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.
Chasing The Thing across the berth pads giggling like a maniac Bluestreak was oblivious hir cohort unless it involved their hands batting The Thing in another direction. All this moved around freely, well as freely as Ironhide was about to let hir crawl about was giving hir a taste for it. Soon ou would be trying to crawl other places.
Unfortunately small sparkling systems were not made for long periods of activity and the chasing of The Thing was beginning to wear hir out. Whining unhappily however at the thought of stopping. This was fun! Ou wanted to keep moving!
It was... fun. Ironhide could admit that. As much as part of him just wanted Bluestreak tucked safe against or under his own plating, the chirps and clicks of a happy sparkling were addictive. It was something he wanted to keep hearing, something that dug down into his own coding and said yes, this was right, keep doing this.
He watched, avidly, recording every step, crawl, scramble, every flicker of tiny wing nubs, every sound, every smile. Chromia, he told himself, would want to see it. She'd be sorry she missed it.
...and yes, alright, maybe he wanted it for his own records as well, carefully filed into secure archives.
Happy chirps were one thing, but the low whine of tired systems was entirely another, and he knew that one well. Reaching out, Ironhide plucked sparkling and ball both from the berth pad, cradling both easily in his hands. "Alright, sparklet," he rumbled when the little one protested loudly, fussing. "Yer tank's gettin' low an' hot. That's enough playin' for a bit."
His fuel lines were slagging used to being pulled free on a regular basis, ready at hand. Still... He glanced up, a little guiltily, at Jazz, who was sitting patiently on the other side of the pad.
Sharing...
It made something turn over heavy and aching in his own tanks, but Ironhide swallowed it down and gingerly, carefully, forced himself to hold out sparkling, ball and all, to his cohort made, pinging reluctant query.
Jazz smiled. SO proud. Honestly, Ironhide was doing better than Jazz had hoped he might. Certainly lightyears ahead where he'd been earlier in the decacycle.
Chromia'd probably threatened him or something.
Jazz reached out, gathering up Bluestreak and hir Thing in his hands and pulling ou close to his plates. "Aaaw, Bluesers, s'okay. Life'll be here when you wake up all nice'n recharged." He frowned at the whine of Bluestreak's systems. "Wait, he needs fueling? I uh...slag, I don't...I mean...."
He'd seen Ironhide do it a million times, but he didn't have the same energon line configuration as Ironhide did, and there was sparkling holding-position to be considered and slag, how was he supposed to hold hir while he opened the line and--
Jazz looked down at Bluestreak, then up at Ironhide, "Uh...S.O.P., boss?"
It was a horrid sort of thing to admit to himself, but Jazz's hesitation soothed something in Ironhide's spark. Some partial fear that 'sharing' meant 'giving up' or 'becoming obsolete' or any of dozens of other things that would mean there would no longer be any reason for him - military build, frontliner, weapon specialist - to be entrusted with something as delicate as the care of a newspark. The sliver of trepidation in his cohort mate's optics at holding a handful of fussing, hungry sparkling eased that fear - he might not look like the ideal caretaker, but Ironhide had found sparkling care protocols astonishingly easy to integrate and in that, at least, he was still needed. It made it easier to smooth his own field, reaching for Jazz's in a simple wash of synchronicity even as he reached out his hands to help.
"Here - where's yer transfusion lines? Just need a small one, set it t' passive draw an' highest filtration." Ironhide rescued Bluestreak, freeing Jazz's hands. "Probably easiest if yeh lay on yer side - line on th' upside, Blue against yer plates on the downside, let gravity and th' sparkling do th' rest."
Easy to help suit action to words, easier still to curl himself into the arrangement as well, both of them on their sides, facing each other, and the tiny sparkling (with the ball still clutched in small hands) laid out on the berth pad between them. It was... nice, and there was something in Jazz's face, the other mech's optics tracked to their sparkling, that made Ironhide's spark hum in a contented, pleased note.
Considering the state of hir it was a miracle ou'd put up with all the fiddling and getting into the right position with only minor amounts of displeasure and fussing. Managing to keep The Thing firmly in hir grasp probably helped.
Now properly settled, cradled in Jazz's arms and Jazz securely in Ironhides hold ou nursed on the line offered to hir, huge optics open and watching Jazz as attentively as ou'd been previously focused in The Thing.
Feeding was all part and parcel of the bonding process after all.
Jazz smiled down at the happily sucking little ball of plating. It was an odd sensation, ignoring that little error noting the opening of and draw on his lines. Such a tiny amount, though, to power such a proportionally tiny little mechanism. Not for the first time did Jazz wonder what in the Pit Bluestreak's creators had been thinking, sparking hir NOW of all times. Maybe they'd just thought they could keep hir safe long enough for hir to take care of hirself. They'd obviously been wrong.
You're a lucky little mecha, Bluelet. Jazz leaned down, pressing his helm to the tiny one busily attempting to both suck and hold onto hir new toy. So very lucky.
And, because he was close, Jazz leaned the bit forward required to press helms with Ironhide. "How was your cycle? Fun and excitement? You and Blue solve all the world's problems?" Jazz grinned. "Go exploring the wilds of the washracks, maybe? Or is solvent too dangerous for sparklings, same as floors?"
<<iirc, there needs to be a use of the word "fragger" or something similar here, so that we can have OP come in at the end and get it repeated to him. We can move thatta-way-ward if we like, unless anyone else has any cuteness they'd like to introduce? >>
<<oh, like THAT was hard with the perfect opening...>>
Ironhide vented, though there wasn't any actual heat in the sound. "Fragger," he said, glyphs of affection ringing the sounds of the word. He shifted, gently nuzzling against the other's helm, optics shuttering. Good, his systems seemed to whisper. Right. Mate and sparkling, cohort, safe, and he could feel some of the upper tiers of his defense protocols spinning down, content with the perimeter. "Glitchwit." He flicked a thumb against the base of Jazz's helm with a sharp ring for good measure. "An' YES, solvent's too fraggin' dangerous. Have t' dilute it t' 75% or th' bitlet's joints can get stripped dry - ain't much lubricant in somethin' that small."
Leaning back just enough to focus on the tiny sparkling inbetween them, Ironhide smiled, aware of just how completely besotted the expression was and helpless to do a damned thing about it. "Get an empty cube, fill it up partway, let th' sparklet splash around for a bit - that's a fun game, isn't it, bitlet?"
Tube still in hir mouth Bluestreak watched the two adults interact, listening as they spoke and feels the glyphs and feel of the EMF that went with it. Releasing the feeding tube and wiggling closer into Jazz's hold and releasing the tube to vocalize. Little mouth opening a few times before the sounds begin to come out.
Jazz reset his audials at the tiny vocalization almost lost under the start of his reply. He looked down at the tiny ball of warmth snugged close to his plates and found tiny optics focused on him, mouthplates working and hands grasping as if trying to catch the words and glyphs out of the air.
Jazz grinned up at Ironhide. He'd not heard that Bluestreak had started speaking (and the rundown on what new and adorable things the sparkling had done that day was usually the first thing communicated when returning to quarters, nowadays), and the look on Ironhide's faceplates confirmed that this new trick was news to him, too.
Jazz grinned back down at Bluestreak. "What was that, bitty Blue? Got something to say?" He stroked the back of a claw down Bluestreak's helm. "Don't be shy, bitlet. Share your opinions!"
The address, low and even, came from the entry way behind the two soldiers and from a considerable distance up. Optimus, who had been waiting for better time to interrupt, but realized he wasn’t going to get one, looked somewhat apologetic. That did not, however, change the pitch of his EM field which made it perfectly clear he needed their attention. The last of their aerialists had returned from the previous assault, the squadron CAG informing their commander-in-chief that half a dozen Decepticon infantry units had been spotted long the northern-eastern perimeter of Tarn and amassing, slowly. He needed optics on this, more than his own, and with most of his other officers assigned to long-range commands, Optimus tended to fall back on his old friends.
“I understand you are off shift, but I wanted to bring this to you both before I make a decision on it. I hope that is alright.” Which, if one read between the lines meant: I have been coordinating a dozen military operations and haven’t taken my down time – yes I know I should have; I will in a minute– and I require your opinion because I’m so tired I can’t focus right now. Despite that he did spare a brief, fond glance for Bluestreak. "I won't keep you longer than I have to."
The proper thing to do, when addressed by a commanding officer or, in particular, the Prime, was to make some effort at coming to attention. Even when caught laying on the floor. Perhaps particularly when caught laying on the floor, though at least it was laying on the floor of their own quarters and not on the floor of the commissary or the rec room or the corridor, and only laying as opposed to any other possible activities that would probably get them written up on the disciplinary roster. Again.
On the other hand proper attention, which required standing up or, at the least, making an effort to sit up, was... unnegotiably not in the offering. Not when there was a still fueling sparkling wedged between his plates and Jazz's. Ironhide settled for tipping his head back to give the tall mech his visual attention and also a bit of a frown for the heavier pauses in Optimus' vocalizations that usually meant system fatigue. "It's fine, we ain't busy." A smile hitched at his mouthplates. "Sit down, if yeh like. Sofa ain't bein' used, and it spares us all talking t' yer knee plates."
BLuestreak pulled away from the feeding tube to focused on the giant that just entered. Familiar enough with the red and blue mech now to not try and hide into Ironhide's plating. This was 'Prahm' or as ou considered him. Climbing challenge. But sometimes Ironhide called him something else. The word he'd just called Jazz. With similar glyphs too. Optics wide enough you could nearly see them turn and little mouth moving to silent words ou took a deep breath and tried one more time
"Fragger!"
Said with the sweetest of welcoming glyphs and feild ou could manage and a big smile to go with it.
Jazz looked down at Bluestreak. Then at Prime. Then back at Bluestreak, who looked SO DELIGHTED to have finally produced a word that he was wiggling in place, tiny wingnubs flapping.
A word that used exactly Ironhide's intonation and glyph structuring, complete with his ACCENT, oh Primus....
Jazz laughed. And laughed, and laughed, until he was on his back, laughing so hard that Bluestreak was making concerned optics at him.
Jazz gathered the little bit in his hands, lifting him up in glee. "Blue....pfffffft....heh...that was not nice! WherEVER did you learn that word?" Then he saw Ironhide's expression, and he had to put the sparkling down, because he was laughing again, his ventilation wheezing through spasming vents as he thumped a hand helplessly on the berth padding and on Ironhide's thigh plating, indiscriminately.
Last Edit: May 17, 2012 12:47:33 GMT -5 by Deleted
Optimus just stared, standing, frozen halfway through the act of accepting Ironhide’s invitation to take a seat. After getting over his very brief shock at being called a ‘fragger’ by a sparkling, however, he unfroze and finished taking a seat on the sofa across from the berth where Jazz was having conniptions of laughter. He quirked a single brow-ridge at Ironhide whose face was running such a gamut of emotions just then that he didn’t bother to try to follow it – he was likely weighing his delight (at Bluestreak speaking), with his horror (at Bluestreak swearing at Optimus) and his dread (at Chromia finding out all this happened while she wasn’t here for it.)
“Yes,” he said, dropping on elbow on the arm of the sofa and setting his chin into the flat of his palm, his other hand tapping his data pad against his knee. “Where could Bluestreak have ever learned that I wonder.” The ghost of a smile touched the right hand corner of his mouth, optics flickering with a distantly amused kind of light, muted with exhaustion but undeniably there.
Last Edit: May 17, 2012 23:46:06 GMT -5 by Deleted
It was entirely possible Ironhide was going to either combust or implode. He wasn't entirely certain as to which, but one of the two seemed likely.
On the one hand Bluestreak - their Blue, HIS Blue - had, for the first time since they had found the bitlet, put together and said a whole multi-vocalized word. Ironhide was already filing the entire memory set to long term storage, backed up and safe and secure, and he was going to combust from sheer joyous pride.
On the other hand it was possibly the worst possible word, at the worst possible time and to the worst possible mech, and Ironhide was seriously considering if it was possible to implode from sheer mortification because he was not so deaf or dumb as to mistake his own habitual intonation, usually directed at Jazz, or Chromia, or - and most damningly so - Optimus, though never in the larger mech's hearing.
"Bitlet's listening", the cohort had taken to reminding each other when their usual language might be considered excessive for newspark audials. It didn't, however, usually last very long, and Blue was now the perfect living proof.
Spark burning mortification versus line bursting levels of pride. Ironhide's vents had locked up and finally, after some flailing, cycled one explosive ventilation. Jazz, frag the glitchscrap to the Pit, was still howling laughter. Ironhide shot a look at Optimus - equal parts apology, brash unrepentance, and overwhelmings amounts of pride - and sat up, scooping Bluestreak up to cradle close to his chassis. "Smart bitlet," he rumbled against the tiny helm and let nothing but pride and love flood his field. The very last thing they wanted to do was discourage a new development that significant. The niceties of appropriate place and time could be learned later.