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[Fic] PW, "Paradox"
So I guess it's time to start posting my kinkmeme stuff!
Title: Paradox
Words: 2,335
Pairing: Edgeworth/Edgeworth, slight background Phoenix/Edgeworth
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Wherein Miles Edgeworth needs to get laid so badly, he breaks time.
Warnings: Doppelganger sex.
Prompt: "Time travel featuring Older Edgeworth/Younger (case 3-4) Edgeworth. Younger Edgeworth finds the other man in his office, and neither of them knows why this is happening. Younger Edgeworth is confused and agitated; older Edgeworth calmly strips down while explaining that this has happened before (back when he was his age), and the sooner they get this incident over with the sooner things can get back to normal."
There was no reason for it to have happened.
No matter how thoroughly he would later examine the day's events, how deeply he would scrutinize every detail of what he had done from morning to evening, not a single thing would strike him as an aberration. Court had been infuriating, but it often was. He had had far too little sleep, but that was the story of his life; and when the words has started blurring and his head spinning at only 4:30, it was nothing that hadn't happened before after too many nightmares. That was why he had the couch in his office, in all truth and honesty - he would suffer visitors to sit on it, but it was there for his rest. (Catnaps on his desk meant a sore neck when he woke, and on one humiliating occasion he'd drooled on important paperwork. Besides, if anyone were to come in, which of course they would not, at least being found asleep on the couch looked planned; sleeping on one's desk resembled only laziness.) When he had shed his heavy, richly embroidered coat and vest and crawled onto his couch to sleep, it had been just a part of daily routine.
There was no good explanation, then, for what transpired.
And yet, it went on nonetheless.
-
The first thing he noticed was the dark. Miles groaned softly to himself, clenching his teeth in irritation. He'd only meant for a few hours; the light had been lowering when he'd laid down, but not near sunset yet. Who knew how long he'd been asleep? If they'd locked him in the office again, someone's salary was going to feel it, that was for sure...
The second thing he noticed was the writing.
Half-rested indignation melted away, as Miles became instantly, sharply alert. The soft scratching of the pen continued as he listened in tense silence, staring at his ceiling and half afraid to move. The sound did not belong there.
This is my office.
Slowly, he drew himself up to sit. Whoever was using his desk had only the single desk lamp on; seated on the couch, he was still under cover of darkness. If he was careful enough, maybe he wouldn't alert the intruder before he could learn their identity--
He froze.
The man sitting at his desk did not act out of place. With his grey hair brushed back, long bangs tucked behind his ears, white linen sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he sifted through a stack of papers, he looked quite comfortable, really. He navigated Miles's desk with the ease of long familiarity, and seemed quite calmly absorbed in his work, unaware of Miles's hard, disbelieving stare.
...This is my office.
There was, of course, still the little matter of the man's identity. Miles was going to have to ask; hopefully it was someone whose salary he could cut, because honestly, the sheer audacity of it. Entering his workspace unbidden was one thing, using his desk quite another, but doing all this while clearly having enlisted the help of a theatre makeup artist or five to look exactly like him, albeit perhaps a few years older, was quite another thing entirely. Such irreverent shenanigans simply could not be tolerated in the Prosecutor's Office, and Miles would see to it that the perpetrator didn't soon fancy another such joke.
It was at this time that the man finished. Squaring a stack of papers, he calmly and efficiently clipped them together, placed them to the side, and then leaned back in his chair, groaning quietly as he rubbed a seemingly stiff neck. (Serves you right, Miles thought, and that's only the beginning - impersonating a prosecutor, going through his confidential paperwork, oh, I will have you in jail until--)
The man's gaze fell on him.
Miles had enough time to realize, utterly bewildered, how very much those eyes looked like his own, before the man spoke.
In Miles's voice, he said "Oh, hell."
Miles's mind, lacking a better coping mechanism, went entirely blank.
For his part, the intruder had the gall to sigh and massage his temples, as though he were the one inconvenienced in this situation. When he looked up again, he glowered as if Miles were doing him a personal insult by not having vanished.
"I didn't need this tonight, you know," he said. "I did have plans. Could it not possibly have been any other night?"
"You're the one in my office," said Miles, finally finding his voice. It was momentarily jarring, though, to hear himself after the intruder. Clearly the man was an uncanny actor.
"This is your office only in the most abstract sense," the intruder said, and leaned back in his chair to glare at the ceiling. A small part of Miles's mind couldn't help noticing that it was of a different design than the one he himself used. Had the impostor swapped chairs, then? "Technically, it's mine."
"There is no abstraction here whatsoever," Miles said hotly, rising to his feet. (Why would they change chairs? For that matter, assuming there was a reason, how had he slept through the commotion?) "You are in my office, sitting at my desk - and - and you are wearing my face!"
(Come to that, now that his eyes were adjusting to the dark, all through the office things seemed - just a little different, a little more settled...)
"Oh, for God's sake--"
The impostor rose up abruptly. In the split second before his face left the lamplight, he met Miles's eyes with a look that strangely resembled... pity? "Let's just get this over with."
"Get what over with?" Miles scowled. "Your arrest? By all means, if you're so eager to expedite--"
The impostor was untying his cravat.
"You do deserve an explanation," he said, into the stunned silence. "Unfortunately, I am... unequipped to tell you why, or even how, this is happening." With the silk unknotted, the impostor laid it down on the desk; he moved on to the buttons of his vest, brisk and businesslike. Miles was transfixed, staring in confused horror. "But I can tell you what I do know."
The vest came open and was shrugged off onto the chair. The activity inside Miles's head was rapidly ceasing to resemble coherent thought as much as the product of slamming one's hand down on a keyboard.
"The strangest thing happened to me seven years ago, you see," the impostor went on, his tone perfectly calm and almost conversational. "I had laid down for a short rest in my office, only to wake up and discover, sitting at my desk, a man that looked exactly like me."
His shirt was hanging open, now, exposing a flat, smooth chest that was both eerily familiar and confusingly enticing, and Miles couldn't figure out which of those horrified him more. As the man stepped around the desk and began to approach him, dress shoes clicking on the wood floor, they quickly tied for second place.
"I was, of course, bewildered. And angry. And it only became stranger when he began to disrobe in front of me." They were less than a foot apart, suddenly. How had that happened? Miles was fairly sure he had meant to retreat. But his legs seemed to have ignored the command altogether. Staring at the man's face, Miles found that same expression from before - not quite pity, but something softer. "He told me that the same thing had happened to him when he was my age. And then... he told me how he had ended it then."
"And... h... how was that?" It was cringingly awkward, but under the circumstances Miles had to congratulate himself for managing any response at all.
"According to him, for this absurdity to end and for us to resume our normal lives, we would need to lie together."
The man had said it so briskly and matter-of-factly that, for a moment, Miles didn't even register what he had said.
"What?"
"It wasn't my idea," the other said, suddenly scowling. "Listen, you have a trial in the morning and I have someplace to be tonight. Can we just get on with it?"
-
"You are not," Miles gasped, "honestly expecting me to believe that you're--"
The other man - the other Miles - lifted his head momentarily, continuing to roll his thumb firmly over the younger man's nipple. Miles let out a breathy little groan.
"If you've come up with a satisfying alternative explanation..."
"I'm hallucinating," Miles ground out. "I haven't slept right for years and it's finally catching up with me. This is all a figment of my imagination, just a very intensaaAAHH!"
"Then lie back and enjoy your psychotic break," the other Miles growled softly, and drew his tongue over the nipple he had just pinched.
If Miles was going to be honest with himself (and if Miles was being honest with himself) it was, after chalking the whole thing up to mental illness, the most logical explanation. The similarities were too great to dismiss; seven years' difference would easily account for the tired lines on the other man's face; and Miles was fairly sure that nobody who had anything to hide would throw out as ridiculous an excuse as time travel. Certainly he wouldn't have dared say it himself if it weren't apparently true.
Still, the thought that he was lying on his office couch, half of his clothes discarded, engaged in foreplay with his seven-years-older self, remained entirely too surreal to get his brain around in one go.
Miles moaned and tried to follow his own advice, as one hand trailed down his bare chest and cupped the growing bulge in his pants. He clutched at the other's shoulders, bucking his hips upward against the maddening touch.
It was the most unsettling sensation Miles could have imagined, as his doppelganger unzipped his pants and drew him out. That was - it was his own hand, touching and stroking with unsettling familiarity. The whole situation was almost more unnerving than arousing. Even under the skilled ministrations of the doppelganger's hand, he was oddly slow to harden.
"It's too strange," he groaned. "It'saaah God I can't believe I'm losing my virginity to myself--"
"For what it's worth, I've never counted this," the other Miles murmured against his neck.
Miles tangled his fingers in the other's loose-hanging dress shirt and moaned, pushing his hips towards that hand.
(Seven years from now, would he be the man poised above him now, braced on arm and knee against the couch and watching himself flushed and panting? Would he be the one stroking so deftly, the younger man's cock now fully erect in his hand--)
"G-give," he stuttered, "give me--" Suddenly frustrated with words, he thrust his arm down between them, fumbling with the other Miles's zipper and shoving his hand in. He was oddly relieved to find his doppelganger already erect; the other man groaned tightly, drawing it out to a gasp as Miles squeezed lightly and began to stroke.
This can't be difficult... I know what I like, this is essentially just masturbation...
And yet, as the older man sat back, drawing Miles up with him until they sat facing each other on the couch, their legs in a hopeless tangle, Miles came to the gradual, sinking realization that he was outclassed. It was hard to gauge, without being able to feel it himself, just what touches made the man's eyes flutter like that, what drew thin breathy moans from him, and what just fell flat; and as thickly as the building pleasure fogged his mind, he was becoming painfully aware of how clumsy and inept his own attempts were, against the expert caress that was driving him mad...
"Yyuh-- you've been with someone," he gasped.
"Yes," the other Miles hissed, his hips bucking slightly into Miles's hand.
"Who... who is--"
"I can't - nnngh - can't tell you that..."
Miles could feel his orgasm building, slowly but surely and it wouldn't be much longer, and a sudden panic rose in him. He didn't want to return just yet, not with this question unanswered--
"Teh-- tell me... at least..." It was threatening to overwhelm him, his doppelganger's touch relentless, and he forced the words out: "Are-- are you happy with him?"
For the first time since they'd begun, the other Miles met his eyes.
"The happiest I've ever been," he whispered, curling one hand around to caress Miles's cheek.
Miles stared at his doppelganger for a moment that lasted years, before shuddering helplessly as his climax overtook him.
-
It happened as abruptly as Miles remembered.
Even though he'd mulled over the memory for months afterward - striving to uncover the moment where the impossibility ended and reality began again - it still took him by surprise: his hand suddenly empty, the warm, younger body suddenly gone.
"...Well," he said to the empty air.
He felt an odd pang of sympathy for his younger self. The memory returned, with painful acuteness: suddenly alone as he came down from his peak, disoriented and confused, clothes stained with his own semen. He'd had no idea for seven years just what that had all been about.
Indeed, he'd been sure it could only have been a bizarre and vivid erotic dream. Until tonight.
Shaking himself back to the present, Miles calmly collected his clothes and his briefcase and left the office. The halls were fortunately empty as he locked his door and hurried to the bathroom to clean up and finish himself off.
He emerged from the bathroom perfectly neat and ordered; no one who saw Miles Edgeworth that night would be given any indication of his previous activity.
Which was all for the best, he thought, as he made his way to the parking garage. He had a dinner date tonight, after all, and there were some things Wright just didn't need to know.
Title: Paradox
Words: 2,335
Pairing: Edgeworth/Edgeworth, slight background Phoenix/Edgeworth
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Wherein Miles Edgeworth needs to get laid so badly, he breaks time.
Warnings: Doppelganger sex.
Prompt: "Time travel featuring Older Edgeworth/Younger (case 3-4) Edgeworth. Younger Edgeworth finds the other man in his office, and neither of them knows why this is happening. Younger Edgeworth is confused and agitated; older Edgeworth calmly strips down while explaining that this has happened before (back when he was his age), and the sooner they get this incident over with the sooner things can get back to normal."
There was no reason for it to have happened.
No matter how thoroughly he would later examine the day's events, how deeply he would scrutinize every detail of what he had done from morning to evening, not a single thing would strike him as an aberration. Court had been infuriating, but it often was. He had had far too little sleep, but that was the story of his life; and when the words has started blurring and his head spinning at only 4:30, it was nothing that hadn't happened before after too many nightmares. That was why he had the couch in his office, in all truth and honesty - he would suffer visitors to sit on it, but it was there for his rest. (Catnaps on his desk meant a sore neck when he woke, and on one humiliating occasion he'd drooled on important paperwork. Besides, if anyone were to come in, which of course they would not, at least being found asleep on the couch looked planned; sleeping on one's desk resembled only laziness.) When he had shed his heavy, richly embroidered coat and vest and crawled onto his couch to sleep, it had been just a part of daily routine.
There was no good explanation, then, for what transpired.
And yet, it went on nonetheless.
-
The first thing he noticed was the dark. Miles groaned softly to himself, clenching his teeth in irritation. He'd only meant for a few hours; the light had been lowering when he'd laid down, but not near sunset yet. Who knew how long he'd been asleep? If they'd locked him in the office again, someone's salary was going to feel it, that was for sure...
The second thing he noticed was the writing.
Half-rested indignation melted away, as Miles became instantly, sharply alert. The soft scratching of the pen continued as he listened in tense silence, staring at his ceiling and half afraid to move. The sound did not belong there.
This is my office.
Slowly, he drew himself up to sit. Whoever was using his desk had only the single desk lamp on; seated on the couch, he was still under cover of darkness. If he was careful enough, maybe he wouldn't alert the intruder before he could learn their identity--
He froze.
The man sitting at his desk did not act out of place. With his grey hair brushed back, long bangs tucked behind his ears, white linen sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he sifted through a stack of papers, he looked quite comfortable, really. He navigated Miles's desk with the ease of long familiarity, and seemed quite calmly absorbed in his work, unaware of Miles's hard, disbelieving stare.
...This is my office.
There was, of course, still the little matter of the man's identity. Miles was going to have to ask; hopefully it was someone whose salary he could cut, because honestly, the sheer audacity of it. Entering his workspace unbidden was one thing, using his desk quite another, but doing all this while clearly having enlisted the help of a theatre makeup artist or five to look exactly like him, albeit perhaps a few years older, was quite another thing entirely. Such irreverent shenanigans simply could not be tolerated in the Prosecutor's Office, and Miles would see to it that the perpetrator didn't soon fancy another such joke.
It was at this time that the man finished. Squaring a stack of papers, he calmly and efficiently clipped them together, placed them to the side, and then leaned back in his chair, groaning quietly as he rubbed a seemingly stiff neck. (Serves you right, Miles thought, and that's only the beginning - impersonating a prosecutor, going through his confidential paperwork, oh, I will have you in jail until--)
The man's gaze fell on him.
Miles had enough time to realize, utterly bewildered, how very much those eyes looked like his own, before the man spoke.
In Miles's voice, he said "Oh, hell."
Miles's mind, lacking a better coping mechanism, went entirely blank.
For his part, the intruder had the gall to sigh and massage his temples, as though he were the one inconvenienced in this situation. When he looked up again, he glowered as if Miles were doing him a personal insult by not having vanished.
"I didn't need this tonight, you know," he said. "I did have plans. Could it not possibly have been any other night?"
"You're the one in my office," said Miles, finally finding his voice. It was momentarily jarring, though, to hear himself after the intruder. Clearly the man was an uncanny actor.
"This is your office only in the most abstract sense," the intruder said, and leaned back in his chair to glare at the ceiling. A small part of Miles's mind couldn't help noticing that it was of a different design than the one he himself used. Had the impostor swapped chairs, then? "Technically, it's mine."
"There is no abstraction here whatsoever," Miles said hotly, rising to his feet. (Why would they change chairs? For that matter, assuming there was a reason, how had he slept through the commotion?) "You are in my office, sitting at my desk - and - and you are wearing my face!"
(Come to that, now that his eyes were adjusting to the dark, all through the office things seemed - just a little different, a little more settled...)
"Oh, for God's sake--"
The impostor rose up abruptly. In the split second before his face left the lamplight, he met Miles's eyes with a look that strangely resembled... pity? "Let's just get this over with."
"Get what over with?" Miles scowled. "Your arrest? By all means, if you're so eager to expedite--"
The impostor was untying his cravat.
"You do deserve an explanation," he said, into the stunned silence. "Unfortunately, I am... unequipped to tell you why, or even how, this is happening." With the silk unknotted, the impostor laid it down on the desk; he moved on to the buttons of his vest, brisk and businesslike. Miles was transfixed, staring in confused horror. "But I can tell you what I do know."
The vest came open and was shrugged off onto the chair. The activity inside Miles's head was rapidly ceasing to resemble coherent thought as much as the product of slamming one's hand down on a keyboard.
"The strangest thing happened to me seven years ago, you see," the impostor went on, his tone perfectly calm and almost conversational. "I had laid down for a short rest in my office, only to wake up and discover, sitting at my desk, a man that looked exactly like me."
His shirt was hanging open, now, exposing a flat, smooth chest that was both eerily familiar and confusingly enticing, and Miles couldn't figure out which of those horrified him more. As the man stepped around the desk and began to approach him, dress shoes clicking on the wood floor, they quickly tied for second place.
"I was, of course, bewildered. And angry. And it only became stranger when he began to disrobe in front of me." They were less than a foot apart, suddenly. How had that happened? Miles was fairly sure he had meant to retreat. But his legs seemed to have ignored the command altogether. Staring at the man's face, Miles found that same expression from before - not quite pity, but something softer. "He told me that the same thing had happened to him when he was my age. And then... he told me how he had ended it then."
"And... h... how was that?" It was cringingly awkward, but under the circumstances Miles had to congratulate himself for managing any response at all.
"According to him, for this absurdity to end and for us to resume our normal lives, we would need to lie together."
The man had said it so briskly and matter-of-factly that, for a moment, Miles didn't even register what he had said.
"What?"
"It wasn't my idea," the other said, suddenly scowling. "Listen, you have a trial in the morning and I have someplace to be tonight. Can we just get on with it?"
-
"You are not," Miles gasped, "honestly expecting me to believe that you're--"
The other man - the other Miles - lifted his head momentarily, continuing to roll his thumb firmly over the younger man's nipple. Miles let out a breathy little groan.
"If you've come up with a satisfying alternative explanation..."
"I'm hallucinating," Miles ground out. "I haven't slept right for years and it's finally catching up with me. This is all a figment of my imagination, just a very intensaaAAHH!"
"Then lie back and enjoy your psychotic break," the other Miles growled softly, and drew his tongue over the nipple he had just pinched.
If Miles was going to be honest with himself (and if Miles was being honest with himself) it was, after chalking the whole thing up to mental illness, the most logical explanation. The similarities were too great to dismiss; seven years' difference would easily account for the tired lines on the other man's face; and Miles was fairly sure that nobody who had anything to hide would throw out as ridiculous an excuse as time travel. Certainly he wouldn't have dared say it himself if it weren't apparently true.
Still, the thought that he was lying on his office couch, half of his clothes discarded, engaged in foreplay with his seven-years-older self, remained entirely too surreal to get his brain around in one go.
Miles moaned and tried to follow his own advice, as one hand trailed down his bare chest and cupped the growing bulge in his pants. He clutched at the other's shoulders, bucking his hips upward against the maddening touch.
It was the most unsettling sensation Miles could have imagined, as his doppelganger unzipped his pants and drew him out. That was - it was his own hand, touching and stroking with unsettling familiarity. The whole situation was almost more unnerving than arousing. Even under the skilled ministrations of the doppelganger's hand, he was oddly slow to harden.
"It's too strange," he groaned. "It'saaah God I can't believe I'm losing my virginity to myself--"
"For what it's worth, I've never counted this," the other Miles murmured against his neck.
Miles tangled his fingers in the other's loose-hanging dress shirt and moaned, pushing his hips towards that hand.
(Seven years from now, would he be the man poised above him now, braced on arm and knee against the couch and watching himself flushed and panting? Would he be the one stroking so deftly, the younger man's cock now fully erect in his hand--)
"G-give," he stuttered, "give me--" Suddenly frustrated with words, he thrust his arm down between them, fumbling with the other Miles's zipper and shoving his hand in. He was oddly relieved to find his doppelganger already erect; the other man groaned tightly, drawing it out to a gasp as Miles squeezed lightly and began to stroke.
This can't be difficult... I know what I like, this is essentially just masturbation...
And yet, as the older man sat back, drawing Miles up with him until they sat facing each other on the couch, their legs in a hopeless tangle, Miles came to the gradual, sinking realization that he was outclassed. It was hard to gauge, without being able to feel it himself, just what touches made the man's eyes flutter like that, what drew thin breathy moans from him, and what just fell flat; and as thickly as the building pleasure fogged his mind, he was becoming painfully aware of how clumsy and inept his own attempts were, against the expert caress that was driving him mad...
"Yyuh-- you've been with someone," he gasped.
"Yes," the other Miles hissed, his hips bucking slightly into Miles's hand.
"Who... who is--"
"I can't - nnngh - can't tell you that..."
Miles could feel his orgasm building, slowly but surely and it wouldn't be much longer, and a sudden panic rose in him. He didn't want to return just yet, not with this question unanswered--
"Teh-- tell me... at least..." It was threatening to overwhelm him, his doppelganger's touch relentless, and he forced the words out: "Are-- are you happy with him?"
For the first time since they'd begun, the other Miles met his eyes.
"The happiest I've ever been," he whispered, curling one hand around to caress Miles's cheek.
Miles stared at his doppelganger for a moment that lasted years, before shuddering helplessly as his climax overtook him.
-
It happened as abruptly as Miles remembered.
Even though he'd mulled over the memory for months afterward - striving to uncover the moment where the impossibility ended and reality began again - it still took him by surprise: his hand suddenly empty, the warm, younger body suddenly gone.
"...Well," he said to the empty air.
He felt an odd pang of sympathy for his younger self. The memory returned, with painful acuteness: suddenly alone as he came down from his peak, disoriented and confused, clothes stained with his own semen. He'd had no idea for seven years just what that had all been about.
Indeed, he'd been sure it could only have been a bizarre and vivid erotic dream. Until tonight.
Shaking himself back to the present, Miles calmly collected his clothes and his briefcase and left the office. The halls were fortunately empty as he locked his door and hurried to the bathroom to clean up and finish himself off.
He emerged from the bathroom perfectly neat and ordered; no one who saw Miles Edgeworth that night would be given any indication of his previous activity.
Which was all for the best, he thought, as he made his way to the parking garage. He had a dinner date tonight, after all, and there were some things Wright just didn't need to know.