stunticon racer @ruthlessracer-blog - Tumblr Blog

inboxideas

You've got the entirety of one ask to try and get my character to hit yours.

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echoing-voices-deactivated20220

There was never a genius without a tincture of madness.

Aristotle (via echoing-voices)

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you call me a мoɴѕтer

「ＳＡＹＩＴＡＧＡＩＮ」

and I’ll show you jυѕт нow M̛̭̳̟͇͓ͫ͑Ọ͈̭͚̘͉̒ͬ̑͊̋̅̾N̸̙̙̰̲̠͖͛͒ͣͣ͂̾̎ͅS̫̿͗̄̏͊͝T̥̫̮̖͇̝͐̔̃̊̆̓R̡͖̰̠̤̉̓̾̏̊̀̚Ǫ͉̬̔ͧ̌U̙̞͌͊͗S̨̾ͨ̚ ι cαɴ вe

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happinessbythekilowatts

Robots in Disguise

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automotivated

Honda Nsx Concept (by oncle_john)

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on-treads-blog-blog-blog

Thick armor was covered in blemishes; deep gashes from his living arrangements and his own talons, perhaps even the occasional battle for his very life. The thin mesh of metal and inner workings were sunk in from disease and malnutrition; emaciated to an alarming degree, most support struts were visible and armor that once fit tightly and protected the massive tank now seemed dull and lifeless as it hung from his bony frame.

The color of his armor had faded; the stress of his shrunken frame, and lack of proper fuel leaving him dull and near colorless. Even his visor seemed to lack it’s murderous shine, leaving it as dreary and lifeless as the rest of him, and the optics behind it held the same appearance.

Brawl lay on his front, limbs sprawled out and helm turned with his cheek rested on the ground. His vents struggled to pull in air, trying to cool his overheated frame that had grown too hot under the sun that beat down on it. Digits twitched and trembled, he could hear it—the sound of an engine roaring closer and closer; and he wanted to move, to crawl out of sight for his own survival.

Yet his energy levels were too low to move much of anything, aside from twitching and the trembles that racked his frame.

ruthlessracer-blog

His engine roared; echoing through the silence that he tore through, sensors on high alert for the Cybertronian who's weak signal leaked through to his scanners. And when a limp form in the middle of the road caught his attention about an hour since he screeched his tires and took off, he slammed on the brakes and transformed as tires squealed against the flat road. He flipped, a trick used on the tracks a lifetime ago, and landed safely nearby the fallen mech.

His frame slithered forward, with a stride that showed his ego. “What do we have here,” he purred darkly, a foot coming down to the mech's lower back and across the spinal strut. He brandished a weapon, a hand held blaster, and placed the barrel against the back of the mech's helm.

“You're not looking so hot, stranger; tanks like you, there aren't many left, and looks like their numbers are going to start dropping further,” he added, digging the foot on the mech's spinal strut further into the frame. He wanted to hear that familiar crack, to bring about the agony he knew would come with it. His EM field crackled with amusement, with some dark desire for pain of another. “Always did like using NAILs as target practice back in the day. Would like to see if it's still as fun as it used to be.”

#ontreads

{ ᴍ ᴏ ɴ s ᴛ ᴇ ʀ s } aren’t born, they are made.

You abuse somebody who’s ᵂᴱᴬᴷ p u s h i n g them over and over again until they s̶̨n̢̢á̴p͟ bending their morals, shattering them like glass, leaving them to rot in their own D̲̲ ̲̲E̲̲ ̲̲S̲̲ ̲̲P̲̲ ̲̲A̲̲ ̲̲I̲̲ ̲̲R̲̲ ̲ —then you give them ( ＰＯＷＥＲ). So they can wreak R E V E N G E and obliterate anything standing in their way. Aren’t monsters to be { pitied }, then ?

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nothatsmytree-deactivated202212

My muse has been injured severely and is unable to really move. The attack was meant to harm your muse but my muse jumped in the way. Send "Why did you do that?" To hear what my muse has to say.

〜Brownie points to pick the injury〜

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automotivated

RW9A9404 (by dresedavid)

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Past city boarders was an isolate wasteland like none he'd ever seen before; decaying and rusted, lifeless and disorienting if one didn't pay attention. It left little to the imagination, proof of what millions of years of war could do to a planet that was once lively and brilliant. It was imagined that this was the very reason the walls went up and not many ventured out into the wilderness at this point, aside from the rumors of sparkeaters and scraplet of course.

And that was why it made the best race track for the ex-racer: nobody was around to see him run, to see him openly enjoying the destruction of their home in a series of tire-spins and donuts, and even the occasional—if the abandoned roadways permitted—transformation trick like he had once done on the race tracks before the war.

It was his personal space, time to do what he did best, without prying optics or superiors breathing down his neck cables. Or that's what he thought before the blip of a faint life signal had pinged through scans he hadn't been aware he was running.

Whoever this signal belonged to, they were dying; slowly and possibly painfully, and if anyone asked the racer, he'd say he turned and began heading in that direction to put the poor sod out of his or her misery. In truth, he wanted to torture it further, to play games, and watch the light leave optics as a spark faded out of existence.

#ontreads

stunticonleader-blog

The semi had been in a painless dream; the Decepticons had won the war, enslaved the universe, continued to cause chaos and destruction. In his dream, Motormaster was still leading his Stunticons, who were more destructive than necessary and obedient for once in their existence. It was beautiful and glorious, and it ended when he was struck on the helm with an all too familiar foot.

It jolted him out of his drug induced peace and into a whole new world of agony; instantly, optics brightened and his frame curled in on itself, massive servos clutched fresh weld lines. He snarled and hissed, intakes wheezing from damage. His optics turned from their normal color to white, unseeing in their searching for an attacker. He parted his lips to snap at Drag Strip – it was always Drag Strip – but all that was released was painful static.

He tore one servo from it’s place, blinding thrashing out at air as it never came in contact with anyone. Not even the other teammates, who he could hear there but not see. Pathetic, Motormaster felt pathetic.

His optics grew dark and he wheezed out another snarl, trying to collect himself through his agony. Then he tried again, finding his voice of all things despite the still audible static, “frag off.”

ruthlessracer-blog

It should be well noted that Motormaster only missed because his movements were sluggish and Drag Strip had a chance to pull his leg against his chest. Bright optics watched in amusement as the mech flailed his arm, but ultimately gave up the battle with a rather lame curse. Had Drag Strip been a better person, or maybe simply less worried about being executed or even less amused by his leader, he wouldn't have straightened out his limb just to kick his gestalt member on the helm again.

Harder than he had before, mind you.

“Get up, you piece of scrap metal,” he said, kicking again without aiming. Whether he hit or not hadn't mattered, because he could feel Motormaster's struggles through their bond, which seemed to be drenched in self-pity and agony. He could only guess it was Motormaster's emotions.

“These slag eaters won't keep us alive long, so how about you be that master strategist, like you claim to be, and get us the frag out of here. About now would be nice, in terms of time frames.”

#stunticonleader