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Jun. 14th, 2010 12:37 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sabinetzinTitle: Next Best Thing
Summary: Edgeworth finds exactly what he's looking for.
Fandom: Phoenix Wright/Stargate: Atlantis
Word Count: 2195
Rating/Contents: NC-17, rough sex, angst, questionable decisions
Timeline: Present day: post series (SGA); 2 years before State v. Fawles (GS). I feel like I should point out that Edgeworth is 18.
Pairing: Miles Edgeworth/John Sheppard, mentions of other pairings
A/N: Here it is, the crossover I have been threatening for, like, a billion years. It started with Joe Flanigan's post-SGA beard. I kept looking at him and thinking, "I don't know why everybody else thinks this is so hot. He looks like a hobo," which quickly lead to "HOLY SHIT, if you put a hoodie on him he could be hobo!Phoenix!" And so this happened. Very slowly.
Further A/N: No, I did not notice Miles got into an elevator until just now. Yes, I do need to review my canon. Eesh.
Edgeworth isn't old enough to be in here, not according to America's ridiculous laws, anyway. Neither the doorman nor the bartender give him a second glance, though, and he's fairly certain that most underage drinkers don't order expensive reds by name and vintage. He takes a seat at the bar; he'd vastly prefer a table, but it's late and the place is almost empty- and anyway, Edgeworth's fairly certain he's not going to be here for very long.
He's not there five minutes before he notices the man sitting at the end of the bar, the one sprawled out with his arm over the back of the chair next to him, long legs crossed underneath him. He's wearing a lot of black, in a way that looks more comfortable than affected; it matches his hair, which sticks up and falls in that peculiar messy way that can only come naturally.
Edgeworth would know.
He looks- and Miles feels incredibly pathetic for even thinking this- but he looks like Phoenix. Not exactly, obviously. He's at least fifteen years too old to look like Phoenix does now, if the pictures that Wright still, pointlessly and like clockwork, sends him are any indication, but it isn't hard to extrapolate. The man at the other end of the bar looks just like he can imagine Phoenix looking at that age, loose and tan and wiry, his hair shorter, but just as ridiculously unruly.
He'll do.
"Another," he says to the bartender. "And another of whatever he's having," he adds, indicating the man with a flick of his head. The bartender ticks his eyebrows up, as if to say that this isn't really that kind of place. He shrugs when Edgeworth glares at him, pouring him another glass of wine and uncapping a bottle of- Bud Light? Really? That's just kind of distressing; he wonders if it'd be too impolite to ask him to brush his teeth beforehand.
He slides into the seat next to the dark-haired stranger, setting the beer- if one can even call it that- in front of him. The man digs his long fingers into the bowl of peanuts on the bar. "John," he says, eating several before licking the salt from his fingertips, keeping his eyes on the screen the whole time.
Edgeworth gets momentarily lost in watching John's pink tongue darting out again and again. "Miles."
"You didn't come over to watch Baltimore get their asses handed to them." It's not an accusation or a question, merely an observation.
"What gave it away?" he says dryly.
John swallows his beer in long, greedy gulps, drinking like he's dying of thirst, his Adam's apple moving steadily up and down. "You wanna get out of here?" he says, setting the bottle down noisily, leaning conspiratorially close, his knee brushing the inside of Edgeworth's leg. "I'd offer my place, but-"
"I have a room," he says, cutting off the excuse he knows is coming, which he has absolutely no interest in hearing, especially because he'd had no intention of going to some stranger's house in the first place. He throws a few bills down, standing up and walking out, John trailing in his wake.
Edgeworth is a little concerned that John is going to have an orgasm as soon as he sees Edgeworth's car. The sleek blue Porche gets him so distracted that Edgeworth has to shove him up against the passenger's side door and grind their hips together. His hand snakes into John's hair, pulling back hard so that his throat is bared for Edgeworth's teeth. There's some kind of thin, cheap chain transecting it- dog tags, probably. Edgeworth bites his way around it, nipping at either side before settling his mouth above it, biting and sucking at him until the skin starts to redden.
"Not here," John says, panting as he pushes Edgeworth back with both hands.
"Get in," Edgeworth tells him, stepping away and straightening his shirt.
John's grin is wide and dirty. "Thought you'd never ask."
Traffic is light in San Francisco at this time of night, and Edgeworth drives a little faster than he'd normally advocate, helped along by the way John's fingers are playing across the inside seam of his pants.
His fingers don't even shake as he hands his keys to the hotel valet. They're perfectly sedate as they cross the lobby together, not touching, the very picture of decorum, only slightly marred by the obvious bulge pushing at the fabric of John's worn black jeans. He doesn't do anything so juvenile as lunge for John in the elevator, either. They stand apart, John leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed, his long legs splayed. He pushes lazily off when the lift stops, following Edgeworth to his door.
Just as soon as Edgeworth has it shut behind them, John is on him, backing him up against the wall, grabbing his face in both hands so that he can kiss him, just once, fast and searing and wet, before sliding to his knees. His fingers are quick and sure on the fly of Edgeworth's slacks, like he's done it a hundred times. He probably has; that thought doesn't bother Edgeworth in the least. If he's going to have a questionable fling with some man he met in a bar, he might as well go all out.
John barely gets his clothing out of the way before he wraps his lips around Edgeworth's cock, sucking hard and sloppy. It's not the most expert job, but Edgeworth can forgive him, given his obvious enthusiasm. He fists his hand in John's hair, holding him still so that he can push his cock deeper into John's mouth; John just moans, like he's been waiting for it.
He works his hips, fucking John's mouth slowly, pressing in just enough to make him choke before pulling back again. For his part, John seems like he's wild for it. He hears the sound of John's zipper, the rustle of clothing as John strokes himself; but all he can see is that shock of black hair, soft underneath his fingers just the way he always imagined it would be.
"Not yet," he says, pulling John's face away; and he looks so good like that, his mouth swollen and shiny, a slick trail of Edgeworth's precome across one cheek, that he almost changes his mind and ends it right here in the hallway.
"Wanna fuck me?" John asks, breathing heavily. "I've got stuff."
He takes John's chin in one hand, trailing his thumb idly across his lower lip as he considers the offer. It's heady, having this much control, this fast, over someone so much older, someone obviously so much stronger than him. He'd be tempted to say it's because he's just that good, but Edgeworth knows he isn't good.
Edgeworth is perfect.
"Get inside," he orders, turning John loose. "Get on the bed."
John gets to his feet, stepping out of the entryway and into Edgeworth's suite, wasting no time in getting to the bed. He sheds his clothing as he goes, half careless and half provocative, leaving it scattered across Edgeworth's room like the world's dirtiest breadcrumb trail. When he reaches it, he sits down and shimmies out of his jeans; he isn't wearing anything underneath them, and his dick's already fully hard, slapping wetly against his stomach as he moves.
Edgeworth can't resist any longer; he surges forward, pushing John backwards and slamming his wrists up above his head. He closes his mouth over John's neck again, biting and licking at the same spot he made earlier, until John is squirming and panting under him. He keeps it up until he can't stand it anymore, until his need becomes too great to be contained.
He pulls back, just looking at John for a moment, trying to decide the best course of action. He considers making John beg for it, but when it's all laid out for him, he'd really rather just take it.
"How do you want me?" John pants.
"Exactly like this," he says, pushing John's wrists into the mattress once, hard, before he pulls away. John nods, licking his lips; he turns his hands so that he can fist them in the sheets, but other than that he doesn't move an inch. John's just laying there, that impossibly dirty grin lighting up his face, like he thinks this is just the best thing in the world. And, honestly, why shouldn't he?
Edgeworth strips quickly, laying his clothes across the back of the desk chair so that they won't wrinkle too badly. He picks up the lubricant from the nightstand, where he set it out before he left- he never had any intention of coming back empty handed. His preparation of John is cursory at best, just enough to get him slick and a little loose; it's going to hurt, but somehow, he seriously doubts John will mind. His hands are shaking a little as he opens the condom and rolls it on, which is ridiculous; he snorts, frustrated with himself, but John doesn't seem to notice, too busy humping the air and urging Edgeworth to get on with it.
He lines himself up and pushes in slowly; John's tighter than he expected, but that doesn't seem to bother John, who pushes back on him eagerly. He sets a demanding pace, thrusting into John with hard, sharp strokes. The room is silent except for the slap of their bodies together, the harsh sound of John's breathing. It's good, better than he expected.
It's just a pity that he can see John's face.
While he's lost in that thought, the worst possible thing happens; the wrong name slips out of his mouth. He bites his lip, afraid for a perilous moment that John's going to make a scene about it. But John doesn't miss a beat, just tilts his head back and says his own wrong name.
At least they're both honest.
It's easier after that, somehow, easier to really give it to him. He fucks John relentlessly, holding his hips down and slamming into him, John's whole body jostling with every stroke. John's good, practiced; he still has his hands above his head, just letting Edgeworth do whatever he likes, pushing back at him the best he can, when Edgeworth lets him.
At this rate, Edgeworth's not going to last any time at all. He's not even sure that he cares- he hasn't got anything to prove, after all. Still, it seems unsporting not to get John off first; he wraps his hand around John's dick, giving it a couple of hard strokes. That's all it takes; John arches his back and comes, shooting messily onto his stomach and chest.
Edgeworth doesn't have a chance after that, not with the way John clenches around him. He drives in hard, once, twice, and comes, breathing heavily, bracing himself up over John's body with both hands.
He allows himself a moment before he reaches down and deals with the condom, still panting like he's just run a marathon. John's mostly nonresponsive, just laying there and looking sort of pleased.
"I'm going to shower," Edgeworth says, getting himself back under control. "You can let yourself out."
He's half expecting John to protest, but he just shrugs, sitting up and reaching for his jeans. Edgeworth leaves him like that, collecting his scattered clothing; he's long gone by the time Edgeworth emerges from the shower.
He doesn't notice it until the next morning, but there's a piece of hotel stationery sitting in the middle of his immaculate desk, covered in precise, blocky writing:
WENT TO LEAVE MY NUMBER, REMEMBERED I DON'T HAVE A PHONE
JSFLYBOY614@GMAIL.COM
-J
He burns the note, wary of evidence and paper trails, but he memorizes the email address, just in case. Who knows how long he's going to be in town?
--
Sheppard's late to breakfast in the morning; the food's already been picked over, and there's only one open seat at the table he usually shares with his team.
"Have fun last night, Colonel?" Rodney asks as he sits down with his tray and digs in, his voice icy enough that even Keller picks up on it, her eyes darting between the two of them.
"Hmm?" he inquires, licking yogurt from his spoon rather more theatrically than is strictly necessary.
Teyla lays a finger to the side of her neck, signaling him. He examines his reflection in the back of his spoon, pretending to notice the livid red mark on his throat for the first time. He presses two fingers to it, hard enough into make it blanch, staring straight at Rodney. "Would you look at that?" he says, all innocence. "Guess I got carried away."
"Doesn't look like you're the one who got carried away," Ronon says, snorting at him.
"You should see the other guy," he replies easily, his inflection making it into a joke rather than a confession. Oh, but Rodney's eyes get dark; he attacks his oatmeal with a vengeance, like it's done something to piss him off. Keller looks at him, her brow furrowed in concern and confusion.
Sheppard'll probably never hear from the kid again- and it's entirely likely that he'll be busted for statutory before the day's out- but, oh yeah. It was worth it.
Summary: Edgeworth finds exactly what he's looking for.
Fandom: Phoenix Wright/Stargate: Atlantis
Word Count: 2195
Rating/Contents: NC-17, rough sex, angst, questionable decisions
Timeline: Present day: post series (SGA); 2 years before State v. Fawles (GS). I feel like I should point out that Edgeworth is 18.
Pairing: Miles Edgeworth/John Sheppard, mentions of other pairings
A/N: Here it is, the crossover I have been threatening for, like, a billion years. It started with Joe Flanigan's post-SGA beard. I kept looking at him and thinking, "I don't know why everybody else thinks this is so hot. He looks like a hobo," which quickly lead to "HOLY SHIT, if you put a hoodie on him he could be hobo!Phoenix!" And so this happened. Very slowly.
Further A/N: No, I did not notice Miles got into an elevator until just now. Yes, I do need to review my canon. Eesh.
Edgeworth isn't old enough to be in here, not according to America's ridiculous laws, anyway. Neither the doorman nor the bartender give him a second glance, though, and he's fairly certain that most underage drinkers don't order expensive reds by name and vintage. He takes a seat at the bar; he'd vastly prefer a table, but it's late and the place is almost empty- and anyway, Edgeworth's fairly certain he's not going to be here for very long.
He's not there five minutes before he notices the man sitting at the end of the bar, the one sprawled out with his arm over the back of the chair next to him, long legs crossed underneath him. He's wearing a lot of black, in a way that looks more comfortable than affected; it matches his hair, which sticks up and falls in that peculiar messy way that can only come naturally.
Edgeworth would know.
He looks- and Miles feels incredibly pathetic for even thinking this- but he looks like Phoenix. Not exactly, obviously. He's at least fifteen years too old to look like Phoenix does now, if the pictures that Wright still, pointlessly and like clockwork, sends him are any indication, but it isn't hard to extrapolate. The man at the other end of the bar looks just like he can imagine Phoenix looking at that age, loose and tan and wiry, his hair shorter, but just as ridiculously unruly.
He'll do.
"Another," he says to the bartender. "And another of whatever he's having," he adds, indicating the man with a flick of his head. The bartender ticks his eyebrows up, as if to say that this isn't really that kind of place. He shrugs when Edgeworth glares at him, pouring him another glass of wine and uncapping a bottle of- Bud Light? Really? That's just kind of distressing; he wonders if it'd be too impolite to ask him to brush his teeth beforehand.
He slides into the seat next to the dark-haired stranger, setting the beer- if one can even call it that- in front of him. The man digs his long fingers into the bowl of peanuts on the bar. "John," he says, eating several before licking the salt from his fingertips, keeping his eyes on the screen the whole time.
Edgeworth gets momentarily lost in watching John's pink tongue darting out again and again. "Miles."
"You didn't come over to watch Baltimore get their asses handed to them." It's not an accusation or a question, merely an observation.
"What gave it away?" he says dryly.
John swallows his beer in long, greedy gulps, drinking like he's dying of thirst, his Adam's apple moving steadily up and down. "You wanna get out of here?" he says, setting the bottle down noisily, leaning conspiratorially close, his knee brushing the inside of Edgeworth's leg. "I'd offer my place, but-"
"I have a room," he says, cutting off the excuse he knows is coming, which he has absolutely no interest in hearing, especially because he'd had no intention of going to some stranger's house in the first place. He throws a few bills down, standing up and walking out, John trailing in his wake.
Edgeworth is a little concerned that John is going to have an orgasm as soon as he sees Edgeworth's car. The sleek blue Porche gets him so distracted that Edgeworth has to shove him up against the passenger's side door and grind their hips together. His hand snakes into John's hair, pulling back hard so that his throat is bared for Edgeworth's teeth. There's some kind of thin, cheap chain transecting it- dog tags, probably. Edgeworth bites his way around it, nipping at either side before settling his mouth above it, biting and sucking at him until the skin starts to redden.
"Not here," John says, panting as he pushes Edgeworth back with both hands.
"Get in," Edgeworth tells him, stepping away and straightening his shirt.
John's grin is wide and dirty. "Thought you'd never ask."
Traffic is light in San Francisco at this time of night, and Edgeworth drives a little faster than he'd normally advocate, helped along by the way John's fingers are playing across the inside seam of his pants.
His fingers don't even shake as he hands his keys to the hotel valet. They're perfectly sedate as they cross the lobby together, not touching, the very picture of decorum, only slightly marred by the obvious bulge pushing at the fabric of John's worn black jeans. He doesn't do anything so juvenile as lunge for John in the elevator, either. They stand apart, John leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed, his long legs splayed. He pushes lazily off when the lift stops, following Edgeworth to his door.
Just as soon as Edgeworth has it shut behind them, John is on him, backing him up against the wall, grabbing his face in both hands so that he can kiss him, just once, fast and searing and wet, before sliding to his knees. His fingers are quick and sure on the fly of Edgeworth's slacks, like he's done it a hundred times. He probably has; that thought doesn't bother Edgeworth in the least. If he's going to have a questionable fling with some man he met in a bar, he might as well go all out.
John barely gets his clothing out of the way before he wraps his lips around Edgeworth's cock, sucking hard and sloppy. It's not the most expert job, but Edgeworth can forgive him, given his obvious enthusiasm. He fists his hand in John's hair, holding him still so that he can push his cock deeper into John's mouth; John just moans, like he's been waiting for it.
He works his hips, fucking John's mouth slowly, pressing in just enough to make him choke before pulling back again. For his part, John seems like he's wild for it. He hears the sound of John's zipper, the rustle of clothing as John strokes himself; but all he can see is that shock of black hair, soft underneath his fingers just the way he always imagined it would be.
"Not yet," he says, pulling John's face away; and he looks so good like that, his mouth swollen and shiny, a slick trail of Edgeworth's precome across one cheek, that he almost changes his mind and ends it right here in the hallway.
"Wanna fuck me?" John asks, breathing heavily. "I've got stuff."
He takes John's chin in one hand, trailing his thumb idly across his lower lip as he considers the offer. It's heady, having this much control, this fast, over someone so much older, someone obviously so much stronger than him. He'd be tempted to say it's because he's just that good, but Edgeworth knows he isn't good.
Edgeworth is perfect.
"Get inside," he orders, turning John loose. "Get on the bed."
John gets to his feet, stepping out of the entryway and into Edgeworth's suite, wasting no time in getting to the bed. He sheds his clothing as he goes, half careless and half provocative, leaving it scattered across Edgeworth's room like the world's dirtiest breadcrumb trail. When he reaches it, he sits down and shimmies out of his jeans; he isn't wearing anything underneath them, and his dick's already fully hard, slapping wetly against his stomach as he moves.
Edgeworth can't resist any longer; he surges forward, pushing John backwards and slamming his wrists up above his head. He closes his mouth over John's neck again, biting and licking at the same spot he made earlier, until John is squirming and panting under him. He keeps it up until he can't stand it anymore, until his need becomes too great to be contained.
He pulls back, just looking at John for a moment, trying to decide the best course of action. He considers making John beg for it, but when it's all laid out for him, he'd really rather just take it.
"How do you want me?" John pants.
"Exactly like this," he says, pushing John's wrists into the mattress once, hard, before he pulls away. John nods, licking his lips; he turns his hands so that he can fist them in the sheets, but other than that he doesn't move an inch. John's just laying there, that impossibly dirty grin lighting up his face, like he thinks this is just the best thing in the world. And, honestly, why shouldn't he?
Edgeworth strips quickly, laying his clothes across the back of the desk chair so that they won't wrinkle too badly. He picks up the lubricant from the nightstand, where he set it out before he left- he never had any intention of coming back empty handed. His preparation of John is cursory at best, just enough to get him slick and a little loose; it's going to hurt, but somehow, he seriously doubts John will mind. His hands are shaking a little as he opens the condom and rolls it on, which is ridiculous; he snorts, frustrated with himself, but John doesn't seem to notice, too busy humping the air and urging Edgeworth to get on with it.
He lines himself up and pushes in slowly; John's tighter than he expected, but that doesn't seem to bother John, who pushes back on him eagerly. He sets a demanding pace, thrusting into John with hard, sharp strokes. The room is silent except for the slap of their bodies together, the harsh sound of John's breathing. It's good, better than he expected.
It's just a pity that he can see John's face.
While he's lost in that thought, the worst possible thing happens; the wrong name slips out of his mouth. He bites his lip, afraid for a perilous moment that John's going to make a scene about it. But John doesn't miss a beat, just tilts his head back and says his own wrong name.
At least they're both honest.
It's easier after that, somehow, easier to really give it to him. He fucks John relentlessly, holding his hips down and slamming into him, John's whole body jostling with every stroke. John's good, practiced; he still has his hands above his head, just letting Edgeworth do whatever he likes, pushing back at him the best he can, when Edgeworth lets him.
At this rate, Edgeworth's not going to last any time at all. He's not even sure that he cares- he hasn't got anything to prove, after all. Still, it seems unsporting not to get John off first; he wraps his hand around John's dick, giving it a couple of hard strokes. That's all it takes; John arches his back and comes, shooting messily onto his stomach and chest.
Edgeworth doesn't have a chance after that, not with the way John clenches around him. He drives in hard, once, twice, and comes, breathing heavily, bracing himself up over John's body with both hands.
He allows himself a moment before he reaches down and deals with the condom, still panting like he's just run a marathon. John's mostly nonresponsive, just laying there and looking sort of pleased.
"I'm going to shower," Edgeworth says, getting himself back under control. "You can let yourself out."
He's half expecting John to protest, but he just shrugs, sitting up and reaching for his jeans. Edgeworth leaves him like that, collecting his scattered clothing; he's long gone by the time Edgeworth emerges from the shower.
He doesn't notice it until the next morning, but there's a piece of hotel stationery sitting in the middle of his immaculate desk, covered in precise, blocky writing:
WENT TO LEAVE MY NUMBER, REMEMBERED I DON'T HAVE A PHONE
JSFLYBOY614@GMAIL.COM
-J
He burns the note, wary of evidence and paper trails, but he memorizes the email address, just in case. Who knows how long he's going to be in town?
--
Sheppard's late to breakfast in the morning; the food's already been picked over, and there's only one open seat at the table he usually shares with his team.
"Have fun last night, Colonel?" Rodney asks as he sits down with his tray and digs in, his voice icy enough that even Keller picks up on it, her eyes darting between the two of them.
"Hmm?" he inquires, licking yogurt from his spoon rather more theatrically than is strictly necessary.
Teyla lays a finger to the side of her neck, signaling him. He examines his reflection in the back of his spoon, pretending to notice the livid red mark on his throat for the first time. He presses two fingers to it, hard enough into make it blanch, staring straight at Rodney. "Would you look at that?" he says, all innocence. "Guess I got carried away."
"Doesn't look like you're the one who got carried away," Ronon says, snorting at him.
"You should see the other guy," he replies easily, his inflection making it into a joke rather than a confession. Oh, but Rodney's eyes get dark; he attacks his oatmeal with a vengeance, like it's done something to piss him off. Keller looks at him, her brow furrowed in concern and confusion.
Sheppard'll probably never hear from the kid again- and it's entirely likely that he'll be busted for statutory before the day's out- but, oh yeah. It was worth it.
