damned_institute | Nightshift 39: M91-M100 Hallway

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Nightshift 39: M91-M100 Hallway

"Of all the accursed...why did they have to place his quarters at such a distance from mine!"

Starscream continued to look over his map angrily; shining his artificial light upon the paper clipped into the cover of his notebook, he once again traced the two possible routes needed to get to Lockdown's room. "One is far longer...but potentially safer," he groaned, sliding his finger down the halls, across the large entry way, and back up to his destination. "The other...it takes me to the "soccer/recreational field". That's where that 'meta-bitch' 'Richard' mentioned was, the one who could made extreme cold. On the other hand, it IS shorter..." Closing the book with a sigh, he weighed his options carefully.

Laziness won out.

"As long as I am careful...I might avoid confrontation tonight," he reasoned. Clutching his book, a few pens, and the flashlight tightly, he made his way down to the M-C Block hallway.

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Phoenix leaned into the kiss harder than even he expected to - it was firmness or melting into insensibility at those words, and he chose the former. Relief snaked down his spine at the familiar retreat into that world that was nothing but the ordered chaos of tongues and lips and teeth, the almost-familiar taste of another mouth.

There'd been a time when he had barely been able to imagine himself so knowledgeable and sure here, organizing rescue parties and charging through darkened hallways full of monsters. It was the same time when he hadn't been able to imagine kissing Miles Edgeworth, or being allowed to kiss him. Those certainties, little less than a week old, seemed ancient and fragile now, fossils of strange and simple creatures.

Being kissed held an immediacy that was soothing - no past recrimination, no future threat, no questions, no evasion. He half-turned into the embrace, hands moving on autopilot to brace him against the solidity of a hip and a thigh.

Edited 2009-03-21 03:16 (UTC)

There were times when actions spoke volumes more than words ever could, and this was one of those times. Miles was almost regretting not doing this sooner, rather than slipping into the kind of speech that was far more suited to Phoenix than it was to himself. It was easier to pull the other closer, move a hand to the back of his neck and let his fingers curl in that dark hair.

It was easier still to lean further into the kiss, sliding his tongue past Phoenix's lips, making a soft, pleased noise as he did so. There was a touch of possessiveness in that noise, too - as if he were saying 'you're mine and I will never let you go'.

This was probably the only thing that made Phoenix admit to himself, if only briefly, that being stuck in a place without hair gel might not have been entirely bad. He turned his head into the hand, just enough to press that pressure harder against his scalp, permissive and prodding at once. His mind wandered in close, idle little circles, but didn't trouble itself much for the moment beyond things like the the stitching under his thumb, or the way that noise made him wish he was in better shape to just grab Miles' lapels in both hands and flatten him back against the bed.

(I . . . kissed you then? he'd never found a chance or a way to ask. Some maniac just finished experimenting on and torturing you, your dead dad was talking in your head, and I decided that then was the perfect time to make out? He was glad now, that he'd never had the opportunity to utter those words. It was the kind of thing that was hard to explain, and besides, he just would have felt stupid now.)

He leaned a little closer into the embrace, past a point he was sure would have made the room wobble around him again if he hadn't been held so solidly, giving a low murmur of approving encouragement.

Trauma leads us to this every time. I...don't know what that says about us, or our need for an adrenaline rush or....something before this starts...

Then Phoenix let out that murmur and all those thoughts were gone. Whatever it said about them didn't matter now - it seemed to be their way of saying what couldn't be said, or comforting each other when that seemed impossible. It was hard to explain it. He broke away, breathlessly whispering, "Lie back, Phoenix. Let me take care of you tonight. You've been through hell, and thinking about it more won't help."

He silenced any protests by tossing his suit jacket over a chair, then pulling him into another tight embrace and kissing him hard. As he did, Miles slowly, carefully began lowering Phoenix down against the pillows.

The way that command was voiced, quiet but no less insistent, banished whatever absolutely idiotic thought of disagreement might have danced through Phoenix's mind otherwise. A brief thrill, all breathless anticipation, sparked down toward the root of his spine at the unspoken implications. Putting back an elbow, he let himself sink back to the bed, breaking from the kiss long enough to settle back comfortably.

"You're sure?" was the closest he came to a protest, whispered uncertainly as he reached to undo the cravat a little more easily than the last time he'd tried. It wasn't as if he was helpless - a little drugged, sure, unsteady and prone to sudden uncontrollable headaches and vertigo and fits of moodiness without warning. But still.

"Just stop me if you're not feeling up to anything," he answered, settling into position over Phoenix. A little spark of excitement settled into the pit of his stomach as he ran his left hand over his side. "God, you..." He didn't finish the sentence, nuzzling into the hollow between his neck and shoulder and nipping at a tendon, then trailing kisses up his neck and to his lips, sighing as he did.

The attention was nice, but the eagerness was what made Phoenix briefly dizzy in a way he only wanted more of. At home and left to his own devices, he would have demanded aspirin, a nap, a long shower, hair product, and a toothbrush before he'd even let anyone talk to him, let alone do something like this. But Miles had made it clear that he didn't give a damn that Phoenix had spent the better part of the night anxious and sweating, and that he still probably wouldn't trust himself to move faster than a moderate walk. He still said 'you' like that, with such clear appreciation, and Phoenix smiled to himself and turned into the kiss eagerly.

It wasn't so much that Miles didn't completely understand - it was that he did. It was all too easy to fall into a restless sleep, full of nightmares, and those few nights in the infirmary a while back had been filled with those. It wasn't a fate he'd wish on anyone.

Besides that...there had been a night only a few nights ago where the tables had been turned. Normally he'd have demanded medical attention, a shower, a toothbrush, and several cups of tea before the subject could even be broached, but Phoenix had been the persistent one, or so he remembered. So...you might call this payback for what had happened. Though that didn't really matter.

The only thing that did was how enthusiastically Phoenix had turned into the kiss, and he returned it with just as much, if not more, enthusiasm.

It was easy to lose himself in kissing Edgeworth, though tonight he didn't do much more than take the pace and match it, opening himself to advances greedily. The attention that might have gone toward competition turned toward things that wouldn't sent pain blooming out behind his eyes again, and in short order the rest of the buttons on that vest were undone, along with half of the ones on his shirt. He paused to grasp the open edges, one of the buttons digging into his left palm as he broke from the kiss and pulled Miles over him, pressing his mouth to the other man's throat.

"When we get out of here . . ." he finally breathed, lips still brushing skin, in a tone that would have been a threat at any other time.

Miles hummed a low note of approval at that half-statement breathed into his ear. "When we get out of here...?" he asked, pulling at the hem of Phoenix's shirt and tugging it upwards. "What then, hm?"

At any other time, that tone of voice would have been the same one that indicated his opponent was being led into a trap. Now, it was something else, curiosity and something else, something that sent a shiver down his own spine.

"When we get out of here-" he ducked out of the shirt carefully, then went back to work, undoing a button at a time as he continued in a low, grinning voice. Miles wanted to hear this, and he wanted to say it. There was nothing in the world that was simpler.

"When that day comes, we are going to be safe. We are going to have a door that locks. We are going to have a bed that was actually meant for two people." He spoke in short, certain sentences, as if he were outlining an argument, or explaining a situation that had already happened long ago. "And on a regular basis, I am going to lock that door, and I am going to get you on that bed, and the world will not be ending, but Miles Edgeworth, I'm going to fuck you like it is." He arched under the caress of hands, shamelessly, thinking only of how good it felt to be needed. To speak with this kind of conviction and be believed. To know that he hadn't bent the truth once. "That's a promise."

He took a moment to finish those damnable buttons, throw that carefully starched shirt and vest - and with it, any and all remaining caution - to the wind. There was a part that wanted to answer that with more kisses, with hands that went moving everywhere that they could, with a half-cried 'yes', but he held on to that last little bit of self-restraint he had left, and grinned down at Phoenix.

"Not if I lock that door first," he said, running his left hand up his chest, "get you on that bed..." Miles leaned down, just centimeters away from those lips, and whispered, "and fuck you as if the world were ending."

He didn't give Phoenix a chance to respond, kissing him hard and beginning to move his hips against his.

Whatever Phoenix might have responded with was muffled against Edgeworth's mouth. That didn't matter much, since even if it had been words it now wasn't much more than inarticulate surprise and pleasure. He pressed his eyes shut tighter briefly, stopping as soon as he was bluntly reminded of how bad an idea that was, but any other adverse response was quickly washed away by the confusion of fumbling hands finding a spine, an ass, half-formed inner monologue of oh God these pants leave nothing to the imagination do they.

Edited 2009-03-22 13:40 (UTC)

Miles groaned down into the kiss. He shouldn't have been the one feeling dizzy, but the feel of Phoenix's hands on him, and that friction between them was enough to make his head spin.

He broke away only to trail kisses up the curve of Phoenix's jaw and let his tongue trace the shell of his ear, and breathed out what was more of a stream of consciousness than a fully formed thought: "I...love you, want you..."

Phoenix turned his head in open invitation, impulsively kissing the hard-tendoned pillar of the forearm braced beside his head, tongue laving the subtle warmth of his wrist. There was sweat on his skin - it suited the words in his ear too well, twisted the desire into something stranger and deeper.

"You've got me." There were too many meanings the panted, barely-audible phrase could have held: reassurance, desire, appreciation, surrender. It blurred somewhere in the middle of all of them, and only grew clearer on the second try. "You've got me," he murmured, and whatever that tone was, it clenched in his throat almost before he could finish.

Edited 2009-03-24 01:42 (UTC)

There wasn't an immediate answer, other than trying not to let the emotion of the moment catch him too much. This wasn't the time to break down - even if there had been so much tension that night that it was hard not to after that. I guess this is why we end up like this so often when something bad happens. It's either that or break down completely. And I think we'd both rather wind up in bed than wind up crying somewhere.

Miles inhaled and exhaled slowly, kissing at the spot just under Phoenix's ear. He didn't - couldn't - say anything before turning his head up and bringing the hand that was on his shoulder up to his cheek. In the end, the answer was a single word that tried to convey a dozen mixed-up emotions: "Good."

All of the impulses that should have been at odds just weren't, and it was all too easy to move under Miles again so soon after that reply. Phoenix didn't answer - he wasn't sure he could, not like he'd want to - but he didn't need to speak to sense the brief slowing, the pause that could be coaxed into reaction. He sank into the reassurance of that word and let his hands press on their own, let his spine bow and bend on instinct, and turned his head to catch Miles' mouth again.

For a moment, in the stillness, it had been too easy for Phoenix to imagine a lapse back into what they'd just left - the uneasy, concerned quiet, the strange space between them that touching still didn't banish. There was a comfort in the certainty that remained, sunk right into his bones, and his fingers hooked against the ridged hardness of Miles' spine, as if to unearth the matching sureness he knew was there.

[moving to new entry in

damned_bedrooms]

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