pathologicroundrobin | Pathologic Kink Meme!

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Pathologic Kink Meme!

Hello, welcome to the Pathologic Kink Meme! WARNING: This one is NSFW!

Please make anonymous prompts for things you would like to see, or anonymously fulfill prompts by creating stories, poetry, drawn art, music, or anything! I just want to say that this prompt meme is open to people of all skill levels, so have fun!

Some basic rules that were recommended to help out before we get started:

- This is the Pathologic Kink Meme, and it's NSFW! Please post any NSFW prompts or fills here. A good rule of thumb is whether or not you'd be comfortable with your boss at work looking over your shoulder and reading what you have on screen.

- If anything is a little too explicit in detail (e.g. in terms of medical procedures or gore), it probably needs to be here as well. Basic mentioning of medical procedures is allowed, but this is just in case for folks who have limits in regard to certain explicit things. Speaking of explicit things...

- Please use tags and content warnings, especially for things that people might be triggered over. For prompt fillers, please put those tags in the beginning of the post so that way people can skip over them if need be. Tags can also attract people to your art if it has content that they're interested in, so it can be a helpful tool for content creators as well.

- No writers of incest (kains which does include aglaya and her relatives, stamatins, olgimskys, etc), underage/adult ships (which DOES include Clara,) or rape. Please don't make anything gross happen to underage characters!

- Multiple fills to a single prompt is not only accepted, but wonderful! It's a win-win for everybody!

- In the case of a filler of a prompt going inactive for a long time in the middle of a story, it's okay for a different person to continue where they left off. Please make it obvious that you're not the original author, and then feel free to write.

And that's as much as I have in regards to rules! Hopefully these answered answer any questions you might have! Feel free to recommend any rules of your own, or ask me for clarification on the current ones.

AND THAT'S IT! Have fun! :D

LINKS:

Pathologic Prompt Meme: https://pathologicroundrobin.dreamwidth.org/825.html
Pathologic Round-Robin: https://pathologicroundrobin.dreamwidth.org/654.html
Pathologic Kink Meme (nsfw): https://pathologicroundrobin.dreamwidth.org/1201.html
Contact me here if you have any questions!: https://pathologicroundrobin.dreamwidth.org/1347.html

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Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

HI IM OP and this was so good!! i loved the tension and the want between them, and how they are both still man of duty first of all... it was really amazing (and hot) and im so happy!! thank you

:pleading_face: PLEASE I NEED THIS

OT4 lovin pls.... bonus if they all like take turns w Artemy, encouraging each other to make him come again & again... nd then they all snuggle up together :)))
BONUS BONUS for trans characters :)

SECONDED PLEASE

i absolutely second this op you are a genius

OP I COULDNT AGREE MORE.... bruh my friends keep making fun of me but like his character model is SMOKIN forget his methods look at that hott bod

So, playing Patho means a lot of sprinting until you’re out of stamina, letting it build up again, then going right back into a dead run...

Daniil or Artemy gets where he was going and throws the door open. He’s red-faced, out of breath, and needs a minute to get his bearings.

Whoever he came to talk to finds themselves SURPRISINGLY into it.

oh sweet heavens this is delicious

Happy Femslash Fpril!

Yulia's quite sure the interview is over, so she turns to go.

There are things she forgets easily, like faces and patronymics, just as there are things that stick in her memory as if they were written in permanent ink.

There is a way the Inquisitor can say I see. with utter, cold finality.

"Wait," the Inquisitor calls. (Aglaya, Aglaya, Aglayechka.) "You haven't been dismissed."

Yulia turns. Her shoes are flat, unlike the Inquisitor's uniform heels, and make hardly any noise against the cathedral stone. "Are you sure? I really thought I had."

"Are you free this evening?"

"Are you asking personally?"

The Inquisitor doesn't possess a face that smiles. Still, Yulia recognizes a familiar upturn at the corners of the mouth. Even permafrost can crack and thaw.

Aglaya continues. "If you're free, I'll see you then. Here. If not, this will be the last time we speak. I don't mean that as an ultimatum."

"No, of course not. I understand." And Yulia does understand: the script is malleable to a certain degree, but only within strict limits. There is no happy ending for a minor character and the third-act rising stakes. For an émigré architect and a government noose.

No ending at all, really. Things simply cease to continue.

"I maintain a library in the Chine. It's pleasant and quiet."

A shake of the head. "I'm set up in the cathedral. Here, I have the proper time to think, and won't leave until I'm done."

"Fair enough."

Yulia turns again, quiet as she walks offstage.

It's more late afternoon than evening when she returns, unfashionably early; Aglaya isn't yet done cross-referencing a stack of papers with another, smaller stack, so Yulia stands beside her with a smoke.

"You're crossing off names," she observes. "False leads?"

"No. Dead."

Yulia stops attempting small-talk after that. She quietly crosses over to a tall, tall window and watches the muted burn of the setting sun through glass.

It's been a long time since college. She's turned into a professional person with uninteresting habits. And Aglaya...

(Aglaya, Aglaya. They had danced, once, under the dappled light of birch trees, both their hair let down loose. Aglayechka.)

From the outside, Aglaya seems much the same. Her mind had always been her own. She had simply been given the chance to become a weapon.

There are (Yulia thinks) worse things to become.

It's a dual effort to heave the cathedral doors locked, and probably unnecessary: they both understand (because Yulia knows the Kains and the structure and Aglaya knows everything) that they have more time than it would seem.

They won't take advantage of that, though, and linger longer than necessary.

This is rebellion as much as it's sentiment: yes, we're dolls, but long ago we were sewn from the same yard of fabric, and the fabric remembers...

Aglaya has her over the desk.

Once it's been cleared of all effects and the important things filed away, Yulia's back hits the wood. She laughs, low, and stretches her arms up; the very tips of her nails brush the red glass.

With the way that Aglaya looks over her as she stretches, Yulia feels seen. She feels known.

She doesn't have words for the way she feels when Aglaya touches her. First, one gloved hand caresses her cheek, then a thumb brushes over the softness of her lips. (Yulia kisses Aglaya's thumb. She's not sure whether Aglaya can tell, but she does it anyway.)

Aglaya's touch moves lower.

"Yes," Yulia says, when Aglaya squeezes her breasts through her clothes. "Yes, yes—"

Suddenly, Aglaya's thigh spreads Yulia's thighs wide, holding her legs apart by keeping pressure against her crux. Yulia lets her eyes fall shut and drinks in Aglaya's touches as if she could memorize them by their components: the length of her nimble fingers, the angle of her movements, the distance between them both...

"'glayechka," she gasps, breathless. "I need you."

No response but for a sudden absence, then the sounds of a drawer.

Yulia wonders whether Aglaya had nodded. Silly of her, when Yulia isn't looking. Though, could it be... Is she caught up in this, too? Is that possible—to snare an inquisitorial heart?

Who knows.

When Yulia allows herself to look again, Aglaya is pink-faced with gently parted lips. A rush of blood to the head...

Yulia spreads her legs wider, against nothing, waiting. "Aglaya."

"Mmm?"

Her black frock is all pushed and rucked up to allow for the black-strapped harness she's fastening tight around herself. It has a device attached: the exact, perfect shape of what Yulia longs for.

Once it's fastened, Aglaya unfastens Yulia in turn. Yulia lifts her hips to free herself of her trousers when it's time.

"I love you. Can I say that? Not as Lyuricheva loving Lilich, exactly—no, what a different lifetime that was!—but as a woman loves another woman."

"Being maudlin isn't like you," Aglaya says, pushing inside.

Yulia gasps, loud. Her nails scratch glass. "I-I..."

Aglaya begins to move. Her movements are slow at first: methodical, precise, as she learns the shape of Yulia's need. "Go on."

"Don't you feel like our worlds are always ending, one way or another? Just a little faster now... To turn the page each day, to keep going—you're precious to me."

The cool leather of Aglaya's gloves digs into Yulia's thighs. One hand shifts, and her thumb stretches to rub circles around the nub of Yulia's clitoris.

Yulia stops trying to talk at all, after that. Their gasps and breaths form a harmony, echoing high up the stone walls. (It is the last time they speak.)

ANON JESUS CHRIST. THANK YOU FOR MY LIFE. THE DETAILS IN THIS... DANIILS SOCK GARTERS(!!!!) THEYRE BOTH WEARING GLOVES THE ANGLE OF DANIILS BACK LIKE...... DELICIOUS

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
I
Just
"Sewn from the same yard of fabric and thhe fabric remembers" THAT *LINE*
I'm almost at a loss for words but I'm blessed. You've blessed this. Thank you.

This was really cool, I love Fpril! I liked how Yulia spends this fic trying to work out how much sentiment Aglaya is feeling, despite being so resigned to her fatalistic world-view. Stylistically, the bracketed asides really lent something to her character voice. Finally, the sex was definitely hot, great work!

Artemy / Daniil, vivisection

Let Artemy use his surgical knowledge a bit, hey ~
(consensual, but doesn't have to be sexual)

thirded!

I have very simple needs: I want Daniil's twink ass riding Artemy's dick - hard. Bonus points if Daniil is the bossiest bottom in the world throughout the whole thing.

i'm on it o7

(trans Daniil, there is wall sex but it takes a while to get there!!)

Rubin is not a man much given to indulgence, per se, and so Daniil does not kiss him near as often as he thinks about it. In truth the impulse takes him by surprise most of the time; putting away the equipment after an evening of work, Rubin’s tools gleaming under the light, or, later still, in his cramped apartment, somewhere between a minor disagreement on the technicalities of sample preservation and a digression on the mechanisms of postmortem informational transference — their bodies will brush, or their eyes will meet, and want will twist inside of him like a ribbon of heat.

In a way it resembles the restlessness that drives him to pace, or to tap his fingers on the closest convenient surface. There is no urgency tonight, no life-or-death sword to hang above their heads and give him purpose or direction, but still he walks circles around the worn kitchen table and feels Rubin’s frank and steady gaze on him while they talk, that impulse rising in him again. He lets it sit at the back of his throat for a while while they speak, turns it over, considering.

Then he thinks to hell with it, and adjusts his course. Rubin catches him before he can get all the way into his space, hand heavy across his shoulder.

Daniil pauses, starts to recalculate. Has he misstepped? But Rubin’s expression is guarded rather than angry. “You know this isn’t why I asked you to stay the night,” he says, and Daniil relaxes. Though Rubin’s hand remains on him there is no resistance when he leans forward, and in.

“I know you wouldn’t presume,” Daniil tells him, and then presumes himself, reaching out to tilt Rubin’s chin back a fraction. The man’s tall enough that even though he remains seated Daniil barely needs to bend to take his kiss — which he does, and thoroughly. They’ve not done this often enough for it to be familiar yet, but Rubin returns it after only a moment’s hesitation, as competent in his attentions as he is in other matters. Though he keeps his hands at his side, his teeth tug at Daniil’s lip when he pulls away, and the contrast leaves him even more wanting.

He is weighing the risks of going for a second kiss when Rubin makes the choice for him, pulling him closer. He puts more force into it this time, and Daniil doesn’t conceal his enjoyment of it, gasps softly against his mouth when he again feels a sting of teeth.

“Tell me what you want,” Rubin tells him when he lets go. From another man this might be a tease, or a dare, but from him it’s utilitarian, practical. Daniil appreciates it just the same, perhaps more. He presses his hip against Rubin’s side as he gives his answer the thought it is due, tugs at the ties of his shirt to keep his hands busy.

“I would like if you took me to bed,” he starts, and feels deeply pleased at the intent cast to Rubin’s face, the interest he sees simmering there, “but I’d like it even more if you had me here.”

Rubin makes a sound that could almost pass for a huff of laughter. Daniil represses the automatic bloom of self-doubt, eased in part by the way Rubin shifts in his seat, turning to fully face him. The hand at his shoulder drifts to his neck, fingers pull at the short hair at the back of his head, and he leans into the touch, the sting. After the things they’ve done Daniil trusts Rubin to not think ill of him if he acts too boldly, or asks for too much — and though he has not said yes yet, neither is he saying no.

“You want me to fuck you on the table,” Rubin states more than ask, but Daniil shakes his head. Lowers his lashes, pushes his luck and says: “Actually, dear colleague, I was thinking against the wall.”

A moment passes where Rubin gauges that idea. “The neighbours are never home,” he muses, and then stands. Daniil barely has the time to step back that already Rubin is hoisting him off his feet, only a grunt to acknowledge the effort, and then he finds himself atop the table, legs dangling from its side, Rubin tantalizingly close to him.

Well, Daniil thinks, I tried.

And really, he can’t complain. Rubin fits neatly between his parted knees; his coat falls open with a good tug on the fastenings, and Daniil would make short work of his tunic as well were he not distracted by Rubin’s mouth shaping a bruise on his throat, Rubin’s hand working the buckle of his belt. He drapes his arms over Rubin’s shoulders, lifts his hips so he can pull his pants out of the way, whines a little when Rubin lifts his head again without kissing him.

“Eager, aren’t you?”

Daniil, imperious, lifts his brow and pushes back against Rubin’s hand. “You seem to be enjoying this too.”

Rubin seems almost affronted to be accused of such a thing. There’s no judgement in Daniil’s tone, but his eyes drift to the side, and Daniil is content to let him have that escape so long as he is still being touched — and he is! One broad hand rucking up his shirt to run along his side, the other finally, finally slipping between his legs.

“In,” he says, and sighs when Rubin obeys, pushing a finger inside him. One knuckle, then the second, and past that — he moves slow but deep, in a manner that feels deliberate rather than out of worry or caution. Daniil feels how easily it slides in, how even the second finger finds him slick and yielding. He rocks his hip, angling for more, but Rubin holds him in place, maintains his pace.

Even when Daniil digs nails into the meat of his shoulder, pants and squirms in what he’s been told from reliable sources to be a very convincing sort of display, Rubin’s only response is to curl his fingers — three, now, and he can feel the stretch, the way pleasure coils and twists low in his belly. He’s never been on the end of Rubin’s scalpel and he knows this isn’t how it works, but still part of him wonders if that’s how it would feel, to be laid on the table and opened up throat to belly by those steady hands.

When was it exactly that he closed his eyes, or pressed his face into Rubin’s chest? He isn’t sure. He can hear the wet sounds of Rubin’s fingers fucking him, the way his body tenses around them, the small noises falling from his mouth as the palm of Rubin’s hand drags over his clit. Hazily he wonders if Rubin might just like to keep him suspended on the edge of almost-but-not-quite-enough forever — he thinks he might not mind. He’s never balked at pushing limits before, he doesn’t see why he should stop now.

But then Rubin slows. His voice rumbles in his chest. “All good, Bachelor?”

Given an inch, Daniil goes for the mile, and this has nothing to do at all with how the loss in stimulation almost made him whine. “I won’t be responsible for my actions if you don’t fuck me properly soon,” he says, and scowls when Rubin nudges him back enough to look at his face.

“You’ll have to work on your threats, Dankovsky,” he remarks, but he withdraws his hand. The sudden emptiness feels jarring, but there’s a rustle of cloth, Rubin’s hand at his mouth, wet and heady with his own scent. He bites down and Rubin laughs in earnest, a sight rare enough to stop Daniil in his tracks. Heedless, Rubin traces the line of his lip with his thumb and then moves away only to take hold of him by the waist and thigh, pull him to the edge of the table. He can feel Rubin’s cock now against him, reaches down to guide it inside, and oh it feels just perfect —

“Move,” he says, and Rubin says “Wait, hold on,” and lifts him from the table. Daniil has to grab onto him, shuddering as his own weight drives him down on Rubin’s cock. The apartment’s small; it’s only a few steps to the wall and Daniil is incredibly aware of each of them, how even though Rubin carries him with ease he can see the tension in his arms, feel each movement jostling through him.

His back hits the wall with a dull thud, finds it rough against his spine. Arm looped over Rubin’s shoulder, legs hooked behind him, his shoulders braced back, every adjustment keenly felt; he can hear the way Rubin’s breathing quicken whenever he shifts, and Daniil’s ready when he starts moving, even impatient.

Something about how big Rubin is, how boxed-in Daniil feels like this, half-folded, how easily handled — he should feel trapped but instead of panic there is just hunger, heat. He rocks his hips into Rubin’s, welcomes it, the stretch and fullness different than earlier, less measured but more deep. When he clenches down Rubin groans, and he likes the sound so much he does it again, chasing a repeat.

Now Rubin no longer pretends at gentleness. Certainly there’ll be bruises after this; Daniil thinks they might span from ass to hip, so tightly he is held, so broad Rubin’s hands. He presses his heel down to pull him closer, deeper, has to bite down on a moan or three as Rubin responds in consequence.

“I won’t break,” he says just to make sure there’s nothing holding Rubin back, but Rubin only grunts, says “I’m aware.” Daniil wants to kiss him again, but the angle is unwieldy. Instead he holds onto him tighter, and lets himself give in. Rubin fucks him into the wall, hard, and Daniil gets to hold on and just take it, a string of soft and needy sounds driven from his lungs, his back arching as the tension in him draws tight. It feels incredible. At the risk of sounding selfish, he could get used to it.

“Not much longer,” Rubin warns, his own voice strained, and Daniil is inordinately pleased at knowing he’s had this impact. He throws caution to the wind by loosening his hold to better grab at his shoulder, bend him down closer so he can nip at his mouth, steal at least a clumsy version of that kiss he wanted earlier.

“Inside, Rubin,” Daniil says, and Rubin frowns, asks “Are you sure?”, and Daniil nips at his again, sharper. He’s close, himself, so he again braves fate to take one of Rubin’s hand, tugs until he can guide it from his thigh to between his legs. He feels the shift in weight, how Rubin adjusts to carry him with the other arm, the wall supporting them, and he’s shamelessly loud when Rubin touches him, firm strokes over his clit, a few times dipping to tease where he’s still fucking into Daniil, and maybe it’s not too surprising that that’s what brings him to climax, the shiver of what if, the possibility of taking more.

He can’t find the breath to spur Rubin on like this, but his body does it for him, tensing and relaxing in waves, and he tightens his legs around Rubin, holds him inside until he can feel him shaking too.

Perhaps the most admirable thing in all this is that Rubin doesn’t simply let the both of them collapse to the ground after this, but that he has the fortitude to slowly step back and pry Daniil off, sets him back on his feet where he wobbles a little, a little sore and extremely pleased with himself. He luxuriates in the feeling while Rubin sets about cleaning them up, blinks up when offered a hand.

“You’re not staying here when there’s a perfectly serviceable bed.”

“I knew you to be indefatigable, but already, round two?” Daniil teases, and Rubin, who he is now discovering might be convinced to indulge sometimes after all, pulls him up, says “If you ask nicely, dear colleague, maybe next time.”

thank you for my life anon...

(Daniil is trans but his genitals arent rly discussed, its all abt that assfuckin)

Artemiy likes it in the ass, although it’s not something he gets the chance to do often, and it’s enough of a hassle he doesn’t even do it to himself much. Jerking off is more about stress relief, most of the time, not a whole production. Cleaning himself up before and after feels like overkill when he could just spit in his palm and rub one out and be done with it. You don’t get to be a surgeon without knowing where all the squishy bits fit together inside though, and there’d been a time he was curious enough to do the finding out himself. Once he knows, that’s that, it just is, like all the rest of his body.
Aside from the completely unerotic preparation involved it just wasn’t worth the hassle without a partner. Annoyingly, the guys he’d fucked casually tended to assume since he was big he wanted to be the one sticking it, and worse, it seemed like half of them had never been introduced to the concept of hygiene beforehand… one boner-killing encounter was enough to make him hesitant. More than one and he’d about given up on ass-fucking randoms altogether. Not that he was squeamish, obviously. Blood and shit are most of what’s in the body. Bodies are just living, messy flesh and the wet stuff feeding meat and bone. Whatever. Point is, he likes it in the ass but it’s not usually worth the trouble.
That’s without two weeks of bad food and morphine to fuck up his system. So when he finally takes Daniil to bed, a few days after they’ve given out the last panacea and settled in to get to know each other as men, he’s still not thinking about bringing it up anytime soon. But the sex is easy and good. They’re quick and lazy with each other from the get-go, a race to the finish with no frills. Still, it’s a good finish. He’s gotten to know Bachelor Dankovsky at his best and his worst, burning the candle at both ends. Daniil, naked and laughing on his back with Artemiy’s lips on his neck - he’s like an old habit. More than familiar. Like a part of himself once-known, long-neglected, picked up again. They jerk each other off and he wakes up an hour later to Daniil elbowing him. He could’ve spotted at twenty paces that Daniil would be the type to pitch a fit about his bedmate snoring, nevermind that Artemiy couldn’t help it. And they’re - whatever they are. Not friends yet, though something’s catching there - barely lovers, only in that they’ve fucked, sans all the fumbling and foreplay it turns out neither of them enjoy - not even colleagues, really, now that the Sand Pest is dead and they’re on opposite hemispheres again. Just. Men. With good chemistry and enough experience each to make it worthwhile to seek each other out. Parallel enough activities in a small enough town that it’d be harder to avoid each other than to let their paths cross daily. And the sex is plenty good that Artemiy would be an idiot not to come back for more. Daniil’s picky and demanding in bed, just reinforcing Artemiy’s image of him as a cat that only wants to be stroked a certain way, exactly the amount it likes, lest it bite ferociously and without warning. He’s always liked such creatures, and he has good instincts - his hands know where to scratch, when to pull away, when to make a fist and withstand the inevitable claw.
Daniil is clever, attentive, and unorthodox. He’d come to it on his own. But Artemiy’s not shy, either. He gets himself ready for it, because he knows the answer will be yes, and he tells Daniil to meet him that evening ready to take him like he wants it.
Daniil is early.
Hell, Artemiy’s early too. He’s managed to tidy up his place a bit, but he’s still not expecting the knock so soon. It’s barely dark out. Daniil is flushed with the October cold and he tastes of cigarettes. They kiss on the doorstep, like they can’t wait for each other, and then they’re casual and at ease with each other once he’s in the door. He hangs his coat, but keeps his shoes on till the bedroom. It’s clean, but it’s not that clean.
He likes how Daniil helps himself, those deft fingers Artemiy’s been thinking of making quick work of everything between him and his prize. He steps back to let Artemiy step out of his pants and climb onto the bed while he works on his own shirtsleeves. It’s good to watch him undress. Artemiy strokes himself unselfconsciously, enjoys the view, and Daniil smiles at him and doesn’t put on a show. It feels like he’s known him all his life.
“Come here,” he says finally, when Daniil’s finally naked and shivering a little - they slot together in bed and kiss and warm each other up, Daniil’s cold hands roaming over his stomach, his back, his thighs, his ass. He squeezes and kneads like he’s enjoying himself privately, like a cat on a soft blanket. Artemiy thinks he could get away with just lying back and letting Daniil have his way, and he’d get his needs seen to and more besides. Daniil doesn’t seem to care whether Artemiy reciprocates, so he doesn’t bother just yet - holds him instead, strokes his hair and pets his back till they’re both heated through. Artemiy’s thigh between Daniil’s legs is getting slicked on, Daniil’s neck is pink from biting kisses and the rasp of his stubble, Artemiy’s already hard enough it aches and yet - it’s so easy. It’s not like sex, really - it’s almost like masturbating with a numb hand. He doesn’t even have to ask.
“Lie on your back,” Daniil says. He’s breathing hard. Artemiy’s already halfway doing it, so he just rolls a bit and lets Daniil sit up away from him. He grabs the jar from the bedside like he already knows - well, it’s the only thing left there, and it’s conspicuous. The balm is half-solid at this temperature, so he gets more on his fingers than he’ll expect - body heat warms it to liquid quickly, and then he’s rushing to get it on Artemiy before it drips on the bed - Artemiy lays back and just lets him. He likes it slick, anyway. The warmed oil smells of the herbs it’s infused with, spicy and sweet. It’s a good complement to the smell of sex. He thinks so, anyway. Daniil wrinkles his nose.
“What is this, exactly?”
“Lube.”
Daniil raises an eyebrow.
“Just oil with herbs. I made it a while back.”
“Should I be concerned?”
“Yarrow, fieldmallow, things like that. Not everything’s made of blood.”
“I should hope not.”
Well, he could say, everything is made of blood, depending on how you look at it. He doesn’t feel like getting philosophical, though. Daniil’s smiling his intent, focused smile, like he’s working on a problem only he can see. He’s stroking Artemiy over with pondering, almost distracted little motions, rubbing down his shaft and fondling his balls a bit. It’s not unpleasant, just not really sexy, and not really where he saw this going. He stays patient, though, while Daniil stares at something on a different plane, his lips half-parted and his fingers working slowly lower on him. He pauses, right as he’s starting to get somewhere, and takes another fingerful of lube with his other hand. He glances at Artemiy as if to say ‘ready?’
Artemiy raises his eyebrows, trying to say ‘hurry up.’
Daniil spreads the lube onto his fingers and dives in without warning. Artemiy tenses reflexively. Daniil waits.
“You could have warmed me up first.”
“I did,” Daniil says.
“You didn’t.”
“Shall I start over?”
“No.”
He tries to keep his eyes on Daniil’s while he works him. It’s not easy. He draws his finger out again and then pushes the other one in. Draws it out. Repeats the process a couple of times till he’s satisfied Artemiy’s as slick as he’ll get that way. And then he settles back.
He keeps his hand mostly where it is, fingers just pressing into the cleft of his ass like he’s going to do something there. Artemiy’s gotten used to their unromantic pace, but so far this has been a little impersonal even for him.
He gets the strangest shiver when Daniil looks at him, then.
It feels like. Apprehension?
“You don’t have anything else to do tonight,” Daniil says, like he’s telling rather than asking. “You don’t have anywhere else to be.”
“Nope,” he says, trying to hide the weird foreboding he’s feeling. “Just. This.”
“Good,” Daniil says.
And then he tortureshim.

It’s good, at first. It builds. Once he’s satisfied the business end of things is seen to, Daniil just. Takes his sweet time. Teases him with a slow insistent circling against his hole till he decides to dip in slowly, draw out again, tease some more. At first, he strokes Artemiy off while he does it, even leans down to suck it a little when he apparently feels Artemiy’s not reacting enough. By the time he’s sunk his finger back in all the way it’s downright annoying.
“I’ve done this before, you know,” he grits out. The room, which started off chilly, has gotten close and humid. It feels like he’s breathing through a sheet. “I can take some more.”
He looks satisfied by that. “I know,” Daniil says. He licks the head of Artemiy’s cock, holding the base firmly, not stroking, while he pumps his finger in and out. Easily, now, he’s ready for it and Daniil’s been uncharacteristically messy with his cock. Saliva’s run down his crack to help where the lube was already plenty, and his finger’s making wet sounds working in him. It’s - he could really use more. He says so. Daniil hums and sucks his cock a bit, and crooks his finger a little.
The thing is. He knows where his prostate is, and what it does, and how he likes it.
He’s pretty sure.
He’s very sure he’s never had someone do it like this, though. On the few occasions he landed a bed partner who knew what they were doing, they were mostly working him open to take a pounding. A little lucky probing, or some helpful pointers from Artemiy, he might get almost fingered worth a damn. Maybe. He’s done it himself, though, when he was hot for it, bored, ready to give his own willing flesh a bit of practicum.
Still.
Daniil drags his tongue down the length of him, slowly, and pushes a second finger in. He’s lost the distracted expression and the lazily-wandering hands. He even seems like he’s through teasing. His eyes are intense and his fingers are deadly precise. Too precise?
“I know where my prostate is, thanks,” he wheezes, when Daniil’s about rubbed him numb inside. He’s seeing stars already, and Daniil’s stopped licking his cock, stopped even stroking it. He’s all fingers in his ass and eyes on Artemiy’s face, now, apparently, set to kill him with overstimulation.
“I should hope so,” Daniil says lightly.
He keeps working him, mercilessly, till he’s got no choice but to move his hips with it, just to get off the hard hot deft relentless fucking impossible, curling squirming thrusting fucking fingers pumping in and out of him fuck-
“Ugh,” he says. “That’s. Hmn.”
“Yes?” says Daniil, licking his lips. “Go on, Artemiy.”
He’s fallen back against the bed, his hips jerking up. That makes the angle worse-better, and Daniil leaning over him with the muscles of his bicep and forearm taut against his pale skin somehow, somehow, makes him crazy, somehow his dark eyes and his indulgent smile and his fingers trying to dig his fucking soul out and damn near succeeding, he’s, he can’t breathe. Not his fault if he’s whining like he’ll die from it. He might. He’s so hard it almost hurts. Has he ever had it like this before? Could he even do this to himself?
Daniil twists his fingers and then adds a third. Artemiy would curse if he could get the breath in him.
‘You’re killing me. Please touch my cock,’ he’d like to say. What comes out instead is “Kh. Ffh. Please.”
Good enough? Daniil looks delighted by it. He’s grinning now, a wild expression on his face. He’s not thrusting his fingers so hard anymore, it’s impossible to get his balance, the room’s spinning and he’s almost choking, it feels like he can feel it in his throat. Could he die of this, possibly, if he can’t get air and he can’t come and Daniil keeps fingering him?
“Please. Come. Let. Mn. Uh.” Words. Not working how he’d like. His arms won’t work, either. Every time he tries to reach for himself he loses coordination. He’s writhing as best he can, trying to fuck himself down on it or get away or, something, anything really. At this point he’s given up on dignity. He’s drowning. He’s going to die from this.
“Go on,” Daniil says, and presses his palm against Artemiy’s cock, and keeps fingering him like the sadist he is. “Come.”
He. Gives up completely. Bucks and grinds into Daniil’s hand, lets himself come apart between those two points of sensation, forgets his voice for the shouting.
He’s loud when he wants to be, it turns out.
And when he doesn’t.
And after, and through, and Daniil keeps him like that, hand pressed to his softening dick and his fingers - is it just two now? - still working him slow and impossible and. He keeps coming, kind of, agonizingly, twitching, weak, his nerves fried and screaming and his throat raw.
“Fuck,” he manages finally. Daniil’s almost stopped, but he hasn’t withdrawn, still holding two fingers in him and just. Reminding him, barely gently enough to avoid the edge of pain.
At last, at long fucking last, he slides his fingers out. That actually hurts, overstimulated as he is. He knows how to avoid tensing and making it worse, but still. “Fuck,” he says again, for good measure.
Daniil gets up and washes his hands. Comes back wiping his face with a wet towel. Stands by the bed a minute, regarding him, while Artemiy just lays there boneless and fucked-out and barely alive. He’s so sweaty he’s sure he’ll have left a silhouette on the bed.
“You’re a mess,” Daniil observes.
“Your fault,” Artemiy croaks.
He doesn’t even try to catch the towel as Daniil drops it onto his face.
It’s cool and weirdly soothing - he’d have thought, for how hard it was to breathe a minute ago, he’d be suffocated if he covered his nose and mouth with a wet cloth. It’s nice, though, actually.
A second later, the bed dips, and the cloth moves off his face and then down his neck, slowly. Daniil leaves it lying across his collarbones. He leans over him.
He’s smiling.
“Catch your breath,” he says. “I’m going to have a cigarette.”
“Outside.”
“Of course.”
He picks up Artemiy’s shirt from the floor and slips it on like it’s his. It doesn’t fit, of course, and it doesn’t suit him, and yet it’s the most natural thing in the world. Should it thrill him, Daniil wearing his clothes? Should it mean something? It makes the most sense, somehow, out of everything in the room and perhaps out of everything in the world, that Daniil should take his shirt from where he’d dropped it so carelessly and shrug it on like it was left there for him. To return to the room, when he finally decides to, smelling of smoke, and lay his cold hands on Artemiy’s throat.
“Warm me up,” Daniil says, and so he does.

this is so! so! good!!! i love the way you write these two, daniil with his restless pacing and imperiousness, rubin with his blunt utilitarianism (and his offense at the suggestion of ever enjoying something), the fact that they have regular conversations about sample preservation and postmortem informational transference! and don't worry a bit about how long it takes to get to the wall sex, rubin steadily and deliberately fingering daniil while daniil wistfully thinks of chasing limits is ... unf. amazing. and when they do get to the wall, wow. wow, you delivered.

i have many favorite lines in this, but i'll pick up out a few!

“I know you wouldn’t presume,” Daniil tells him, and then presumes himself

Even when Daniil digs nails into the meat of his shoulder, pants and squirms in what he’s been told from reliable sources to be a very convincing sort of display, Rubin’s only response is to curl his fingers

Something about how big Rubin is, how boxed-in Daniil feels like this, half-folded, how easily handled — he should feel trapped but instead of panic there is just hunger, heat

and then there's everything about daniil climaxing at the what if, and ... yeah. yeah, this is good. also? they're cute.

wait!!! i forgot my favorite of the favorite lines!

He’s never been on the end of Rubin’s scalpel and he knows this isn’t how it works, but still part of him wonders if that’s how it would feel, to be laid on the table and opened up throat to belly by those steady hands.

thank you, anon, for the sexy vivisection imagery ... thank you for my rights ...

this is really good and hot.......... i love the progression of artemy being kind of dubious and daniil teasing to artemy completely wrecked and begging while daniil takes him apart, and how natural and comfortably they interact with each other!!! good fic anon thank you!

i'm so glad you liked it op!!!! they are SO cute and deserve to nerd out together and touch faces, and other things also. and listen. your rights are also my rights and there is nothing sexier than thinking about someone you trust cutting you up, just imo. thank you for the prompt it grabbed me by the throat

The two most stand-out things about this piece of writing is 1) how honed in on Artemy's POV it is, and 2) how nitty-gritty it gets into discussing bodies. The writing style is so much like getting Artemy's stream of consciousness. It's really heavily filtered through his own ideas and perceptions of the world, and indeed Daniil. I like the hints of snarky humour that we get glimpses of in canon and how... intimate, I suppose, it is to have such close access to a character's thought patterns/process.

Secondly, porn seldom deals with the realities of bodies and it just feels so appropriate, both for a kink like this one and coming from Artemy the surgeon/doctor/menkhu who does have to deal with the realities of anatomy and physiology on a day-to-day basis.

Finally, shout-out to Daniil's initial clinical approach, which felt very in character (and hot), plus the little give aways of how into it he gets, 'liking his lips', his 'delighted look', etc. Bravo!

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