Sharpshot is a sniper, and is very good at that.

(warning: snipers being good at their job means people die)

The mech holding him was no sniper. Young, new, shaky,
barely able to aim a regular gun, let alone Sharpshot’s alt. No matter. For
this, all Sharpshot needed was the support. He did wish the support didn’t
tremble so much, but oh well… this was what his stabilizers were for, and the
half-wall under his muzzle gave some extra support.

His target was unaware. A Decepticon leader of some caliber.
Sharpshot hadn’t listened to name, rank, anything. It didn’t matter. That mech
was marked to die, Sharpshot had been picked to do it. In the back of his mind
he hoped the mech had done something unpleasant, but it didn’t matter. This was
his job. This was his role. This was how the world worked now- if you were important
enough to be a target, you had to keep your helm down.

This mech was not. He was up on a makeshift platform,
gesturing widely, pacing back and forth, evidently giving some kind of speech.
Sharpshot probably could have read his lips if anyone had ever taught him to do
so. He could pick out a few words, war,
Autobots, triumph, his processor focusing on familiar patterns as he waited
for his target to pace back into proper range, but it wasn’t important.

The conditions were important. The angle was important. The
frame of his target was important. The who and the why were not.

Snipers preferred to see a target’s optics. It wasn’t
sadism- it was confirmation. Differing helm and helmet shapes meant that
processors were in different locations. Optic contact was the best way to
ensure a kill.

Sharpshot had multiple chances, but never quite right.
Always with those bright red optics, newly installed by the sheen of them,
turned away from him. Always at the wrong angle. He needed a clean shot. He
always needed a clean shot, but especially in this- they only had one shot,
then they had to run.

Another broad gesture, Sharpshot saw his target moving into
the perfect position, and everything slowed down. He felt the trembling of his
support’s servos, the uneven air movement of their vents against him, the wind
against his muzzle. Most importantly for this, he felt the finger on his
trigger, half-pulled, full permission for him to do as he wanted. Take the
shot.

It took a moment, as it always did, for his frame to gather
the energy to fire. The downside of using one’s spark for power. He’d factored
that in, knew how long it took, and watched calmly as his slow-motion target moved
to line up with his crosshairs.

…three, four, five, and the shot was ready, six, seven, the
target turned fully to face him, eight, and he fired. The mech behind him
jolted in surprise, but one, two, not quite three, and there was a hole between
his target’s optics.

It was the optics. Two-and-a-half they widened the slightest
fraction, reflex, the target’s subconscious noticing the flash of light aiming
for him, but there wasn’t time to react before the core structure of his processor
was gone.

Sharpshot knew he’d been successful when he saw how the
optics changed. They flicker-spun, the lenses unfocusing in no particular
manner, the brightness shifting uncontrollably as the backlash of the processor
destruction sent nonsense signals out through their entire frame, and then as
their frame began to collapse, the lights went out.

Just before the target sank out of Sharpshot’s view, he saw
the darkness in those lifeless optics begin to spread down his target’s cheeks,
along the lines of bio-lights, and then his target was on the ground and he
lost his vision as his support whipped away and began to run.

Sharpshot jolted his trigger to get the servo away, then
transformed, clinging tight to his support’s side and chassis as the young
soldier ran. That was why this mech had come- not any particular skill, they
just ran fast. That was what was needed. They needed to run, get out of range,
out of sight, before anyone processed what had happened.

Processor slowing back to normal pace to conserve energy,
Sharpshot focused his primary optic on the rapidly vanishing scene behind them,
on what he could see through the walls. The target was on the ground, and three
mechs were on the platform next to him where they’d run to help, but none were
doing anything. That usually meant whoever was on the ground was beyond help.
The rest were staring towards where Sharpshot had been, or around at nothing-
some of them might have caught the flash or realized from the angle where the
sniper had been.

They wouldn’t catch Sharpshot.

Success.

Sharpshot felt good about succeeding, and especially about
not being caught.

He didn’t have any feelings about the rest.

He very deliberately did not have any feelings about the
rest.

(Longrange is indoctrinated if not outright brainwashed, Sharpshot is furious at that, confusion ensues when those collide.)

“You forgot everywhere
else.”

Longrange paused, mildly puzzled,
and looked their frame over for a moment. They hadn’t missed any visible areas,
and they knew they hadn’t gotten dirty enough to need any sort of deep
cleaning, so they were done. They tried to tell Sharpshot as much, but he was already
steering them back into the shower. Puzzled but cooperative, Longrange sat down
on the bench again, helm tilted to watch Sharpshot. “I’m- I’m sorry, but I
don’t know what you’re talking about, to be perfectly honest.”

Sharpshot, electing to demonstrate rather than talk,
sat down next to them and showed them a long, thin brush. “This is for
cleaning under plating. Someone clearly hasn’t shown you how to use one. You’re
shiny and attractive, yes, but you need to clean the parts of you that are not visible. You need to keep
yourself comfortable. Hold still.”

As expected, Longrange
cooperated. It usually made Sharpshot angry that they were so compliant, but,
in this case, it might be helpful. Wasn’t as if one could easily scrub under
the plating of someone who was actively running away from you.

It was working, at least.
Longrange was still wearing their all-too-common “what in Primus’ name are
you doing” expression, but they were relaxing, and there was no undercurrent of
anything negative. Still- best to ask.

“Longrange, do you want me to
stop doing this? If it’s unpleasant for you, I will stop.”

No, they really didn’t mind. In
fact, Longrange leaned into Sharpshot, more than happy to go with… whatever
this was. He confused them, but he seemed very earnest about helping. However
this was supposed to help. They looked nice! They were fine!

…although that did feel good.
If ticklish. “No, no objections, thank you, this is actually quite nice,
but- ah! Goodness! That’s- I- oh!”

Wait, no, too ticklish.

People who started to squirm that
much generally wanted whatever was happening to stop, so Sharpshot paused, then
shifted to a different area that didn’t earn as much wiggling. “Good. Hold
still. And, urgh- look down.”

Primus. How long had it been
since anyone had done this? Ever? The solvent running from under Longrange’s
lifted plating was filthy where Sharpshot was scrubbing, Not enough to truly
interfere with anything, but it couldn’t be comfortable. “How much of your
weight is grime?”

Longrange would have been light
in the first place, meant to be held on someone’s arm, and the carved markings
in their plating lessened their weight even more. It was absurd. Sharpshot
could throw them over one shoulder and carry them away. Had, once. It made them
even more confused.

Poor, deluded, brainwashed Longrange. Somehow not
aware that they should be outraged over having their genetics lab-modified to
make them prettier for their owner. What on Cybertron did a noble even need with
a long-range telescope? What-

Oh, he was getting riled up
again. Probably best not to do that, Longrange was confused enough already
without further outrage on their behalf.

Oh good, he’d stopped. Longrange
had no idea how to communicate “please continue doing this thing but alter
it slightly to suit my minor and unimportant request” without sounding
incredibly selfish. This was lovely.

Entirely unnecessary,
though. “Sharpshot, this… this feels very good, but… I’m quite clean
enough. I need to maintain my image if I am ever going to find a new Lord. I-”
almost a chuckle, but not quite, this wasn’t the funniest thought, “I do
terribly hope that wouldn’t require me to take my plating off. Not that I’m…
quite certain. People have been unofficially appointing themselves to the
position for me. I haven’t needed to look. Would you… happen to have any
ideas?”

That’s a bit sad, isn’t it?
Servitor-class mech asking how to find a new Lord. It wasn’t as though they’d
had any practice in this. Every time they’d been available, someone had…
picked them up. Often literally. It was their role in life.

Longrange was making it very hard not to be visibly
outraged on their behalf. “No. I… wouldn’t know how to go about finding
yourself a new owner. Unless you want to go all-out, put a leash on yourself,
and hold an auction,” Sharpshot grumbled, then paused, hissed, and outright
glared up at them. “Do not do that. Instead, explain to me why you need an
owner.”

Dear Primus, there’s that
brainwashed expression again. Like they’re baffled by the very thought of
questioning any of this. Perfectly happy with their life as a decorative
pet.

Was it not obvious? Genuinely taken aback, Longrange
leaned away to look down at Sharpshot, optics wide and helm cocked. “I’m-
first of all, not an owner, a Lord. And… look at me. Really. My alt mde is
immobile. I am entirely useless without someone to use me.”

This was true. Yes, they could
theoretically position themself to look at things themselves, but what good
would that do? They weren’t any sort of leader, they weren’t a strategist. The
best they could do was look at things and enjoy it. Enjoyable, admittedly, but
useless. That didn’t do anyone any good. Sharpshot really didn’t seem to be
getting the idea, though, and evidently something was upsetting here.

Turning slightly to the side,
Longrange placed their servos on Sharpshot’s servos, meeting his optics. Well-
meeting his center optic, that was probably the best place to look. “Sharpshot,
I am servitor-class. When needed, I work for strategists. When not in active
warfare, I work for nobles. Nobles use my alt for their enjoyment, and, as you
can see by my plating, the rest of me is used for decoration. That is my role
in life. And it’s, really- it’s fine!” they crooned, armor lifting, optics
bright and earnest. “It’s not hard! I follow someone around, I keep myself
clean, I transform when requested, and that’s it. One of the easiest jobs I
know of.”

…oh dear. Sharpshot had that
furious expression in their optics again. It was borderline terrifying,
honestly, his scope-optic whirred and dilated rapidly as if focusing on a
target.

Ow, okay, that hurt. Sharpshot’s
primary optic physically couldn’t focus on anything this close, so he shut it
and shook his helm, using the moment of time to settle his plating down. He was
probably scaring Longrange, wasn’t he?

Dear Primus. He’d hoped that
asking Longrange what they thought was happening would help him figure out how
to get around it, but it was mostly just making him angry.

A few deep vents to settle himself, then he patted
Longrange’s arm, sighing quietly. “I understand that you… are very set
in your role here. I suppose it offers you some level of stability, hm? But
stability that centers around being controlled by, used by,
other people for no reason other than the frame you were born into. You are a
person. You are not a tool. Look at me- my alt is incapable of operating
properly without assistance! But I do fine on my own. I don’t need an owner. Stop- stop
saying ‘Lord’, Longrange. If someone controls your every movement and what
you are allowed to do, if they fuel you and provide you with a place to live
only so you will do something for them, if they have ultimate control over
everything including whether or not you are allowed to interface, they see
themselves as owning you!”

He tried to stay calm. He really
did. It didn’t work. “And- and another thing! You are not going to burn
out your lenses if you overload! Believe me, overloads have not hurt me, not one iota. We
are living beings born of a species meant to self-reproduce in a process
involving overloads, there would be no practical reason for overloads to do us
any harm! How do you think your ancestors reproduced if not by interfacing and
overloading?”

Ah, he was getting through, Longrange was starting to think, he
could see it in their optics-

Until it faded into a
forced-looking version of the infuriating mindlessness from before.

That- that couldn’t be-

Sharpshot was almost scaring Longrange at that point
with the outright fury in his optics. He was nearly shaking, armor
flared, optics blazing, gripping Longrange’s arm in one servo, as intimidating
as someone his size could be. The one thing keeping Longrange from being
genuinely afraid was the fact that it wasn’t directed at them. It was at, what-
their Lord? For- for wh-

He was right. He was right about-
about overloads, wasn’t he? And about- yes, fine, “owner” was a more
accurate word, Longrange had nearly been their Lord’s pet, but that was okay because pets got fed
and-

…being
a pet was okay? Being, essentially, one of the bred-out-of-practicality leashed
mechanimals was okay? Being- being lied to about their own frame, being told
they couldn’t interact with others because their Lord was too busy to stand
around and allow it, being picked up and carried at any moment despite their
feelings on the matter was okay?

…no, no, this line of thought was dangerous, this
line of thought got people transferred -no, sold– to places no one ever heard
from them again, and it- and their-

Their Lord had always been kind
to them. Aloof, but kind, keeping them clean and well-fueled and away from
people who looked at them wrong, had never demanded anything of them but what
their frame was made for, had-

-how had it become such an
accepted thing that a servitor-class mech might have to do more than what their
alt was made for? How- how was that-

How did-

What-

But they-

Vocalizer clicking a quiet noise of distress,
Longrange sat back against the wall, hunching into the corner for protection
against the onslaught of things they’d never had reason to think of before.
They didn’t have anything to put against Sharpshot’s- well, not quite evidence,
but everything he was saying made sense. Far too much sense.

They didn’t know what to do.

They really, genuinely didn’t
know what to do.

So they defaulted. They stood up,
stepped in front of Sharpshot, and waited for orders.

Frag.

Frag frag frag.

Was that- had he just run afoul
of some sort of slave coding? Sharpshot’s spark lurched, but Longrange didn’t
have that faded look in their optics, the way people did when something pushed
their rational thought away. They looked incredibly, unbelievably confused, and
a little bit like they might be about to cry.

Whoops.

Maybe Sharpshot should have been
more gentle. This was probably his fault.

At least Longrange was thinking.
Even if that thinking included seemingly running out of processor power and
just standing there waiting for him to give them an order. Poor mech.

…maybe an order would help,
actually. Gesturing slightly, Sharpshot whispered “come here, Longrange”
and coaxed the taller mech closer, petting and lightly pressing on their frame
until they were back on the bench with him. This time, lying down, helm in his
lap. “There. Now… stay here. Let me keep cleaning you. All right?”

Longrange
didn’t seem to have any complaints.

Probably wouldn’t say if they did.

Primus save the poor thing from their own processor.

Longrange, practically glowing and somehow expressing emojis with body language: I was so lucky to be born into such an easy life under a kind Lord ☀<3☀
Sharpshot, so pissed his armor is nearly on edge: nO
———-

Sharpshot: *tugs on Longrange's arm*
Longrange: *is moved*
Sharpshot: *pauses, easily lifts overly decorated, overly lightweight minibot*
Longrange: ???
Sharpshot: NO
———-

Random person: somehow makes commanding gesture and noise without noticing
Longrange: transforms and drapes over them
Random person: ???
Longrange: yes hello I am here point me at things
Sharpshot, emerging from the vents specifically for this: NO
———-

Longrange, showering: *meticulously polishes visible plating but ignores underneath*
Sharpshot: unacceptable, hold still, I can do better
Longrange: *proceeds to get a notable percentage lighter from removed grime*
Sharpshot: UNACCEPTABLE
Longrange: ?????

———-
Sharpshot: *is outraged on Longrange's behalf*
Longrange: ?????????

Blooop bloop bloop!!

Blackspark spends a fairly considerable amount of his time around other people trying very hard not to start petting audial fins. He really likes audial fins. It’s not a kink, it’s just that “ooh pretty I want to touch” sort of thing. He will happily work it into sexy times if requested, but mostly he just wants to stroke.

Gravescratch, when sufficiently excited while in alt mode, will do a canine playbow at someone, yap, spin around, and run off to do whatever he was doing. He very rarely lets himself go like that, he loathes being seen as an animal, but people like Blackspark understand that mannerisms don’t make him an animal. He’ll be downright goofy around Blackspark when in the right mood, whining and pawing and wagging his tail like crazy.

Sharpshot’s primary optic assembly is slightly looser than usual due to being able to extend out into the main structure of his scope. It can, under unfortunate situations, get grit in between the large lenses. His response to this is extreme distress, understandably, and extending the optic structure to get it cleaned out whenever he’s in somewhere safe. It’s an incredibly strange look, his optic lenses telescope outwards into thin air and a gush of trapped optic lubricant drips down his face, but it works to get it cleaned out. Can’t have grit rubbing around in there when the lenses shift, of course.

platovevo:

my favorite cat behavior is when they think you’re not giving them enough attention so they literally just climb all over you because like imagine if humans did that. i’m getting overshadowed at this board meeting so i guess it’s time to turn my boss into my jungle gym

3484 words of Blackspark grooming and otherwise pampering a newer OC of mine, Sharpshot. No real warnings for this, aside from dealing with some old scars. Literal ones. Technically plug’n’play interface, but not the sexual take on it, just as a way to share information.

All crude jokes aside, Blackspark knew how to handle a
weapon. He had more than one sniper rifle of his own, and, when you came down
to it, a rifle-alt wasn’t terribly different. Heavier around the base, since
there was a living mech inside rather than just the needed components of a
rifle, and with a thicker barrel to make up for the fact that the barrel had to
be made of segments rather than one solid piece. The same general design,
though, with three major differences. First, a rifle-alt could be trusted not
to go off accidentally. Second, you didn’t take a rifle-alt apart for cleaning.
Third, and most pleasantly, regular sniper rifles didn’t sigh quietly in
enjoyment when you were working on cleaning their barrel.

Blackspark had laid a towel over his lap for some padding
and was gently supporting Sharpshot’s alt in one arm, slowly polishing the
barrel with a cloth held in his other servo. Cleaning the interior of the
barrel hadn’t gotten any real response, and from what he’d heard didn’t tend to
be a big deal for most weapon-alts. Made sense, since they were more than used
to standard cleaning after a couple of years and the barrel wasn’t sensitive in
alt mode anyway. But this… well, this wasn’t really necessary, but he’d
promised to pamper Sharpshot.

And from the look of things, nobody had done so in a very
long time. Sharpshot kept his frame clean, of course, but he had more scars on
his alt than were really necessary- mostly in areas that indicated someone had
been none too gentle with the rifle they were hauling. Even a few that looked
like he might have been used as a club.
Grumbling quietly about careless Functionalists, Blackspark shifted the small
mech in his lap to carefully inspect the scars, then switched to a soft brush
to clean the areas over the scars. Rougher metal needed a different scrubber to
get it clean, but Sharpshot didn’t seem to mind. In fact, the plates under
Blackspark’s servos lifted a fraction, allowing him to scrub at the edges.
“Yeah- there we go. Havin’ fun?”

No response, other than a flicker of EM field against his
fingertips. Which was, in itself, a considerable thing, since rifle-alts kept
their fields entirely hidden in alt mode so they wouldn’t distract their
wielder. They also kept their plating firmly down in place for stability. But
this… this was distinctly unusual. Sharpshot was relaxed enough to flicker relaxation/pleasure/appreciation against
Blackspark, to lift his plating and let him under, to start making quiet sounds
of enjoyment at his work. Purring gently, Blackspark shifted the smaller mech
in his lap and tucked the end of the barrel against the side of his neck,
making the encounter just a bit more intimate and fully demonstrating his
trust. Sharpshot could kill him like this, but wasn’t about to- didn’t even
have any energy built up yet. Defenseless, for the moment, and trusting
Blackspark entirely.

It felt excellent.

Letting himself purr, just slightly, Blackspark lingered on
the edges of those slightly raised plates in an effort to reward Sharpshot for
the trust. It worked, too, Sharpshot crooned softly up at him and fluffed the
plating even further.

He’d already gotten all the vital cleaning done, so, once
he’d given everything a good once-over, he set the rifle-alt flat in his lap
and patted approximately where he thought Sharpshot’s chassis was. “A’right,
c’mon out. We aren’t done here,” he purred, watching with a little smile as
Sharpshot had to settle his plating back down to get to the point where he
could transform. Cute- too relaxed to coordinate anything.

And then, well… then he had an attractive little mech in his
lap. Not just in his lap- straddling his legs and blinking up at him with
half-focused optics. Which was tasty, but
now was not the time for suggestiveness, now was the time for gentle affection.
Purring softly, he leaned back and lifted one delicate servo to his lips for a
soft kiss, grinning widely when Sharpshot responded with a rather startled
expression and a hint of flattery/pleasure
in their field. Nice.

Pulling his supplies closer, he dipped Sharpshot’s servo
into a basin of a mild solvent, then selected a small, soft brush and began to
gently scrub around his fingers. Very carefully on the tips, then a bit more
firmly around some of the scars, dislodging the grime that tended to build up
in servo joints without removal. It was worse when scar tissue was involved,
the rough metal clung to grime. Couldn’t be comfortable at all, poor mech. It
wouldn’t interfere with Sharpshot’s ability to do their job, but, Primus- must
be hard for him to move his fingers properly.

Humming softly, Blackspark cleaned away everything he could,
then put the solvent aside started to work a few drops of oil into the tiny
joints. Sharpshot’s optics were mostly closed by that point, so he let his gaze
drift up a bit, taking the opportunity to look Sharpshot over from close up.
Such an interesting frame!

His optics were probably the thing that caught people’s
attention at first. One bright red, perfectly round primary optic, often kept
shut indoors, and two smaller, dull orange optics that were set slightly out to
the sides. His antennae were odd, too, seeming unusually short and thick at
first glance. Second glance would reveal that those were actually sheathes, and
that the actual antennae extended from the tips when it was safe. Sheaths like
that were unusual on most frametypes, but relatively common on the audials and
antennae of any mechs with a large gun incorporated into their frame,
especially when their entire frame was a gun.

From there… narrow chassis, lanky stomach, slender hips, a
distinctly delicate-looking frame that made Blackspark want to fit his servos
around Sharpshot’s midsection. His legs were harder to get a look at without
clearly staring somewhere other than his servo, but Blackspark could feel
Sharpshot’s legs around his frame, and he’d seen before in quick once-overs.
Oddly thick plating, but in narrow, vertical pieces, and relatively small pedes
that split into two toes- ooh, with small silicone pads on them. Same pads on
Sharpshot’s fingertips and palms, thin and slightly ridged, meant to help grip
onto surfaces. Pausing again, Blackspark
lightly brushed the pads against his own cheek, then purred reassuringly when
Sharpshot opened all three optics to look up at him. “Don’t mind me, jus’
gettin’ a feel for these. Neat li’l detail. An’, hey- secret li’l pretty
details right in here.”

Most of Sharpshot’s frame was a soft, matte silver with
varying degrees of purple mixed in, seemingly meaningless patterns that would
assemble into countershading in alt mode. His servos were darker, a shadowy
matte purple, and there were thin white lines tracing around the edges of his
fingers and collecting into white at the very tips of his claws. A lovely
little bit of contrast.

Sharpshot opened his optics just enough to look down at his servos,
seeing only the usual colorless gridwork that his secondary optics read in,
then shut his optics again and sighed quietly. “Can’t see color this close up,
remember? Don’t… know what you’re talking about.”

He was expecting it to end at that. It didn’t, though, and
he opened their secondary optics at a quiet clicking sound. Hm- didn’t need to
see color to see that Blackspark had just opened his wrist panel. That was…
interesting, and he carefully held one of the plugs between his fingertips as
he looked up to try and figure out the intent here.

Completely relaxed and pulsing quiet invitation/reassurance/enjoyment, Blackspark revved his engine in
an encouraging gesture, holding his servo where Sharpshot could easily reach.
“You’re missing out, handsome. Here… plug in, I’ll letcha at my visual feed so
you can get a look at your pretty self. No strings, promise. Just a coupla
cables.”

Sharpshot watched him for a moment, thinking, then opened
his own wrist panel and carefully pressed Blackspark’s plug into place. Sure-
why not? Blackspark definitely wasn’t up to anything with him, and he had good
firewalls in any place. Besides… he was curious. So he settled the bounty hunter’s
plug into one of his ports, then offered up one of his own cables, which
hopefully wouldn’t be too small to fit.

It wasn’t. Blackspark’s port had to cycle down a size or
two, but nothing the calipers couldn’t easily do, and the link flickered to
life between them. An offer of a live feed popped up, and, when Sharpshot
accepted, he was viewing Blackspark’s optical feed. A feed of himself, close
up, in color and detail- interesting! He’d never seen close-up details in
color, and-

Oh. Sharpshot
blinked a couple of times, straightening up, then shut his optics to better
focus on the feed. He’d never actually seen what he looked like. His own build,
of course, from looking down at himself, but only being able to see the shapes
of things up close meant that he couldn’t see his own colors or use a mirror in
any way. So this… this was very interesting.

Turning to one side, then the other, he took the opportunity
to look himself over for the first time. Hm- Blackspark might have a point.
Sharpshot wasn’t quite certain what people generally considered attractive, but
he did look quite nice, and- oh, the white details on his servos were definitely
pretty. Come to think of it… so was the rest of him. Hm.

Sharpshot was aware of the overlapping, scale-like plates on
his back, especially as he moved and lifted the plating up, but he’d never
gotten anything like a look at it before. No wonder people wanted to touch his
back- that did look like an interesting texture. And there was the white again,
on the very edges of the plates, where it wouldn’t show up in his alt mode when
the plating was settled in place. Interesting.

Settling against the wall, he half-opened his optics for a moment
to see the colors as he looked over his shoulder, then shivered just a fraction
at the sight of himself. Optics half-shut, lounging against the wall, plating
lifted and smiling just a fraction. That was… hm. Well.

“Ah. No wonder you wanted me to see this. I am hot. Thank you for this.”

Shutting his optics again, Sharpshot turned around and
settled comfortably into Blackspark’s lap, quietly enjoying the feed as he
offered his servos to the larger mech again. “This is… not a level of attention
I am used to, but… I find myself quite enjoying it. Please continue,” he purred,
letting his field wrap softly into Blackspark’s, and practically melted into
the corner and into the hunter’s lap as he obliged.

Genuinely delighted, Blackspark left the plugs in place for
as long as Sharpshot accepted the feed, working the oil gently into his servos
in the meantime. Honestly, the link felt nice- Sharpshot’s port was tight
around his plug, and the rifle-alt’s presence was soft, quiet, and relaxed on
the other end of the link. A pleasant set of sensations, and a wonderful
addition to the enjoyment of feeling Sharpshot relax under his servos. The
rifle couldn’t purr, not quite, but he kept making soft, breathy noises
somewhere between sighs and moans. Not quite suggestive, he was too relaxed for
that, but mm.

Taking his time, Blackspark slowly worked a generous dose of
oil into both of Sharpshot’s servos, especially around the scars, then began to
move up his arms. This was a small and delicate mech, so it took a delicate
touch, but that also meant that there was less space to cover.

Sharpshot stayed relaxed for most of the work, but tensed up
now and then in discomfort when Blackspark got rougher with some of the scars.
Sometimes it took a tougher brush to properly clean them off, to remove the
outer layer of long-dead nanites adhered to the scar tissue, which wasn’t very
pleasant for Sharpshot. Blackspark offered an assortment of distractions,though-
kissing the backs of his servos again, pressing those tiny servo pads to his
cheek or audial fins, or focusing his optics on a detail of Sharpshot’s frame that
he liked in order to give his patient something better to think about. Fortunately,
the only scars on his front large enough to need special attention were on his
servos and arms, his stomach and chassis sported only a few slightly raised
areas that were completely covered in healthy nanites. No joints to oil,
either- just a few transformation seams, everything else was soft muscle
cabling or protoform.

His back was slower, though, and they had to unplug so the
cables didn’t get tangled up while trying to clean this mess. Lots of scars,
lots of transformation seams tucked under plating, lots of work to be done. Not
much of it was comfortable for Sharpshot, unfortunately, and there was very
little that Blackspark could do about it. The scars wouldn’t heal properly like
this, not without cleaning, and removing that outer layer of grime would allow
Blackspark to work in more oil to help loosen the scars up. A necessary- well,
not evil, but unpleasantness. One that had Sharpshot gritting his dentae and
bracing himself against the wall, and had Blackspark feeling distinctly not
okay with the situation. He didn’t like causing people pain, at least not people
he liked, and he liked Sharpshot. So-
time to stop and ask.

Lowering both servos to stroke gently at Sharpshot’s sides,
Blackspark purred softly for a moment, trying to settle the smaller mech down a
bit. “Easy, there… takin’ a li’l break. Sharpshot, you wanna stop? We can stop
for a bit, or for good- don’t really need to strip all these scars now. Really
should at some point, they ain’t gonna get any better ‘till they get some work
done, but we can keep this whole session nice an’ gentle if yer uncomfortable.”

Sharpshot grumbled quietly and shivered, antennae low and
askew, and slowly relaxed into Blackspark’s touches. “No. I want to get this
out of the way, and I suspect this will feel rather nice when you finish.
Continue. I can stand it.”

He could. It wasn’t fun, the scrubbing bordered on pain, but
it was necessary- and he could put up with worse. It required bracing himself,
but it worked. Helped that Blackspark kept-

Well, essentially snuggling him. Nuzzling the back of his
helm, stroking his arms or sides when he got too tense, staying as close to him
as possible while still being able to reach his back. It felt… hm. Completely
opposite of the cleanings he was used to, but it was… mm.

It was amazing.

If a bit confusing when Blackspark proceeded to turn him around. What was he planning to do n-

Ohh-

Blackspark poured a large dose of the oil down Sharpshot’s
back, over all the old marks and scars, and the sensors underneath lit up with fire. Sharpshot tensed and gripped
tightly onto Blackspark’s frame, choking back a hiss of what was definitely pain, then slumped limp and-

Well, moaned. Much louder than expected, because the oil was
soaking into and through the old wounds, soothing the briefly agitated sensors,
and it felt amazing. He felt like he
was melting, and probably looked like it, slumped against Blackspark and
continuing to moan in bliss. It wasn’t intentional, but he was far too relaxed to stop himself.

“Oh, yeah- there we go,” Blackspark purred, holding
Sharpshot gently against his own frame, and slowly stood up in lieu of setting
him down. “You got real relaxed, cutie- tell ya what, how about we take this
back to my berth? Not, uh- not for interface, just- gonna be more comfy. Would
you be a’ight with that, Sharpshot? No pressure.”

Sharpshot didn’t seem coherent, kneading claws quickly
against his arms, but nodded against his throat in response to the question.
Therefore, Blackspark gently carried his bundle of relaxed little mech to his
berthroom across the hall, humming softly as he set the sniper down. “You just
stay riiight there. Gonna be back.”

Blackspark’s berth was large, soft, and lightly shredded.
Not at all surprising, and very comfortable as Sharpshot nuzzled into it. Warm,
soft… mmh.

Now that he was in a quiet place, Sharpshot let his antennae
extend out of the sheaths, feeling the vibrations in the air as Blackspark approached.
Giving a quiet “mrrp” noise, he fluffed his plating into the approaching
servos, then moaned again –albeit quieter- as Blackspark’s servos landed on his
back.

“Aw. Thought you’d relax,” Blackspark purred, stroking
Sharpshot’s back plating, and gradually began to work his fingertips down the
small mech’s spine in firm, careful rubbing motions. Sharpshot didn’t say
anything in response, but pushed up into his servos, groaning softly against
the blankets in clear (if muffled) pleasure.

As Blackspark continued to work, Sharpshot gradually relaxed
again and made a noise almost like a purr, optics shut and face pushed into the
blankets. He felt good, clearly, and
it made Blackspark purr in return at the show. Oh- so pretty, so sweet, so relaxed. Had no one ever done something
like this for him? It certainly seemed like they hadn’t. At the very least, it
had been a very long time, because there was a lot of tension to work out.

More than willing to work out all of said tension,
Blackspark moved down Sharpshot’s back, not shying from the complicated
mechanisms just above his aft, occasionally applying the vibes in his
fingertips ever-so-softly to particularly stubborn cables. From there, he slid
both servos to Sharpshot’s leg, tilting the smaller mech to the side slightly
to put his leg at a good angle, then propped the padded little pede against his
own chassis and went to work. Each section got a thorough cleaning to remove
any grit that had been missed earlier, then a careful massage, easing muscle
cables and lengths of plating back to where they belonged.

And, when Blackspark got to Sharpshot’s pedes, he did
something self-indulgent and lingered there. Sharpshot had thick, dense,
silicone-like pads on the bottoms of his pedes, and massaging the pads was more
than enjoyable. Plus, it made Sharpshot rumble quiet noises of happiness and
push gently into him- apparently it was comfortable.

It was delightful, and
Sharpshot voiced his approval in wordless sounds, lifting his plating against
the touches with every soft noise. So gentle, so meticulous… this was far, far
beyond any cleaning that he actually needed, but he loved it. Didn’t bother to hide it, either, it earned him more attention
and lingering strokes to especially nice areas whenever he purred.

Primus… he’d never had
anyone focus this much attention on him. Not even people who’d been trying to
kill him- they gave up much faster than this. Blackspark was, mm…

A thought occurred to him, and Sharpshot propped himself up
enough to look back over his shoulder at Blackspark, helm tilted slightly. “Are
you trying to get me calm enough to proposition me?”

Blackspark paused, mildly surprised, then purred and
continued working his way back up Sharpshot’s legs. “Nah. Don’ get me wrong, I’m
sure we’d have fun, but no. When I wanna frag, I say so right off. Maybe later.
You ignore tha’ right now, just enjoy this, this’s for you to get all melty.”

Humming softly, he worked his way further up the minibot’s
frame, up to rub at his back again. “Mm- here, you flip over. Let’s keep goin’.
Don’ get me wrong, Sharpshot, I’m enjoyin’ myself. Just keep makin’ those pretty
noises for me.”

A satisfying enough answer. If this was an extended attempt
at a proposition, it would still have been pleasant, but- without any sort of
intent? Even better. Sharpshot turned over, as requested, and watched
Blackspark’s servos travel up to his chassis. There was an overlay of smaller
plates around the center of his chassis, ones that would fold into an extremely
short barrel if needed, and Sharpshot obligingly flared them to allow
Blackspark to work oil into the intricate sliding mechanisms.

Seeing no further reason to stay awake, Sharpshot let his
optics slide shut, relaxing into the berth under surprisingly careful clawed
servos. Blackspark wasn’t going to hurt him, clearly, and he was confident that
he would wake up thoroughly oiled and relaxed.

Which he did.

When he woke up, Sharpshot found himself curled against
Blackspark’s front, with Blackspark wrapped around him but not quite containing
him. A series of slow, deliberate stretches revealed that Blackspark had
loosened and oiled, mm… seemed like literally every joint in his frame,
including the delicate ones around his antennae. Remarkably thorough.

Mm. He should do the same for Blackspark at some point.

Or proposition him.

Or both. Both sounded good.