RP | Ask Blog. Indie Portrayal of G1/IDW/CYBERVERSE Hot Rod.
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@arsonist4hire
RP | Ask Blog. Indie Portrayal of G1/IDW/CYBERVERSE Hot Rod.
Rules | About | Mun
Literate, Semiliterate / Script, Descriptive. Crack, Serious.

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"Hey, what are you up to?" It's certainly taken a bit of effort on Verity's part to climb up the giant (in comparison to her) table and heaving herself up onto its' surface, before taking a moment to catch her breath. Once recovered, her attention is directed upwards to the speedster, mindful of where she was stepping. Somebody's feeling particularly nosey. // inbox call from my blog!
Hot Rod is barely able to suppress a kind of undignified noise as the human makes itself-- herself, he readily corrects himself-- known. It is unusual, and frankly a bit unsettling, to have her simply walk around the base. He finds himself watching where he steps a lot more often, now.
Once the initial scare is gone, though, he watches her from the corner of his optic for a second, barely acknowledging the obvious effort it had been for her to climb up his desk, before shrugging and showing her a small carving of what looks to be a bird. It isn't particularly big, perhaps just big enough that she can make out all the details (and failings) that Hot Rod's own optics would miss.
"Metal carvin' of this bird that used to be common back home." the speedster frowns, a bit. "I think it's kinda like a hawk to you people."
(lbs) Are you falling asleep in the middle of my Western blockbuster movie.
He jolts like he's been shot. "No-- No, 'm just, restin' my eyes. Just restin' 'em."
✱˚。⋆ ↪ 𝐙𝐎𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐂 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒 . ( a collection of headcanon prompts based on each zodiac sign . adjust questions as desired . )
⊹ — ARIES . ≻ how does your muse handle competition ? ≻ what is your muse's biggest regret ? ≻ how does your muse handle losing control ? ≻ how does your muse express their passion ?
⊹ — TAURUS . ≻ what is your muse's most prized possession ? ≻ how does your character show their reliability ? ≻ what is your muse's favorite way to relax ? ≻ what simple things does your muse find joy in ?
⊹ — GEMINI . ≻ how does your muse communicate with others ? ≻ how does your muse handle the duality within themselves ? ≻ is your character predictable ? unpredictable ? ≻ how does your muse react to change ?
⊹ — CANCER . ≻ how does your muse react to emotional manipulation ? ≻ what is your muse's most treasured family tradition ? ≻ what is a cherished memory your muse holds close ? ≻ how does your muse express love & care ?
⊹ — LEO . ≻ does your muse lead others effectively ? ≻ what is your muse's most arrogant behavior ? ≻ is your character confident ? charismatic ? ≻ how does your muse handle being ignored ?
⊹ — VIRGO . ≻ what is your muse's most dedicated project ? ≻ how does your muse assist others in times of need ? ≻ what are your muse's standards for themselves ? ≻ what does your muse find beauty in ?
⊹ — LIBRA . ≻ how does your muse bring balance to their surroundings ? ≻ is your muse a people pleaser ? ≻ how does your muse navigate justice & mercy ? ≻ how does your muse handle having to confront someone ?
⊹ — SCORPIO . ≻ what is your muse's most transformative experience ? ≻ is your muse the jealous type ? are they possessive ? ≻ does your muse engage in introspection often ? ≻ how does your muse deal with obsession ?
⊹ — SAGITTARIUS . ≻ is your muse a workaholic ? what's their view of workaholics ? ≻ what is your muse's most reckless decision ? ≻ how does your muse handle commitment ? ≻ does your muse experience wanderlust ? where would they go ?
⊹ — CAPRICORN . ≻ how does your muse demonstrate their ambition ? ≻ is your muse an optimist , realist, or pessimist ? ≻ does your muse value their legacy ? what have they done to ensure it ? ≻ what is your muse's average daily routine ?
⊹ — AQUARIUS . ≻ what is a cause or a movement your muse is deeply involved in ? ≻ how does your muse handle unpredictability ? ≻ does your muse challenge the status quo ? how ? ≻ what subject or field is your muse passionate about learning ?
⊹ — PISCES . ≻ is your muse sensitive, or do they have a thick skin ? ≻ does your muse have any escapist behaviors ? ≻ what does your muse dream about ? are they lucid , do they sleepwalk ? ≻ how does your muse handle harsh criticism ?
thers a homosexual after me
He looks around, seeming nervous. "Right now...?"

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(Neutral Hot Rod)
"...No, things have been fine on this side. Always work, but not the emergency sort... The peace is nice, I suppose, but doesn't put the spark at ease... I always feel like something's going to happen." Prowl's voice is calm through the static. Long-range transmissions are never clear- there's a noticeable lag between his responses, and some sort of indistinct chatter- but there's an odd lilt to his voice, one that hadn't been there before. He sounds like he's smiling, but he's never done that before, not in front of you. "...I've been thinking." He pauses, hesitant. "I'd like to see you again. I'll be passing over the Concordia System anyway, for diplomatic matters. I'd like to thank you properly, if you don't mind."
His first instinctive response is Did you blow something in your processor's circuitry? and his second is You can't possibly be serious.
Neither sentences leave his mouth. What presents itself is, instead, a silence that is perhaps too long and a little too uncomfortable as Hot Rod stops to reexamine the nature of whatever relationship it is that Prowl is currently trying to brew with him.
It takes only a few seconds for him to come to the conclusion that his attempts are delusional, dangerous, and frankly, stupid. Prowl should know the neutral enough by now to know he wouldn't agree. And yet.
"You can thank me through a communication line, Prowl." He sounds a little more serious than he did just a few minutes ago-- none of that fresh laughter in his throat, only a rock lodging itself onto his intake, making speaking painful. "I've told you why I don't like seein' costumers after the delivery's done. And you-- you're a dangerous costumer. So I don't see why-- I don't see why I should risk fallin' into a trap, and I don't see why you should, either." his voice is cold, perhaps too much so in comparison to the warm tones of their earlier conversation, but this suddenly feels-- a lot more serious than simple talk. It felt like vulnerability.
"I think I should end this call. This was obviously a mistake."
Father son bonding moment
"Optimus and I?" he grimaces. "That doesn't sound right."
LAST BOT STANDING RODIMUS is now a part of the account roster! yay!
"Let's go fishing."
Hot Rod's sudden voice seemed to drag on in the initially well-stablished silence of Optimus' office. The Prime had barely stopped writing in his notepad, fingers slowing as if he had only begun processing that the younger, former prime had spoken to him and not to some unknown entity.
He raises his head, optics finally seeming to focus on Hot Rod, brows furrowing as Optimus answers, "What?" and lets go of his datapad, carefully atop of the table. This, Hot Rod has come to learn, means that he is willing to pay attention to whatever it is that the former prime is willing to share.
"Let's go fishing." Hot Rod repeats, letting go of his own datapad, albeit less carefully than the former. He avoids Optimus' gaze, fiddles with his hands, and leans further against the too-large chair he currently occupies. "We've been doing this all day, and it's, sort of fried my processor. And I know you've never been fishing." Hot Rod purses his lips, then, "I guess you haven't done much of anything."
"Fishing." Optimus has an expression on his face that Hot Rod can only truly identify as perplexity, and Primus, how weird is it to be able to tell that? To see Optimus' features, to see him as something beyond a commander and a fairytale, a light he had to somehow grasp, once? "I don't see how--"
"It's relaxing. We can talk, and just-- be out there, instead of stuck in here." The young soldier is perhaps too quick to cut off his Commander, but he knows Optimus better than anyone ever has, sharing his processor, his spark, his thoughts, his memories. There is static that runs to his fingertips and lights up, the last of his nerves giving in to allow hundreds of years of learned fear fly from his body as he adds; "You're always going on about Earth and its people, but you've never-- you've never actually participated in any of their little rituals besides, like-- basketball. You've never been fishing, and-- and I'd argue that's, er, I'd argue that's a much bigger social-cultural sport than whatever other thing you might have done."
Optimus gives it thought, looking at his datapad for a brief moment, concern flaring in his field. "These treaties-- They will not write themselves."
"And those fishies won't catch themselves," Hot Rod realizes way too late that its a stupid joke, a frankly bullshit joke, but Optimus' expression softens either way and he considers this a win. "We've been at this for the past week. I think I saw you recharge twice. You've had to rewrite this last treaty three times the past four hours, because you kept writing nonsense and going off-script." The room is small, and the speedster had been sitting in front of his commander the entire time. He'd gotten bored far too many times to not have caught glimpses of Optimus' frequent spellchecks and the occasional Are you sure you want to delete this file? notifications that would pop up after a particularly badly disguised frustrated sigh. "Come on, man. You haven't let yourself do things even though the war's technically over, and the Algornians have been waiting for some kinda relationship with Cybertron for thousands of years. They can wait another week."
There is a long silence that drags on to make Hot Rod's legs and mouth twitch, before Optimus gives one last sigh and rests his head against his palms, though a bit forcefully. And though the words that come out of his mouth is an agreement, Hot Rod only truly feels like this is a victory when he hands Optimus a fishing rod that fits just right in his hand, and catches him disguising a nap just a few hours later.

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When you say something is for the girls and the gays can you include me in that as well? The girls the gays and Rodimus if it’s not too much trouble thanks guys
Your fists are making contact with the glass of your cryoregeneration chamber before you can fully process where you are. Your memories of this are blurry, a little frantic, an act of desperation upon feeling viscosity all around you, inside your engines, coating your very protoform like an uncomfortable mixture of wax, water, and motoroil. And though you do not need to breathe (there are no lungs for the viscous liquid to invade), you still feel like you are suffocating.
Your next memory is simple. The floor you fall to is dirty and has been unused for quite some time. (a beeping makes itself known.) There are no medical beds within the room you find yourself in-- A room you know had once been used by the medical staff, because you had seen it once, a long time ago, when someone had come to check your pulse and make sure you still remembered your name.
(You don't remember this. It is a faded, fake memory handed to you by the machine that fed your spark and kept you alive for 1 year.
Though you don't remember that, either.
The beeping becomes louder, incessant. You cannot fully hear it.)
The room has been meticulously emptied of anything that might have once made it identifiable as an active emergency room, with no machines or beds or chambers beyond your own. Had you not broken out, you might have found the gentle accumulation of dust on the glass of your viscous prison.
You shake your head, cough, throw up. Your insides feel like a burning fire, licking its way from your tanks all the way up your throat and out your intake. You are idly aware that if you ignite now, the whole room will catch on fire.
The beeping turns continuous, now one single sound. Something akin to a pulse monitor-- but you do not hear it.
What you see is a pair of pedes of someone you might later recognize as Shadow Weaver-- a medic that had stayed behind to ensure you had someone to wake up to, if you ever did wake up. You recall thinking, distantly, that he had perhaps only used him as an excuse to escape the war.
The next string of events is even more confusing, things that are retold to you days later, when your hearing has been fixed and you have thrown up what was left of the cryoregenerative liquid from your tanks. Shadow Weaver had carried you to the next available shuttle --The planet, you think, had been abandoned months prior. The war cannot (will not) stop because of one single soldier.-- and taken you to the nearest active base, where you had been promptly been tubed and put through rigorous testing to ensure your full recovery.
( Your legs are tricky. They rebuild them from scratch. Shadow Weaver does not spare a moment's time to let you know it is not perfect. Your feeling receptors too damaged, the protoform underneath beyond saving. When he touches your leg, you feel it like the prickle of a thorn. When they give you walking lessons weeks later, you feel your old legs in pieces and you cannot muffle the scream. )
Months later, when you walk at an angle and are forced to use a cane, they still send you back to war. Because of course they do-- why else spend a year with you in a coma? Why spend tiring months teaching you how to walk again, dealing with your phantom pains and your memory loss and the midnight nightmares of a mission you cannot fucking remember if not to send the Good Little Soldier back to war?
(You find you cannot blame them. You cannot remember the last two years of the war-- and you find you cannot bring yourself to want to learn.
You step back in line with a modified cane in your hands and legs you wish you could rip off.)
Hot Rod comes online to a throbbing in his processor and the unmistakable sound of damaged audio receptors. His mouth is dry, his limbs ache, and he's pretty sure his right arm has managed to dislodge from its socket. His vision, blurry at first and only coming back in painstakingly slow increments, provide very little comfort to give him a cue (any cue) that he is safe and within an Autobot camp.
There is an attempt at standing-- it is short lived, pathetic, and has him hitting his head against the edges of his cage, making the sound in his damaged audio receptors louder, nearly deafening.
It is minutes later (when he has an arm around one of the bars, pedes and legs barely enough to keep him up) that his optics finally come online enough to allow him to process shapes-- then gradually he can make out distance, dimensions, color.
It is barely something to celebrate, when he stumbles backwards until he can feel his back hit the end corner, until he can sit back down and attempt to readjust his vestibular systems, so his world will stop spinning and his tanks will stop attempting to send him the false urgent signal that he has to regurgitate or else, or else-- he doesnt know what else will happen, and frankly neither does his own diagnostic systems. It is a true, sad reality. He wishes he could at least shut it up, permanently.
"Frag," he all but sighs out, resting his head against the bars, suddenly aware of how much it weighs. "That was brutal, that was--" Hot Rod leans forward, fearing his processor has finally overridden his will to not throw up, but nothing comes and he immediately regrets it. The little soldier hopes, perhaps, that anyone that had been with him during the escort mission would respond to his inane rambling. "-- a lot mor' than Magnus had expected, huh."
His world spins, a little less now as his nanites work on whatever has compromised his functioning. Yet he remains unaware of the real danger he finds himself in-- either that, or he doesn't truly care, yet.
The Autobot specimen came to life. And here Shockwave felt an inkling of worry he had potentially led the bot to a permanent offline. When noise rattled from the cage that held the subject, the Decepticon pulled from his monitoring task to approach, wading through the darkness that cascaded the room into near obscurity.
Better yet, it speaks, seemingly ignorant of its dire situation. Shockwave's spark swells with aberrant glee; a charging kinetic potential of all he wished to do to Hot Rod while he had the upper hand.
Another step through the opaque blackness and a hard mechanical crash of a wall switch, flipping on an overhead light for the Autobot's cage. And, only for that. Hot Rod needs not know of what terrible toys and long dead carcasses stood abandoned in this room with him.
" It's good to see you awake, " he greeted, stepping into the cone of light and allowing illumination to pour over his indigo frame, " if you remained offline any longer, I would have discarded you like scrap. "
Would he actually done so? Not likely. This one was too important, but the idea of refurbishing him did cross the logician's processor a couple of times. A sort of ' welcome home ' gift for the Prime back on Earth.
" Are you cognizant? Do you know your name? " he hazard to ask before pushing the hard-line questioning. A small test to see if he could host a reasonable conversation with the bot or if he'd have to pry back those cranial layers and have a conversation with the circuits instead.
Hot Rod initial instinct is to groan at the sudden flash of light that graces down upon his frame. It shouldn't make him groan-- the little soldier shouldn't be reactive to it at all, but the fact that he is is already enough of a dawning fact in itself. He will not-- cannot, as a matter of fact-- think about it right now.
"Primus." This one comes out louder than he intended, but it still comes off tired and arrogant and all the wrong things. He wants to bash his head in, see if he can give himself enough brain damage that his own nanites turn against him and kill him faster than whatever the voice-- Shockwave, he corrects himself with a start-- might have in mind for him.
Still, despite the ache in his helm and the throbbing in his abdomen and (God forbid) the ringing in his audio receptors, Hot Rod still manages a short, breathed-out chuckle that would have probably been smarter to keep to himself. "Slagger supreme. Or-- no, I think it's Hot buttcheeks, or-- frag, I just cannot remember it." Fear has its way of working through a bot's processor and body fairly quickly and easily, in the most annoying of ways: but with Hot Rod, fear often manifests as annoyance, as something that shouldn't be felt; an affront to his very being.
That isn't to say he isn't afraid. There is a very clear reason as to why Shockwave's voice is the one thing that has never left his long-term memory.
WHEEL OF FORTUNE - @arsonist4hire tarot cards meme
I've seen your back more than I've ever seen your face. When I tell you to slow down, all you do is laugh, and when you laugh you don't turn your head. All I could do was call for you, but by the time I could form your name you were long out of reach. All I could do was stare past you. Then, I had thought Earth beautiful. Even the cities. Even the burning grass. Even the softness of the ground. Even the smoke in the distance, and the sound of the gunfire. Hot Rod. We have to go.
. Hey every1 sorry for disappearing. I know I owe replies and I’m here to say it’ll still be a while. I’m dealing with way too much lately to write serious lengthy things and I don’t want to associate this blog with being miserable. Okay. Farewell

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Millions of vorns. Millions of vorns, Shockwave has dealt with this Autobot pest festering within the corners and crypts of begotten Cybertron. It was everything he could do to veer them far from his working facilities, and on particularly bad eras, to plainly leave him alone to work.
Left primarily alone with no assistance, the Decepticon took it into his own servos to deal with the lot of them with increasing sadism and control. At first, he was subtle and fought a fair fight in name of Megatron's honor, but just as his illustrious leader slowly phased into tyranny, Shockwave unknowingly did the same.
The Insecticons had warned him of an Autobot excursion near his North-most post and in creating a clever divergence, he managed to swat a good chunk of them under the resurrected parts of an old metro-bot. However, one survived. A good one— one dear to Optimus himself.
Shockwave thus took him far from where any of the Autobots had rumored to traveled. To dead lands that have went untouched by all except Shockwave, where he caged the bot with all his terrific and violent mechanisms.
And, he waited. He worked, monitoring the heart of Cybertron, but he awaited to see if his captive would wake and what he could divulge.
Closed starter — @arsonist4hire
Hot Rod comes online to a throbbing in his processor and the unmistakable sound of damaged audio receptors. His mouth is dry, his limbs ache, and he's pretty sure his right arm has managed to dislodge from its socket. His vision, blurry at first and only coming back in painstakingly slow increments, provide very little comfort to give him a cue (any cue) that he is safe and within an Autobot camp.
There is an attempt at standing-- it is short lived, pathetic, and has him hitting his head against the edges of his cage, making the sound in his damaged audio receptors louder, nearly deafening.
It is minutes later (when he has an arm around one of the bars, pedes and legs barely enough to keep him up) that his optics finally come online enough to allow him to process shapes-- then gradually he can make out distance, dimensions, color.
It is barely something to celebrate, when he stumbles backwards until he can feel his back hit the end corner, until he can sit back down and attempt to readjust his vestibular systems, so his world will stop spinning and his tanks will stop attempting to send him the false urgent signal that he has to regurgitate or else, or else-- he doesnt know what else will happen, and frankly neither does his own diagnostic systems. It is a true, sad reality. He wishes he could at least shut it up, permanently.
"Frag," he all but sighs out, resting his head against the bars, suddenly aware of how much it weighs. "That was brutal, that was--" Hot Rod leans forward, fearing his processor has finally overridden his will to not throw up, but nothing comes and he immediately regrets it. The little soldier hopes, perhaps, that anyone that had been with him during the escort mission would respond to his inane rambling. "-- a lot mor' than Magnus had expected, huh."
His world spins, a little less now as his nanites work on whatever has compromised his functioning. Yet he remains unaware of the real danger he finds himself in-- either that, or he doesn't truly care, yet.
hey guys sorry for every1 i owe stuff to. my grandma died. lmao.