Writer's Block

“Jack!” Alex called from our bedroom down the hall. Normally, I'd just call back a 'what?', but he sounded like he was in pain or something.

I stood from where I'd been sitting on the couch in the living room, just scrolling through twitter on my laptop, and began the short jog down the hall. I never really had all that much to do while we were off tour, especially since the photo shoot for the Summer line of JAGK had already been taken care of.

Zack was busy with his photography during our time off, and that didn't interest me all too much. Sure, his pictures were cool to look at once they'd been developed—well, I guess people don't really develop pictures anymore—but it was kind of boring just walking around in silence in order to 'get the perfect shot.'

Rian wasn't really an option either, considering he was spending as much time with Cassadee as he could since they hardly ever see each other anymore. After she won The Voice, it was like she always had something to do up in, like, Tennessee or something. One of those deep south states that isn't at all, in fact, anywhere in the south. I enjoy hanging out with both of them, but they really need some alone time together.

I still had Alex, of course, but he's been writing for the new album, and I am no good with words at all. He's said he loves having my company, but he works better without distractions. He also made sure that I knew that I was, in a sense, a good distraction, just not a very helpful one. In a way, I was helpful, if you know what I mean.

We already had a name for the new album, and I had actually been the one to think of it.

Alright, I didn't think of it so much as shout, 'Don't panic, guys, we got this,' and they all thought I meant that it should be called... well, Don't Panic. It all worked out perfectly, though, so I guess I can't really complain. The only problem we had with the album was the album art.

“Jack!” Alex called again just as I reached our bedroom door, that time sounding a little louder and in more distress than before.

I whipped open the door before he could shout for me again, only to be met with him laying sprawled face first on top of the bed, his face shoved into the mattress. In all honesty, he kind of reminded me of a starfish. There were crumpled up papers and different writing utensils scattered carelessly about the room.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” I questioned a little incredulously as I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned into the door frame, a smirk spreading over my face as I raised an eyebrow. The only reaction I received was him turning his head so that he could pout at me.

“Jack,” he whimpered, his bottom lip jutting out a bit before it began trembling.

The smirk on my face vanished instantly as I bounded towards the bed, climbing up on it and pulling him into my lap. He curled up and pressed his face into the left side of my chest, sighing heavily.

“What's wrong, babe?” I asked gently, using my right hand to rub his left arm soothingly. He simply sighed again before he mumbled something unintelligible into the cotton of my grey V-neck. “I didn't understand that, Lex,” I said softly, to which he sighed again and pulled away.

“I have writer's block,” he whined, sounding close to tears.

“What?” I pushed a little confusedly.

“Words, Jack! Words! They won't come to me! I've been in here all day just trying to think of something, anything, and nothing is fucking working!” he exclaimed exasperatedly.

“No, I know what you mean by writer's block,” I assured, not getting upset about his outburst because I could see how distraught he really was over all this. “I just don't understand why you're getting so worked up over it; this isn't the first time, and I know it won't be the last.”

He sighed over dramatically as he climbed from my lap and began to collect a few of the random papers. After he got a good handful of them, he trudged back over to the bed and resumed his position in my lap without a word. He hung his head in shame and held the papers up for me to take.

I took them from him and idly flipped through a few, just glancing at the multicolored ink splattered across the page. Instead of having words written down, he had little drawings. The four of us sitting on a couch or lounging at the beach as helicopters shot at a giant octopus. There were a few different ones of us playing on stage, surrounded by people, and there was also one where the four of us were crowded around a window watching a zombie apocalypse take place no more than thirty feet away.

“These are cute, Lex,” I remarked once I got to the end, and if I knew Alex, he surely rolled his eyes. “I bet we could use these for the album art. Maybe a few in the lyrics booklet, too?”

“But they aren't lyrics, Jack!” he complained, ignoring my statement and lolling his head back so he could look up at me.

“Well, what do you usually do when you get writer's block?” I inquired, to which he began to blush and look away.

“I think about you,” he muttered.

“Oh, so Get Down On Your Knees and Tell Me You Love Me is about me? What are you trying to tell me, Alex?” I asked, painting my voice in faux hurt.

“No, of course it's not about you! You know I had hardly any say in those songs!” he countered defensively, causing me to laugh.

I pressed a kiss into his hair, mumbling a quiet, “I know, babe, I'm only messin' with ya, relax.”

He loosened up a bit and I pushed him from my lap. I stood from the bed and turned around to face him, watching as the confusion on his face became deeper and deeper. I smirked and reached down to manhandle him so that he was on his back facing me, his legs dangling over the edge of the bed and on either side of my own.

“I think you need a distraction,” I practically purred, leaning down to press my lips to his. He kissed back immediately, even leaning up and using his hands to pull me closer by my hair.

I pulled away to move my lips down to his neck next, but he followed me so that he was sitting up completely, lips hungrily molding to mine, as if this would be the last kiss we'd ever share. That's something I love about Alex; he let's out his frustrations sexually.

'Why start a fight when I could get off with my incredibly sexy boyfriend?' he'd told me when I'd asked him about it once, shrugging his shoulders as if it were the most logical explanation in the world. I don't really feel it is, but, I mean, hey, if he's gonna show me he's mad by having rough sex with me, which ends in him not being pissed off anymore, who am I to complain or deny him?

I moved my hands to rest on his hips and he removed his mouth from my own to suction his lips onto the side of my throat, his hands still wrapped around the back of my neck. His nails started to dig slightly into my flesh, which only succeeded in turning me on even more. I moaned loudly in his ear, feeling his body shudder as he bit down a little harder than before, changing my moan into a sharp gasp.

He smirked against my skin just as his tongue crept out to sooth the pinch his teeth had left behind. My pants were getting painfully tight, and I didn't have to look to know that Alex was having the same problem. I snaked my left hand from his waist to awkwardly palm him. His hips jerked once before he was pushing me away and standing to his feet.

In a matter of mere moments, his lips were on my own again. His hands were running up and down my body greedily, and then he stuck his hands in my back pockets, squeezing lightly. He bit my lip harshly and I gasped into his mouth just as he shuffled closer, pressing our bodies firmly together. He didn't stop there, however, and continued to inch into me.

It took a few moments for me to realize that he wanted me to move back as well. I made it a few steps before he was shoving me into the wall. He ducked down to bite at the little bit of my Jack Skellington tattoo that was peeking from my shirt and I began to palm him again, a little more forceful this time than the last.

“Fuck, Jack, more,” he moaned into my skin before he stopped. His eyes widened as he pulled away, a grin spreading across his lips quickly.

He took off towards the bed with that, and I was ready to follow when he picked up a paper and pen, scribbling away at it. My mouth dropped open as I realized that he'd gotten over his writer's block and was no longer interested in frustrated sex.

“Seriously?” I complained as I watched him work. He didn't even look up, only began humming along to whatever he'd written.

“How does this sound?” he asked, still staring intently at the paper. “You take me over, I throw you up against the wall. We've seen it all before, but this one's different; it's deliberate. You send me reeling, calling out to you for more. The value of this moment lives in a metaphor, yeah, through it all,” he sang, sending me a glance before looking back down again.

“It sounds great, babe,” I said with a sigh as he began to hurriedly write more things down. After another few moments of watching him, because, hey, writer's block could strike at any moment and my assistance may be needed again, I trudged back out into the living room, throwing myself on the couch and staring at my tented jeans.

With another heavy sigh, I picked my laptop back up from where I'd deposited it on the coffee table, seeing that I still had twitter open. Since I had nothing better to do, same as before, I simply clicked 'Compose New Tweet' typing up a simple sentence that summarized all of my thoughts perfectly:

@JackAllTimeLow: I can't believe I just got cock-blocked by writer's block.