Chapter Text
He's stuck.
Not literally stuck, just…
Uninspired.
Frustrated.
Processor-dead-
Okay fine, he has writers block.
Poets block?
A writer and a poet are the same thing at it's core, so really…
Ugh, whatever! The point is, is that Optimus Prime has writers block.
Ever since they came out of the 50 years of stasis, he's been trying to write something. Anything!
From looking at old works in progresses to trying to write the random plot-bunnies that float around in his processor, he hasn't been able to start or finish any of his works…
Which is a problem when you want the famed Spark Poet Orion Pax to come out of his sudden hiatus and possible rumoured retirement.
It's… Fine. He'll think of something soon… He hopes so, at least.
Fighting the Decepticons, thankfully, has given fruit to some plots. Little ideas and thoughts running around as he fights the big bad Decepticons, so props to them, he supposed.
But this writers block has been here for several months.
When will it end…
ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ
Why did it have to be him?!
The panic coursed through his frame, helm in servos as he paced around his room.
His writers block is gone. This should be good — great even! He has ideas flowing through his processor, detailing every delicate inch of energon dripping down gorgeous clawed servos as they rip his spark chamber from his chassis. Primus, he's flushing just thinking about it.
But it's bad.
Horrible, even.
Because those servos he's thinking about? Dripping in Optimus' inner-most energon, tearing open his intake tubing and ripping out his voice box, leaving a mess of his insides in its wake?
They belong to the Warlord Megatron… that hot bastard.
His fist makes a dent in the wall.
.
.
.
He sinks to his knees, groaning miserably.
He's fragged.