” she says. He thanks her, and squints down at a folder. She stands and moves to the little area next to the door where Edgeworth has all sorts of loose leaf teas and carefully organized teacups. She recognizes the design printed on one of them. She may not spend much time with her sister nowadays, but she certainly recognizes one logo, and feels a peculiar mixture of fondness and nausea.
She looks to the door. Places her thumb on the switch of the electric kettle. Hovers her other hand over the deadbolt of the door. She glances back to Edgeworth.
He’s still hunched over in his office chair, focused on the paperwork before him.
Click.
The rest is easy enough. She prepares the pot. Waits for the water to boil. Pulls the packet from her jacket. Tries not to tap her foot. Carefully turns away the branded mug. Selects the pair of cups that they always use. Tries not to feel worse.
“Sugar? Milk?” she calls, over her shoulder. They’ve done this enough times, but she needs the motions.
“Mm, just a little,” he replies, distracted. He’s so studious, when he gets down to it; single-minded, hardworking. She opens the mini-fridge to grab the milk. Rumors of back-alley dealings would be dispersed overnight if anyone else saw him like this. She knows how much sugar he takes. More than he would admit. She mixes the powder in. Adds the milk. Turns back to him with the tray.
Click. The sound of her heels on the wooden flooring, now, too loud for the small room, and her ears, and her heart threatening to leap out of her chest.
She places the tray on his desk. Click. He picks his cup up without a second thought, brings it to his lips and scalds himself as he does, flinching. He only spills a little, onto his cravat. She tries not to look too fondly at him as she passes on a handkerchief from her pocket. He smiles weakly at her.
“Thank you, Lana. For the tea. And the handkerchief.”
“Of course.” She selects a pile of papers, settles down on the couch, and pulls out a pen.
Click.
It takes about an hour for Edgeworth to start feeling the effects. Precisely as planned. She wanted this to feel natural. So that he wouldn’t be suspicious, later. So that she wouldn’t—
His head is drooping at his desk, his delicate eyelashes keep rising and falling as he tries to focus.
“Edgeworth,” she calls. Then, softer. “Miles.”
He looks up, blinking, fighting himself still.
“I’m sorry. Did you say something? I can’t… I can’t seem to…” His head droops again. She puts a hand on his shoulder to stop him from slamming his face into a pile of still-wet ink.
“You’re falling asleep. Let me take you home.”
“No, no… we’ve got… there’s work, to be done.” She knew he’d say that. Her stomach twists.
“To the couch then, at least. I’ll wake you up in an hour. Your work will be useless when you’re this tired.”
He nods, weakly, and allows her to put an arm around his waist and lead him to the couch. He’s so frail, barely bigger than her. Gant wouldn’t have needed such deception. He’d be strong enough to do this on his own. She thinks of Edgeworth, her precious subordinate, struggling and crying underneath Gant as he’d force himself onto him. It would look like it hurt, but it wouldn’t. It would feel good. Gant had a way of making things like that happen. She knew that from experience.
But Edgeworth’d cry anyway. It’d hurt his heart .
Better this way, she repeats to herself. If she gets wet at the thought, that’s for the best too. It’ll make it easier on both of them.
He shrugs his suit jacket off, loosens the cravat about his neck. She helps with his shoes. He might as well be comfortable. He sighs, heavily. His words are barely intelligible.
“‘Sank you, Lana… Mizz… Skye,” drugged, drowsy, words slipping from his mouth like syrup. She has the sudden urge to kiss him, and bites her lip. “I’unno… sorry… ’sank you…”
She waits—perhaps another five minutes—and listens to him breathe, steady and even. His face is a little flushed. She brushes his bangs from his brow, but he doesn’t stir.
“Miles,” she says. No response. Then, a little louder. “Miles.”
She lowers the light on his desk lamp. His cravat is easy enough to pull the rest of the way off; she folds it neatly and places it aside, a patch of white against walnut. She doesn’t fancy undressing him fully; his trousers are removed only to prevent suspicious stains.
She knows how easy it is to get a man hard like this. Edgeworth is no exception. Even in his drugged sleep, his cock twitches to life in her hands and mouth, hot and warm and heavy. She wonders how he’d respond if he were awake; flustered and unsure of what to do with his hands. He’d touch her hair lightly, apologize when he pulls too hard out of shock. He might cry if he made her gag. She thinks about how he compares to Gant. She doubts he could make her gag.
She pinches herself.
By the time she’s done, he’s still asleep, a fairytale prince, waiting for true love’s kiss to save him from the horrible enchantress who’s cursed him like this. Part of her hopes he’ll wake up, hopes he’ll see her guilt and allow her to cast it all aside. Would he understand? Would he forgive her? She thinks of the way he looks up at her with barely concealed pride when he’s made a particularly astute observation, waiting like a dog for a treat.
She swallows. She did bring lubricant. Just in case. She doesn’t need it. She removes her stockings, pulls her lace underwear aside and slides down onto him, effortlessly. She listens for the hitch in his breath, for a moan, but all she can hear is her own sigh of relief in his quiet office. How long has it been? How long since Gant—
She shakes her head. No. No. I can’t. Can’t think—
She raises her hips, slams them down. She feels empty, barely stimulated, but she tries again, faster this time, rolling her hips and moaning quietly for—for who, exactly? Edgeworth's not waking up. All she has is herself, here, no one to please, just her poor defenseless subordinate to use like an oversized dildo. Undersized. Fuck.
Fuck. It’s not enough. It’s not nearly enough, it’s not the same, why did he make her do this, why—
She picks up the pace again, harder, faster, desperate for more stimulation. She overcorrects and his cock slides out of her and sobs at the lack of contact, unsatisfying as it is. She wishes she could just grind her clit against him, sit on his face and use his mouth until she comes, but this isn't about her, it's not about her orgasm, Gant wants proof, proof that the deed has been done, that she's gone and defiled silly little virgin Worthy, that she's—
Lana feels lost in time, hoping for Edgeworth to fucking come and she isn’t even close, sweating and crying and uselessly rubbing her clit, hoping to get any pleasure out of this act, this violence upon someone who doesn’t even know. Who frowns at everyone else but smiles at her, who shivers with delight when he’s praised, who truly believes in justice and righting wrongs, overzealous though he may be, and foolish, and too too young for all of this.
She wishes they'd done it together, after all. Maybe she'd have been able to convince him to keep Edgeworth drugged and unaware. The promise of Gant behind her, his hands on her shoulder, her chest, his lips leaving bruising marks on her neck that she'll have to keep covering, just like she does every day. She could come like that, just with Gant in the room, touching her, watching her do this horrible thing.
“I don't know about this, Lana dear,” he'd say, and stand next to her, the shock of white on his bare chest gleaming in the low light. “Worthy's mouth looks pretty lonely to me.”
“Please, Damon,” she'd beg, and let her mouth hang open, wet and drooling and pathetic. “Please.”
“You little slut. You can't have everything to yourself. You've got to learn to share, my dear.”
“Please, please, please,“ she'd beg, and as she thinks it she realizes she's saying it, painfully loud against the sound of her own cunt sliding against Edgeworth's abused cock. She slides him back inside and nearly screams as she touches herself again, thinking fuck it, fuck it, fuck it as she thinks about Gant holding her down, using her mouth, making her choke on it: she thinks about his cock bulging in Edgeworth’s stomach as he sobs and comes untouched, she thinks about Gant's cologne, his hands around her throat, around Edgeworth's throat, around her waist forcing her down impaled on his cock and screaming, screaming, screaming—
She comes. Somewhere, in the fog, she feels him come too.
She sucks him clean, out of habit; replaces his pants, gathers her things. She places his jacket over his still-sleeping form. His eyelashes flutter, and he rolls over onto his side.
She unlocks the door. Exits. Locks it behind her.
Click.
It’s late, when she returns to Gant’s home (a quick text to Ema, sorry, I won’t be home tonight, don’t worry, I’ll sleep in my office, you know I’ve got the pull-out couch), but Gant is waiting up for her, nursing a glass of whiskey, his glasses illuminated in the blue glow of the television screen. He smiles when she walks in the door, and pats the spot on the couch next to him.
She doesn’t lock the door behind her. She throws her heels aside, peels her stockings off and throws herself at him, kissing him fiercely. He chuckles, tasting of bitter-sweet liquor, and slides his hand up her leg. He turns his head back to the TV, where some rerun of an old police procedural is playing.
“Damon,” she pleads, guiding his hand to her dampened panties. Gant fingers her open, aimlessly, not even looking at her as she gasps and cries and clings to his neck. He chuckles.
“Worthy not up to the task? You poor thing, Lana.” Lana whimpers as he pulls his fingers out to examine them. “He certainly kept you filled! Backed up, I’m sure.”
“Please,” she whines, shivering with need. “Damon.”
He holds her by the waist, leans her away from him. She almost cries out again—no, no, that’s the opposite of what she wants!—then he presses his fingers to her lips.
“Be a good girl, Lana. You’ll get what you need, I promise you that.” His index, then his middle— God, his fingers are huge, this is what I need, not that pathetic thing—pressing to the back of her throat. She gags, once, twice, then accepts what she’s offered with a moan. She can taste herself. She can taste Edgeworth. She can taste Gant, strong, and powerful, and everything will be okay if she just does what she says and doesn’t think, not about herself, not about Ema, not about Edgeworth—
She can almost avoid tasting the guilt. He turns off the TV as he leans forward to kiss her again.
Click.