Wrightworth Oneshots

You Are Going To Be The Death Of Me

Prompt: "you are going to be the death of me"

Kinda spicy

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Miles hated working from home. In his office, there were no distractions and he had an endless supply of tea and a great view. At home, he had... Phoenix. Also a great view, he had to admit, but also a distraction.
But alas, his office was currently under construction (something about fire safety), forcing him to do his mountains of paperwork in his own home.
He thought hiding away in his study would help. It did not.

Phoenix insisted on constantly checking up on him to make sure he wasn't overworking himself, occasionally bringing him a new cup of tea whenever the old one was empty or had gone cold.

It seemed like with every visit to Miles' study, Phoenix tried harder to get his attention. Touching his arm, his hand, his face, whispering into his ear, kissing his neck,...

The next time the door opened, Miles had had enough and was ready to tell Phoenix to just leave him alone and let him work.
"Listen, Phoenix, I really-"
He stopped in his tracks.
His jaw dropped, eyes wide, his expression almost cartoonish.
Phoenix had changed his outfit.
TO A MAID COSTUME. One that was short enough to leave very little to Miles' imagination. His gaze dropped from the ridiculously low-cut blouse to Phoenix's strong thighs which were now almost completely exposed.

He didn't know if he should tell him off or be impressed. Somehow, he managed to do both.
"I- wow, uh, I mean... what the hell do you think you're doing? I'm working," he hissed between clenched teeth.

"I'm bringing you some more tea," Phoenix replied innocently, like he was not wearing a revealing costume that was enough to make anyone's fantasy run wild.
"Sir," he added with a smirk.

Miles choked on the cold tea he was currently trying to drink up so Phoenix could take away the empty cup.
"Thank you," he managed between hacks and wheezes, determined to ignore the sight in front of him. At least, now that Phoenix was standing closer to his desk, he couldn't see those toned thighs that he could never get enough of.

"Would you like anything else? A snack, maybe?" Phoenix slowly made his way around the desk.
"Sir, you haven't taken a break in a while. I wouldn't want you to get overwhelmed by your work."

Miles cleared his throat, eyes fixed on Phoenix's face.
"I'm not hungry, thank you," he replied in a hollow voice. He licked his lips nervously. "I'll take a break later, don't worry."

But Phoenix had already reached him and Miles had unconsciously turned towards him in his chair, which would now turn out to be a grave mistake. He was sure that, had he been wearing his cravat, Phoenix would have grabbed it. But he wasn't. When he was working from home, a simple dress shirt and slacks sufficed as appropriate work clothing.

Still, Phoenix placed a hand on Miles' chest, just below his throat, and leaned down.
"I was hoping to steal a moment of your time, Sir," he whispered.

But Miles managed to snap out of it.
"I need to finish this," he grumbled, turning back to the stack of paper on his desk.

Phoenix was now standing behind him, resting his hands on Miles' shoulders and watching him fill out forms and sign reports.
He slowly slid his hands down to Miles' chest, gently pressing his warm palms against the smooth fabric.
Then, he found Miles' free hand that he wasn't using, bringing it to his mouth.
One by one, he kissed the knuckles on Miles' elegant fingers, sending shivers down Miles' spine and causing him to question why he even allowed this.
I must be insane, he thought.

That thought was only confirmed by the warm, wet feeling of Phoenix's mouth around the tip of his index finger.
Miles cursed himself as Phoenix moved on to the middle finger, lazily twirling his tongue around the sensitive fingertip before giving it a teasing nibble.

"Fuck," Miles gasped under his breath, gripping the ballpoint pen in his hand with such force that he was afraid he'd rip the paper he was writing on.

When Phoenix lowered his hand, Miles thought he would release it. But he felt his now wet fingertips glide across the silky fabric of Phoenix's costume, gently brushing over lace and soft skin.
Miles' eyes glazed over as he refused to close them but was unable to bring the sheet of paper in front of him into focus.

He could feel Phoenix guiding his hand, pressing his fingertips into the supple flesh of his thighs. The curve of Phoenix's leg and the texture of his skin told Miles that his hand was being led to the inside of his thigh, his touch suddenly light as a feather.

Everything felt incredibly charged and tingly. Nothing was real except for his hand and Phoenix's hands and smooth skin and tempting flesh and-

Miles closed his eyes and knitted his brows.

"Phoenix... Wright...," he rasped, using all of his willpower and control to hold back a whimper, "you are going to be the death of me."