Ripley's Don't Believe It

pirate voice: there's a beautiful person out there reading this post, I can feel it in me bones

mailman voice: I'm curious, what did you make me sound like?

he's such a little freak i love him

you can’t jokingly post about kinky shit on tumblr because you say smth like “haha wouldn’t it be hot if you…tried to launch internet explorer…but it wouldn’t load :D”

and then you’ll get one thousand robot girls in the notes going “mmngngnnghhhngn”

one of my buddies is occupying a fortified position on high ground. i'm going to kick his ass with ease

you can hit it raw, i’ve got an IED

A sharp crack rings out, echoing through the room.

She looks at her arm, wrenched out at an unnatural angle, hand limp, joints broken.

She looks at the person standing above her, a sadistic smile stretching across their face.

She looks at their hand. She sees the hammer they hold.

Three more cracks ring out.

She lies limply on the floor, limbs broken, helpless.

She smiles back.

The person above her moves, not with the sharp violence that broke her, but slowly, deliberately, with care.

They take a set of keys from their pocket. They flick through them to find the smallest of the keys. They lean down and kneel on the floor beside her. They reach out, hold her shoulder, move the key towards her.

And it falls into the keyhole right by her shoulder. It turns. A soft, gentle click is heard. Her arm falls out of the socket, landing amongst the shards of porcelain that surround her.

She sees the metal framework of her arm, warped and distended by the blunt force of the hammer. She sees her joints, shiny from wear and use. She sees the last remnants of the ceramic that serves as her skin, either affixed to the frame or driven into the material that forms a part of her.

Three more clicks ring out.

Her limbs are strewn about on the floor around her.

The person beside her leaves for a moment, and returns carrying a bag. They sit back beside her. Reach out yet again, but with neither the hammer nor the keys.

If her body could feel, she would feel the cold of the new metal, not yet worn or tarnished, as it works its way into the setting within her shoulder. She would feel it again, in her other arm. Again and again, in the attachment points just below her hips.

Her miss stands over her once more, looking proud of their work.

She raises her new arms, uses her new hands to push herself off the floor, stands on her new legs, walks forwards on her new feet.

She loves her maintenance.

grab them by the hair

grabbing a fistful of their hair to hold them in place for the next punch or slap

grabbing their hair to force them to look at you

grabbing their hair to make them bow

grabbing their hair to slam their head back into the wall

grabbing their hair to smash their face on the floor

grabbing their hair to make them bare their throat to you

grabbing their hair to stop them moving away from the blade or syringe at their neck

grabbing their hair to dunk their head under water

grabbing their hair to rub their face in a mess

grabbing their hair to pull them across the room before throwing them down where they belong

grabbing their hair to hold them up when they’re about to slump over

grabbing their hair to drag them up to their knees from where they lay on the floor

placing your hand in their hair when they’re already kneeling just to remind them what you could do with it

stroking their hair as a half-hearted apology after pulling a little too much

comment more please :)

me when i wanna talk about my special interests but i got the vampire autism where you gotta invite me to talk about smth first, otherwise i wont say shit or dont know what to say because i feel like im annoying