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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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.

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