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human!pale visitor design for my palegun AU: the ghost in the back of your head
the story has absolutely no funny moments, and these two have a very chaste relationship that goes nowhere (slow-cooked extra-doomed yaoi).
but it's funny to imagine the homeowner horny-gripping and just Going Through It.
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more human!pale visitor/homeowner from my palegun AU: the ghost in the back of your head
i have a very specific vision for that AU that allows no room for traditional romance. i also have free will and can make an AU of my AU.
in a world where doom wasn’t impeding and vasiliy allowed himself to feel his hunger fully.
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A hypothetical gameplay. The Pale Man, the guest that's been there since the beginning. You have history with him, and it limits your interactions.
He gets paler and taller each time you check on him. His words start off as poetic and end up indecipherable. You get only one final choice: kill him or let him go. It won't waste your energy (he won't fight you).
Chapter 4
Notes:
cw: body dysmorphia (?)
also sth about your own death haunting you
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what a tiring thing, to have a body.
Chapter 5
Notes:
cw: nudity
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redesign of the pale visitor. made him digitigrade, like a dog. based on the fact that he looks shorter from behind the door. he sits on his haunches when talking and rises to his true height when attacking.
Notes:
prelude to a brutal sex that would have definitely killed the pale one if he wasn't a super visitor.
okay, i should now definitely work on my thesis before palegun makes me repeat my final semester. if anyone sees me active anywhere, kick me back.
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the homeowner is doing something really inadvisable.
Notes:
note: the pale visitor can snap his legs closed with enough force to bisect the homeowner. the metal poles aren’t restraints as much as they are suggestions. they both know it.
their rituals are intricate and brutal.
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The hallway had no sound left in it. The insulation swallowed everything, even the sound of the bodies. He moved fast enough that his breath stayed behind him in short, white shapes. The cold stuck to his sweater like a second skin.
The last door had a keypad half smashed in. He didn’t check if it was still working. He forced it open with the base of the shotgun. The hinges gave with a low, reluctant groan.
The room inside was colder. The white lights were steady, deliberate, the kind used when someone wanted nothing to rest. The air barely moved. His breath drifted upward and dissolved in front of him.
Zorin was in the center.
The restraints didn’t look planned for something his size. They looked panicked—whatever they could find, shoved in, pushed through, driven down. The posture was a composite of force: shoulders dragged backward, spine bent, head pulled up by the collar wires, legs opened so wide it looked like the room wanted to prove a point.
Blood covered the floor beneath him. Some of it had settled. Some still gathered in thin trails along the skin split open by metal. The cold kept everything sharp.
Zorin’s breath came through the muzzle in thin bursts. The fog disappeared fast. His eyes tracked movement late, as if he’d learned not to expect anything else.
Vasiliy walked in. The door shut behind him without being asked.
He dropped the shotgun. It hit the concrete with a flat, final sound. He didn’t look at it. His hands were empty and still felt too full of heat.
He didn’t stop to take in the machinery. He saw only what the room had done to Zorin’s body: the forced bend of the spine, the unnatural set of the shoulders, the way the thigh was pinned flat, the foot held to the floor by bolts, the humiliating openness of his legs under the lights.
Something inside his chest tightened until his breathing skipped.
He moved between those legs. Fast, without checking the floor. His boots slid through blood, but he didn’t slow.
When he knelt, the cold of the concrete shot up his knees, but the only thing he felt was how the light touched Zorin’s exposed skin. He leaned forward until his own shadow swallowed the area completely.
Zorin was massive even like this. Vasiliy had to tilt his head up to meet his eyes. He put his hand on Zorin’s arm, harder than he meant to. The heat under the skin told him where the muscles had been firing against shocks for too long.
He held on like he could anchor Zorin back into himself by force.
Zorin’s breath skipped once. Then: “I thought I caught your scent outside.”
The voice scraped through the muzzle. The fog rose and vanished against cold metal.
Another breath. Shallower.
“But I thought that many times before.”
Vasiliy’s grip tightened. His thumb slid instinctively along the upper arm, as if trying to wipe away something he couldn’t name. His shadow stayed over Zorin’s thighs. The room had no right to see anything more.
Zorin lifted his eyes fully. Exhaustion sat underneath them, but something there sharpened when it landed on Vasiliy.
Then, quieter: “Үнэхээр чи юу, Вася?”
The breath through those holes hit Vasiliy’s face. His jaw locked. His shoulders pulled forward, closing the distance entirely. His body blocked nearly everything the room had been using as an audience.
“…I’m here,” he said.
The cold stayed the same. The lights stayed white. But the space between them thickened, as if the air didn’t know how to move around two bodies pressed this close. His hand did not soften. It stayed wrapped around Zorin’s arm, thumbs making small, unconscious circles meant for no one else.
The room had held Zorin like an object. Vasiliy knelt like he was taking that back. He didn’t blink. He didn’t breathe right. He didn’t move away.
Every part of him leaned forward with the kind of pressure that meant someone else should have died, slowly, for putting Zorin in this position.
And Zorin watched him as if he already knew.
Notes:
i keep getting bombarded with ideas and scenes that i have nowhere to put. these two are eating my brain.
so the idea: physical pain doesn't affect super visitors. torture based on that wouldn't do anything to them. but isolation? sensory deprivation? stress position? extreme cold? dehumanization? the pale visitor here is Not having a good time. he would much rather be in the homeowner's basement, getting his guts rearranged in every sense of the word.
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refined the human pale visitor's features. made him half-mongolian for the simple reason that i have free will and should make use of it.
in mongolian mythology, the ancestors of the mongol tribe were a grey wolf and a fallow doe. just a little fun fact to consider.