TFP Ratchet x Reader Oneshots

The lights of the base hummed softly, casting long shadows over Ratchet's workspace. It was unusually quiet, the kind of quiet that almost made the old medic uncomfortable. With the others off with their human companions for the night, the only sound was the faint whirring of equipment.

Today Ratchet ended up working later than usual. He powered down the last console and stretched his servos. The thought of recharging sounded increasingly appealing after a long day.

As he turned to leave, a nagging thought stopped him in his tracks. 

That realization hit like a pulse through his circuits. He remembered seeing you leave earlier, but you hadn't returned yet. Your steady presence often lingered around the base while the others scattered, doing small tasks and busying yourself. Without a human companion to tie you down, you usually kept close to home. But tonight, as Ratchet looked around, there was no sign of you.

He opened a comm line. "Y/N, are you out there? Respond."

Silence.

His optics narrowed. That was unlike you. Concern creeping into his voice, he turned back to the console and brought up the scanner. Your life signal pinged within one of the nearby canyon systems.

"What in Primus' name are you doing out there?" Ratchet muttered to himself, transforming into his alt mode as he headed out into the cool night air.

The moonlit desert stretched before him, the towering canyon walls casting dark shadows against the tan glow of the sandy terrain. The journey wasn't far, but unease settled in his spark. Ratchet followed your signal until he reached a cliff's edge. He transformed back before peering down, spotting your unmistakable alt mode resting at the canyon floor.

You were motionless at first, poised as if gathering energy. Before Ratchet could call out, your engine roared to life. The sound echoing through the canyon.

And then you moved.

Fast.

Ratchet froze as you surged forward, a streak of speed and precision. You carved through the canyon floor like a lightning bolt, tires kicking up dust and pebbles in your wake. He watched, captivated, as you maneuvered with incredible finesse, threading through narrow rock formations at speeds that made his spark lurch.

Lap after lap, you pushed harder, faster, the precision of your turns defying everything he thought possible. He had never seen anything—or anyone—move quite like you.

Ratchet stayed rooted to the cliff, his optics tracking your every movement. Then, you transformed mid-motion landing back where you started. 

He watched as you muttered to yourself, then grunting in frustration before transforming again and taking off in a cloud of dust. The moonlight gleamed off your frame, accentuating every sharp turn and controlled drift. The sheer velocity was astonishing—far beyond anything he'd ever seen from you. The tight corners and sharp turns should have been impossible at that speed, but you handled them effortlessly.

As you made your laps, he took a mental note of how you had changed some of your pathing in what looked like attempts to make faster lap times. 

Finally, you skidded to a stop and transformed, exhaling softly as you leaned against a rock to cool your systems, speaking to yourself.

"Two-point-three seconds faster," you muttered, tapping your arm as if taking mental notes. "Still not good enough. Yesterday's third lap was sharper..."

Ratchet tilted his helm, curiosity piqued. His theory was correct. The way you analyzed yourself, comparing times and speeds—it was methodical, almost scientific.