Title: Starlight in the Wake
Pairing: Rodimus Prime x Cybertronian!Reader
Word Count: ~2,200
Warnings: Emotional vulnerability, some peril, light angst, romantic tension, fluff
⸻
You hadn’t meant to stay this long on the Lost Light. In fact, you hadn’t meant to be here at all.
The research station orbiting the mining colony of Vion-7 was supposed to be your last stop before returning home. But when the Decepticon raiders attacked, scattering your crew and damaging your ship, it was Rodimus and his team who had arrived in a blaze of light and fury to push them back.
A temporary rescue. That’s what they called it.
Three weeks later, you were still here.
The Lost Light was alive in a way you hadn’t expected—metallic, yes, but vibrant. Its corridors hummed like a song. The crew were eccentric and brilliant, sometimes dangerous, sometimes ridiculous. There were philosophers and gladiators, warriors and poets, and then there was Rodimus.
Loud. Daring. Infuriatingly charming.
“Are you still mad I hotwired your comms console?” he asked one day, leaning against the threshold of your temporary quarters, arms folded, mouth curled in that half-smile that made your stomach twist.
“You mean am I still mad that you rewired my personal messages to play the ‘Rodimus Was Right’ jingle every time I got one?” you replied coolly, not looking up from your datapad.
“I thought it was a good use of time,” he said. “Morale booster.”
“For who?”
“Me.”
You sighed. “Rodimus, what do you want?”
His grin faltered for a heartbeat—so quick most would’ve missed it. But you didn’t. You were beginning to learn the nuance in his expression, the subtle shift of plating over facial struts, the flicker of emotion behind his optics.
“I want you to come with me,” he said. “To the observation deck. Just for a bit.”
You frowned. “Why?”
“I like the way you see things.”
You stared at him. “That’s… weirdly poetic for you.”
He blinked. “Was it too much? I’ve been reading Rung’s recs. Emotional intelligence. Trying it out.”
You raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. “Just you and me?”
“Well, yeah. Unless you think Whirl would make it more romantic.”
You choked on a laugh. “Fine. But only if you don’t rewire anything on the way.”
He mock-saluted. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
⸻
The observation deck wasn’t technically a deck. It was a dome—transparent, framed in reinforced poly-alloy—and it gave you an unfiltered view of the stars. A celestial theater, always in motion.
Rodimus stood beside you, unusually quiet, hands clasped behind his back.
“They don’t look dangerous,” you said softly, pointing to the streaks of light trailing past the dome. “But they’re fast. Violent. Untouchable.”
He didn’t respond right away.
“I used to think I was like that,” he said finally. “A star that burned fast and bright. That everyone admired until it got too close and scorched them.”
You turned to look at him. He wasn’t smiling now.
“That’s not who you are.”
His optics flickered to you. “No?”
“You’re bright, yeah. But you’re not distant. You dive headfirst into everything. You don’t just burn—you light up the whole damn room.”
The silence between you stretched.
“You keep doing that,” he said.
“Doing what?”
“Saying stuff that gets past all my armor.”
You looked away, heart pounding. “Maybe I just see more than you think.”
He reached for your hand—careful, slow—and his metal fingers brushed yours. Warm, despite the alloy. Steady.
“I don’t think anyone’s ever seen me the way you do,” he said.
⸻
The next few days passed in a blur of shared meals, rerouted patrols, and too many close encounters with existential danger. You fought beside him during a scavenger mission gone wrong on a derelict moonbase. You patched his arm when it was nearly torn off by a feral spark-eater. You caught him looking at you more than once when he thought you weren’t paying attention.
“I could stay,” you said one night, more to yourself than anyone.
But he heard.
“You could.”
“I mean, it’s not like I have a ship anymore. Or a crew.”
“You’ve got one now,” he said quietly.
You looked at him.
He looked at you.
Neither of you said anything more.
⸻
Then came the distress signal.
A rogue quantum anomaly had swallowed half a science vessel on the edge of uncharted space. The Lost Light was the closest ship. Rodimus made the call.
The jump was brutal.
When you came to, the bridge was half-dark, and you could barely hear through the ringing in your ears. Systems flickered. Sparks danced from the ceiling. The floor trembled beneath you.
“Rodimus!” you called, coughing.
He stumbled into view, singed but upright, face grim.
“You okay?” he asked, crouching beside you.
You nodded shakily. “Mostly.”
“Good. Because we’ve got company.”
Out of the smoke, the intruder emerged—more shadow than mech, twisted by the anomaly, its spark energy unstable and writhing. It surged toward you, and you flinched—only for Rodimus to throw himself in front of you.
He took the hit. All of it.
You screamed his name.
The blast sent him flying into the far wall, crumpling on impact. You scrambled to him, hands shaking as you reached for his face.
“Rodimus—!”
His optics dimmed. “Guess I really lit up the room this time, huh?”
“Don’t joke—don’t you dare—”
But he was fading.
And the enemy loomed.
You didn’t think. You acted. You grabbed the damaged energon conductor beside you and slammed it into the anomaly’s form. A pulse of light erupted—and silence followed.
When the smoke cleared, the creature was gone.
And Rodimus was still offline.
⸻
He woke three days later in medbay, groggy and confused.
You were at his side before he could speak.
“You idiot,” you said, tears on your cheeks. “You nearly died.”
“I had to protect you.”
“You could’ve died.”
“I’d do it again.”
You didn’t let him finish. You leaned forward and pressed your forehead to his. “You don’t have to burn for me, Rodimus. You just have to stay.”
His fingers brushed your cheek. “You really want me to?”
“Always.”
He smiled. And for the first time, it wasn’t flashy or overconfident—it was soft. Real.
“I’m not great at this. Romance. Feelings. But if you give me a chance… I want to try.”
You laughed, wet and broken. “You already are.”
⸻
The rest of the crew pretended not to notice the way you lingered at his side, the way his arm always curved protectively around you during briefings, the way you stole quiet moments in corners of the ship that no one else used. But there were jokes, of course.
“I give it a week,” said Whirl.
“Three days,” said Swerve, passing out betting slips.
Rodimus ignored them all.
You didn’t.
You kissed him in front of the whole command crew during a particularly heated debate about protocol just to shut them up.
The room went silent.
Rodimus looked stunned. Then delighted.
And then you were pinned gently against the console, his mouth warm and hungry against yours.
When you finally broke apart, he murmured, “You keep surprising me.”
“Get used to it.”
“I plan to.”
⸻
Nights aboard the Lost Light became less lonely. You slept curled in a nest of wires and cushions he rigged in his quarters, surrounded by the low hum of his systems and the faint glow of the stars beyond the viewport.
He told you stories of Cybertron’s past, of adventures and failures and moments he wished he could rewrite.
You told him about Earth, about your dreams and the places you wanted to see.
“We’ll go there,” he promised one night, tracing a circle around your wrist with his thumb. “Everywhere. As long as I’m with you.”
“You mean that?”
“With everything I am.”
You stared at him, overwhelmed.
He caught your gaze, optics soft. “You’re not a detour, you know. You’re the destination.”
⸻
And when you said “I love you,” whispered under a canopy of stars while the ship drifted through a sea of nebulae, he didn’t hesitate.
“I love you more than anything in the universe,” he said, voice low and reverent. “And I don’t care if that makes me reckless.”
You smiled. “You were reckless long before me.”
“Yeah,” he said, nuzzling your temple. “But now I’ve got a reason to be even more reckless.”
