@thatvixenchick: Oh, btw, Kat. I thought up a sequel to closet monster wade. XD
Peter gets a girlfriend and starts inviting her over on the weekends. But one day she stays the night on a wednesday. She wakes up at the smell too. Wade is pissed. She’s screaming. Peter doesn’t know if Wade is gonna start doing it to her too or just kill her. He can tell Wade isn’t please. So he’s like “I don’t know! How can I know not to do this if I can’t remember?!” So Wade knocks the chick out, fucks Peter harder than usual and when Peter wakes in the morning, he remembers. His memories fade so long as he’s not actively trying to date. When he sees his now ex, he remembers and he runs from her because of it.
Years pass and he’s lonely but he can’t be with anyone because of Wade. Peter has a string of bad luck. Lost his job, about to lose his apartment, can’t get a girlfriend because he’s always remembering Wade when he thinks about that. So one day he’s awake when Wade shows up and he’s like “Why are you doing this? What do you want? I’ve got nothing left. I can’t live my life, so just be done with it already.” So Wade picks Peter up off the bed this time, wrapping him fully in tentacles and starts heading to the closet door. The darkness behind the door is moving and Peter is scared because he thought Wade was just going to eat him, not take him to wherever he was coming from. He wants to fight but can’t. Tries to scream, but there’s a tentacle down his throat. The scene ends with the door closing behind them.
Peter would wake up at the smell and she’d start screaming and he’s already rolling over into place but there’s a sound in the room that’s never been there before, something is wrong with the smell, and he’s confused, but he’s not worried. He’s like “Sh, it’s okay, babe,” but she’s trying to drag him towards the door and a tentacle snaps out, slamming her into the wall and she collapses to the floor. Peter is beyond startled, the monster has never been aggressive before, and he goes to check on her, but the tentacles are on him the second his foot touches the floor. The monster bites him before it’s even inside him, and its fangs break skin for the first time, making Peter shout out, but a tentacle stuffed in his mouth immediately as he’s slammed face down on the bed.
It’s ‘preparation’ is minimal this time, the large tentacle pushing at him just a few times before it slams in, and Peter bites down hard on the tentacle in his mouth at the sudden, unexpected, slightly painful stretch. The creature’s skin is impenetrable though, and the tentacle in his ass slams harder into him. The presence behind him gets closer, and then the thing’s heavy weight is crushing him against the mattress after tentacle after tentacle wraps around his entire body, tight enough that he knows it’ll leave marks (the next morning, every inch of his skin is covered in spiraling bruises).
The creature makes him cum multiple times that night, ringing orgasm after orgasm from him, even when it starts to hurt and he’s gone try. It doesn’t slow down once, every thrust furious, and he can barely catch his breath. Even his eyes hurt from crying, and when the first rays of light start to hit his blinds, he has no tears left when the creature makes him dry-orgasm one last time before disappearing as fast as it arrived, even though all Peter wants to do is sob. Not from the violation – it doesn’t feel like violation – but because he’s never been worked over so hard before, never made to feel so much. It’s only because he’s facing the rest of his bedroom that he sees the monster pick his girlfriend up and disappear into the closet. He doesn’t have the energy to feel worried for her.
He passes out immediately after, and when he wakes up the next morning, he remembers everything, remembers the monsters nightly visits, remembers forgetting them after every visit, and there’s a message on his phone from his girlfriend telling him about a weird nightmare she had last night about a tentacle monster in his closet. He’s a coward and he replies to the text breaking up with her, and he ignores every phone call that comes in for the next hour. His body in the bathroom mirror is a mess, bruised and blood smeared across his shoulders and down his chest and back. The bite itself, somehow, is already a scar, multiple rings from neck to bicep – it didn’t just use its first row of teeth, and as Peter curls up on the floor of the shower, letting the hot water clean him, he wonders if the creature made him remember on purpose or if he only remembered because of the bite.
He ignores the signs that say he might be in shock.
All the thanks to Vix as I do, after all, work best when acting as an idea soundboard. Also because omg her sequel idea is just amazing. This may become a fully-realized thing sometime in the future. Maybe.
Let’s play a game. Type the following words into your tags box, then post the first automatic tag that comes up. you, also, what, when, why, how, look, because, never
I don’t know all the reasons why I like dark things, and I don’t think I need to know them all, but… I was just looking at the blog of that person who said I “dehumanize and fetishize” gay men, and I saw that he was quite young (15) and his blog was all full of pastel colors and references to his mental illness and something dawned on me that I hadn’t thought about in a Tumblr context at all.
Part of my PTSD is about experiences I had in hospitals, and because of that one of my triggers is… not pastels, all by themselves, but like… have you ever stayed in a hospital as a kid? And everything is covered in soothing soft colors and all the nurses wear scrubs with like… cute animal drawings on them and everyone talks in a sing-song voice and reassures you things won’t hurt when they OBVIOUSLY will and you’d rather they tell the truth, accept that you have good reasons to be scared, and get it the hell overwith?
Yeah, I think I just figured out why those kids’ blogs give me a weird tingly feeling of creeping dread.
And I think I figured out, also, where my intense leeriness of “safe spaces” and trigger warnings comes from too–even though as a person with PTSD I’m supposed to want them.
It’s because in my experience, people who were trying to make me feel safe were LYING. They were lying because it was in their interest–in mine, too, but in theirs–for me to feel calm and soothed. For me not to feel despair, or anger, or blind screaming rage.
…Is it any wonder I like the stories where the people with the knives and the cruel smiles and the mind games are blatant about it? Or that I might want a few knives of my own, even though I have no desire to hurt anyone who isn’t going to get off on it?
I don’t want those kids to not need safety.
I want them to stop pretending safety looks the same for everyone.
Yes, this.
When people tell me “You’re safe,” I don’t think of Helpful Adult saving me from the monsters under the bed. I think of my teachers, saying the people who hurt me would never do such a thing, and I should stop lying because I was perfectly safe. I think of the people who used to hug me until my lungs wouldn’t fill and my ribs creaked, and got away without a whisper of a reprimand. Because they were pretty and soft, and I was cold and harsh.
That’s not safe, to me. That’s the most dangerous place in the world, because the people who live there will do anything- anything at all- if it means they don’t have to acknowledge how nasty their walled garden has really gotten. Because if I defend myself, they can’t pretend anymore. And they sure as hell won’t defend me.
THIS.
I have experienced a lot of passive-aggressive emotional abuse in my life and let me tell you – my abusers had a vested interest in keeping me calm.
Upset means resistance. Upset means that they have to face the damage they’ve caused. Upset means that you may finally realize that you should leave. Upset means that you might just get up and leave. So they soothe you. They make you doubt the validity of your feelings. They make you feel guilty for getting upset. They make you think that the issue was your fault in the first place. They make you feel like getting upset is pointless. They make you feel like you have wronged them and yourself by being unhappy.
You do not have to let yourself be soothed. You do not have to let them take the fight out of you. If you do not feel safe; you do not have to feel guilty for getting yourself out. You do not have to feel guilty for being upset when someone has wronged you. You do not have to feel guilty for seeking your own brand of safety.
This is the most poignant description of what it actually feels like to be helpless in an institution that I’ve ever read.
It’s a special kind of violence to be hurt and to be told that it’s kindness. It’s intensely intimate and perverted. Succumbing to it is… spiritually destructive in a way that I have a hard time putting to words. Just… in my safe space I’m always fighting because as long as I continue to struggle that very special form of violence can’t take hold of me and I’ll be okay.
Like… when I get triggered about some of these experiences I’ll even have fantasies about dying while resisting. I mean… I don’t want to go into details because super triggering but… just think about that for a moment.
“It’s a special kind of violence to be hurt and to be told that it’s kindness. It’s intensely intimate and perverted.”
My experiences are not exactly the same as yours, but this, yes.
This is why I have such intense reactions to unkind SJ, whether it’s “sit down, shut up, and listen” (gee, what might that resemble?) or “representation means heroes with no serious flaws.”
Because that particular “shh, shh, shh, if we pretend utopia is already here, it soon will be” lie has hurt me EVERY TIME I’ve heard it.
I’m learning now that the roots of a lot of my trauma was this exact “your life is perfect, you’re not allowed to feel anything other than happiness, you’re ungrateful,” yelling more if I cried, any inkling of talking back or standing up for myself was met with twice the punishment, etc
So while it’s understandable that those in a dark place seek softness and gentle color, and there’s nothing wrong with that, those of us forced into it seek the grime as a form of truth and expression that wasn’t allowed for us, or a fictional playground of violence and anger where we can actually scream our frustrations onto a canvas.
And telling people that they should ditch such exploration for holy goodness is just another form of telling us our anger shouldn’t exist
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