#supervisitor

You can’t find it inside of you to give any fucks, because you don’t care about what they think. Also, they’re right.

Everything in your relationship with the pale man comes unnaturally to you both, but you find your own way through it. You’ve never been one for regular relationships anyhow, and you honestly are a self-branded agoraphobe, and he definitely isn’t built for any type of normality. He reserves the only goodness in his being for you and you only, and he makes it known how sweet he is on you very, very often. The amount of dark green nights that are spent with his cold mouth wedged between your thighs far outweigh any other night—once he figures out how to do that with your guidance, he’s addicted.

It happens one night when he sits up on the couch and just stares at you, interrupting your reading session. You quirk an eyebrow and ask him why he’s looking at you like that. What he says sends shivers of either fear or arousal down your spine—you aren’t sure which, and it’s more than likely both. Fear and arousal seem to feel the exact same for you these days.

“I want to eat you.” the pale man says it so plainly, so monotonously, it’s almost like he’s just asking about the weather, or what’s for dinner (it seems like it’s you. You are for dinner).

You uncurl your legs from beneath you, placing your now-forgotten book on your coffee table, and stare right back at him. Sweat starts forming at the nape of your neck, and you think, is this it? Is he finally gonna rip my organs from my belly and crack open my skull and slurp my eyeballs from my face? Once again, when faced with certain death at the pale man’s hands, you kinda don’t care all that much when you think about it. At this point, it would be an honor for your lover to be the one to end this iteration of your soul.

But he doesn’t do any of those things, instead he reaches out a hand to clasp to your bare knee (it’s still too hot to wear anything but shorts and t-shirts even at night), and looks at you like an excited puppy waiting for its favorite treat—obsidian eyes bright but patient. You’re still confused, you assume he means something sexual here, but at this point you haven’t done much more than dry humping and heavy petting and coming in your pants. Not that you’re complaining because you fucking love dry humping and heavy petting and coming in your pants with him. You’re not sure if he actually knows about anything else.

“Um. Eat… me? Do you mean… like,” for some reason it takes way too many seconds for you to process what the pale man probably means, but then again, why the hell did he say it like that? But he isn’t human, after all, and sometimes you forget that fact, until he does something that is very very much not human. Like the time last week he crawled on top of your fridge like a cat, loaf position and everything. He even swatted at your hair when you went to grab ice for your coffee. Menace. Or when he slept under your bed on his back for a week straight—when he randomly started drooling black saliva everywhere for like an hour then stopped? That was pretty weird, but whatever. You’re weird too, you guess, you have been fucking a Visitor, so, touché.

Speaking of fucking, he’s now pushing you down into your couch by your shoulders, currently on top of you, bony body eclipsing yours—your hips involuntarily twitch upwards and your crotch meets his thigh, and eventually you fall into your normal—grinding up into his leg through his loose pants, and him slotting his knee right over top of your core. You sigh heavily, entirely happy with just this, it feels so good to just move against him (he’s a lot heavier and sturdier than he looks) but it seems the pale man has other ideas for your day today.

You watch him intently as he presses his face into your chest, then your ribs, then your stomach—inhaling deeply with every new area of you he explores, meticulous and precise. He’s surprisingly gentle with you, touching you with unnaturally long hands like you’d break, and although you adore being doted on so tenderly, sometimes you wish he would break you, at least harder than he currently does—but you store that thought away for later. We have all the time in the world to do everything. No rush.

When he pushes your t-shirt up and takes a nipple into his freezing mouth, you almost choke on your spit; you had not been expecting that at all, and definitely not his black tongue to slide across your skin. He’s never put his mouth on you before save for when he licks behind your lips when you kiss him and that first time he’d mouthed across your stomach all those months ago. It just has never happened, but now that it is, you want more, the powerful jolt of your hips into his knee, your hands moving to clutch in his hair, the hiss you let out as your head lolls back—you can feel him smiling around your nipple. When he figures out how to suck, you’re a goner, moaning out into the chilly air of your living room, cascaded with mossy blue light that breathes over your home.

Sinking a hand into his hair and tugging gently, this lasts for a long while, he switches between your nipples and treats them both equally, laving his tongue up your chest, drawing circles with his fingertips, sucking on you like you’re a honey flower. Between your thighs is absolutely soaked, and you can feel it as you continue to grind into his lower half as he makes himself at home with your chest. It’s beginning to get unbearable, the need inside of your soul is cracking through and you’re exactly on the edge of something explosive.

“Please, more, I need more,” you plead, and you don’t recognize your voice. It is high pitched and stringy, and he hardly even reacts save for a grunt before he begins to scooch down your body as you request, perfect white teeth nipping and biting at every pull of skin in his path. Your eyes make themselves accustomed to your window, you stare outside into the black night as he worships every inch of your torso—there’s dogs roaming right outside of your window, sniffing and whispering to each other, bleak dark things that you will never hear. The pale man is—was—one of those bleak, dark things but he’s here, with you instead, busying himself with your body. There’s a wash of fog that blankets the field across from your home and you swear you can see shapes and forms of unnatural things dancing and running through the grass. It’s beautiful and it’s horrifying. 

Just as the pale man is beautiful, and horrifying, as he starts biting and nuzzling at the skin near the waistband of your pants, the thin fabric holding you back from what you actually need from him—his touch, his mouth, something, anything. You trail your gaze from the lonely bustle of outside back to your lover, watching as perfect teeth press square marks into your soft thigh through your pants. He acts like he’s trying to literally eat you, but the push of his teeth has no malice, just experimentation. Figuring it all out on his own time. The pale man doesn’t use his mouth for pleasure, instinctively, only pain, consumption—but for you, he is full of exceptions.

Deciding you can’t take anymore, you sit yourself to your elbows, give him a nervous look—hold-hold on, let me—and frantically begin to push at your lower clothes, dragging your pants and underwear off of your legs as he pulls back for a moment and lets you strip. You can’t shake off the feeling of anxiety dripping into your spine, you have never been fully nude in front of him, and your stupid human brain is mean and calls you mean things sometimes. Even at the end of the world it doesn’t cease, it has always been this way with any person you’ve gotten naked with—ugly gross disgusting untouchable.

“You are a perfect little human. The only peeeerfect little human to exist.” There is an addictive drawl in his voice when he speaks, and before you can even register the flutter of your human little heart in your chest at his words, skinny hands are pulling at your knees and pushing your legs apart to expose everything you are to the cold air in your home and to his crooked stare. You can tell he doesn’t know what he’s doing but merely mimicking something he knows that humans do as is his Visitor instinct, but it’s still got your heart bursting from your chest. In one unnaturally smooth movement, the pale man dips down, pulls you closer to him by your hips cupped firmly in his palms, and promptly buries his mouth in between your thighs. 

When he said he wanted to eat you, holy God did he fucking mean it.

He is devouring you, fully and wholly, and he’s very inexperienced and unskilled by human standard—but he’s overly enthusiastic and unapologetic in the way he’s slurping at you, sliding his ice-tongue over every soaking inch of you. There’s perfect teeth gnashing against your sex, but it only fuels you more, the harsh sting overridden by raw, unfiltered pleasure as he takes parts of you into his freezing mouth you weren’t aware you even had. He sucks way too hard and for a split second, you’re genuinely afraid he’s going to start cannibalising you, but your hips rock into his mouth for more, more, more—you feel like you have one foot in the grave when he roots out the most nerve-bundled part of you, hones in on it just like he honed in on your home all that time ago (you’ve shown him the most sensitive parts of you through your clothes during all those grinding sessions late night in your bed). He’s relentless, obsessed, but a patient learner—taking his time to switch between frantic slurping and calm, gentle lapping with his black tongue. You can hardly see straight, hands blindly reaching and grabbing at his hair, his shoulders, caressing his temples—anything you can do to convey appreciation, affection, wanting. He has no name for you to whine through your teeth, but you pant and huff your approval nonetheless.

It doesn’t take long for you to reach your limit regardless of the skill of his movements and the sub-zero chill of his maw—his insistent licking and gnawing and rough sucks of his mouth against you is breaking you down as quickly as ever. The noises you’re making sound like you’re underground, muffled and strained as you clap your free palm over your mouth, your other hand tugging at slick black hair. His own hands are digging harshly into your hips and you can already feel bruises forming there, can feel pinpricks of blood dripping from between your thighs from his teeth catching against your skin too roughly. You don’t give a fuck, though, and rock your hips harder against his face in spite of the bits and pieces of pain, the obscene slurping and dragging of his mouth is melodious to your ears. It’s a whirlwind, and tears prick at your eyes from it all.

When you do come, you fucking wail, as loud as you ever have (your neighbors probably think, well, he finally finished the job after all). It feels like he’s literally pulling you apart, limb from limb—am I coming or am I dying?—you swear even your eyeballs go numb because even at the peak of it all, he’s still going to town, eating his fill of you until you’re physically having to scooch up the arm of the couch and shove his head away, rather forcefully because it fucking hurts. In a thought you find it kind of cute, that maybe you just taste that good that he doesn’t want to part, but you cannot take anymore, at least not at this moment. “Too much, too much,” you cry to him and he finally is snapped from his trance and listens. You’re sobbing out from the intensity of it and he peers at you, content with your slick drenching his face but a flash of his own sick version of concern passes through his expression.

“Sorry. You are so good. I want to eat you whole.” he gulps and stares at you, eyes in opposite directions, like an animal that just got finished slaughtering its prey, which, you suppose, he kind of did just do that. You must look slaughtered, sprawled out on the couch, tear-stained cheeks, your feet hanging down onto the floor, shoulders slumped. “That was. Gooooood.. for you too?”

The room is beginning to cease its spinning, spirals of parasitic worms bleed through your vision, given to you by him—he’s infected you entirely and sometimes you feel different, like you’re waking up underneath sludge and mud and earth and must crawl your way out of it. He is as manipulative and coercive as he is genuinely obsessed with you. But you digress, fixing your attention on the pale man in front of you as he sits steady on the couch and watches your every move, every breath. You nod your head violently—that was so good, holy fuck—and move up til you’re sitting next to him, shoulder to bony shoulder. A dopey smile splits his mouth as you cradle his face in your palms, even dare to press a kiss to the tip of his nose. Your heart leaps when he moves to lean his head down to rest in the juncture of your neck, hair tickling your ear. He’s a cuddly one, you must say, even if he doesn’t look like it. The breath he took from you is finally back in your lungs.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders and bury yourself into him, shuddering. You got your wish of him breaking you, you figure—you definitely feel broken, now. Broken enough to sink down into the pale man’s lap, and despite him being as lanky as the world’s largest walking stick, he’s actually comfortable to lay on, you chuckle to yourself. Sleep finds you quite well, given how exhausted you are, with his skinny hands running even skinnier fingers through your hair, over your neck, exploring your collarbones and your upper shoulders.

When you dream, he is there. You wonder when you’re awake sometimes if the pale man himself slinks into your REM cycle, you see him every time your eyes fall shut. He shows you things, things you don’t fully understand—violent, bloody things mixed with some of the most beautiful colors and commodities you’ve ever seen. It’s welcomed, but terrifying all in one—sometimes he’s just standing still in the field across the way, the tall grass licking at the hem of his pants, eye sockets black and deep. He is void, absent of light and brings only death and destruction across your neighborhood, but for you, he means life, a new beginning after a long, long end of everything.

Sometimes, he eats you alive when you’re asleep. Teeth once perfect and bleach-white now rotten and decaying find your neck and rip it open in one sleek movement, your blood immediately bubbling out to pool into the hand he tenderly cradles the back of your head with. It is loving, it is the kindest end you can think of—watching the pale man literally begin to devour your body, starting to tear away chunks of your soul’s vessel with tissue and sinew dripping from his wide mouth and winding between his teeth. His black eyes find yours and the gaze he gives you with his mouth full of your flesh is so loving, so precious. So your soul can be mine, so you can come home, he claims, I have to eat.

(He slips these dreams into your brain to keep you his, to keep you wanting him, because there is an endless world of terror waiting for you if you were to ever stop wanting him, he would make absolutely sure. The smell of your pain and your fear, even in sleep, is like icing on an already-perfect cake.)

The pain is supernatural and it transcends your dream state, your body drowns in sweat in the reality of wherever you fell asleep. But regardless of the burn of your flesh being flayed from your bones and consumed by a decomposing mouth, these are still joyous dreams, the pale man’s manipulation of your soul runs deep, and you welcome it even deeper. Being with him, no matter what sick, fucked up thing he is doing to you, is all that remains of you. There is nothing left of you but whatever he leaves, whether it be pale, dry bones, stripped of meat, or your soul, shriveled and twisted up like petrified branches. He speaks to you in these dreams, beautiful words from his beautiful mouth, his voice like sand being poured into your ears and rubbed in with firm fingertips.