InsaneJournal

Rub In (GodotxEdgeworth, NC-17)
Title: Rub In
Fandom: Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney
Completion date: December 18th, 2008
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 1348
Warnings: Spoilers for T&T.
Prompt: Godot/Edgeworth. Frottage in the prosecutor's parking lot. You get an A+++ if Jake can be worked in.



     Gut feelings, Edgeworth had learned, were of no value on their own. As a starting point, yes; as a motivation, perhaps. Alone, they only caused baseless worry.

     Baseless worry, he sang in his head, late that night in the parking lot. No reason for the chill tightening down his back. No reason to eye the shadows so hard. No reason for his hand to tighten on his keys at the sight of strange red lights.
     "Working late," a voice purred, "Are we?"
     There was reason, actually, Edgeworth's gut chided in a sick-hot rush. The man stood in an alcove's shadow, leaning, grinning a taunt while his red lights stared.
Keys were a mediocre weapon, he knew from case files. Edgeworth loosened his hand. The keys' teeth left a sore line down his palm.
     "Who are you, and do you have permission to be here," he demanded. There. Firm.
     "Ha...!
     The gut feeling knew that sound, that voice. It knew nerves, humiliation, defeat long before Edgeworth grasped a name.
     "I said--"
     "I heard you." He smiled, blade-friendly. "But you're asking about the price of ice cubes in Antarctica."
     "The ... what?"
     "Something that doesn't matter."

     The man stood, and came closer, panther-sure. Edgeworth knew who this was; he'd hated everything the buffoon stood for; Edgeworth had stared him down and thought about him anyway. The only question was--
     "How? You were reported ..." Reported what? He would have remembered that attorney's death. He'd have needed to figure out how to feel about it, the same as Fey's.
     "Ha...!" He slid cloyingly close, grinning, leaning on one hand like the gut feeling guessed he would. "Hell's not so tough."
     Pinned to his car by glaring lights, a scowl shivering on his face, Edgeworth had nothing to say.
     "I wanted to see how you grew up," came the man's answer, low and easy, "I wouldn't bother, but ... A man can never tell how bitter life will turn out to be."
     He had stared across the court like he knew, like his inane metaphors held every truth in the world. He hadn't backed down from that standoff -- neither of them had -- and life moved on around it, and left Edgeworth with too many questions.
     "Right, boy?"
     This was him all over, just as flagrant as ever, still sending fire through Edgeworth with that one damned word.
     "Honestly," Edgeworth hissed, "Of all the ways to--"

     Bootfalls and spurs, suddenly, echoing a world away. The security guard on patrol, Edgeworth knew, and the parking lot layout was suddenly crisp as a crime scene in his mind as the man leaned closer.
     "Now," came the rich growl by Edgeworth's ear, "Is the kitten going to mew for help? Or wait and see what he's gotten into?"
     Of all the degrading comparisons, of all the times to shudder weak--
     "And what have I gotten into?" His voice didn't snap enough, the heat in his gut betrayed him. Edgeworth shifted against metal and strong grip snatched his wrists.
     "What do you think ...?"

     The slightest shift closer, so their shirt buttons brushed. An age of a moment, as the footsteps slowed and breath fanned hot on Edgeworth's neck. The guard faded into the distance; he whistled the theme of an old Western movie, each note drowning in echoes, and the third bar had hardly begun when metal kissed Edgeworth's cheek and teeth brushed his throat.
He couldn't cry out, he couldn't jerk. He went rigid to steel away weakness, but the gut feeling murmured that it was too late, far too late.
     "S-Stop that."
     "Listen up, boy," and his lips painted every word on Edgeworth's skin, "Don't say anything you don't mean."
     He did stop, though, looming and still, pinning Edgeworth with both hands and a slow, shaking rush of breath. Words like consent fluttered through Edgeworth's mind -- all the terminology important in a common tryst -- and they failed to match this absurdity in the slightest. He did the only thing he could think to do: he lifted his chin, proud, to offer his throat.
     "Hmph." And then huskier, as he bent lower, "Thought so."

     And he swept in now, pinning Edgeworth spread on the metal. His grip was suggestion, not a threat, murmured the gut feeling. Reality had no power here and Edgeworth yanked experimentally, found one hand suddenly free and promptly buried it in long, wild hair. He'd imagined fistfuls of this hair before. In what context, he was never quite sure. His grip tightened with the motion between them, one impossibly slow roll of hips and the drunken sensation that followed.
     "Y'like that?" Hissed by his ear, and another thrust, friction between two men.
     "Do you reminisce this way with everyone," Edgeworth gasped, "Arman--"
     A mouth on his, all spite, a fierce excuse for a kiss. He should have had questions, protests about the here and now but his gut remembered the sweaty dreams. Perhaps this was one of them. This was fantasy and rough vertigo, with the past pinning him bodily, with memories speeding their rhythm by tempting fractions. Edgeworth wrenched his other hand free and threw it around the man's back, right above the flex of his backside -- lean and firm -- as the keys bit into his palm.
     "I reminisce," came the husk by Edgeworth's ear, broken with each thrust, "The way I do everything ... Bitter and hot."
     He mirrored the motion, rolling up to meet him, the brighter feel dragging the breath out of him. "Bitter as the past, I suppose?"
     "Now you're catching on."
     Edgeworth could play this game, too: he closed his eyes. Wild traces of a smirk pulled his mouth. "Simply because it's predictable."

     Hands were free to slip under Edgeworth's jacket now, and spread greedy over his hips. A shift of weight and they matched better, Edgeworth against this taller, sharper man, sweat creeping hot under their clothes. Sounds jammed in Edgeworth's throat -- pitiful ones, low and gutteral pleas -- and he bit his lip instead as he arched back, yanking that wild-haired head closer. Teeth at his throat again, metallic cool on his cheek, and that masterful chuckle, stirring red memories.
     It had to be the sense that he shouldn't have, that this was sudden and strange and wrong, that made Edgeworth pull the man closer, in time. He could do this perfectly well. The gut feeling boiled, pleased. Each gasp clung sticky to the air, all moist need and rocking bodies.
     "That's it," the man choked, guidance and want, "Just like ... nngh."
     Finish off this rival, be more than he ever thought Edgeworth would be. Thought was gone for a dizzy, swimming instant, gone in the steady grind and then it peaked, one rising stroke that had Edgeworth limp, shuddering and gasping, raw and falling back toward earth. A long moment of rough movement against him, and then a jagged, pleased sound in the man's throat and the rhythm was gone, the spell broken.

     Rules bent when this man merely looked at them, Edgeworth thought. It had to be true. Death and morals and propriety hadn't laid a finger here. Edgeworth straightened off his car, and his ... companion moved as though he'd been planning to, anyway.
     "The last drop can be the bitterest of all." There was a smile in that voice, smug as a cat. "How was it for you, boy?"
     "Uncouth and ridiculous," Edgeworth said, yanking his lapels with a trembling hand, "Just like you, old man."
     "Ha ...!"
     He paused then, frowning in his own red light.
     "You have grown. Good."

     He nodded -- one impossibly casual jerk -- and left. Echo-clicking footsteps, and a halo of fluorescents on his hair, and there was no more of his past in sight. All Edgeworth had was the disconcerting stickiness and some keys biting livid into his palm. He briefly wanted to summon guards: why, though? What could he possibly say? His skin burned with memory.

     He turned to his car, and searched numbly for the right key and the lock to use it in.
     This would matter, the gut feeling said. This would come back.
     Edgeworth shoved the thought away and clung to the quieter sensation, that silence after book covers thumped shut.



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I dunno, I just like Godot frotting dudes. XD