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Megatron sat on his throne in the command center, the image of a regal tyrant overseeing the work to uphold his faction. Well, perhaps he was leaned forward displaying somewhat unprofessional eagerness, but in his defense, the Decepticon’s newest prisoner made for quite a pretty picture as he attempted to fulfill the “chores” assigned to him.
One thing was certain—Megatron was not jealous of his own captive. If anything, he was proud of how well he’d designed this latest punishment for the infuriating(ly handsome) Prime who’d fought so long and hard against him in their latest battle.
It was just that they were similar sizes, so the metaleather straps framing Optimus’s face and chest would also fit Megatron, that was all. And the cuffs clipped to the center of the chest harness were lace-up, so those would fit Megatron as well. The hoof covers attached to said cuffs could handle most mechanisms’ hands, probably.
But Megatron would never deign to lower himself the way he was lowering the Prime!
He’d never let himself be seen in public in such a get-up, never attempt to hold a microfiber cloth between two blunt hooves, never stumble around trying to use the microfiber cloth to dust surfaces he could barely see past the blinders on his bridle.
“Surely one of us has to tell him; the old fool is practically drooling!”
“Lord Megatron’s new project has been analyzed and deemed acceptable. His prisoner is secure. Mess levels: nominal. … Mess levels: also far less dangerous than Starscream’s laboratory.”
“Well, I’m not letting the Pony Prime clean up in there, that’s for sure.”
There was a rumor going around that Megatron’s captive seemed more captivated by his treatment than anything else. Megatron couldn’t bring himself to mind. He couldn’t look away from Optimus’s optics, overbright with eagerness as he voluntarily ducked his helm for Megatron to slide the bridle on.
His battle mask had been disabled as part of his inbuilt weaponry suite, so his plush lips and shining cheek angles were bare. Vulnerable. The mesh parted slowly as Megatron pressed his thumb into one corner, distorting their curve. He could just see a strip of wetter, glossier metal where the external mesh ended and Optimus’s mouth truly began.
And then he was tugging the bit into place, a matte black rod covering his view of Optimus’s palate. In turn, though, it revealed Optimus’s fangs as they settled into place atop and beneath the rod. There was a chip in one of them Megatron had put there himself, in a not-too-distant fight.
They certainly weren’t fighting now.
Now, Megatron rubbed his thumb over that chipped fang and murmured, “We’ll have to get that filled and buffed, won’t we, my Prime?”
Optimus didn’t say anything; he just let his lips close, covering the bit and his denta… and Megatron’s digit.
When Megatron pulled his thumb free, it came loose with a pop that Megatron knew, logically, was near-silent, though it seemed deafeningly loud.
“I’m going to kill them both if they spend a klik longer getting the Prime’s gear on.”
“Megatron’s schedule: currently empty.”
“Oh, but our schedules aren’t, are they? No, while Mister Supreme Leader over there spends fifteen kliks giving the enemy leader a dental exam, we’re actually negotiating with his underlings for… what are we on about this time?”
“Current discussions: lifting seeker airtime restrictions.”
“... I suppose Megatron’s input isn’t absolutely necessary on this matter. Whatever, call me if he starts trying to make the Prime into a pegasus. I will not be letting him make shoddy representations of wings!”
Megatron’s next idea was not, as Starscream had predicted, a pegasus-ified Prime. Nor was it a purple gryphon Prime, thank you for never forgetting that either, Starscream.
No, the clear next step was another kind of sensory deprivation. Megatron had debated a true blindfold rather than the blinders, but ultimately decided that a sound dampener would be more effective. Soundwave had provided the base technology, while Shockwave had (somewhat reluctantly) designed the headset to resemble the pricked ears of the equinocons that once ran wild across Cybertron.
Megatron could hardly wait till they next had a chance to kidnap the Prime.
He’d meant to get started donning—er, forcing Optimus to don—the updated harness immediately, but, well, the Prime could always get him monologuing like no one else. Practically as soon as he’d been chained to the wall in a holding cell, hands locked above his helm and ankles cuffed together, he was quipping something to draw Megatron into their usual playful banter.
Megatron was, perhaps, a little distracted by the way Optimus’s arm cables flexed in the gaps of his armor as he pulled against his bindings. And every time Optimus moved his legs, the chains of his ankle cuffs clanked together, drawing the optic back down along the (admittedly quite aesthetically pleasing) arc of his frame.
“Ha!” he blustered, deciding to forge ahead as though he’d actually heard what Optimus had said. It was probably something about how the Autobots would never lose hope in their sparks or whatnot. “Such sentiment… it’s unbecoming for mechanisms with such power as us, don’t you think? We ought to be honest with one another.”
“He knows Prime was just making fun of the leaky ceiling in the corridor outside, right? He has to know.”
“Megatron: doubtless aware of ongoing Victory repairs.”
“I note you did not say that our dear leader was aware Optimus Prime was insulting them.”
“Megatron… aware of what is necessary.”
In Megatron’s defense, he’d been somewhat caught off guard when the call came through that negotiations for the Prime’s release were settled much faster than usual. Optimus was only bound with regulation cuffs behind his back and his temporary halter over his helm, having just been led to their—Megatron’s—prep room.
He hadn’t bothered to mute his external comms, so Optimus, too, had been able to hear the update. It wasn’t his imagination that the Prime’s optics were also tinged with disappointment at the news, along with a hint of that pesky guilt that must run his nemesis ragged. Fortunately, Megatron had zero qualms about wrenching procedure to fit his whims.
“I’ll return the Prime when I’m damn well ready to!” he snarled. “No, don’t fuss, he won’t be harmed. Tell his little bots he’ll be practically spoiled. No, don’t actually tell them that! Just tell them he’ll be returned whole at sunset.”
When he terminated the connection, there was a hint of a grateful smile tugging at Optimus’s lips. The self-sacrificing fool couldn’t dream of asking for what he wanted so directly. Megatron himself never once feared to declare his desires!
Well, unless you counted the undignified wishes that occasionally galloped through his recharge fluxes, bound and gagged in metaleather and vinyl. But those didn’t count. Megatron couldn’t be afraid of such dreams! If he wanted them, he’d ask for it directly!
Megatron comforted himself with the sureness that Optimus didn’t know Megatron as well as Megatron knew Optimus, or else he might be in danger of Optimus guessing his true desires—er, passing fancies. Nothing more.
Then he made optic contact with Optimus, and the sensation put Megatron in mind of passing through a planet’s atmosphere—something intense enough to leave even him staggering. He only kept upright by virtue of much practice (meeting Optimus’s sapphire gaze was always like that). What he wasn’t used to was the way Optimus had pitched his voice low and warm. “Perhaps… since I won’t have time to do my chores today, I could instruct someone else in the matter?”
It took until the third hoof was being strapped onto his own ankle for Megatron to realize that he had potentially been compromised, tactically speaking.
His hands, curled gently within two hoof-gloves, were not yet clipped to his chest. For a moment, they tightened into fists, but he was off-balance with one hoof—pede—in the air. Even when Optimus let that leg fall, Megatron couldn’t have run properly with one normal pede and the other locked into the hoof conformation that left him walking on the tips of his pedes.
And—well—Optimus had gotten to wear all the gear at once before, and so surely Megatron should also get to don it all right now. It was his right! He huffed a little, punctuating his declaration to no one.
In response, Optimus chuckled. “That’s my good pet,” he murmured, and patted Megatron’s knee as he set it back down. “I know, you’re very ferocious.”
Megatron found himself wishing for the blinders, because they’d be something to disguise the way his cheek struts flushed mauve. He stepped back and forth a little, definitely just testing how to carry himself and not because he was flustered.
“Does my pet need to prove he’s a big, strong equinocon?” Optimus asked, taking Megatron’s face between both servos, bolder now than before. “Or does he want to wear the gear of a sweet little pony for me?”
Megatron’s fuel pump kicked into a gear so high it made him dizzy. Talking didn’t feel like the right thing to do, which was strange, because he loved the sound of his own voice. He wanted to toss his helm, but he didn’t want to break Optimus’s hold on him, so he settled for stamping one hoof and snorting.
“Oh, I see,” Optimus answered, as though Megatron had spoken clearly. “You’re my handsome pony, very dignified and regal. It’s a shame we only have borrowed gear for you, then, but—” and here he leaned in, voice dropping to a near-whisper—“I admit to liking the idea of you wearing my gear, in particular.”
It was all too easy to let Optimus continue working. The chest harness went over his helm, laying down his chest and back till Optimus took up the loose straps and drew them back under Megatron’s arms to buckle behind him. Optimus was diligent in adjusting the straps for their different shapes, ensuring they held Megatron firmly.
And then he was clipping Megatron’s wrists to his chest, the last step before the bridle, with its blinders and muffle-ears.
Megatron hadn’t found bonds he couldn’t break in centuries, but they’d made these to contain a Prime. He couldn’t resist the urge to brace himself and test them.
His efforts tugged the harness away from his frame and drew his elbows out so that Optimus had to step back, but the straps and clips held firm. He strained for a klik longer, tension trembling in every wire and cable.
A flick to the nose—the audacity!—broke his concentration, and as Megatron’s arms relaxed into their cuffs, his optics refocused on Optimus Prime’s regrettably handsome smile. “Be nice,” Optimus chided. “We only have so much time, remember?”
Megatron opened his mouth to complain, he really did.
But then he saw the bridle in Optimus’s free hand, and, well… he’d come this far. He huffed out another little sigh, then obligingly lowered his helm, keeping his mouth open to accept the bit gag.
Optimus would finish dressing Megatron in the pony gear. Megatron’s odd urges would be satisfied, and he wouldn’t mind removing the gear the moment they’d finished putting it on. By then, surely, he wouldn’t mind dropping the Prime off at the agreed-upon time, even though right now he couldn’t imagine watching Optimus walk away from him.
“I told you they’d miss the second drop-off time! But nooo, ‘Megatron and the Prime: have much to discuss,’ ‘Overclocked fools: must not be disturbed,’ ‘The fate of our species is at stake, Wing Commander Starscream, and even though our idiots-in-chief don’t have a clue about their own feelings, you’re not allowed to enlighten them!’”
“Starscream’s retelling: not Soundwave’s exact words.”
“Close enough. Look, can’t we at least start discussing ceasefires already? You know they’ll get around to it one of these days, and it’ll be so much easier if we’ve already got the basics figured out with that Enforcer tactician of theirs.”
“ … Idea: not unwise. Patching through to Autobot main communications line…”