Transformers/Undertale Oneshots 😏😏 (Requests OPEN)

Ratchet x Reader 《PART 1》

Hey guys, this is my very first story. Yay me. Anywho, my sister asked me to do this, so this means my sister was my first request. Since Ratchet is her favorite character, we are doing him. In this story, you come from an abusive life. Typically, you are shy most of the time.

(H/C) = Hair Color

(F/C) = Favorite Color.

Please, PLEASE enjoy my story. You may request whenever you want😊

Enjoy the grumpy medic!

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You hated life. Or maybe life hated you first; it was hard to tell anymore. The people who were supposed to protect you, the ones who gave you your name and your blood, never treated you like anything more than a burden. Your parents had been cruel for as long as you could remember, but it all escalated the day your younger sister died in that car crash. You were five years old, barely old enough to understand death, let alone be blamed for it. But that didn't matter to them.

They needed a scapegoat, and you were convenient.

Since then, the house has become a cage, and you are the animal trapped inside it, starved, beaten, and spoken to like you were less than human. The names they called you blurred together with the bruises and scars they left behind. It wasn't just the physical wounds; it was the constant, gnawing reminder that you didn't matter, not to them, not to anyone. You were their plaything, their punching bag, their mistake.

Most nights, they staggered home from some grimy bar, too drunk to stand, too cruel to forget you existed. That was when you had to become the man of the house, not out of love or duty, but sheer survival. You cooked their food, cleaned their filth, and made sure the place didn't collapse around you both. Because if it did, you knew you'd pay for it.

There was always a list, endless, impossible tasks scribbled in angry handwriting or shouted through slurred words before they left for the night. And if you missed a single thing, if a dish was left in the sink or a floor left unswept, the punishment would come swiftly and without mercy.

By now, you were numb to it all. The bruises faded. The scars lingered. The pain meant nothing. It was the silence that weighed heavier than any blow.

You kept your distance from everyone else. No friends, no confidants. Loneliness was safer than trust. Every day, you wore the same faded (F/C) hoodie and worn-out jeans, no matter the season. It wasn't about comfort or fashion; it was armor. A way to disappear, to keep the world from seeing the damage.

No one noticed you, and that was fine. Because after all these years, what more was there to hope for?

At school, things weren't any better. If anything, they might have been worse. You were the perfect target, quiet, withdrawn, with a permanent shadow under your eyes and clothes that hung off your frame. The kind of kid who didn't fight back. The kind of kid no one would miss.

The other students, the ones with nothing better to do than to make someone else's life worse, saw you as easy prey. Shoving you in hallways, knocking your books down, and throwing casual insults like knives in passing. It wasn't about you, really. It was about them. Their boredom, their bitterness, their need to feel bigger by making someone else feel small. You knew that. You told yourself that every time a shove or a cruel word came your way. It didn't make it easier, but it made it easier to endure.

After a while, you stopped hoping anyone would come to your defense. Loneliness settled in like an old, familiar bruise. The only conversations you had were the ones inside your own head, and even those were starting to turn against you.