Hollow

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

Title: Hollow

Verse:IDW

Rating: NC-17

Characters: SixshotxCliffjumper

Warnings: Noncon, torture

 

A/N: I think I’ve dropped enough backstory hints (so much that they might seem to bog down the story, sorry) to remind or catch up people who don’t recall the respective IDW Spotlights on these two. I’m so canon compliant it *hurts*. The name of Sixshot’s ship is just...me being a geek.  The one non-canon element (you know, other than the *porn*) is that Sixshot's sparkchamber is allegedly 'hermetically sealed'.  This isn't. 

Sixshot frowned at the monitor. He’d gotten his orders. And to Sixshot, the only difference between receiving orders and carrying them out was a short temporal lag. Sixshot did not fail. He did not consider this to be a loyalty issue at all—he simply refused to let himself be seen to fail. So the order had come through to intercept Cliffjumper, in the stolen Decepticon hop-shuttle, and bring him back alive.

So he had.

And alive.

But no one said he had to be the picture of health. They knew better.  Sixshot had been around long enough to read through the lines here: Soundwave just wanted enough of a cortex online for a good thorough hack. That left Sixshot…plenty. 

Mission: easy enough. The hijacked shuttle had done half the work for him: as soon as the pilot protocols did not register a Decepticon signature, it had sent an encrypted signal across a low channel. Easy enough for the Devil King to pick up on its farscan. And those shuttles had always had weak paneling in front of the forward nacelles, which was a matter of a few kliks’ work to tear through in Sixshot’s beast mode, letting the violent depressurization of the main cabin do most of the work of incapacitating Cliffjumper for him. Not that he didn’t think he could do it. More like…demonstration purposes only. Show the little red mech he wasn’t as hot a shot as he clearly thought he was. Done in by…air.

He wasn’t worth Sixshot’s time. Not that way. But…this way he might be. 

Sixshot pushed back the chair, rising to stand, his optics still on the monitor, watching the reinforced holding cell in which the diminutive red Autobot raged. All of that fury, all of that energy and motion—a complete waste. And if Cliffjumper were half the badass he thought he was, he’d’ve figured it out by now. 

He’d learn.

Sixshot’s own motions were slow, deliberate, the product of long training, never, NEVER to telegraph a move. They lulled his enemies, dull-witted, not thinking that he could channel that slow force into lightning quick strikes. Never waste motion. 

He coded the force door on the holding cell and stepped through. Cliffjumper, so very, very predictably, launched himself at Sixshot with a howl. The noise, echoing around the bare metal room, did more damage to his audio than Cliffjumper’s actual attack: Sixshot brought his joined fists in a hammerblow down across Cliffjumper’s shoulders, driving the small red mech onto the floor. If he’d meant business, he’d’ve brought the mech’s head down across his knee plating. 

“Disappointing.”

“Good enough to take out how many of your kind?” Cliffjumper rolled to one side, rubbing his mouth. 

“My kind?” Sixshot was amused. 

“Filthy fraggin’ murderous ‘cons!”

Sixshot bolted forward, grabbing one of Cliffjumper’s hands and thrusting it under the blue optics. “These hands are hardly less filthy or less murderous.”

Cliffjumper tried to break Sixshot’s grip. Sixshot smirked under his mask. Such a petty power game. He released the wrist. “Does it trouble you,” he said, coolly, “to realize how like us you are?”

Cliffjumper leapt at him again. This time, Sixshot used a bit more force, sweeping an arm across his torso, throwing the smaller mech bodily against the wall. There were some attacks, yes, at which small size was an advantage. Cliffjumper, it seemed, had forgotten every one of them. And in a contest of brute force, he was no match for Sixshot. 

Cliffjumper was struggling to his feet when Sixshot grabbed him by hooking a hand under his white chassis. “Not like you!” Cliffjumper spat.

“No.” Sixshot scraped the Autobot’s back against the wall. “Not like me at all. I suggest we explore that difference in detail.” With his free hand, he reached up and, keeping his optics on the blue optics of the Autobot, snapped off one of the helm horns. Cliffjumper howled, his hands thrashing at Sixshot’s larger torso. Sixshot flipped the horn between his fingers, and jammed it into one of the blue optics. Sparks spat out from the damaged circuitry, as the red mech shrieked, his hands clawing at Sixshot’s heavily armored arms. 

Right. This Autobot had taken out a hunting party. Maybe with terrain advantage. And possibly the team was inexperienced: Sixshot had never heard any of their names before but…that didn’t mean anything. Only names he really knew were the Terrorcons. And…they’d die of embarrassment before being taken out by…this squalling thing. 

He dropped Cliffjumper, watching as the hands flew to the injured face, squeamishly avoiding plucking the horn from the shattered optic. Sixshot watched him, curious, numb. Feeling…nothing. Not rage. Not anything more than a distant contempt. And a fluttering disturbance of memory. The Terrorcons. Why had they floated to the surface of his cortex?

“You, for example,” Sixshot said, pulling himself out of it, “feel pain.” He grabbed Cliffjumper by the wrist, hauling him to his feet. The smaller red mech lashed out, one foot catching Sixshot in the back of the knee, buckling his leg. 

Nice. Stupid, but nice. 

Sixshot let himself fall, pulling the red mech underneath him, so that the Autobot broke his fall. He lay on top of the red mech, pulling some thin enjoyment out of the Autobot’s pain and discomfort. He could make this so much worse for the Autobot. Pain was one thing. There was more. 

He shoved the mech’s thighs apart with one rough hand, grating over Cliffjumper’s interface panel, grinning mirthlessly at Cliffjumper’s outrage. “You,” he murmured, “are too used to fighting against other Autobots. Things that would surprise them do not work against a real warrior.”

“Worked fine against your friends.”  Cliffjumper swung up with his on-side fist, grabbing at the aileron over Sixshot’s shoulder.

Friends. Sixshot had no friends. The…the Terrorcons were not friends. “Those weak enough to fall for it deserve to die.” Sixshot pushed Cliffjumper’s arm down leaning into it, leveraging against the upper arm as a fulcrum. 

“Pretty cold to your own side.”

“Pretty cold, period.”  Sixshot sat up, straddling the red mech, capturing and positioning the smaller mech’s hands under his head. He planted one palm squarely over Cliffjumper’s face, immobilizing both hands, pinning them to the ground. Not cold enough, he thought to himself. He should have been able to kill them. So much at stake—the closest thing to a future that he wanted—the closest he came to wanting ANYTHING. The only thing standing in his way—the Reapers’ directive to kill the Terrorcons. 

They hadn’t begged. Or tried to stop him. They’d stood there, obedient. Token resistance, almost a joke. No weapons raised, not even primed to fire. They’d’ve let him do it. Even Hun-Grr. 

That…that shook him as deeply as anything ever had. The fact that he could feel anything, as much as the core-deep awe he’d felt at their tacit acceptance. He’d left—not fled, he insisted. He had to get away, until he could sort it out. And here, like a gift from the hand of Primus himself, Cliffjumper. Well, Sixshot? How cold are you?

He braced his weight between his hand—on Cliffjumper’s face—and his feet, tearing open the Autobot’s interface panel. Cliffjumper’s yell was muffled against Sixshot’s palm. His legs thrashed wildly, kicking at Sixshot’s lower frame. 

“Yes,” Sixshot said, blandly, “Struggle. I enjoy it so much more.” Not entirely a lie. His own interface systems cycled on, sluggishly. Weakness, desire was. Nothing but weakness. Want nothing. 

But, take….  Different matter. 

He thrust one finger of his free hand against Cliffjumper’s valve. It clanged against the cover. Sixshot shook his head. “Make it as hard on yourself as you want, Autobot.” He balled his fist up and rapped against the cover. Cliffjumper cursed, kicking blindly—Sixshot’s hand on his face blocked his remaining optic. The kick grazed Sixshot’s hip, leaving a streak of red paint. “Open, or I go through it.” It wasn’t a threat: a statement of fact. 

“Frag yourself,” Cliffjumper muttered.

“That is why you’re here,” Sixshot said. He was…beginning to enjoy this. No: he was beginning to admit he was enjoying this. He was feeling the same tingling rush he felt in battle, only this time concentrated in his interface equipment. “Do you remember their names?”

“Why?” Cliffjumper spat. “Friends of yours?”

Sixshot tilted his head. “If it helps you make sense of this, you can pretend they were.” He leaned in closer. “But you will remember mine.”

Cliffjumper raked his foot down Sixshot’s thigh—the ‘con simply pinned the leg with one knee. The smell of scorched energon from the injured optic sent strange frissons through Sixshot’s net. Smelled like battle damage. Brought back more floods of memories, honing his awareness. Even the scrapes from Cliffjumper’s feeble attacks inflamed him.

He jammed his fingers at the valve, gritting his denta in satisfaction as he felt the metal give. Cliffjumper’s spinal cable arched in agony, howling imprecations against Sixshot’s palm. Sixshot worked his fingers into the valve, the metal squeaking against the unlubricated lining. Cliffjumper tried to writhe away from his intrusion, but the motion only dragged his raw nodes even more harshly over Sixshot’s fingers. He ended up freezing, his body shivering in pain and outrage and humiliation. Sixshot felt a surge of…something he couldn’t name. Not power. He’d felt that before, countless times. Even the power to take the lives of the Terrorcons. He’d held that power so long and so often it felt smooth, like a familiar tool. This was new, a little awkward in his grip.

Cliffjumper’s breath was short hot gasps against his wrist. 

“Hate me, do you?” Sixshot goaded. “Hate how easily I show you what you really are?” He twisted his fingers, brutally, in the valve. Cliffjumper cried out, going rigid. “Taken down, pathetic, mewling creature, so easily.” He drove his fingers farther in the valve, scraping against the nodes that spat charge at him, hostile in their forced arousal. Watching Cliffjumper war with himself was giving Sixshot a kind of dark pleasure, as the valve, in spite of Cliffjumper’s attempts to control it, cycled down against his fingers, thin protectant fluid seeping down. 

Mechanical response. Simply that and nothing more. That was how Sixshot accepted it within himself—that was how it was. The overload subsystems had their own agenda, a primitive program that focused on telos not method or partner. It wanted what it wanted, simply, brutally, and without unnecessary complication.

Sixshot could respect that.

So he didn’t fight against his own urge, instead, he opened into it. What did it want? MORE. He thrust into the valve with his fingers, a sound almost like a laugh bubbling in his vocalizer as he felt charge build up. If Cliffjumper were smart, he’d open into it too, admit he had no control, not even over his own systems. But he was stupid, so he fought it. Which made it all the better for Sixshot: watching the mech struggle as his valve inexorably built up charge toward overload, struggling within his own systems, trying frantically to override or suppress the signals being sent to his sensornet. 

Cliffjumper’s elbows flapped wildly as he tried to free his pinned hands, his one free leg clanging uselessly against Sixshot’s ribstrut. Sixshot could feel the charge build, tingling against his fingers, the valve’s lining growing slicker and slicker, quivering against his fingers. His own equipment sent a ready message, impatient. Eager. It didn’t know the peril of haste. He did. It would get what it wanted, he promised it. In due time. 

He rubbed more urgently into the valve, leaning harder against the Autobot’s face as he tried to free himself. The overload hit the Autobot all the harder for his attempt to resist it, the valve crushing down against his fingers, the body arching up with force enough to lift Sixshot’s weight. His own systems shuddered in anticipation. 

He lifted his hand from the Autobot’s face. Cliffjumper panted, sucking in air to cool his overheated systems. His arm joints had locked, and released with hydraulic wheezes. 

Cliffjumper’s vocalizer came online first as he recovered. He flung a half dozen vile curses at Sixshot. His limbs were too weak—even he realized that and spared them both the humiliating spectacle of an attack. Sixshot’s optics glowed smugly. “Should be mad at yourself, Autobot.” 

Cliffjumper’s curses were ragged. “Fraggin’….violation…disgusting….”

“Violation?” A corner of Sixshot’s mask tilted up. “Not quite yet.” His interface system leapt at the thought. He shoved Cliffjumper back, snapping open his own hatch and plunging his spike into the already overworked valve in one smooth, economical move. No wasted movement. Not Sixshot.

He restrained a shiver. It had been…so long since he’d allowed himself this kind of release. ANY kind of release. His spike’s end rode right to the top of the valve, pressing against the ceiling node. Cliffjumper whined in something like an animal pain: Sixshot’s spike was larger than he was optimally designed for—the girth stretched the smaller mech’s valve lining taut, sending yellowline warnings to Cliffjumper’s net, a finger width’s length still out of the valve.

“This,” Sixshot said, coolly, “is violation.” He jammed his hips closer, closing the gap. Cliffjumper shrieked as the lining strained to contain the large spike. He separated himself, letting his frame, and its desires, sweep him away, while his central processing diverged, almost witnessing the rest. Did he…feel anything? Rage, joy, sympathy? Did he FEEL? 

No.

Then why hadn’t he been able to kill the Terrorcons?

He felt a snarl build, from what seemed like a good distance away. Cliffjumper shoved at him, but his mass was too great, bearing down upon the smaller mech, whose concentration was ruptured by the driving of the spike against his ceiling node. Sixshot clutched into the red shoulder armor, hearing the Aubot’s hiss of pain with an aroused satisfaction.

His own overload built quickly, his systems primed to discharge. The unfamiliar sensation of a valve against his spike sent raw hot shimmers—more delicate sensations than he was used to—across his net. He hooked his hands harder into the shoulders, using them to lever himself against. Cliffjumper’s hands clawed at him, getting under the edges of his chassis plating, but the sharp pulls of pain fired delicious prickles that drove him closer and closer to the edge. 

He shuddered, as if a giant hand reached down and wrung him out, as the overload detonated across his systems. The fluid gushed from his spike; Cliffjumper howling at the sudden flood. Sixshot felt a grim satisfaction at the Autobot’s palpable humiliation. He wanted to press that further, spread apart the gaping lips of that wound. Disgusting. He could drive this further, abase the Autobot more. Maybe then he would feel something. 

He pressed his mask against Cliffjumper’s audio. “Just think,” he whispered, “if you ever want a sparkling, my CNA’s in your chamber now. It’ll be part me.” The thought stirred something like disgust in him. The closest he’d come in a long time to feeling anything. And the pure revulsion on Cliffjumper’s face sent a surge of white hot lust through him. 

“Resistant to the idea, are you?” he purred. “Then you will simply love this.” He pushed back, his hands shoving at Cliffjumper’s chest, pushing him into the ground.  His spike jerked back from the valve, silver fluid spilling across their thighs.  His own fingers tore at Cliffjumper’s armor, a heavier, stronger, and more effective assault than what the red Autobot had done to him. Armor crumpled under his fingers. Cliffjumper pulled his legs in, kicking both feet into Sixshot’s chest. Sixshot grunted, and let his weight drop onto the mech’s chassis, closing the distance so that Cliffjumper couldn’t build any force. The raw edges of Cliffjumper’s torn armor dug into Sixshot’s seams, arousing him in white lines of pain. Yes. Something. Raw pure sensation. Something getting through. He grunted, pushing back and backhanding the mech’s face, clotted energon spraying from the injured optic. 

He finished tearing through the chassis, exposing the bare pitted metal of the spark chamber. Cliffjumper stirred, weakly, clawing at Sixshot’s arms. “Am I,” Sixshot said, his voice brutal, “going to have to tear through this as well?”

Cliffjumper turned his face to him. Purplish energon crusted his damaged optic, spattered over the rest of his facial plating. His breath hissed through damaged intakes. His remaining optic flickered in something like fear. A look Sixshot was familiar with. A look that the Terrorcons hadn’t given him, had rejected as beneath them. He hated fear. 

Any burgeoning compassion he might have felt—might have felt—died. “Why?” Cliffjumper croaked, “Haven’t you done enough?”

“It’s not a true violation as long as you have spark enough left to feel anything,” he said, flatly. Fear meant you had something to protect. Sixshot knew that much, though he had only the vaguest idea what it would feel like. He could recognize it, though. Something twisted, like a snake or a worm, in the back of his cortex at Cliffjumper’s terror, and then his horrified submission, as the spark chamber cover irised open. 

He opened his own, snarling in pain as the air seared the bare metal of his dark fission chamber. Not a proper spark. Nothing, when it came right down to it, was quite…right with Sixshot. This was simply one, core deep example of that. While Cliffjumper’s bared spark cast flickering amber lights, turning Sixshot’s greenish armor sickly looking and jaundiced, Sixshot’s own exposed spark seemed to cast blackness, sucking the light and color from the room, graying Cliffjumper’s red armor. The dark light grabbed for Cliffjumper’s spark, sucking the light and energy into its own, spiraling around it. The dark spark was alive and restless and energetic—all the things Sixshot repressed, dared not show.

His spark energy tore at Cliffjumper’s, wracking the smaller mech’s body. Cliffjumper keened until his vocalizer blew. One of the red mech’s hands balled itself into a fist and jabbed for the center of Sixshot’s exposed black spark. If Sixshot were other than he was, it would have killed him. Even now, even so, the Autobot was trying to resist.

And were Sixshot other than he was, he might have respected that. But Cliffjumper was nothing but an Autobot upstart who thought he could win by pretending to submit. The Terrorcons had put up a feigned resistance, almost a joke, when faced with the Reapers’ challenge on Mumu Oscura, but he had seen no deception, no fear in their optics. To cower, to use deceit instead of honor—they were better than Cliffjumper. And in that instant Sixshot knew how Cliffjumper had taken those mechs on that backwater planet. Cowardly tactics. Yes, some Decepticons fought that way as well: but Sixshot had no respect for them or their tactics, either. Lower Phases, sub-evolved. He had no need for deceit. No need for anything.

Except this: Feeling through force. Through violation. Through rending and destruction.

His spark assaulted Cliffjumper’s, battling against its light, the only sound between the two of them the rippling crackle of their battling sparks, and the dull hiss of Cliffjumper’s blown vocalizer. Sixshot’s sensornet raged, a violent crashing maelstrom of sensation, memory, and pain. 

Finally, he thought, as the overload tore through his spark, arching his own spine, black light flaring out to all sides, overwhelming Cliffjumper entirely into re-boot, Sixshot’s systems all whitelined with pain and colliding error and pleasure messages. Finally: I feel something.

 

Comments

[zomgitsalaura.livejournal.com]

whoa, angsty sixshot.

[katsuko]

Oh, my dear, it definitely says something about me that I need a change of panties now. That was wonderfully written, twisted in a way and angsty and somehow hot at the same time.

In other words, I loved it! (And am inappropriately using a Cliffjumper icon. Somehow it fits.)

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

Yeah, uhhhh, I feel really bad for Cliffjumper there. I was unaware I hated his Spotlight quite that much. o.O

Since you were the requester, I'm super glad you liked it!

[katsuko]

*hugs* You did an excellent job!

...and now, strangely enough, I have the urge to see if I can submit Sixshot/Cliffjumper to the weekly request on tf_rare_pairing to see if anyone would take a stab at having these two pull off a consensual or dub-con 'facing. I think I need professional help O.o

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

I'm sure someone would do it, but...I'm not sure it would work in IDWverse without being so hopelessly OOC as to be swappable with just about any other pairing. Part of the fascination is that they're both psychopaths, and Sixshot is a sociopath. By definition, they can't really 'do' genuine emotion, even to themselves.

OOC psychopaths make me sad.

But it'd be fun to read if done with them IC--heck, can I take a stab at it? ^__^

[katsuko]

I agree that OOC psychopaths are no fun. It would be great fun to see them done IC...

And on that note, please do take a stab at it! I would love to see it :D

O_O

[dreamerchaos.livejournal.com]

A very, very good read.

You showed how...disturbing, you could say, Sixshot is with his actions and rational.

But...for some reason he makes me feel a little sad.

To finally FEEL something because he had to go through such means..

But that can more thank likely be based on his design, his processor, yadayadayada. He doesn't know any other way.

A pity for Cliffjumper to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

But again, a very good read. A strong, aggressive piece of fic, but really, what else would be expected? Sure, it's not for the faint of heart, but it gives you both characters, especially Sixshot, to think about.

Certainly reminds you that he is Bad. Ass. in the comics for a very good reason. ^_^

[dfastback68.livejournal.com]

Well, when you get right down to it, IDW Sixshot sure is a scary motherfucker. He's a bit intimidating and frightening to write, too, because I can only see from his point of view to a certain degree. If you feel nothing, then I'd say you've achieved the purpose of writing him perfectly in character.

I could flail and fangirl all over you for the Terrorcon stuff, but that's not really appropriate ;)

I also like what you did with the spark, just another reminder that Sixshot isn't Normal.

[skyure.livejournal.com]

Uh ... that was ... disturbing, and I feel sorry for CJ

[fierceawakening.livejournal.com]

Yes. Just... yes.

[toyzintheattik.livejournal.com]

I really liked this and I don't feel disturbed saying that. I loooove getting inside the head of villains and learning the method to their madness so this to me was, dare I say, beautiful? I haven't read the Spotlight for Sixshot or Cliff yet (even though I own them >< can we say behind on comic reading) but now I'm to learn of Sixshot's history.

I usually shy away from non con but I so glad I didn't here.