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buddee · 2 days ago

Note

just wonder.. will you write for rodimus? 🥺 I mean, that jump-to-your-soul pic of him have to mean something right??

also do you take any req?

Done with your ex

SUMMARY – just an ego through the roof captain and his ex on the same ship, long trip together

PAIRING – rodimus x reader

NOTE – you take a hint huh. What are you, a government spy? I'm already working on him for a while now. And yes, I do a requests. You can see the rules/details in the pinned post. I just added+edit about few day ago

The loading ramp of the Lost Light hissed open like the universe itself was trying to be dramatic

Rodimus barely glanced up. He was in the middle of arguing with Swerve about whether installing retractable flame decals on the hull would count as 'atmospheric augmentation" or just "unnecessary and definitely going to kill us"

Then he saw movement out of the corner of his optic—and everything in his CPU short-circuited

There you were

Striding up the ramp like you owned it. Like you hadn’t ghosted out of his life with nothing but a pointed sentence and that half-smile that always meant checkmate. Like you hadn’t once told him—flatly, and with clinical precision—that loving him felt like "trying to put a fire out with gasoline"

And dammit if you didn’t look exactly the same. Polished. Poised. Primed for war and polite company. Elegant as ever. Calm as a sunset before a Category Five energon storm

You weren’t flash, never were—but you had that aura. That smooth, coiled presence like a vibroblade sheathed in silk. Oh the look—that faint, unreadable smile like you knew something he didn’t and were gracious enough to let him flounder in ignorance. That same neutral expression you used when pretending not to judge the tactical decisions of people clearly beneath your IQ range. That same stride that said “I’ve already calculated the probability of this going sideways and I brought snacks"

Rodimus froze, his spark dropped so hard it might’ve left a dent in his internals ‘No. Nope. Absolutely not!’

It couldn’t be you

Except, of course, it was. Because the universe loved poetic suffering and apparently it was his turn to monologue through one. He stared. You stared back. Unbothered. Professional. Radiating the exact same emotional energy as someone walking past their ex at a high-society gala—with better posture and zero regrets

Rodimus blinked so hard his optic lens recalibrates “What— what are you doing here?”

You didn’t even flinch. Just turned to him with a look that was one part serene and two parts smug, tilted your helm slightly. That little angle that always meant “I heard that. I’m just choosing violence later” Your voice, when it came, was like silk over sharpened steel

“Captain. How lovely to see you again”

“You’ve got to be—this is—no. Nope. Absolutely not”

Ultra Magnus appeared like a summoned ghost behind you, arms crossed, expression stiffer than a rusted gear “As I explained in my three prior reports, they’ve been appointed to the crew as strategic analyst”

Rodimus blinked "Three reports?"

“High-level pattern recognition. Crisis forecasting, multi-factional battle simulations, inter-faction negotiation” Magnus went on, tone flatter than the C.I.C. floor “They’ve been correct approximately 91.3% of the time. Statistically, that qualifies them as one of the best. They will be a valuable addition”

You gave a modest nod. Like someone who totally didn’t memorize those numbers already “Besides” you added smoothly

“I’m here for work. Nothing more. You can unclench now, Captain”

Rodimus looked like someone had just served him a steaming mug of his own poor life choices “Right. Work. Of course. Just work. Nothing else weird about this at all. Nope. Totally chill"

You stepped closer. Not enough to touch, but enough that your electromagnetic field skimmed his. Cool, clean, unreadable. Like an encrypted data packet wrapped in charm and sarcasm

“You always did have trouble being chill” you murmured “Still trying to solve everything by flying straight into it?”

“But don’t worry, captain. I’m not here to relive the past”

Rodimus sputtered. Behind him, Swerve audibly choked on a laugh “Oh, Primus, it is the ex. The one who called him ‘reckless with delusions of grandeur' I thought that was a metaphor”

You didn’t dignify that with a response. Just tilted your helm, optics flicked to him—neutral. But your smirk said “I win”

And with that, you turned and start walking down the hall—measured, composed, calculating—like a battlefield was unfolding beneath your pedes and you’d already chosen where all the pieces would fall – Rodimus stared after you like he’d just watched his worst mistake reappear in haute couture and get a standing ovation, as if to twist the energon dagger in his spark just a little further, you said—without turning back

“And for the record… I liked you better before you started trying to be respectable

Rodimus stood frozen, expression somewhere between awe, horror, and very mild arousal

“This is fine” he said out loud “This is great.. This is the best worst day I’ve ever had”

“Wanna talk about it?” Swerve offered

“Wanna be spaced through an airlock?”

“You’ve been out here for twenty minutes” Drift said, suddenly beside him. Rodimus jumped like he’d been caught digging through a black ops file “I’m not spying..!” “Sure” Drift glanced pointedly at the window “Just… monitoring morale with your face pressed against the glass?” Rodimus shoved a blank datapad into his hands "I’m checking their reassignment logs! That’s normal. Curiosity is normal” "You could just ask” “I can’t just ask! What if they think I still care?” “Rodimus, you’re literally stalking them through a wall" Rodimus made a noise somewhere between static and a dying turbo-ratchet “Okay, fine. Then you ask”

“Me?” “Yeah. You’ve got that wise monk aura. People think your invasive questions are… philosophical" Drift gave him a look so dry it might’ve been illegal in five star systems “If they throw something at me” he said, turning to leave “I’m blaming you”

Rodimus was not asking

He was simply conducting a targeted data acquisition exercise. Command-level intel. Tactical morale assessment. Strategic background audit on one of his newest officers. Perfectly normal captain things. Not weird. Not personal. Absolutely not fueled by the gnawing ache of unresolved emotional abandonment

“So” he began, too casually, sidling up to the corner of Swerve’s bar where Drift was trying to enjoy a moment of monk-like silence and absolutely not entertain any of Rodimus’s mid-spark crises “hypothetically—if someone used to date someone, and that someone got assigned to their ship without, say, any warning whatsoever, that would be… strange, right?”

“Strange. Uncomfortable. Emotionally volatile” Drift didn’t even look up from his cup “So yes. Very you”

Rodimus scoffed. Loudly. Overcompensating “This isn’t about me”

“Of course not” Drift said blandly “We’re speaking in totally neutral hypotheticals about your insanely sharp, tactically brilliant, emotionally impenetrable ex who now occupies a front-row seat in every strategy meeting like an elegantly silent death sentence”

Rodimus’s scowl could have curdled energon “They’re not that elegant”

“They once ended a meeting by folding a datachip in half. With one hand. While smiling”

Rodimus muttered something under his breath about “intimidation tactics” and “showoffs”. Drift, clearly bored of the deflection game, pulled up a datapad with a flick of the wrist—graceful, like a librarian about to ruin your life “Alright. Let’s see what your not at all relevant ex has been up to post-breakup…”

Rodimus leaned in. But not like he cared. More like he was... intellectually engaged. Professionally intrigued. Possibly a little nauseous

“They worked under Prowl"

“PROWL?! You mean—rules incarnate? Mister ‘Let’s Commit War Crimes But Quietly’ !?”

“The one and only” Drift confirmed smoothly “High-level strategy corps. Joint command ops. Dozens of successful missions. Commendations for tactical elegance, command precision—”

“Okay, okay, you can stop reading their résumé, this isn’t a talent show” Rodimus began to pace, movements sharp and erratic like a hovercraft trying to salsa “They worked with me and said I was reckless, but then they go partner up with Prowl? That sentient flowchart? Seriously?”

Drift was already sipping again “Maybe they like the quiet, measured type now. The kind who doesn’t detonate their own escape pod just to spell ‘hello’ in midair”

“That happened one time”

“And it was somehow still in the mission report”

Rodimus groaned into his hands. He imagined you and Prowl standing next to each other, talking shop, making flawless tactical adjustments while not even blinking at each other — It was horrible. It was clinical. It was worse than anything he could’ve imagined

“What else?” he asked, in the voice of someone about to regret every answer

Drift’s optics flicked “They turned down a permanent command position. Said they wanted a ‘change of pace' ”

“—So… they chose this ship. My ship”

“Seems that way”

“Knowing I was the captain”

“Still seems that way”

Rodimus blinked. Then frowned. Then blinked again, slower. Like it would change the data “So what you’re telling me is: either they’ve secretly forgiven me and came to rekindle the flame—”

“Highly unlikely”

“—or they came here to watch me fail up close, with popcorn in hand and a tactical spreadsheet”

“That one sounds more plausible”

Rodimus placed both hands dramatically on the bartop and huffed. Dramatically. Theatrically. The only way he could before he declared, straightening up “I’m fine.. I’m a professional. This is my ship. I am not threatened by my ex working with a glorified calculator"

...

“…Do you think they ever kissed?”

“Please go to therapy”

—

The outpost was still burning behind you

Fires licked at twisted steel frames and shattered windowpanes, the heat rippling off slagged ground like a second atmosphere. The smoke stung your optics, even with the filters on, but you didn’t blink. Hot Rod stood a few paces away, armor scorched and mouth set in that stubborn line that always came right before he said something reckless. You didn’t give him the chance

“What were you thinking?” Your voice was level. Too level. The kind of calm that meant someone was furious. Hot Rod flinched. Not visibly—but you knew the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the flicker in his EM field when he was caught “I saved them”

He said “I had to”

“You disobeyed a coordinated strategy, blew through our cover, and almost got yourself killed—again”

He looked at you now. Really looked. Heat still clung to him like a second skin, optics burning, frame vibrating with leftover adrenaline. And somewhere underneath all that fire was a flicker of… confusion. As if he still didn’t understand why you weren’t proud of him

“But it worked”

“That’s not the point”

You turned to face him fully, field tightening, anger settling into your shoulders like weight “You’re not a one-mech army, Hot Rod. You’re not invincible. You can’t keep throwing yourself into every explosion and expecting everyone else to clean up after you”

He stepped forward, hands half-raised “I did it to protect other”

“No. You did it because you wanted to be seen protecting other”

There it was. The silence after a sharp cut. His optics widened, and for a moment you saw it, that bare, wounded flicker of a spark hit too close to the truth. But he covered it with bravado—because that’s what he did. That’s what he always did “So that’s it? You think I’m just some attention seeking show off?”

“I think you’re brave. I think you’re passionate. I think you’ll make a great hero one day–”

“..But I also think you’ll never learn how to lead, if you can’t learn how to listen” That hit deeper than the last shot he’d taken in the field

He turned away, jaw locked, fists clenched “So what, then?” he said, voice tight

“You’re walking away? Just like that?”

You hesitated—but only for a moment “I don’t want to. But I can’t spend my life patching up the aftermath of every decision you make on impulse –You always dive first and ask questions later. And I.. I want to build something that lasts. Not chase something that burns” you admitted softly

The silence between you was long and cruel —without another word—you stepped back. Hot Rod didn’t stop you. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what hurt the most

After the breakup with Hot Rod, you took a high-ranking strategic position under Prowl—not romantically, but deeply professionally and intellectually tense

Prowl respected your mindset but hated your moral flexibility and tendency to “go rogue if the math is prettier that way” You – in turn, found Prowl’s rigid morality fascinating and enjoyed poking holes in his logic — Their relationship was legendary among staff—half strategy meetings, half philosophy battles. You both made an unstoppable duo on paper. But behind closed doors?

“That is not regulation protocol”

“Neither is surviving half the war. I’ll take my odds”

Eventually, you left when the war ended, saying something like: “If I stay any longer, I’ll either become you or throw you out an airlock. Neither’s ideal”

The medbay lights flickered once before steadying again. Outside, the sky over the outpost glowed red with the aftermath of an explosion. You stood at the outside, arms crossed, helm tilted just enough to convey “I’m not mad, but I’m seconds away from strangling you with my own field”

The door hissed open with a battered flair, and there he was—Hot Rod in all his half-scorched, grinning, chaos-stained glory. One arm was covered in carbon scoring. His left shoulder was leaking a thin trickle of energon. There was what looked like a thruster casing lodged in his hip plate

And he was still smiling. Of course he was

“You should’ve seen it” Hot Rod said, voice bouncing with adrenaline “I looped around the ridge, came in low—boom! Took out the flank in one go. Didn’t even need backup”

You didn’t look up from your datapad “You told me you’d follow the plan”

“Technically, I did. For the first ten seconds”

“And after that?”

“...It got boring?”

You set the datapad down. Slowly

Hot Rod’s grin twitched “It worked, didn’t it?” he said, stepping closer “Mission success. I’m standing. The ridge is rubble. Everyone’s cheering”

“You nearly didn’t come back”

You stared at him—really stared. All that molten gold, still burning in his optics. His armor still warm from the blast. That stupid, crooked grin he wore like a shield

“You know I hate improvising. Not because it’s reckless. But because it’s you. You gamble like your life isn’t worth anything”

“Hey, come on—”

“Rod”

That landed. His grin faltered for real now

“I’m serious. Every time you run off-script, it’s like you’re testing fate. And I’m the one stuck writing the damage report” You stepped closer, thumb brushing a burn mark near his jaw. The scorch made your spark ache a little. He leaned into your touch without thinking. Like a reflex. Like your hand on his face was the only real thing in the place

“One of these days” you murmured “you’ll pull that stunt and I won’t be there to drag your aft out”

“That’s not true” he said softly

“No?”

“You’d come back for me. Always”

You wanted to argue. But you couldn’t. Not really. Because even now—even furious, even worn out—you were here. And when he leaned forward to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth his head dipped low down to your jaw, kissing soft like apology, you let him. His hands found your waist. Familiar. Easy. A rhythm you both still remembered

“You love it when I push my luck” he said into your helm

“I love you, Roddy. That doesn’t mean I love watching you destroy yourself”

That hit harder than a mine to the chest. He didn’t pull away. Just held you tighter. You sighed, pressing your faceplate against his shoulder. He still smelled faintly like ozone and energon. Still radiated that wild, sun-hot energy that made you both love and fear him

“Next time” you said into the space between you “you disobey a field order, I’m duct-taping you to Ultra Magnus”

“...Kinky”

You laughed. Just a little. Couldn’t help it “Don’t make me regret loving you”

There was a long silence. No snappy comeback. No flirt. Just a stillness that made your spark ache. His arms tightened around you and for one fleeting, fragile moment—you let yourself believe this would last

—

You are alone in the quiet of the hallway. Staring at the window, the stars wheeling slowly past beyond the glass. It wasn't dramatic solitude—you weren't hiding. Just… decompressing. That was all. Your optics drifted to your own reflection—faint, transparent, caught in the black

And for some damn reason, his voice echoed there instead

“You'd come back for me. Always"

Primus

You let your head fall back with a soft thunk against the reinforced wall. He wasn't wrong

You had come back. Not for him—never that, never openly. But… well. You hadn't exactly gone out of your way to avoid the Lost Light, either. And when Magnus had offered the post? You could've said no. You didn't and now here you were. Sharing meetings. Sharing air. Sharing old ghosts

Your fingers tapped against your datapad in a slow, guilty rhythm

“Stupid charming idiot with fire in his optics and no sense of self-preservation” you muttered under your breath. You knew that smile he gave you in the last meeting. Knew it like a habit you never quite kicked and the worst part? That stupid little ember in your spark still glowed when he looked your way

“Okay. Fine. He was right” You let out a small, strangled sound through your vents

Not quite a groan. Not quite a sigh. Just the noise of someone on the edge of "Why am I like this?" and "I could still jump out the airlock and make it look like strategy” You pressed your head lightly against the cool surface of the wall. Just for a second. Just enough to feel the metal and imagine it was hitting you back. No matter how reckless he was. No matter how much he grinned like the universe owed him forgiveness. No matter how much it still ached when you looked at him and remembered the way things used to be. You stood upright again with a snap of your shoulders and a squint of righteous self-annoyance

“Next time he he opens that mouth" you mumbled “I’m going to verbally gut him. Real clean. Sharp. Professional. Something with bite, doubling the sarcasm. Go for the ego. Aim for the hair fins. That’ll shut him up" You narrowed your optics at your reflection—your own face looking smug in the glass “He gets one more pass. After that, I’m escalating. He’s going to wish I never came back”

“Stars, I hope he does that thing with his optics again though…” and maybe—maybe—if you kept throwing enough barbs, you could stop remembering how it felt when he held you like that and made you believe the fire wouldn’t burn

You buried your face in your hand

“..I need therapy"

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