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Duress	By : transatlapplenanas Category: +M through R > Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney Views: 2277 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney. I make no profit from this work.

Chapter List
- 1-Duress
- 1
Written for the good people at the Phoenix Wright Kink Meme. It's pretty graphic, and fairly old now.

Miles rubs his eyes tiredly, closing his too-full folder as he switches off the lamp on his desk. He’s been in the office for hours on end, and all he really wants to do is get home and crawl into bed. Miles grabs his cerise jacket from where it hangs on his chair, and shrugs it on, pausing briefly to adjust his shirt cuffs. He picks up his folder, holding it loosely in one hand as he walks through the near-empty hallways of the prosecutor’s office.
When Miles reaches the parking compound, he takes his keys out of his pocket, smiling faintly when he reaches his car. He’s just leaning in to place his folder on the passenger’s seat when someone grabs his shoulders from behind.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Miles asks angrily.
A hand covers his mouth, and a spike of fear cuts through his indignation as he’s shoved against the side of his car. Miles is no wilting flower, regardless of what his reactions to certain things may imply, which means whoever’s behind him is more than a little strong. He tries to elbow his assailant, but his wrist gets grabbed, and his arm is being painfully twisted. He groans harshly, and the man leans his weight against Miles to trap his arm, uncovering the prosecutor’s mouth.
“Who are you?” Miles demands, grunting when he’s shoved harder into the unyielding surface of his car. He forces himself not to wince when he gets handcuffed, even though the metal pinches the skin of his wrists. He’s going to bruise, which is good, he tells himself, because it will be able to serve as evidence later.
“Doesn’t matter,” his attacker tells him, panting warmly into Miles’ ear. The feeling is revolting. “Anyway, save your voice for later; you’re gonna need it for all the screaming you’ll be doing.”
“Very subtle,” Miles mutters. He hisses in pain when an elbow digs into his back; criminals always seem highly unappreciative of his sarcasm.
By this point, it’s obvious that his attacker is not simply a man, but also an idiot. The way he’s being gripped — one hand at his neck and the other at his wrists — makes him think he is also a police officer. Miles is jerked away from the car and forced to walk backwards, presumably so he can’t see where they’re going.
Miles’ brain is racing to figure out what this person’s plan is even as he’s being tugged to a dark section of the parking lot, and when he’s turned around, suddenly things are all too clear. There are four men standing in the shadows — each wearing the stereotypical black ski mask, Miles notices. How cowardly, not to mention clichéd. His derision must be showing in his eyes because the men bristle.
“You think this is funny?” one demands, stepping forward. His attempt to intimidate Miles is useless; Miles is at least three inches taller than him, and broader in the chest, too.
“Calm down,” one of the others says, though he sounds even angrier than the short one. His voice sounds familiar, but Miles can’t quite place it. “He won’t be laughing soon enough.”
“Oh, really?” Miles asks. His years in the courtroom have taught him how to sound supremely confident even when he’s not (and at the moment, he is very much not), and he employs that skill now, looking haughtily at the group. “What exactly do you think you can do?”
The man holding him thrusts Miles forward, and he stumbles, struggling not to fall. He turns to glare at him, a scathing remark on the tip of his tongue, when suddenly he’s being punched in the gut. Miles coughs, bending over in pain. He can barely remember the last time anyone laid a punch on him.
Miles gulps and tries to stand correctly, but he can only straighten up partially. Of course, it would be the short man who flew off the handle first. “Do you really think this will accomplish anything?”
Short Man punches Miles in the face, and he has to blink stars from his vision. He can hear the man who handcuffed him telling Short Man to “get a hold of yourself, you dumb shit,” and footsteps coming closer. A hand grips Miles’ chin and forces him to look up.
“Well, don’t you look nice? The whole bruised look suits you.” The man’s voice is oily, and Miles can see his ugly smile, thanks to the mouth hole in his mask. Miles feels dirty just being around him. “As for what we’re doing, I think you can figure it out. You’re the big, smart prosecutor, right? Probably smarter than all of us combined.”
Miles says nothing.
“Aw, come on,” the man says, “It’s not that hard. See, us—” he motions around vaguely “—we’re cops, you know? And we work hard, every fucking day, doing this shit that nobody else even wants to think about. We bust our asses, and people don’t even like us for it, because we give them tickets and make sure the city isn’t in a constant shit blizzard.” He grins, and Miles feels his stomach turn.
“And then there’s you. The amazing Miles Edgeworth, perfect prosecutor, hired on at whatever-the-fuck age and never lost a case until some spiky haired douche came along. Always dressed sharp and giving sharper orders, as the interns say.” He fingers Miles’ white jabot, and Miles knows he will burn it later.
“And even though we all do our goddamn best to keep this city running, and follow your orders like bitches, you dock our pay. Even though some of us, like Frank over here—” he jerks a thumb at the short man, who is still arguing with the man who handcuffed Miles “—have to use pretty much everything we get paid just to support our families, you dock our pay, just because some of the heads couldn’t find their asses with a map and a compass.”
Miles gapes. This situation is entirely surreal. “I—”
“Don’t bother trying to cover your ass, Edgey,” the man says harshly, cutting him off. He pushes Miles hard, and Miles falls onto his side, grunting. He’s drawing his breath to say something when the man kicks him, hard, forcing the air out of his lungs. He gets kicked a second time, a third, until eventually he can’t keep track. Suddenly, it stops, and he can taste blood when he coughs. Miles hopes the taste is from when he got punched in the face, and not from organ damage.
There’s some heated discussion above him, and then too soon he’s being kicked again, this time by more than one person. He gets punched in the face again, too, but only once before it stops again. Miles can hear Short Man — Frank, he reminds himself, though assigning a human name to him makes the situation suddenly more awful — yelling at someone, but he can’t see anything because his eyes are squeezed tightly shut. His entire body screams with pain. He can’t move without every his nerve stinging.
A disturbingly calm voice overpowers the rest, and they all quiet down. Miles can hear faint snatches of a murmured conversation.
“…bastard…”
“…show him…”
“…humiliate…”
The rest is peppered with curses, and Miles fully expects the beat-down to resume. He moans when a hand tugs his head up by the hair, and he struggles to plant his hands on the ground to support himself. Miles’ vision is hazy, and he blinks. He’s been involuntarily crying ever since the second time he got punched, but he didn’t really notice until now.
His hair is tugged again, and then he’s being shoved away, slamming against the concrete wall of the parking compound. Miles groans loudly as the weight of his body pushes against his arms, and shifts so they’re not so tightly wedged between himself and the wall. Bloody spit dribbles from his mouth and onto the asphalt.
A shadow looms above him, and he looks up. The fight has flown out of Miles faster than he anticipated it would, replaced with a steady alternation of pain and dread. His fear increases tenfold when he realizes just how big the man before him is, and Miles’ eyes fly open when the behemoth’s hand pulls a handgun from inside his dark jacket.
“Wait,” Miles pleads hoarsely, ignoring the burn in his lips when he speaks. The man smiles and presses the cold muzzle against Miles’ forehead. The prosecutor is vaguely worried that he can instantly recognize the weapon as a Smith & Wesson Model 5906, especially at this angle, but he’s more worried about the sort of damage it could deal. He’s been to enough crime scenes, seen enough corpses, to know what these can do to a man’s head. A shot at point blank…
“P-Please,” Miles begs, his voice shaking, “don’t.”
There’s a chorus of sick laughter from the other men, but a cold chill runs down Miles’ spine when he notices that the gunman is still just smiling at him, finger resting on the trigger. He can’t completely buy into the idea of a God, but right now he’s praying to every deity he can think of to let his life be spared.
When the men’s laughter fades away, the gun is still there. He thinks the muzzle will leave an imprint on his forehead… assuming he still has a forehead once this man makes a choice. Miles is not optimistic, and he clenches his eyes shut while he waits. Staring down death is a fine concept, but when one is looking down the barrel of a handgun wielded by a madman, his pride should not be the first thing on his mind.
After tense moments, the gun is removed, and Miles opens his eyes. The man is leering down at him, with his handgun aimed at Miles’ heart. “Well, since you said please, I guess I’ll let you live,” he says. The feigned sweetness in his voice makes Miles forget how to breathe, and he knows there’s more to it than that. He waits tensely.
“I said I’d let you live,” the man says after a moment, voice still dripping with sugar. His tone is the same people use when talking down to errant children. “Aren’t you going to thank me?”
“Th-… Thank you,” Miles says, staring at the ground.
“You don’t sound very thankful,” the man says, frowning. He nudges Miles’ cheek with the muzzle of his handgun. “In fact, you sound like you want more punishment. I just don’t know what we’re going to do with you, Miles.”
Miles has never hated the sound of his own name more.
“We could always go with my idea,” the man with the oily voice chimes in. Miles can practically hear him smirking.
“I agree,” another man says, snickering. It’s the one who handcuffed Miles. “And since it’s Ian’s idea, he should get first go, right?”
“Oh, well, if you insist,” says oily-voiced Ian. The man above Miles steps back, still aiming the gun at him, and watches the prosecutor while Ian smoothly removes his belt. He casually kicks Miles in the stomach, and caresses the prosecutor’s cheek when he cries out in pain. His touch is like a burn, and Miles cringes away. Ian laughs.
“It’s nice to hear your voice every now and then, Edgey,” he purrs, unbuttoning his jeans. “Sometimes you’ll pass right by me without even a little hello. That hurts… I always say hello to you, don’t I?” He unzips his fly, and pushes his crotch toward Miles’ face while pulling his pants down. “So I’m just going to use your mouth for a little while, if that’s OK.”
Hot saliva that floods Miles’ mouth, and he gulps it back down along with a rush of bile. The taste of sickness lingers in the back of his throat, mixing with his blood and rage and pain. Ian pulls his dick out of his boxers, and pushes it against Miles’ mouth, smearing pre-cum on his lips.
Miles wants to pull away, but he has no doubt that if he disobeys, he’ll be shot before he can regret it. Ian reaches down and presses his thumb hard against Miles’ already bruised cheek, and the prosecutor barely opens his mouth. The tip of Ian’s cock pushes past his lips, and the man tugs on Miles’ hair to get him to open his mouth further.
Miles does.
“I bet this isn’t the first time you’ve had a dick in your mouth, is it?” Ian asks, leering down at the prosecutor. “But you’re not really trying very hard.” He thrusts a little into Miles’ mouth, making him gag, and laughs. “Come on, Edgey, you’ve probably been on your knees dozens of times, and it’s never counted as much as this time… Make it good.”
Miles wants nothing more than to bite this man’s penis off, and if he gets shot, so be it. This is already Hell, and things can only get worse from here on, he knows. Even if Miles lives through this ordeal, even if he finds these people after they leave and destroys them, even if he tries to move on and gets therapy and whatever else he remembers personally instructing rape victims to do… he will never forget this.
He’s shaking with disgust as he sucks Ian’s dick, gagging each time the man thrusts into his mouth without warning, drool escaping his mouth and dripping down his chin onto his ruined pants. Ian’s hand has a vice grip on his head, each finger applying aching pressure, forcing him to move wherever this oily, sickening man wants him to move.
Miles doesn’t know exactly how long it takes, but it seems like an eternity before he can feel the man tensing. Ian starts forcing Miles to take his cock in deeper, deeper, until finally he comes, cursing, ripping out some of Miles’ hair, filling the prosecutor’s mouth with his semen. Miles can’t hold it all in, some dripping down his chin and landing to rest with his spit.
“Swallow the rest,” Ian orders as he pulls his softening cock from Miles’ mouth. He grips his dick hard and milks the last few drops of his come out, and they land on Miles’ shoulder while he’s trying to force down the man’s seed. It tastes too bitter and too salty, and slithers down his throat disgustingly.
Ian tucks his penis back into his boxers and pats Miles on the cheek. “That was better than I expected,” he says.
It takes all of Miles’ willpower not to spit on Ian’s shoes.
“I knew he was a fucking cocksucker,” Short Man says, sneering. Miles panics when he realizes he can’t remember his name.
Ian pulls his pants back up and scoffs. “Don’t knock it until you’ve had it, Frank,” he says, and Miles tells himself to remember, because no matter how horrible this gets, he has to remember those two names: Ian and Frank, Ian and Frank, Frank and Ian…
“What do you think I have a wife for?” Frank asks Ian nastily.
“You mean had a wife.” It’s that familiar voice again, and the man sounds only slightly less angry than he did the last time Miles heard him. He also sounds amused. “But she kicked your dumb ass to the curb when you couldn’t bring home the bacon.”
“Shut the fuck up!” Frank yells, and Miles can see him making violent movements again. It should be easy, he tells himself, to find someone with such a temper. The thought gives him little comfort. “At least I’m not some goddamn faggot.”
“Then why the hell’d you start pitching a tent when mister prosecutor over there was sucking Ian’s cock?” Miles tries desperately to figure out why this man sounds so familiar, but thinking too hard is making his head ache more than it already does.
Ian laughs. “Face it, Frank, a mouth’s a mouth, a hole’s a hole, et fucking cetera. Besides, look at him,” he says, grabbing Miles’ chin and pulling him forward. Miles’ muscles burn with strain. “Don’t you just wanna cover him in your cum? Maybe fuck his hot little mouth wide open?” Frank shifts uncomfortably, and Ian pulls Miles forward more. Miles whimpers despite himself. “God, don’t you just want to make him make that noise over and over again?”
He pushes Miles, and he falls forward, cheek scraping against the asphalt. He whimpers again. His entire body is throbbing in pain, and he’s full of hatred for these… Miles can no longer bring himself to call them people. He can be cynical, but for all of the human race’s flaws, part of him still refuses to believe that very many people would be willing to stoop this low.
Miles tunes out the rest of their conversation just as the man who handcuffed him starts theorizing about what fucking him will be like — he doesn’t want to hear it any longer. He just keeps repeating the two names he knows to himself again and again, making sure he doesn’t forget because damn it, he’s going to get his justice, even if they do shoot him in the fucking head.
Maybe I can just turn into a spirit and talk to that girl, Maya, he thinks hysterically as he feels his jacket being pushed up and his shirt being untucked from his pants. The man who handcuffed him grabs the back of his collar and drags him up to his knees, while someone, he can’t tell who, unbuttons his pants from behind. His boxers get tugged off with him, and he shudders, part from the cold and part from the feeling of being so violated, of knowing that they’ve barely begun with their sadistic fun.
A calloused hand rubs over his ass while Ian leans down, holding his cheek while he says something about playing nice that Miles doesn’t really register. There’s another cock in his face. It’s thicker than Ian’s, and uncircumcised. He looks up to see Frank, who looks embarrassed and angry, holding his dick out to him like it’s a weapon.
Ian pushes Miles’ head forward, and he struggles out of reflex, earning himself a sharp slap to the ass. It makes him gasp, and Frank seizes the opportunity, jamming his cock into Miles’ mouth. Stretching his mouth to fit it in is starting to make his jaw ache, and he groans when Frank begins thrusting hard into his mouth, moaning various profanities. He shoves Miles further onto his cock until the prosecutor’s nose is being tickled by dark, untamed pubic hair, and it’s difficult for Miles to breathe around that and the heady stench of him.
Miles feels like he’s choking on Frank’s cock, and he thrashes a bit, jerking his shoulders. He’s slapped on the ass a third time, and a wave of humiliation overcomes him when he moans pitifully. Frank scratches his scalp with blunt fingernails, and commands him to “shut the fuck up and suck it, you fucking cocksucking slut,” growing more excited the more he insults Miles, getting off on the prosecutor’s degradation.
Miles struggles to swallow around the dick in his mouth, feeling his own saliva running down his chin and neck, and inhales sharply through his nostrils when he feels fingers rubbing against his entrance, probing his sensitive flesh. Miles clenches his hands into fists when he feels a spit-wet finger dig into him, and gags on Frank’s cock again.
Miles isn’t even ready for one, so when a second finger breaches him, he tries to cry out in pain, but it’s smothered by Frank’s cock. Frank’s groans of pleasure mix with Miles’ groans of pain with each twist and crook of the fingers inside of him, and there are tears streaming down his face again. He’s acutely aware of every part of his body; he feels like he’s being stabbed all over by white-hot daggers.
The fingers leave him, and Miles can only start to moan lowly in thankfulness before the blunt head of another cock is poised at his entrance, the tip slowly pushing in, making him feel like he’s being split apart. His only hope is that this will hurt whoever’s fucking him at least half as much as it’s hurting Miles, and then he can’t think anymore, because it’s getting further in and he can’t stand it, it’s too much, please, stop—
Frank pulls out of Miles’ mouth suddenly, and comes on his face and hair. Miles lets out a strangled yell as semen gets into his eye and one of his wounds. He clenches both of his eyes shut, and the man behind him grabs his shoulders to keep him upright, thrusts deep and hard and fast, ripping hoarse shouts from Miles’ throat while he fucks him raw. Miles is sure he’s bleeding, is sure that this sick bastard is probably grateful for more makeshift lubrication as he slides in and out of him, tearing him apart.
A loud groan comes from somewhere beside Miles, and he feels hot come splatter on his neck, knowing the rest of it is probably on his shoulder and maybe even his back. He bites down hard enough on his lip to make it bleed to try to keep himself from becoming hysterical as the man behind him becomes more frantic for release, but he can’t help it.
Each thrust is like a spike into his lower back and stomach, and the man’s groans and pants are getting closer and closer to his ear. Some part of Miles registers that it’s the voice of the familiar-sounding, angry man, but that doesn’t matter to him. He’s sobbing things like, “please,” and, “stop,” by the time his rapist comes, and Miles slumps forward in complete exhaustion when the death grip on his shoulders is released.
Miles lays on the hard, scratchy ground. He’s covered in sweat, blood, tears, and other men’s semen. He feels raw, disoriented, violated. In short, he feels exactly as he’s always imagined a rape victim would feel.
The man with the gun — the only one who didn’t rape him, he notices — presses the muzzle of his 5906 lazily against Miles’ cheek. Miles can’t even summon up the energy to widen his eyes, much less move. The man laughs. “I think he’s broken,” he says to no one in particular.
One of them tuts. Miles can’t connect the voice to anyone, but he feels like he should be able to. “Well, that sucks. Kinda like he did.” The man laughs loudly at his own joke, but no one else does.
“Maybe we’ll see you later, boss,” one of them says, nudging Miles’ side with the toe of his shoe.
Someone removes the handcuffs on Miles’ wrists. They feel like they’ve had the skin scraped off of them.
Miles listens to their footsteps as they depart, and simply lays there, struggling to piece his shattered thoughts back together. There is a name — no, two names, two — that he feels he must remember.
That he knows he must remember.
Exposed, bruised, and without an answer, Miles faints.
- 1
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