JP: Thanks to whoever is still reading - I'm flying solo now as my co-pilot just had twins so apologies for not posting in ages!
BIG THANKS FOR ALL YOUR HELP ARIASTELLA, INCLUDING BEING THE SOLE REASON I COULD GET THIS STORY MOVING AGAIN!
Just a heads up for my readers! This may sound like a ridiculous disclaimer as this is a sexual comedy, (albeit heavily censored) but this chapter, much like the Klavier one, does entail an allude to some man love…
Chapter Eighteen: Man Buns
March 25, 2026 – Kristoph Gavin's Penthouse Suite
Kristoph Gavin had never understood the whole trend of "man buns." Truly, the whole "man buns" craze utterly flummoxed him beyond all comprehension. Whenever he would see a bloke with one, he would, out of pure reflex, quizzically tilt his head to the side and peer at the specimen oddly for a good few moments each time, before proceeding to go about his day. It wasn't that he hated them per se, so much as he simply couldn't fathom the attraction to them by anyone! The German had no problem with long hair, obviously, but was so wrong with a ponytail or a gentlemanly plait like he and his brother Klavier sported instead of these lazy, haphazard-looking hairdos which were intended for women?!
The first time he'd seen a skater with his long hair pulled back onto a loose, messy topknot atop his skull, and then heard the female barista greet the youth and say "love the man bun!"… It had still taken the defense attorney a few moments to register it was the fellow's horrendous hairstyle that was being described.
Man bun? The bemused blond lawyer had thought to himself. What does she mean by 'man bun?' I was under the impression that the young woman was rather fond of men with nice, gropable behinds – which I will fully acknowledge this lad standing before me in line, with his fitted board-shorts, is surely exhibiting!
And on the topic of the other type of man buns that warranted a nice, wholesome squeeze…the man currently presenting himself on such succulent display would certainly never need one!
The fine specimen's gravity-defying points were obviously natural, needing nothing more than just need a nice combing and slim to no hair products, as they sprung back in shape even after wearing that manky beanie of his – his trademark jet-black spikes just generally took care of themselves.
Kristoph simply couldn't resist the temptation of getting so close to his obsession; of finally touching his beautiful Blazing Bird. Presently being up close and personal with this gorgeous, callipygous man, and having those prized buttocks pressed against his naked lap left the scant remains of his self-control hanging on by a mere thread.
Bless those atrocious sweat pants of his arch-nemesis! Like the rest of his hobo attire, which was an absolute fashion faux pas, and beyond horrendous, the thin material of the black joggers allowed for the German to appreciate the other man's sumptuous, firm backside. After admiring those splendid buns from afar for so long, he could now feel them up close and personal.
They were even better than he'd anticipated. Kristoph could practically smell the sheer trepidation oozing from the man kneeling, handcuffed, and gagged in front of him and it sent him wild and made him stiff as a wooden board.
Because his fixated hatred these past seven years with Phoenix Wright had now fully transformed into an all-consuming homoerotic obsession, and the predator was going to relish sinking his teeth into his juicy mythical bird in a gilded cage.
I'm going to hate-f*ck this man into a coma.
He couldn't help but wonder if mythical birds had a taste for cream.
He could feel the pressure building as his final crazed thoughts whirled in his diabolical mind.
I hope you'll enjoy the feeling of having me conquer you, Wright. I thought I'd take you to heaven before I took you to hell. I'm going to relish the rest of my plans for you, my love slave, now that you've willingly succumbed to my advances and let me make you meine Miststück!
The shocked gasp heard behind the gag was intoxicating, he had to reward it and reveal a small part of his future plans if it allowed him to see such a gorgeous sight, he leaned down to lay an openmouthed kiss to Phoenix's gagged lips, slipping his tongue in for a moment before removing it.
Kristoph giggled manically to himself in triumph.
I've been keeping tabs on you all this time, you beautiful thorn in my side, knowing eventually you and your precious daughter would be what leads to that worthless magician when he finally shows his face. He can't remain vanished forever. And the moment he reappears, I'm going to ensure Zak Gramarye disappears… permanently. That's the sole reason why darling Trucy, who also knows too much, has been spared thus far... she is my guaranteed insurance that evasive Schwein will eventually have to come out of hiding.
Sneering lewdly, the deranged attorney reached forward with one talented hand and gabbed Phoenix's spikes in his hand, jerking his head back.
You have no idea how when the time is right, I'm going to drain the life out of you as surely as I'm about to drain myself upon you, meine Schlampe.
No one could ever say that Kristoph Gavin didn't know how to play it rough at times…
The Borscht Bowl Club – April 15, 2026
… Then, he opened his eyes… To find that he was still at the Borscht Bowl Club, his face buried in the shoulder of a certain trembling man's grey hoodie.
To Kristoph's utter humiliation, he could feel something like a sticky, wet spot originating from inside his underwear.
"Um, thanks for trying to help me out with your song request, Kristoph…." Phoenix's strangled voice managed to get out, barely able to mask the horror in his eyes as he struggled to shift away from the piano bench, where he has been trapped in front of as the German had been bending over him with his attempted tutelage. "But I really think that's the best I'm going to master with Def Leppard for tonight…heh heh…"
Repulsed and beyond mortified by his lack of control over his glaringly not so latent carnal desires, Kristoph jerked himself away as though he'd been scalded. Panting slightly, the humiliated lawyer clumsily fumbled for his legal briefcase, which he had placed beside the former defense attorney on the piano bench when he had taken upon himself to attempt to instruct the subpar musician on which notes he would need to play to fulfill his musical request.
He quickly placed the Italian leather bag over his visibly moist groin area, although he could already tell it was too late. Instantly, he became painfully aware that his foe already knew just what had transpired, considering there was now a smaller but very visible wet mark on the back of the musician's sweatshirt – which he could undoubtedly feel!
At that exact moment, a lumbering drunk stumbled past the piano and smirked at the red-faced lawyer and pianist. The man was no stranger to the bottle, as his eyes had a strange sunken look and were threaded with scarlet so densely that they appeared pink. His cheeks glowed under broken veins, his actions were slow, clumsy, but his knowing laughter –and the cause of it – was comprehensible enough as he cracked up and pointed at Kristoph's crotch area.
"Hey dude, nice wet pants!" He guffawed, uncaring about the death glare he received in response to his raillery. "Normally I would think you had an unfortunate accident, but I heard you trying to teach the piano man how to play the Def Leppard tune! Even though he didn't fully succeed, looks like you decided to show him what "Pour Some Sugar on Me" was all about anyway! Hee-Haw!"
"Shut your mouth, you worthless piece of excrement!" Kristoph huffed haughtily, with as much dignity as a man who'd just soiled himself with his pre-ejaculation fluid in a public setting before his archrival could possibly muster.
Swearing savagely in German, the incensed blond self-consciously stormed out the door, all the while conspicuously holding his briefcase over his lap as he did so, with the drunk's friends at the nearby table now joining in the roaring laughter, which rang in his ears as he made his hasty exit.
"Hey, piano man!" The inebriated patron focused his ridicule on the beyond petrified Phoenix, who had already jumped to his feet and was making a beeline to the bar. "Make sure you bill that guy for your dry cleaning! The dude pulled a Bill Clinton on your sweatshirt there! HA-ha!"
Drowning in both shame and revulsion, Phoenix was already wrenching the offending article of clothing off his body, grateful for the fact that none of the nightmarish stains had seeped through to his T-shirt, and immediately thumped his hand down on the bar to get the attention of the mixologist.
I'm just going to thank all that is holy that it's Tiffany's night off tonight, I would never live it down if she were to see this! Regardless I keep hoping this is some god-awful dream!
"I need a stiff drink on the double! Give me the hard stuff now, Tyler!" He gasped, his eyes pleading and desperate. "You know the stuff am talking about – the nearly 80 proof Russian lighter fluid equivalent booze which Boris thinks he's hiding at the back! Gimme a minimum of three shots, NOW!"
"Are you serious?!" The bartender eyed him doubtfully. "The boss isn't going to like this! Plus he thinks Americans couldn't handle the stuff anyway – didn't he say this shizz would put the hair on your chest? Or strip it off?"
The forbidden liquor was Samogon, aka Russian moonshine. It came in many flavors, was distilled from many ingredients, and like most homemade alcohol, was often of near-atomic strength. The potent mixture held a special place in Russian drinking culture as a kind of Robin Hood of alcohol.
"I'll handle the repercussions of stealing his stash later!" Phoenix yanked the bottle the dubious man reluctantly retrieved right out of his hand, and tipped his head back as he swigged from it directly, uncaring of the ramifications to him, from either Boris or the booze! He didn't give a rat's ass about his promise to no longer drink – surely this disturbia incident was an exception?! All he wanted to do was obliterate what had just occurred from his scarred mind – hopefully permanently!
Samogon was as rich and diverse as those who made it. It could be delicious or deadly – another appeal of the drink was the myriad of ingredients one could throw into the fermenting mix. Sugar was required to help the process, but there were also grains, corn, beetroot, or potatoes. To sweeten the mix some distillers added grapes, fruit, honey, or any manner of weird and wonderful things. It had been invented as an alternative to vodka. Even though a relatively cheap spirit, it was still out of reach for some rural laborers, and that, combined with contempt for a central authority, ensured Samogon continued to flourish. Also, as long as it was cheaper than the legally endorsed alternatives, despite being equal parts delicious and potentially deadly, one could bet it would continue to find home-made stills in the backyards of rural Russians, in this case, relatives of the bar owner who'd smuggled a few bottles of the stuff on his last trip to his mother country.
"Easy there, Phoenix!" The cautious bartender hastily snatched the bottle from the pianist's greedy lips as he noted in alarm that over a quarter of what had been a completely full bottle had now been digested. "This alcohol over 80% proof – yes it's that strong! – And is also highly flammable. So now that you've dared drink it, you might want to pass on that cigarette!"
The suggestive lyrics to the signature song of the classic rock band, which Kristoph had suggested he play, swirled around within the disgusted and now spinning confines of the violated Phoenix's mind, along with his distressing thoughts.
Well feed my face and f*ck me Friday! That deviant freak poured some sugar on me all right! I would rather pour some lighter fluid on my poor unsuspecting hoodie and set it on fire – along with myself!
"Luckily, I don't smoke!" He rasped, rubbing his throat, which now felt as though it were burning within, as the woozy effects of the ingested fiery liquid mercifully began to kick in. He tossed his sweatshirt at the bartender and affected his most pleading expression. "Also, Tyler, could you throw that into the laundry tonight when you do the linens and towels at closing? Please?!"
"Sure thing," Tyler replied easily, reflexively pouring a glass of water for his colleague, who gulped it down easily in an attempt to soothe his scorching insides. "Did you have a little… accident?"
"It wasn't me!" Phoenix blurted out, his eyes wild. "Crap on a spatula! Trust me, man! You don't want to know!" He shakily pushed himself away from the bar and awkwardly headed towards the door.
"Listen, there's only an hour left in my shift; just let Boris know I was feeling violently ill and had to leave immediately! Or tell him I had some sort of emergency and had to rush home to Trucy, OK?"
"But isn't it spring break for all the high schools right now?" The bartender asked blankly. "And didn't you say Trucy was up at her friend Jinxie's cottage this week?"
"What Boris and Natasha don't know won't hurt them!"
Unmindful of what he was doing, the officially pissed-off his gourd poker shark staggered to the exit, flung the door open, and blindly looked around at his empty surroundings. It was 1 a.m., and he had to cross the street to catch his bus. He didn't even look to see if it was safe for him to make his way across; all the drunken man knew was that he needed to put as much space between himself and the location of the traumatic event as quickly as possible!
In his distracted and intoxicated state, Phoenix stumbled onto the pavement to cross, without even checking for clearance first of approaching traffic on the otherwise deserted road.
The oncoming headlights of the approaching car were dipped so as not to dazzle any passing traffic, yet they still shone bravely out into the night, only to be swallowed by the pressing darkness of the otherwise unlit road, and the hiss of the tires over the smooth tarmac was lost under the loud blaring of the driver's chosen post-work unwinding music.
As the vehicle operator reached for the stereo knob to turn it up, they were wholly unmindful of the sprinting figure appearing in the darkness beyond the headlights, until unfortunately, the only option remaining for them was to avert disaster was to fervently pray, while frantically stomping on the brakes at the last split second.
It was too late to swerve.
The abrupt, high-pitched sound of screeching rubber on cement completely drowned out the terrified, ear-splitting shriek, its harrowing sound nothing more than a piercing echo in the still of the night.
A/N: I am in the process of re-uploading all my older works back onto the site, including this one which may look familiar to some of you, but also gives me a chance to edit my stuff to give it better polish and so far, get a new audience on my stories from days of yore!
In the meantime, as I go through the painstaking task of ensuring my new version complies with regulations per the admin's advising, the full version of this completed story along with the full uncut version of Turnabout Everlasting, and Filling The Void (the other far too sexy for this site previous casualty, which I've started reposting in a less risqué format) plus all 100+ chapters of Singing In The Courtroom (apparently we aren't allowed to post public review replies, but I can reply to my wonderful readers on my own site), where all my uncut works can be found on THEJORDANPHOENIX DOT COM