Title: Like The Water Finds The Sea
Rating: M
Universe: TF:Prime [AU, prewar]
Characters: Optimus Prime, Ratchet, Ironhide, Elita-One, Chromia, Jazz, Ultra Magnus, Prowl, OCs
Pairings: Optimus Prime/Ratchet, mentions of Chromia/Ironhide
Content Advisory: Noncon, offscreen gang rape, mechpreg, rape recovery, discussion of abortion, medical procedures, graphic birth [nonhuman], dubious alien biology

Please read the warnings above! This fic deals with a variety of potentially triggering subjects.

I started posting this on AO3 a couple of months ago under my pen name there, HurricaneFoundry. It's become my major project for the foreseeable future - once it's over, I hope to start working on Book of Hours and Tryphaena.


but you know, like the water finds the sea

your soul will always flow right back to me

like a river


LIKE THE WATER FINDS THE SEA

...

Though he was a thousand leagues away at the Autobot stronghold in Altihex, Optimus knew the moment the mission went bad.

His spark fluttered, the still unfamiliar sensation of a settling bond reaching across the world to him. Unease seeped through, a stark clinging weight settling into his struts. It was faint—had he not been between meetings he likely would not have noticed it.

He set his stylus down beside the datapad he'd been working on, leaning back in his chair and rubbing the tips of his fingers against his aching forehelm. Late afternoon sun streamed down out of a wide unbroken sky, the occasional supply shuttle throwing long, fast-moving shadows across the cityscape. If he ignored the ragged broken spires of the towers brought down in the Seekers' last raid he could almost pretend that Cybertron was at peace today.

From its place on the windowsill, the small purple manybranch crystal Ratchet had given him as a bonding gift refracted spurs of violet light throughout his office. Optimus gave it a pensive look, concentrating on the suddenly wary spin of his own spark. He'd not had long to get used to the sensation of emotions other than his own amongst the morass of thoughts that made his spark spin at the best of times. His emotional protocols had misinterpreted the foreign data before. Perhaps it was nothing to be worried about.

Wind-borne dust, glittering in the sunlight, rustled against the windowpane. His datapad hummed quietly. It could have been idyllic, if not for the disquiet now streaming through the bond.

Optimus frowned down at the desk, only half seeing it. His waking mind reached out, seeking the warmth of his bondmate.

Ratchet would be on his way back from Polyhex – Darkmount, rather, to give the Decepticons' northern power base its full designation – by now. That meant several thousand leagues of distance, stretching the link between them down to almost nothing.

Optimus knew what nothing felt like, however, and this was not it. He traced the unease through his emotional centres and down into the base coding which read his spark. Flickers of his own bewilderment led him astray once or twice; he backtracked through stray files and datapackets until he found the point where the trail picked up, and tried again.

Ratchet had been assigned – in truth, had volunteered himself and browbeaten any of his subordinates in the medical ward who tried to suggest that perhaps someone of lesser rank might be a better choice into submission – to the black ops team charged with the retrieval of a deep cover agent whose story had been blown. Given the Decepticons exceedingly low opinion of such Autobots, expert medical assistance had been one of the points on Jazz' wishlist for the retrieval team, and as Ratchet had successfully argued, the Autobots had no-one more expert than himself.

They'd had their first argument as a bonded couple over it, too.

Optimus drew in a deep breath and vented it, the echoes of Ratchet's strident voice ringing in his audials. He'd known it was a lost cause the moment he'd seen Ratchet's name on the first draft of Jazz' team roster to pass his desk; once Ratchet set his mind to something, the stubbornness of the Unmaker himself was required to overrule him.

Oh, but Optimus had tried! Unfortunately he'd had no argument better than his own misgivings to put forth. Ratchet had been moving in political circles since before Orion Pax had crawled out of the Well, and he'd bent Optimus back over his own side of the debate and tied him to it. Logic and measured reasoning failed to move him; emotive arguments only earned a smile of grim determination and a searing kiss. Ratchet knew him, inside and out.

The bond pulsed, dark clouds skittering across the link. Ratchet was afraid.

Of what? Optimus debated with himself for a moment – should he make contact, and risk possibly breaking Ratchet's concentration? He didn't know what was happening, and there were no words in the bond, Ratchet couldn't tell him. If nothing else, he could offer his support for Ratchet to lean on.

His spark won, reaching through the bond for his mate.

Hesitant reciprocation bled through at his first contact from behind Ratchet's mental shields. Optimus felt his expression grow tight. The mental touch was sharp with nervous energy, the occasion whipcrackle of electricity as Ratchet reacted to something in the outside world. Optimus' own senses fired, the ghost of instinct flashing across the leagues between them. His fingers twitched, closing around the trigger of an imaginary gun.

Ratchet was not a dedicated fighter; he had no ranged weapons, energy-based nor solid-projectile, integrated into his systems. He'd had to borrow a high-powered handheld pistol from Ironhide for this mission.

Gently, Optimus pulsed steady warmth across the distance between them, just enough to say: I am here.

Then, movement. Ratchet's presence swayed behind his shields, bending before the wind. Optimus felt the faint echo of pain trace through his neural net.

It felt like a fight, but the cloying fear and the anger that simmered beneath the surface made Optimus' spark constrict in a way he'd never experienced before. The bond came alive, Ratchet dropping his mental shields and sweeping through in their wake, his presence suddenly autumn-bright and unmistakeable. Thoughts and impulses streamed between them in a split-second flash, Ratchet's rusty tang sharp on Optimus' senses. In the real world he tasted oxidized iron, pyrites glimmering in the space behind his optics.

He waited, a breath too long, Ratchet's spark thrumming and alive against his own. His hydraulics tensed, lifting him to a half-crouch over his desk. Battle protocols yowled against his conscious mind. He shut down the urge to bring his weapons to bear. Ratchet's crystal glimmered on his desk, darkening as the sun slid down the horizon. Swaying to the left as a sudden surge of instinct hijacked his motor controls, Optimus shut down his optics, and prayed into the darkness.

Helplessness was not an emotion he felt often, but here, with the sickness of sudden terror building up between them, he knew with a horrible clarity that there was nothing he could do to defend his mate.

They waited.

He felt Ratchet's temper boil over, self-preservation protocols the only thing keeping it in check. Anger burned away the fear, but died away in turn. Once the embers had cooled, icy dread crept in. Optimus wrapped his mind around Ratchet's core, pushing every bit of warmth and love and safety/home/mate that he had into the cocoon. Ratchet leaned into him like a starving mech, his spark still shivering, watching for the coming pain.

Dark little thought trees in his subprocessors wondered what was happening. Ratchet's presence flickered, clinging to him and then pulling away. Barriers came flashing down between them, warped and wracked with guilt. Ratchet was trying to protect him, he realised, to spare him from whatever was going on.

Optimus opened his optics, and sunset turned the world a shade of bloodied red. An alarm beeped in the bottom right corner of his HUD; a meeting with Ironhide and Prowl about troop rotations.

He made an executive decision and sent both officers his apologies for backing out.

Optimus shook his helm, and his mind brushed aside the barriers like curtains. Ratchet came edging back to him, his spark cut through with rivers of shame. Hands of quartz and starfire touched Optimus, a ghostly presence wrapping around his waist. Optimus bent to wrap his arms around Ratchet in turn, but a flaw in the precious stones brought him up short. It split open in front of him, Ratchet shattering into a glittering flood of crystal.

Pain hit him like the death of a star.

—hands, all over him, tipping his helm up, pinning his wrists to the twisted scrap metal above his head, slipping between his thighs and pushing apart with inexorable strength. White, white paint, white optics amongst the red glow of the Decepticons around him, and laughter too, loud and cutting. He squirms, trying in vain to get loose, but pain explodes in his wrists as the biggest of his captors leans on them, crushing his hands into each other. It hurts so much he thinks he might scream if it goes on too long. He grits his dente against the urge and holds out, pleased beyond all logic by the disappointed sigh that pushes itself out of his captor's lips.

His victory is shortlived. Agony eclipses. The glowing blade of a thermoelectric sword punctures his shoulder, pushing between the outer armor plates, cleaving the joint, buries itself in the ground beneath him. His neural net lights up in a supernova; an insect pinned to a collector's book. His screams fill the air, echoes ringing between the burnt-out buildings.

He barely feels it as those hands draw upwards, stroking and caressing the exposed joins at the juncture of his thighs in a mockery of tenderness until his overwrought neural net can do nothing but respond. He arches, sobbing as the movement tears the blade through a set of bundled sensor cables deep in his chassis. It's survivable, but it certainly doesn't feel like it, each pulse of damage reports setting his nerve centers on fire, lightning branching through every line in his neural net—

—a herculean push, and Optimus crashed back into his own body.

The world spun around him for a terrifying moment and settled with him on his back on the floor, staring up at the solar light strips in the ceiling. His limbs trembled, the ghost of a sharp ache cutting through the neural lines in his shoulder. He raised a shaking hand to touch the plating there, reassuring himself that no damage had been done. His fingers tapped lightly against his collar strut – and clarity turned his mind to ice.

On the other side of the bond, Ratchet burned alive.

Optimus threw himself back into the link, wrapping himself around the inferno, choking the flames. His audials buzzed, a strange not-sound that, if he let himself concentrate on it, tore at his spark and stole the breath from his vents, the moisture from his mouth and the strength from his limbs. It was a scream, straight from the deepest parts of Ratchet's mind. Pain and horror and midnight rage coalesced into one sound and sharp-edged with denial crashed into Optimus, rending him to the core. He folded Ratchet into his arms and tried to shield him from the pain, kissing the garnet crown of his mate's helm as ichor dripped from their wounds. Their fluids mingled in rivers, flowing into the space beneath their pedes. Ratchet pressed his face into Optimus' chest and cried out, wordless agony both physical and emotional, and they both felt the invading push of a spike far too large pushing unprepared into his body.

Optimus held him close, rocked him in his embrace as it tore Ratchet apart from the inside out. It was less physical damage than spiritual, but just as agonising. Cracks traced white flaws through Ratchet's quartzite skin as he watched, his mate's lips moving in quiet, hopeless pleas. Optimus read Primus' name on Ratchet's lips and something in his spark broke. He lifted Ratchet higher, holding him up to the glow of the sun and pressing his forehelm to Ratchet's spark, closing his mind's eye against the flow of ichor trickling from between his legs.

Ratchet's arms tightened around his neck, and the pain lessened, leagues opening up between it and them. A quick, haunted kiss pressed to Optimus' helm, and he looked up to meet Ratchet's gaze. Dark trails spilled from his crystalline optics; Optimus didn't have to taste the ashy residue on Ratchet's lips to know it was blood. Ratchet rested their forehelms together, chevron to crest. Optic to optic, abyssal blue met shattered orange. His lips parted. He gave a little, gasping cry. Optimus felt the hot flood of transfluid through the shudders in his field. Trigger nodes dragged trails of lightning through Ratchet's internals as the monster's spike withdrew.

He didn't dare hope it was over. And as Ratchet shook against him, spark eddying with waves of emotion too powerful to measure, he felt the touch of another set of hands against his mate and knew that reprieve would not be theirs for a long time yet.


The next time he opened his optics, the room was dark. A faint blue glimmer reflected off the corners of his desk, the shape of a mech sitting by his shoulder. Dimmed optics gazed down at him, red plating shifting as the soft click of a comunit activating told Optimus what was going on.

"He's awake, 'Aid," Ironhide murmured into the comunit, resting a hand on Optimus' shoulder when he tried to push himself upright. His bodyguard wrapped a blunt-edged EM field around Optimus as one might do for a frightened newspark, and when he next spoke it was for Optimus' benefit rather than First Aid's. "No, don't get up yet; First Aid an' 'Raj're on the way. Stay down, Optimus."

Optimus had no choice but to obey. As soon as he'd moved, his body made it abundantly clear that he was going nowhere soon. His lines ached, his hydraulics trembling with charge. His limbs shook with the slightest movement. Down in the undercity of Kaon, close to a lifetime ago, he'd once seen a foundry beating the impurities out of an ingot of low-grade iron with a hammer twenty times as big as he was. Perhaps this was how that iron might have felt.

He onlined his vocaliser, and the resultant burst of static made them both wince. Yet the goal was in the forefront of his mind, every subprocessor howling for it.

"Ratchet," he croaked, lifting his optics with great effort to Ironhide's. "Something has happened to him."

Something, yes. He knew the name for it, but the word choked him, hurt to even think it.

Old and canny warrior though he was, Ironhide's expressions made his thoughts as clear as day. "Yeah," he replied after a moment, leaning down and looping one of Optimus' arms around his shoulders. "Ah jus' got the memo – damn' Prowl kept me outta the loop 'til a coupla minutes ago."

A twitch went through Optimus' neural net, the foreign touch triggering still-active self-preservation protocols. Optimus ruthlessly suppressed the immediate reaction, yet enough of the impulse escaped his mental control that he gave a full-framed shudder in Ironhide's arms.

The old warrior gave him a look, worried lines etched into his faceplates. "Let's get yeh up and out of the dark, Optimus. Can yeh stand, d'yeh reckon?"

Optimus leaned back against the side of his desk and buried his helm in his hands, dragging in a deep breath and exventing harshly. His processor was still straining to comprehend the enormity of what he'd felt through Ratchet. He hurt, right down to the core of his spark. He'd had a rare cube of mid-grade that afternoon, and it roiled in his tanks, threatening to make a sudden reappearance. There was a dent in the plating high on his left temple, courtesy of, he suspected, the unforgiving edge of his desk. The beginnings of a migraine needled the overwrought circuits in his core.

On the other side of the bond, Ratchet's presence was still and inert. Offline, perhaps in stasis lock, but not dead or in danger of it. Even in unconsciousness, his spark still echoed with pain.

Optimus reset his vocaliser – once, twice, three times. He bared his dente in what was more a helpless grimace than anything that could be called a smile.

"I… do not know," he managed. "I will try."

"Right. On the count of three." Ironhide crouched, slid his supporting arm down around Optimus' waist and steadied him with the other. On 'three' they rose, an ungainly beast with too many legs. Optimus wobbled on his pedes; Ironhide came close to outmassing him, but Optimus stood head and shoulders taller and had a much higher center of gravity to match. He flung out his free hand and grasped the edge of his desk, easing himself back and bracing against it. His world whirled dizzily in front of him.

Six orns. Optimus tilted his helm upwards, focusing on the ceiling as grief attacked him with tooth and claw. They'd bonded barely six orns ago, and already the world was making a mockery of their vows. His throat cabling worked, trying to swallow down the bitter tang that coated his mouth.

Memories, already distorted, drifted across his mind's eye. The strange buzzing resonated in his audials again. He fought to control himself, dragging his field beneath his armor to stop it from betraying his turmoil, but the damage was already done. He was two size classes larger than Ironhide and could wrestle him to the ground within seconds, but the touch of his bodyguard's servo against his shoulder made him jerk and shy away.

"Optimus?" Ironhide's voice was deliberately slow and calm, echoing in the cool amber touch of his EM field. "Here, look at me for a moment."

Optimus cycled another heavy breath through his vents, and dropped his gaze. Ironhide's optics glowed sluggish blue under their protective filters, optical ridges drawn low in concern. He'd picked Optimus up off the floor after a Matrix-induced vision several times in the past, but Ironhide had been around the block more times than Optimus could count; he'd survived this long by getting very, very good at knowing when something was wrong.

"I saw it," Optimus said, drawing strength from the solid press of Ironhide's field around him. "What happened to him. Felt it. He's alive. Offline, but alive."

Ironhide, Primus bless him, did not question the source of his knowledge. "Location," he prompted. "Surroundings, details. How many attackers?"

"An old church, bombed into ruin." Optimus recounted what little he could remember. Ironhide's internal comms clicked quietly as he relayed the information to whoever was coordinating things in Optimus' absence.

Unannounced, the door slid open. First Aid slipped into the room, a diagnostic kit in his hands.

Optimus felt his cabling draw tight. He forced himself to relax. First Aid was a known quantity, Ratchet's former apprentice. They'd met on several occasions. Optimus had decided then that he rather liked the little sylph's quiet confidence.

"Hey, 'Aid," Ironhide said, sounding far more casual than he looked.

Optimus merely nodded his greeting, not sure he could bring himself to talk without giving away how much he wanted to purge.

First Aid directed him to sit down, this time back in his chair rather than on the floor. Optimus did so without complaint, gratefully taking his weight off shaky legs. The vivid tingle of a full-strength scan washed over his frame.

Ironhide took up his customary position standing at Optimus' right shoulder, a silent bulwark. The frenzied spin of Optimus' spark calmed a little.

He cycled a deep vent through his internal fans, and surrendered himself to First Aid's tender mercies.