Disclaimer/Notes: I do not own Apollo Justice: Ace Attorney, or any of the characters here, unless otherwise mentioned. They belong to Capcom, and no money is being made off of this piece of fiction. This story was written solely for entertainment purposes, and no copyright infringement was intended. Please, do not sue. All original ideas are original (duh) and belong to me, unless otherwise mentioned. This story contains gay slang, slash (Apollo/Klavier), some moderate cursing, and is unbeta'd. Also, my love for the bear movement is obvious and obligatory. Enjoy.
No, I Don't Come Here Often
There was something sexy about the feel of nylons. Apollo nibbled his lower lip, sliding his palms over the top of his thighs. It felt slick and smooth, and made him squirm in his seat on the edge of the bed just a little. Granted, they were kind of tight at the top, and Apollo had to tuck it up instead of dressing to the left like he usually did, but hey. They made his legs look fantastic and covered up the fact that he didn't have a tan there. Usually it didn't matter that he was a little on the pale side, which in and of itself was odd for someone who lived in California. But if he wore shorts more often, someone would have asked him why he shaved. Somehow, he didn't think they would believe him if he said that he was on a recreational swim team.
Apollo stood, looking down at the two dresses he had laid out on the sheets. Now he had to pick one. He had his trusty little black dress--full length and sleeveless, the top wrapped around the bust in an almost Grecian style and tied up at the shoulders. It was cute, but then again. . . His gaze flicked over to the other dress, and Apollo smiled, snatching it up and holding it flush against his bare chest.
Then again, the new dress was red, and he had managed to find a really cute pair of heels to go with it, so the choice was fairly obvious in his mind.
He paused in front of the mirror, swirling the skirt ever so slightly as he regarded his reflection. Apollo didn't look like a girl. He didn't look small or innocent or vulnerable when he dressed up to go out on Friday nights. That wasn't the point, that had never been the point. If anything, the clothes further emphasized his masculinity in a way that his suit trousers and tight vests never could: his arms and shoulders seemed more muscular when viewed in the context of a backless top. Heels made him taller. But he was still just another man in drag.
And that didn't make him gay, either. Lots of straight guys were into crossdressing, and more than half the time it didn't have anything to do with being a transvestite or transsexual, or whatever. Apollo wasn't sure where he had read that, but he liked that statistic. It was just about feeling good, he told himself. He put a padded, convertible bra on and slipped into the clingy fabric of his dress. Crossdressing didn't make him gay or girly, but that gleeful glint in his eyes when he stepped into his patent black heels might have.
He left his hair unspiked, letting the two thick locks that usually formed his signature antennae frame his face instead. It was supposed to soften up his features and make his forehead seem a little smaller by pulling the attention back down. At least, that was what Cosmo had said it would do. Apollo couldn't really tell yet. He imagined that it would be obvious once he had his makeup on.
Apollo sat down at the desk, digging through a colorful array of cosmetics for just the right shade. He didn't want anything too bright; the focus should stay on the dress. Should he try smoky eyes for the night? He wasn't bad at smudging, now that he had finally bothered to get the right kinds of brushes. A palette of greys and some black eye liner, thick mascara and just a touch of silver so something might sparkle if the light should hit him. He painted his lips red, and used a muted blush on his cheeks to keep his skin from looking washed out. It came together nicely, he thought, as he grabbed his clutch and headed for the door. He took one last glance over his shoulder, and let out a low whistle at his reflection:
"Take that."
Klavier did not actually like bars at all. He swirled the amber colored liquid in his glass, the corners of his mouth turned down in a disapproving frown. His liquor cabinet at home had better booze than this, and it was by far cheaper to drink there than here. Also, his counters weren't perpetually sticky from spilled alcohol. And the music would have been better, too. He was starting to think that going out for the night had been a bad idea, but he didn't want to be alone. Not tonight, anyway. Klavier raised his drink to his lips, gave the bartender a flirty smile, and drained it. He set the empty glass down on the bar with an unheard thunk and leaned forward.
"Let's do shots next," he said, raising his voice to be heard above the clamor from the electronic jukebox. The place didn't even have a live band. His tongue flicked out over his lips, wetting them slightly. He would have gone to a classier place if he thought that the clientele there wouldn't have recognized him. As it was, he would just have to deal with slumming it for the night. The bartender—a good-looking older man with scruffy dark hair and a five o'clock shadow who seemed oddly familiar—moved closer to hear him better, tucking his bottle opener into the back of dark jeans as he took Klavier's glass. "Was können sie empfehlen?"
"L.A.P.D. Night Shifts," He answered back tersely, though Klavier had no idea if the man had actually understood the question. Then again, he imagined that it was a fairly natural thing to ask in a bar. He wrinkled up his nose at the mention of the shot, which earned him a wry smile from the other.
"Nein, Herr Büfettier, I am not a tequila man. How about something a little closer to home, ja? Set me up for a blitzkrieg."
"You got it, pal!" the bartender grinned at him, grabbing three shot glasses and plunking them down onto the bar in front of the blond. Klavier leaned back as the liqueurs came out, allowing his attention to wander. His gaze swept over the buzzed patrons, noting the small cliques and clashes as different styles rubbed up against one another. There was a pack of bears and bikers glaring down two effeminate lacy-boys in plaid short-shorts and rainbow suspenders. The bears in this region were always a little territorial, especially now that the gay-friendly rave was closed for repairs after a slew of vandalism.
"So, do you speak any German?"
"Only a little," the man conceded with a small shrug. "My girlfriend's from Strausberg. You from the north, too?"
"I wouldn't call Dusseldorf 'north.' You have a girlfriend?"
"Just 'cause I work here doesn't mean I'm from here, pal. Enjoy your drinks."
A blitzkrieg was a series of three shots that had to be taken one right after the other. Klavier took his first shot, knocking the schnapps back and slamming the empty glass down on the fake wood. The taste of peppermint clung to the back of his throat as he repeated the process for the Jägermeister. After the final shot, all he could taste was the cinnamon after burn from the Goldschlager. He licked his lips, and enjoyed the warm feeling spreading out from his stomach. In the corner closest to the door, he could see a lipstick lesbian arguing with a tall bull dyke, probably about which lifestyle was a better, more attractive choice. Or maybe he had mistaken the nature of their argument, and they were fighting over whose house to use this time; Klavier didn't know, and found that he really didn't care either way. The bartender was called away to mix drinks and pour new drafts for a group of fags further down the bar, and left the young prosecutor to his idle musings.
A man stepped up to the bar next to the blond, leaning forward on his forearms and trying to catch the barkeeper's eye. Klavier looked him over slowly, taking it all in. A tranny? Not quite. The man may have been in a dress, but he didn't seem too concerned with making his body more feminine. He probably lifted weights in his free time—the dress had a halter top, and Klavier appreciated the sight of strong shoulders and lightly defined biceps—and had an impressive tattoo spanning the bared expanse of his upper back. It was drawn in orange and yellow ink, stylized flames and ember sparks surrounding the open beak and wingtips of some kind of raptor. The rest of the bird's body was lost beneath the red dress, causing the prosecutor to wonder how far down past those tense shoulder blades it went. He let his eyes wander. The skirt hit the man just above the knees, loosening at the waist in that style that made it perfect for twirling.
Maybe it was just Klavier's personal preferences talking, connected to the thought that heels and skirts were always attractive. It might have had something to do with the vague notion that fucking a transvestite made him a little less gay. Or, perhaps it was solely due to the fact that this was not a trap, but for whatever the reason, Klavier found himself wanting the man. He didn't even need to see the man's face. Besides, why bother, when the view from behind was so nice?
"—Anal sex," the man in the red dress was saying loudly to the bartender, causing Klavier to jerk his head up from where he had been admiring toned legs. Actually, that was exactly what Klavier had been thinking just a moment before. Now that he could see the man's profile, he lowered his assumption of the man's age. He was a young man, and probably had not been able to get into bars for very long at all, not with those soft features. There were no lines appearing around that smiling, painted mouth, either. The bartender was nodding, setting a white wine glass with ice down and getting a shaker ready.
"I only use Bols here. That okay, pal?" It suddenly occurred to Klavier that the young man was ordering a drink and not asking for favors. He wasn't sure if he should feel relieved or disappointed.
"It is if you use vanilla Stoli, too!" he said eagerly, and Klavier couldn't help but chuckle at the childish bounce the young man paired with it. The young man turned to flash him a grin over one shoulder, but when their eyes met, the prosecutor froze, blue eyes widening. Klavier had already had several drinks, but no amount of alcohol or makeup could make him mistake the young man in the red dress for anyone else. It was definitely Apollo.
Suddenly, he didn't know what to say or do anymore. The not-quite tranny was Apollo. Apollo had fantastic legs and knew how to wear three inch heels; he knew how to pad a bra and put on makeup. He asked for anal sex at gay bars. Did knowing the young man in the red dress mean that he had to rethink his intentions? Just how gay was he, anyway? Klavier drummed his fingers on the bar top thoughtfully for a moment, before trying to engage Apollo.
"Do you come here often, Herr Fo--fraulein?" He had been going to say "forehead," but stopped himself just in time. It would be more fun to treat the other attorney like a woman, to try to sweet-talk and seduce the young man into his bed. Klavier was better with women than he had ever been with men, much to his regret. He never quite knew what to say to a man in this kind of a situation.
"Huh?" Apollo blinked at him, brows furrowing in confusion. He either didn't recognize Klavier without his trademark purple blazer and silver Gavinners necklace, or he was playing along. Or maybe he had started drinking back at home and was already too buzzed to care. The bartender pushed the wine glass over to Apollo, who put one hand on the stem and pointed to himself with the other. "Wha--who, me?"
Apollo had pitched his voice up a little higher like he was trying to emulate a feminine voice. It didn't really work, because he still sounded like himself, still talked too loud and too coarsely to ever be mistaken for a girl. Unless he was trying to sound like a very manly girl who gargled with gravel, in which case he was doing a pretty good job. Klavier repressed another laugh and gestured for his pseudo-rival to take a drink. "Ja, fraulein."
"Well, sure. I like the Friday night crowd here," Apollo shrugged and smiled and sipped his drink. Klavier licked his lips slowly, propping his elbows up on the bar and resting his chin on the knuckles of one hand. He let his gaze crawl down Apollo's body for a moment before slowly dragging it back to the young man's mouth. "You?"
"First time."
"A virgin? How sweet," there was a touch of condescending sarcasm as Apollo ground the final word out with a victorious smirk. Yeah, he definitely recognized the prosecutor. Still, Klavier couldn't help but shiver a little. Apollo's had forgotten to speak in his falsetto, and it made the blond wonder what he would sound like after an. . .intensive jam session.
"I suppose I'm just looking for a nice girl to show me how to do it right."
"I'm not a 'nice girl,' Gavin."
"I like bad girls better anyway. Ever had sex with a rock star?"
Apollo raised a brow curiously, setting his drink down on the bar. "No. . .but I have had sex on a pool table once."
"Well then, let me buy you a drink. . ."
They laughed and drank and forgot themselves and their petty rivalry. Apollo talked him into playing the air guitar for him, and had to explain that he thought it was kind of sexy that the prosecutor could play so well. Klavier managed to convince the other attorney to slow dance with him next to the jukebox as payment for the show. Then Apollo gave him a blowjob and they had sex up against a wall. Twice. They ended the night with multiple screaming orgasms. Just as Klavier was trying to order another raunchy shot, the bartender cut them off and told them he wouldn't serve them any more alcohol.
"Y'know, Herrfrau," Klavier was starting to slur his words together, his German accent slipping in and out as he spoke. He grinned and put an arm around the younger man's bared shoulders, rubbing one of his rings against the smooth skin. "I don' think I should drive tonight."
"I don't have my license, Gavin, and even if I did, I don't know anything about motorcycles except that they don't run when you clog up the exhaust," Apollo reminded him, returning the smile somewhat hesitantly and putting his own arm around Klavier's waist to keep the blond from falling over as they stumbled towards the door. He was surprised to realize that he held his liquor better than his companion. Shouldn't his tolerance be higher? Just how much did he drink beforehand, and would Apollo have to carry him to a hospital to have his stomach pumped? He really hoped not.
"I. . ." Klavier seemed to have forgotten whatever it was that he had been going to say for a moment. He paused for a long time, his unaccompanied arm rising to gesture vaguely towards the ceiling as he sought for words and coherency. "Wouldn' le' you drive my hog."
Apollo rolled his eyes, and hailed a cab once they had gotten outside. It occurred to him then that he didn't know where the prosecutor lived. He was just about to ask when Klavier practically fell on top of him in the backseat, pressing their mouths together roughly. It was a wet, sloppily drunken kiss, not unlike the ones that Apollo was used to getting this late, but it seemed odd coming from someone who was usually so suave and collected. Then again, Klavier was usually not this intoxicated, either. Their noses knocked together, and the kiss smeared what was left of his lipstick as the blond's mouth traveled down to his jaw line, one hand braced on the headrest behind him and the other clumsily groping for Apollo's thigh. Apollo put a hand on the prosecutor's shoulder, unsure if he wanted to push the young man away or not. Klavier's fingers were warm, sliding up under the hem of Apollo's skirt.
"H-hold it!" both the cabbie and Klavier winced at the volume of the exclamation, the former hunkering down in his seat up front and the latter retracting enough to rub one hand against the side of his head. Apollo pushed Klavier back to the other seat, wiping his mouth off as he griped. "You're drunk. Really drunk, Gavin. I don't do that with drunk guys."
"But you'd do it if I was sober, ja?"
He chose not to answer and opted to give the driver his home address instead. As payback, he'd make Klavier pay for the cab.