Once, he was a name whispered in terror across galaxies. A shadow streaking across war-torn skies, the last thing many saw before oblivion. Bloodstorm, the Warlord of Kaon. The Steel Tempest. An apex predator born from fire, steel, and Cybertronian wrath.
Now?
He was flipping pancakes.
Each movement was executed with the precision of a battle maneuver, batter poured in perfect circles, flipped with a flick that could shame any chef, timed with the same instinct he once used to detonate charges on Autobot supply lines. The kitchen smelled faintly of cinnamon and expertly controlled resentment.
The sun filtered in through the window above the sink, casting light across his human holoform. To the unsuspecting eye, he looked like a mafia boss straight out of an anime: slick black hair parted to one side with clean undercuts, a faint scar slashed over one brow, and reddish-brown eyes that gleamed like hot metal. Sunglasses perched on his nose. Every inch of him wrapped in black button-down, slacks, coat. His skin bore the faint etchings of Cybertronian glyphs, names of his fallen enemies inked into his frame like memorials... or trophies.
He flipped another pancake.
And then—
CRUNCH.
His head snapped up, optics flaring with alarm. That sound. That unmistakable, infuriating sound.
CRUNCH. CHOMP.
"No," he muttered, placing the spatula down with the finality of a gavel. "Not again."
He stormed out of the kitchen, his black boots thudding against hardwood. In the living room, his nemesis awaited. Overlord, their Siberian Husky, was at it again—fur bristling, tail wagging, jaws firmly clamped on one of the couch's pillows.
"Overlord!" Bloodstorm barked, voice edged with enough menace to make Decepticons flinch.
The dog paused. Looked at him. Blinked. Then bit down on the pillow and pull, he could hear the fabric tearing. Bloodstorm's eye twitched. "I have conquered planets, subdued Prime himself in combat, and you—are chewing—the pillow."
He lunged. The dog yelped and bolted with the pillow still in his jaws, zipping past him like a white-furred missile. Bloodstorm gave chase through the house, cursing in Cybertronian, looking very much like a furious mob boss chasing a criminal with fur and too much energy.
"Overlord! Stand down, or I will—"
"What's going on?" Riley's voice called out from the hallway, followed by her barefoot steps. She appeared in the doorway still in her pajamas, hair tousled, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
Overlord skidded to a halt and sat obediently at her feet.
She blinked. "You chewing the pillows again?"
The dog whined. She crouch down and hold her hand out, with a soft stern voice
"Drop it". Overlord drops the pillow in her hand. "Good boy, Overlord!" Riley smiles as she pats Overlord's head as the dog'stail thumps on the floor in excitment.
Bloodstorm froze, jaw tightening. "Are you serious? I gave him orders. I have issued threats" Riley stands back up and set the pillow down on the couch, giving her husband a cheeky grin,Riley skips over to him and wraps her arms around his neck, "Yeah, but you're not me" before planting a soft kiss on his cheeks.
The ex-warlord grumbles under his breath before returning to the kitchen with dignity rapidly disintegrating. Only to find smoke curling up from the skillet.
His optics widened. "No, no, no—"
Too late.
The pancakes were scorched. Charred black and curling at the edges like dying leaves. The bacon looked like it had been hit by a plasma cannon. He stood there, shoulders sagging.
"I was gone for one nano-click..."
Riley appeared behind him, peering at the pan. "Well... it's got a nice crunch?"
"I have failed in my mission," he said darkly, arms crossed. "I should cast myself into the smelting pit."
"It's just breakfast."
"I was perfecting the syrup-to-pancake ratio," he muttered, glaring at the ruined plate. "It was a work of art. Now it is carbonized sadness." She slid her arms around him from behind, resting her cheek against his back. "I'd still eat it."
"No. Absolutely not. You deserve sustenance worthy of your radiance, not... this."
"You're so dramatic."
"I was a Decepticon. Drama is my nature."
Despite the ruined breakfast and his bruised pride, he drives her to work—as always—in his alt-mode: a sleek black Ford Explorer that turned heads every time it rolled down the street. He kept the windows tinted, music low, and never broke the speed limit. His enemies once feared his engines. Now the local moms waved at him while jogging.
As soon they arrive at the office building, they exchanges kisses as usual. Bloodstorm stood there for a moment, ensuring his partner safely enter the building before driving back home to resume with his daily chores.
——
With Riley safely deposited at her workplace, Bloodstorm returned to his domain—his stronghold of steel and drywall, his fortress of slightly overgrown hedges and a suspiciously noisy fridge.
He stood on the threshold of the backyard, arms crossed, the morning sun gleaming off his shades.
The garden awaited him.
Once, he had conquered battlefields. Now, he cultivated tomatoes.
But today—today the battlefield fought back.
He stepped onto the lawn and immediately spotted them, weeds sprouting defiantly between his rows of carrots, bugs gnawing away at his cabbage leaves with suicidal boldness, and there—perched atop his strawberry planter like a smug little warlord—the squirrel.
Round. Insolent. Tail flicking. Mocking.
"You again," he growled.
The squirrel chirped.
Bloodstorm narrowed his eyes. "You dare return to the scene of your crimes?"
It tilted its head. It shoves the berry within its mouth as if its trying to say 'Try me' to him. The corner of Bloodstorm's mouth twitch in annoyance at the sight, the rodent is ticking him off and obviously, it's working—
"I SHALL END YOU!" he roars. He lobbed a small garden spade. Missed. The spade had lodged itself on the wooden fence. The squirrel scampered up the fence, flicked its tail before vanishing.
"Coward," he muttered, picking up a hose like a battle rifle. He begins watering the plants. A pair of joggers passed by on the sidewalk. One waved cheerfully.
"Morning, Mr. Brookes! War with the squirrel again?"
"Affirmative," he called back grimly. "It has escalated." His elderly neighbor, Mrs. Gladwell, poked her head over the fence. "Get that little thief, dearie! He took my tomatoes last week!" somehow the neighbour from three blocks away heard them. "Get it for me, too, would ya?!" he shouts over his fence.
"I will avenge your loss, my neighbours" he swore.
They had all grown used to his dramatics. What was once fear and confusion had mellowed into fond amusement. After all, if a reformed Decepticon wanted to live in the suburbs, rage at squirrels, and grow rhubarb—who were they to judge?
By noon, the garden had been sufficiently defended. The weed menace uprooted. The cabbage liberated. The squirrel defeated (retreated, technically). Bloodstorm returned indoors, mission complete, only to be met with another problem.
A low, mechanical whirring echoed through the hallway.
He turned slowly.
There, bumping into the same corner for the third time, was the Roomba.
He scowled. "Starscream."
The vacuum beeped. Bounced off the wall. Turned the wrong way. Again.
"You spineless, floor-licking disgrace of a machine," Bloodstorm hissed. "You had one directive." he points.
The Roomba beeped again, as if trying to argue with him. He kicks it back into the living room. "No wonder Megatron threw you into space."
Housework followed. Floors mopped, dishes washed, counters scrubbed to reflective perfection. He attacked grime with the intensity of orbital bombardment. Everything had its place—everything had order.
Which, naturally, meant Overlord had to destroy it.
The husky came charging through the hallway, tail high, tongue lolling, a full basket of clean laundry clutched triumphantly in his jaws.
"Overlord. Drop. It."
Overlord barked once—loudly, proudly—and bolted out the back door.
Bloodstorm followed. "Don't you dare—"
Too late.
Across the yard the contents flew—sheets and shirts flung to the wind like casualties of war.
Overlord stopped mid-lawn, dropped the basket, and rolled ecstatically in the fresh laundry. White undershirts turned green with grass stains. Socks were sacrificed to the soil.
The husky wagged his tail, tongue out, utterly delighted.
Bloodstorm stood still, eyes twitching. He groans as he begins retrieving the clothes and toss them into the basket, he gives the husky a side glare. Sometimes the dog likes to mess with his circuits for fun.
By the time he retrieved Riley from work, the chaos of the day had been restored to calm. Mostly. The house was clean. The Roomba had been manually steered into a corner for a timeout. Overlord had been bathed—against his will.
And dinner? Dinner was a joint operation.
Riley chopped vegetables while Bloodstorm seared chicken with careful precision. He handled knives like they were energon blades. She handed him spices with a practiced rhythm, bopping to the beat of whatever lo-fi playlist she'd put on.
In moments like this, things almost felt... normal. Not warlord and civilian. Not Decepticon and human. Just them.
The once fiercest warlord he once knew has now become domestic.
This is his life now.
Welcome to The Domestic Life of a Decepticon.