We are a literate, intermediate to advanced AU Transformers RPG Based off of the first season of TFP with dashes of other incarnations sprinkled here or there. Characters from any continuity are welcome however must be restyled to match the TFPrime universe.
Active, with ongoing plotlines, we are always willing to integrate new characters into storylines once incorporated into the setting.
"We're not a mob," Shadow protested, then her internal chronometer popped up a reminder on her HUD. "But I have patrol. A legitimate patrol in a legitimate location, from which I will be back in a timely manner." She gave Blue a hug before moving away to the bridge controls, her field flicking back toward Ironhide teasingly. "And if I'm not, don't wait up."
The bridge spun open, and she turned back for just a moment before dropping into her alt and driving through. "All the dirt, Blue. I expect a report when I get back."
Shadows hug was pleasant and ou held on tight for a little longer than necessary. Tempted to go with her and leave Ironhide and Jazz to the 'alone time' they wanted but she was gone before ou could as if she would have minded.
With Shadow gone Bluestreak flashed a wave of affection.at the two remaining bots. Reluctantly letting go.
"Well I'm going to go see if Bee wants to be trounced in Mario Party again."
Ironhide watched first Shadow and then Blue go with a bemused look, optic ridge quirking upwards. "Alright," he drawled, "what? Suddenly th' ship's ventin' atmo an' everyone bails?"
Not that he could complain. Not really. Not with Jazz's familiar warmth pressed against his thigh and a whole line of sensors up his side trying to argue that sensitivity settings had been ramped up and were more than happy to resume the activity they'd been at on and off through the day. Amused, Ironhide started to remark as much to the other mech...
...and then lost the thought thread because Jazz's helm was tipped back and he knew that look, over bright and heated, in the other's visor.
"Oh," Ironhide managed, and then, because it probably bore repeating, "OH." So much for discretion, though he wasn't sure which of them had given it away. And he knew that look, had vorns of experience with the mind behind it, and it was going to be so much for discretion, dignity, security cameras, or anyone who might come walking through the control room in about two point four kliks if Ironhide didn't get them moving right now.
"No," Ironhide said firmly. Despite his linkages feeling rather more like they were only vaguely linked - sort of a suggestion of linking, rather than a hard rule - he pushed himself out of the chair and onto his pedes, snagging a hand beneath Jazz's elbow to haul the smaller mech up as well. Sensors nets were coming back online like tripwires, a dim scorch of already burnt charge and anticipation of more.
Jazz was grinning, the focus and feel rolling off of him almost making Ironhide waver, but- "No. Slaggit, no. Berth. Locked door. No public spaces. Get yer scrawny aft in motion, Ah've been embarrassed enough for one day." Love, his field pulsed beneath the words, mate-cohort-belonging-relief, his spark full with it, and it made the push he gave Jazz's shoulder more than just a touch. "Go on, get moving."
Jazz's grin worked itself up a few notches. Oh, the mention of public spaces was TEMPTING. On the one hand, it had been a damned long time, and a nice soft berth to take his time on sounded like heaven. On the other...well....
"You sure?" Jazz asked, walking backward just enough that he could CIRCLE 'Hide. He had bits of turf and what looked like plastic tarp pinched into out-of-the way joints. Jazz reached out, running a charged hand lightly over a particularly long streak of orange paint arched over Ironhide's hip, about where a leg would curl....
Oh now THAT was a nice mental image.
Jazz rounded to Ironhide's front again, hand trailing. "Really sure? I mean...I will bet my favorite knife that no one's really broken this control room in properly. Or lots of other places. The hallway floor. Supply closet. Do we have a supply closet? I LOVE supply closets. I like against the washrack wall, too. I'll bet my SECOND favorite knife that you haven't even had to dust off the no-interfacing-in-the-washracks rule...."
Jazz slinked forward, until he was standing in Ironhide's EMF, their fields rushing and pulsing and struggling to sync. Jazz spread his arms wide, not touching plating but curving around that warm, addictive field that hovered above it. Jazz basked in it.
Love-mate-desire-need-want-beloved....
He tilted his head back, visor glowing. "So...where do you want me, again? So many choices, I can't decide...."
The Pit slagging truth of it was that those clever little hands and the hot field that went with them weren't even the worst of it. No. The worst of it was that Ironhide could picture every scenario Jazz put into words, clearly, with the memory files to match. The saboteur's voice called them up, each and every one, and even the accompanying memories of disciplinary acts afterwards - or worse, having to put himself on the disciplinary roster, with a note to the base commander as to why and Pit rusted slag, he'd promised himself he'd never let the other mech talk him into anything THAT level of embarrassing again, but...
But oh, slag, he remembered what had lead to it in the first place, and Pit if it wasn't worth it.
His traitorous processor helpfully overlaid memory onto fact, suggesting that there was just enough room, between two of the control banks, to lay his cohort mate out on the solid shelf of the monitor controls. Or a perfectly out of the way corner back of the overspill of supply crates that lead to medbay. Or corridors, lots of them, and he could think of more than a few that would probably even be perfectly safe excepting for a need to scrub the cameras afterwards.
Or the washracks. Oh Pit, the washracks and that had been his one regret about an organic planet - a whole crystal clear sparkling liquid lake and neither he or Cleaver had put so much as one pede anywhere near it because ORGANIC and Pit all knew what at the bottom of it or living in it or otherwise waiting to contaminate or foul Cybertronian systems. But the idea of clean wash solvent dripping down heated plates...
The deep hum of his fans gave him away and added a low, rough vibration to his vocalizer as Ironhide leaned in. "Washracks," he growled, underscored with the same authority sigils he would have used on cadets but his field flaring a very different heat.
It would, he consoled the part of his processor that was twitching about rules and regs, serve the glitchscrap right if the racks were occupied. And either way, Ironhide could use a scrub down. If he was privately hoping the racks weren't occupied, well... no harm in hoping, and the monitors always did need sitting if he wanted to work off the guilt about it later.
It never stopped being worth it, after all, and cohort was all the reason he'd ever needed to break the rules.
[ public fin! and now this thread is going to retire elsewhere. ]