Patrick Stump/Fall Out Boy Imagines

[JOE] Writer's Block

You groan as you slam the top of your laptop down and cover your face with your hands, falling backwards on your bed and just lying there.

"Uh, is something wrong, (Y/N)?" Your boyfriend, Joe, asks from across the room. He's sitting in the butterfly chair you have with his guitar in his lap, plugged into the small amp set up beside the chair. You drag your hands down and turn your head to look at him.

"I can't think of anything to write." You pout.

"Then take a break," He suggests, as if it was as easy as that.

You scoff and sit back up. "Are you crazy? I can't take a break. The publisher's expecting a rough draft of the first chapter by tomorrow morning and I haven't got a single thing."

"Then send him in one of your old stories. Didn't you used to write a bunch of them online when you were younger?"

A chuckle slips past your lips. "Joe, those stories are absolute shit! There's a reason why I deactivated the account and vowed never to look back at them."

He heaves a sigh and sets the instrument aside, getting up from the chair and making his way over to the bed, where he takes your laptop into his possession and opens the lid, the screen fidgeting before coming up with a mostly blank word document. The only words written across it are:

I've got nothing. This is stupid. I hate this. Why am I a writer?

Joe smirks and meets your gaze. "Wow, hon, I think you've got a best seller on your hands."

You roll your eyes and snatch the laptop back, fixing it in your lap and letting out a long breath. "I seriously have no idea what to write, Joe, and it's bad because this might just be the best deal I'll ever get, better than the last two."

He moves so that he's lying down next you on his side, using his elbow for support as he looks at the screen, watching as you erase your meaningless little phrases. "Why don't you write about me?" He recommends.

"What about you?"

"I don't know...I've lived a pretty interesting life, wouldn't you say? I'm sure there's something you can write about."

"But, Joe, it's not that easy."

"Oh really?"

"Really!"

"Come on, it can't be that hard. I've helped write songs for nearly four albums now. If I can keep writing songs for albums, you can write the first chapter of this book for this publishing deal. I know you can do it, babe, you just have to believe in yourself and not give up so easily."

"But I've tried writing this goddamn chapter for nearly three weeks now!" You complain, "I can't tell you how many times I started the chapter over. I'm at a loss for what to write!"

"Then take a break," He tells you again, closing the laptop and taking it out of your possession, setting it aside. You stare at him with wide eyes, your heart beating against your chest. He turns back to you and smiles. "What do you say we go out and do something? Maybe it'll spark your inspiration."

"But Joe..." You whine as he pulls the two of you off of the bed. The two of you get into the car and back out of the driveway, speeding off into the night.

*****

You stab the plastic spoon into the small dish of (favorite flavor) ice cream Joe got you at this local ice cream shop that's open until midnight and sigh. "Joe, I don't want to be here. I'm wasting time. I could be home, writing."

He pulls the cleaned-off spoon out from in between his lips and swallows the cold treat, a light green mustache around his mouth from the pistachio ice cream he ordered for himself. "So you know what you're going to write?"

"Well, no, but-"

"Then we're not going home, not until you get an idea."

You groan and scoop up a bit of your dessert, shoving it into your mouth and glancing around at your surroundings. Your eyes find their way to two people sitting on the opposite side of the street underneath a bus shelter. The one all the way to right has his earbuds in and is tapping his fingers on the arm of the bench, his head turned to the side, looking out at the street. Meanwhile, the girl at the other end is sitting there with her hands clasped in her lap, her head turned as well, but her eyes locked on the stranger. Instantly and almost subconsciously, you begin to think up a background story for the two, how they got there, and what's going to happen next. You gasp and stand up. "Joseph Mark Trohman, take me home."

He looks up at you and sees a sparkle in your eyes that he's seen a few times before, right before you've written your first two best sellers. He doesn't hesitate to nod his head in agreement and stand up, quickly trying to finish his ice cream and jogging to catch up to you as you practically run to the car.