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Tags: transformers, megatron/starscream, ceo/cfo, fanfiction, humor, angst, kink

Summary

The things Megatron and Starscream do for peace. A dinner party at Optimus Prime and Elita‑One’s lovely new home? What could go wrong?

Story

Megatron glared at the house in front of him — all hand‑laid brick, white picket fence, and blooming pink rose bushes. It belonged on a postcard, or worse, a government‑housing brochure. Not on the contact list of a warlord. The silence of the gated community pressed in on him, dense and suspicious. Even the wind was polite here.

A curl of smoke traced the air as he exhaled, holding open the door of the Nemesis — his custom Maserati, all matte obsidian and chrome accents, purring low as it powered down. The car had been built for him and Starscream alone. It growled in protest, as if the machine itself disapproved of their destination.

“My Queen,” he rumbled, his voice like gravel caught in a turbine. “Are you certain this is the correct address? Because I cannot… imagine Optimus Prime living here.”

Starscream sat poised in the passenger seat, elegant even in frustration. Her claw clutched the offending invitation, the script so bubbly and perky it looked like it had been written by an over‑caffeinated kindergarten teacher. She glared at it like she could will it into flames.

“He’s as big as me,” Megatron muttered, louder this time, smoke hissing from the side of his mouth.

Starscream smoothed a wrinkle from her black‑and‑white dress, every movement precise, practiced. Her wings twitched behind her, restless. “The address is correct,” she said at last, though unease tugged at her voice. “Perhaps… this is Elita‑One’s home. Some couples live apart. For space. Or sanity.”

Megatron snorted, taking another slow drag. “Then what’s the point? The reason I married you is because I want to be around you.”

Starscream blinked. Her spark fluttered — traitorously — at the blunt sincerity of it. “You got that right,” she murmured, reaching to adjust his lapel, her claws brushing the cool edge of his armor. She pretended not to notice the heat blooming inside her plating.

Together, they stared at the front door like it might suddenly open its wooden maw and devour them both. Somewhere inside, muzak played. Megatron winced, then turned to her again.

What a sight. The dress suited her — off‑the‑shoulder, with a sweetheart neckline that cradled the gleam of her plating like moonlight on a blade. But it was the choker that always caught his optic: obsidian steel, flush against her throat, with a ruby so large it could’ve been pried from a noble’s crown. The clasp at the front wasn’t just for show — it snapped perfectly into the latch on his own platinum chain. His chain never came off. Her choker didn’t either. Welded to their neck‑cables. No one had to know that.

Her skirt fluttered as if she might take flight at any moment, and those heels… He didn’t know if they were meant for dancing or killing. Probably both. Megatron exhaled a heavy stream of smoke, forcing himself not to think about far more enjoyable ways they could be spending the evening.

“Is the house even reinforced for our kind?” he asked, cigar clenched between his fangs.

Starscream didn’t answer at once. Her optics swept over the human‑sized door, the delicate porch, the soft pastels of a world not built for beings like them.

“I… am unsure,” she said finally, voice tight. “The Autobots didn’t specify.” There was offense in her tone — as though being forgotten was worse than being snubbed.

“Thirty minutes,” Megatron growled. “An hour, at most.”

Starscream nodded solemnly. “We will do what we must…” she murmured, then stared once more at the door — quaint, human‑sized, painted robin’s egg blue. Her mouth curled with distaste. “Oh, this will hurt.”

Her wings gave a quiet rustle of irritation as she eyed the dainty entrance — the kind of place where you were meant to wipe your feet before stepping inside, not storm the gates.

With matching dread, she and Megatron began the miserable process of folding their towering war‑frames into their smallest, most socially acceptable forms. It felt like crawling into a suit three sizes too small — if that suit were made of bone and steel. One wrong move, and the seams would pop. Joints groaned. Wings retracted with reluctant hisses. Armor folded in with the grinding, clicking sound of centuries‑old vaults being sealed shut.

“If I sneeze, I’ll decapitate someone.” “It would be the highlight of their lives.”

Starscream grimaced as her stilettoed foot crunched into place. “If I sneeze, I’ll decapitate someone.” Megatron, behind her, rumbled. “It would be the highlight of their lives.”

He pulled the glowing cigar from between his fangs and crushed it out on the porch’s roof‑tiles with a contemptuous twist. “...fragging dollhouse,” he grumbled.

Starscream lifted her claw and knocked on the dainty front door with practiced poise — as if it didn’t feel like a war‑crime waiting to happen.

After a few beats, the door creaked open, revealing a human maid dressed in full 19th‑century cosplay — long navy gown, starched apron, and yes, the ruffled cap. She looked up. And up. Her mouth dropped open as she took in Starscream’s gleaming armor, flawless poise, and towering, other‑worldly beauty.

“Ohhh my god…” the maid breathed, eyes huge. Starscream offered a slow, lethal smirk and leaned down slightly, optics glowing. “I know,” she cooed.

The maid’s hands fluttered uselessly at her sides. “Th‑th‑this way, please. You are expected.” She stepped aside so quickly she nearly tripped on her hem.

As Starscream ducked under the low frame, her wings folded even tighter against her back with a slight hiss. The hardwood floor creaked beneath her as if whispering its last rites. She frowned. “Oh no… Elita‑One likes antique floors,” she whispered to herself, eyeing the polished boards like they were glass. “Low entryway. Tight walls. Fragile, my king,” she muttered, holding out a claw to guide Megatron in behind her.

He hesitated. Broad shoulders nearly touched both sides of the hallway. His crimson optics narrowed at the ceiling beam just above his helm. His glare was enough to peel paint. “I swear,” he growled. “… if this is a prank, the war is restarting.”

“And I will make it my mission to punch Prime in the spike at full strength every single time I lay optics on him.”

A human guest gasped from the far parlor. Another took a step behind a velvet curtain, clutching their drink like it might defend them.

Starscream turned her head just enough to smile back at Megatron. "I don't blame you."

They tiptoed — or rather, made their best approximation of tiptoeing, which was about as subtle as shifting tectonic plates — through the delicate human home. The walls trembled with each step. A chandelier quivered ominously. Floorboards groaned like tortured souls.

A human server in a tuxedo scurried past them in the opposite direction, clutching a tray of finger sandwiches like it was a bomb. He dared a look up at Megatron and audibly whimpered.

Starscream's optics caught a towering china cabinet filled with delicate crystal and porcelain teacups arranged with almost religious devotion.

Starscream: "And they call me vain."

Megatron, behind her, rumbled. "Explain, 'Tarscream."

Starscream: "This whole place. It's Elita-One's personality, bottled, polished, and painted pastel. There's a filter on every light. Everything's symmetrical. Controlled."

She pointed to a nearby side table adorned with color-coded books and one offensively quaint doily.

"It's not a home, it's an aesthetic. The kind of place that exists to be photographed. She's built a shrine to her own brand."

Behind them, someone sneezed. Violently. In terror.

A flurry of whispering followed.

"Are they here to kill us?" "I think that's Starscream." "Her wings just flexed again—move, move—"

Megatron made a low, gravelly noise of agreement, like a landslide consenting.

Starscream: "True, I'm high glam and annoying. But our home looks like our home. Not Starscream's Ego Palace: guest-starring Lord Megatron."

Megatron chuckled, and the sound rolled out of him like thunder just beneath the surface. It wasn't sardonic or cruel — it was real.

Megatron: "I don't need much."

Starscream stopped mid-step. Turned. Pointed a claw up at his chest with pinpoint accuracy.

Starscream: "Yes. Yes, you do. We fought and bled and built our lives from nothing. Just so we could take. Up. Space."

The words hung between them. Heavy. True.

Then they passed through the last narrow hallway and stepped into the parlor.

It was slightly more spacious — emphasis on the slightly. But no less cluttered.

Every inch of the room had been curated within an inch of its life. Ornate wallpaper in blush tones. Carved furniture. Dozens of framed family portraits and influencer-tier stills of Elita-One...

A grand piano gleamed in the corner like a domesticated predator. Several delicate flutes stood on mirrored trays, each filled with high-grade energon filtered to look like champagne.

The room was packed with humans in formalwear — tuxedos, gowns, tasteful updos — all caught between politeness and primal survival instincts.

A servant bot short-circuited in the corner. A guest tried to record — and was elbowed.

Megatron and Starscream exchanged a glance — equal parts suspicion and shared pain.

Then a voice cut through the tension.

Optimus Prime stood near the fireplace, hunched as if trying to fold himself down to human scale. It didn’t work.

"Hello, old friend."

Megatron: "Orin. What is this place?"

Optimus: "What do you mean? This is my home."

Megatron: "This?"

Starscream: "Here? I'm struggling to move without damaging the décor — and I’m not even your size, nor Lord Megatron’s."

"Do you sleep in the piano bench?" ... "Or did Elita-One install a crawlspace for you?"

Megatron: "Let me guess. You compress. For them."

Before they could press further, Elita-One entered like a cue had been called. She moved with ease, with space.

Elita-One: "Lord Megatron! Starscream! You came!"

She handed them champagne flutes. Starscream clinked glasses with Megatron — and promptly poured both drinks into a fake potted plant.

The soil fizzed. The leaves wilted.

Megatron had never loved her more.

Then— Groooaaaan.

"Maybe we should spread out?"

"We fall through the floor together."

Elita-One: "Oh, Starscream! You must see this."

Starscream barely took a step—

SHINK.

Her stiletto heels punched straight through the floorboards.

"Ah! One moment, Elita-One, dear. It seems I’ve gotten my heels… caught."

She reached down to free herself — wings flicked—

CRASH— straight into the chandelier.

CLANG.

The room gasped.

The crystals rattled. One snapped free and hit the floor with a suicidal tink.

Starscream staggered, both claws shooting up to catch the entire fixture and steady it.

"Oh! Ha! Thank Primus — I thought I’d broken it!"

"Imagine the scandal!"

A woman murmured, "She just headbutted a Swarovski chandelier."

Her husband whispered, "She’s trying to kill us with fashion."

Behind her, Megatron twitched. The room got a little colder.

"Starscream."

Low. Not yelling. Worse.

Starscream: "Just… a moment, Lord Megatron."

With a hiss, she disengaged her heel servos and stepped barefoot out of them.

She picked them up with grace — like they weren’t embedded in a war crime.

Megatron slammed his empty flute onto the tray — declaring war on the furniture.

CRRRREEEAK.

The piano groaned… and collapsed in on itself.

A loud TWONK echoed through the parlor.

Champagne sloshed. Flutes fell. Glass cascaded.

A woman screamed, "MY EARS!"

A man fainted with the drama of a Regency ghost.

Megatron: "PRIMUS! Is everything in this fragging dollhouse made of spun sugar?!"

He stepped back — and shattered a table.

Starscream calmly reached into her clutch, still barefoot.

Elita-One: "M–my floor?! My piano—!"

Her tone cracked. Her perfect mask slipped.

Starscream: "I’m afraid Lord Megatron and I must be leaving."

Megatron: "Disgusted."

Starscream handed Optimus a credit chip.

"For the repairs."

Megatron, to Elita-One: "Spend it wisely."

They turned to leave. Starscream lingered…

"Yes," she murmured. "Lovely party."

CRASH.

A house-shaking noise from the foyer.

Megatron from afar: "FRAGGING BILL ME!"

Panic erupted.

Starscream winced, wings sagging.

She stepped through the last doorway, out onto the porch. Barefoot.

She hadn’t made it three steps when—

Lifted.

Megatron had scooped her into his arms.

"Megatron?!"

Megatron: "I’d rather take a blast to the spark chamber than let you walk to the car like this."

She hesitated — then clung to him.

"I’m so sorry."

Click. Her choker locked to his chain.

Instant. Sacred. Anchor.

Her frame relaxed.

Megatron: "You’re mine. And you don’t have to shrink. Not ever."

Starscream nodded. Safe in the only place that fit her.

Inside, silence.

A single crystal spun on the marble floor.

Elita-One weakly: "My…my home…."

Guests murmured. Shuffled. Someone whispered, "Did he say 'fragging bill me'?"

"No, the piano collapsed on its own. Like it sensed them."

"They didn’t even try to fit in!"

"They did. Tiptoed in. House doesn’t fit their size… how Optimus Prime lives here is beyond me."

Optimus Prime stood frozen.

"I wasn’t clumsy," he said. "I was always so careful."

"It’s not just me."

No one corrected him.

A teen stared at his phone, live-streaming.

The teen grinned. "...Yo, this party just got historical."

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