Yet Another Rp Log
I'd mentioned in the summary for Salvation that the original seed of the idea came from a small snippet of my old RP with ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
aeon_entwined way back when. Someone in the comment thread mentioned she was curious about that original idea, so here's a bit from the logs.
In this snippet,aeon_entwined is playing Optimus and I am playing Megatron. (Yeah, Nemesis doesn't exist here; he's just a figment of Megatron's broodmagination.)
Background info: 1) there's an uneasy truce (that Megatron is fully planning to bend to his own uses, of course; this fic is from the same plotline), in part because 2) Megatron and Optimus are lovers, and 3) they've just had an argument.
Optimus's scar comes from Megatron blasting him when they first met (more here, and the original idea comes not from us but from this fanart.)
Normally, Optimus would have pulled away, angered at being treated like a youngling. But this time, he stilled, and kept his gaze locked with Megatron’s. What the warlord said did make sense, and he realized they still had much to learn about each other.
“I understand why you reacted in the manner that you did, but I’m afraid that doesn’t change my perception of my own manner of living,” he replied slowly, cobalt optics glinting as he focused on the other’s words. “I accept the statutes that I’ve grown up with and that I’ve lived by. And they’re … very different from yours. To say the least.”
“You know me better than most … I’m a pacifist to the very core of my spark. And that’s not going to change. I know what I feel towards you, but I think you’re still figuring it out. You have your own interpretations of our precepts, just as we do yours.”
He chuckled. “I’m making this sound so hopeless.”
"Change how you see your own way of living? I doubt I --" Megatron tried to laugh. But an image, unbidden, filled his mind, so vividly it startled him into silence: an image of the young mech Optimus had been, if things had been different, if Megatron had accepted him and taken him in rather than tried, in disgust, to destroy him.
If he had raised him, rather than rejected him... The warlord stared at nothing, the images more vivid than anything he saw before him now: the hours of training, vorn upon vorn of it, barking commands to the young one, who would obey first out of respect and the desire to impress him, marveling when that somehow wasn't good enough;
then out of determination, the burning need to prove himself as strong as the one who'd saved him expected him to be;
then out of rage, frustration, and finally cold despair, because this wasn't fair, couldn't be fair, never would be fair, and the only solution was to become terrible as the forces, indifferent and omnipotent, that demanded he become more than anyone ever could be, and would tear him to scrap if he was not.
And then, in the cold dust of the dying day, when the youth felt sure that he'd sought salvation and found only a cruel joke and the mech who played it on him, finally being able to smile down at him, optics gleaming in the darkness, and show that the impossible had come to pass and he was, yes, actually proud of his new charge, because he had fought until it destroyed him, remade him, reforged him, and won --
"-- I doubt I could change that now," Megatron finished, his voice soft. His fingers traced the unscarred side of Optimus's lip, but his optics fixed on the other.
Optimus opened his mouth to respond when the other mech suddenly went very, very still. The crimson optics flared slightly, and it became obvious Megatron was somewhere else entirely. With a concerned rumble, Optimus reached out, molding his palm to the curve of the warlord’s jawline.
He waited, not wanting to interrupt whatever it was his partner was experiencing, but he couldn’t quell the slightly uneasy sensation in his spark. Then, without warning, Megatron’s optics refocused and he spoke again, almost as if nothing had happened.
Optimus leaned forward, brushing his lips lightly against the other’s. “It’s highly unlikely … but … what did you see? What just reinforced that statement?” His voice was quiet, a low and mildly anxious rumble.
"Nothing that matters now," Megatron answered softly.
That didn't satisfy the other. The azure optics -- so close to the warlord's own -- burned with concern. The Decepticon sighed. Why did this fool have to care so much? It was a waste of both Megatron's time and his own.
"You... do not understand us. You do not understand me. Or at least, you pretend not to. I suspect you understand more than your programming will allow you to acknowledge." He chuckled.
"If not for this --" Copying the other's motion, Megatron brushed his own lips against the other's scar -- "you would understand completely. Because I would have made you understand, by force and by fire, as I do anyone who comes to me."
He smirked, feeling a growing warmth spread through his spark. He welcomed it, its heat drawing him away from his bitter reflections.
"Or does it make you uneasy to hear me say that, had our meeting so many vorns ago gone another way, you would have made an excellent Decepticon?"
aeon_entwined way back when. Someone in the comment thread mentioned she was curious about that original idea, so here's a bit from the logs.In this snippet,
aeon_entwined is playing Optimus and I am playing Megatron. (Yeah, Nemesis doesn't exist here; he's just a figment of Megatron's broodmagination.)Background info: 1) there's an uneasy truce (that Megatron is fully planning to bend to his own uses, of course; this fic is from the same plotline), in part because 2) Megatron and Optimus are lovers, and 3) they've just had an argument.
Optimus's scar comes from Megatron blasting him when they first met (more here, and the original idea comes not from us but from this fanart.)
Normally, Optimus would have pulled away, angered at being treated like a youngling. But this time, he stilled, and kept his gaze locked with Megatron’s. What the warlord said did make sense, and he realized they still had much to learn about each other.
“I understand why you reacted in the manner that you did, but I’m afraid that doesn’t change my perception of my own manner of living,” he replied slowly, cobalt optics glinting as he focused on the other’s words. “I accept the statutes that I’ve grown up with and that I’ve lived by. And they’re … very different from yours. To say the least.”
“You know me better than most … I’m a pacifist to the very core of my spark. And that’s not going to change. I know what I feel towards you, but I think you’re still figuring it out. You have your own interpretations of our precepts, just as we do yours.”
He chuckled. “I’m making this sound so hopeless.”
"Change how you see your own way of living? I doubt I --" Megatron tried to laugh. But an image, unbidden, filled his mind, so vividly it startled him into silence: an image of the young mech Optimus had been, if things had been different, if Megatron had accepted him and taken him in rather than tried, in disgust, to destroy him.
If he had raised him, rather than rejected him... The warlord stared at nothing, the images more vivid than anything he saw before him now: the hours of training, vorn upon vorn of it, barking commands to the young one, who would obey first out of respect and the desire to impress him, marveling when that somehow wasn't good enough;
then out of determination, the burning need to prove himself as strong as the one who'd saved him expected him to be;
then out of rage, frustration, and finally cold despair, because this wasn't fair, couldn't be fair, never would be fair, and the only solution was to become terrible as the forces, indifferent and omnipotent, that demanded he become more than anyone ever could be, and would tear him to scrap if he was not.
And then, in the cold dust of the dying day, when the youth felt sure that he'd sought salvation and found only a cruel joke and the mech who played it on him, finally being able to smile down at him, optics gleaming in the darkness, and show that the impossible had come to pass and he was, yes, actually proud of his new charge, because he had fought until it destroyed him, remade him, reforged him, and won --
"-- I doubt I could change that now," Megatron finished, his voice soft. His fingers traced the unscarred side of Optimus's lip, but his optics fixed on the other.
Optimus opened his mouth to respond when the other mech suddenly went very, very still. The crimson optics flared slightly, and it became obvious Megatron was somewhere else entirely. With a concerned rumble, Optimus reached out, molding his palm to the curve of the warlord’s jawline.
He waited, not wanting to interrupt whatever it was his partner was experiencing, but he couldn’t quell the slightly uneasy sensation in his spark. Then, without warning, Megatron’s optics refocused and he spoke again, almost as if nothing had happened.
Optimus leaned forward, brushing his lips lightly against the other’s. “It’s highly unlikely … but … what did you see? What just reinforced that statement?” His voice was quiet, a low and mildly anxious rumble.
"Nothing that matters now," Megatron answered softly.
That didn't satisfy the other. The azure optics -- so close to the warlord's own -- burned with concern. The Decepticon sighed. Why did this fool have to care so much? It was a waste of both Megatron's time and his own.
"You... do not understand us. You do not understand me. Or at least, you pretend not to. I suspect you understand more than your programming will allow you to acknowledge." He chuckled.
"If not for this --" Copying the other's motion, Megatron brushed his own lips against the other's scar -- "you would understand completely. Because I would have made you understand, by force and by fire, as I do anyone who comes to me."
He smirked, feeling a growing warmth spread through his spark. He welcomed it, its heat drawing him away from his bitter reflections.
"Or does it make you uneasy to hear me say that, had our meeting so many vorns ago gone another way, you would have made an excellent Decepticon?"