Prompt: "Klavier needs inspiration for a new song. So he goes for his fantasies! Pre-relationship?"

In My Defense. . .

Klavier tapped his pen against the blank sheet of paper, the tip of his tongue caught between his perfect teeth as his handsome face took on a more thoughtful expression. After the fiasco masquerading as his band's last tour, his publicist and assistant manager had informed him that — in addition to finding a new guitarist to replace Daryan—they needed something to take the fans' minds off the scandal. That meant a new look, a new sound; something edgy and upbeat to get the Gavinners back on their feet. He already had a few songs for the new CD, but now it was time for something different. There was the inevitable break-up song, the party mix, the songs about moral obligation versus the law, the criminal songs, the songs about a boy's first time in the detention center. . .

What he really wanted to write now was a love song, or maybe just a song about wanting, because he was not yet sure if he could think of anyone to write about for love. He needed a song about passion and desire, about lust and dirty deeds, but for the life of him, he couldn't think of anything. Klavier pouted at the sheet of blank paper. That wasn't fair, baby; he had had lots of loves and wild nights. Surely this was something he could write about from experience, ja? But no. His beautiful muse was nowhere in sight. She had danced off somewhere out of earshot, and though Klavier had turned his stereo up as loudly as it would go, had played through all his favorite inspirational pieces, she would not return. His muse did not even glance back at him, did not wink or tease or get him all turned on and ready to go before walking out in the middle of things like she usually did.

Perhaps this was a task better suited to his imagination, ja? He paused in his idle fiddling, setting the pen down as he made himself more comfortable. Klavier slid out of his purple blazer, laying it across the end of his desk and stretching his arms up above his head. He popped his knuckles first, then his neck, and leaned back in his chair. Slowly his hands came back down, slipping down from his shoulders over his chest, lingering on the buttons of his black shirt before continuing on down. Down, down, down. . . His calloused fingers stopped at the waistband of his pants, toying with the chain belt there. A fantasy was, perhaps, the best thing to use in a situation like this, wasn't it? Besides. . . it would let off some steam, get rid of some stress from all this work. He undid the belt, then the button of his pants, and closed his dreamy blue eyes.

A kiss below the ear, a faint, rough chuckle at the hitch in his breath, and wide-palmed hands were touching him instead. Klavier smiled, biting down on his lower lip in anticipation. He kept his eyes closed even in the fantasy. The kisses trailed down along his jaw line with whispered promises, tender sweet-nothings that neither would bother to remember in the morning. A tongue flicked out over his collarbone, and Klavier found himself wishing that they had taken the time to strip completely. He slid his hands up along the other's back, his whole body aching with the need to feel that smooth skin under his, to have that vest and shirt tossed aside carelessly.

"The things I want to do to you are criminal at best," the other murmured, pressing their bodies together with a low moan. He opened his eyes and met that needy brown-eyed gaze, that trembling mouth and the talented tongue that slipped out to wet dry lips. "Tell me you don't mind a little. . .illegal activity in your office, prosecutor Gavin."

His hands pulled his pants and boxer-briefs down, wiggling in his seat a little so that the clothing made it past his hips and found its way to the floor. He was glad that he had locked the door earlier. Then he wrapped one hand—no, the other's hand, with those strong smooth fingers and that wide palm with the torn-up ridge, a light cut from handling court files on the index finger from that morning's case—around himself.

It came to him then, just before he could imagine that mysterious other settling onto their knees in front of him, one hand on either thigh. Klavier lurched forward toward the desk, grabbing the pen and jotting something down fast before it had time to escape. Ink flowed out from the pen's tip, black and scrawling, words and the beginning of a tune forming in his brain. Then the pen stopped abruptly, and Klavier stared at what he had written. At first he could not believe it, but he read the lone stanza aloud to himself in the empty office, as if that would somehow make it less real:

"When you looked into my eyes I felt a sudden sense of urgency, fascination casts a spell and you became more than just a mystery. And I think about you all the time; it's bringin' me to my knees, like a wannabe. . ."

Klavier could have stabbed himself. Really? Was this seriously what he'd come up with? Those were lyrics to a song done by Savage Garden in the late '90s. It wasn't even rock: it was dance, it was wannabe electronica. It was awful, disgusting, cheap trash. Practically pop. He scribbled out the lines and threw his pen down in disgust. That was awful; schieβe, if he was going to rip someone off or do a cover, it might as well be for the right genre.

"Shh. . .don't worry, baby," the other was murmuring against his stomach, kissing down towards his naked erection. Those lips moved past it at first, leaving small wet bite marks—more indentation than a mark, really—along his inner thighs. Brown eyes rolled up to meet his own, and Klavier couldn't help but smile at that helpful, hopeful, expression. "We can keep going 'til you get something good, right?"

"Ja, lieb. . ." he whispered back, lost the endearing term in a pleasant sigh as his hand moved back to its previous position. The other—okay, fine, it was a young man, but that didn't make this weird or strange or somehow wrong—leaned in close, tongue flicking out to lick experimentally. Klavier gasped, and sped up his rhythm. "Mmn. . ."

"Ah—! Mein Gott, Apollo," the rock star moaned the young man's name, dragging the final vowel out as his companion rubbed his tongue along the underside of Klavier's cock. Apollo braced one hand on the blond's thigh, the other pumping diligently where he couldn't quite get his mouth down to. They'd have to work on deep-throating next time. Klavier paused for a moment, stopping to spit into his hand for extra lubrication before going back to masturbating.

He let his head fall back against the chair's headrest, eyes rolling up to the ceiling for a second before closing with a satisfied shudder. Yes, there, almost—

But he really wasn't close enough. He needed more than these light and tender touches, more than just a fantasy to satisfy him. Klavier groaned in frustration, his hand ceasing its urgent stroking. What he wanted—no, needed—was to feel those short and uneven nails on his back, to feel those small white teeth buried in his shoulder. He wanted to see bruises in the mirror and blood on the sheets in the morning.

What he really needed was to bend that cute little attorney over the edge of his desk and bury himself in deep.

"Fuck!" Klavier jerked forward in his chair, arms snapping forward to sweep his desk lamp and office phone onto the floor. He dropped his elbows onto the newly cleared surface, holding his face in his hands. This had not helped at all. It only made his creative block worse, added a migraine to the problem and coupled it with the painful ache of an unresolved erection. He was tired of just thinking about his pseudo-rival, tired of wondering what he would look like writhing underneath his touches. It was maddening the way that Apollo could get him all riled up; even something as small as a victorious smirk left Klavier squirming uncomfortably. It was difficult to get through trials when all he could think about was seeing that expression in his bedroom.

Klavier ran a hand through his perfect blond hair, and glanced around the desktop for his pen.

His first attempt at a new song ended up being another altered cover, this time from early in the career of Buckcherry. He consoled himself with the fact that it was, at least, rock of some kind or another. After that, he had a few minor wording problems, but those setbacks worked themselves out over the course of a half hour. The lyrics he had weren't faultless, but he imagined that they would get better after the first round of editing and actual song-writing. Klavier put the pen down for the last time that day, and nodded as he reread the chorus of his latest creation:

"In my defense, I'll testify:
I didn't mean to plagiarize,
to take your words and twist their lies.
But it sounded good upon your lips
when I grabbed you by the hips,
and heard you scream it out,
'cause that's the kind of 'Justice' I'm all about!"