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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the subject line really says it all i think.

absolutely not mandatory but if you have daniil on the receiving end, bonus points if you can have him get tugged around a bit. like by his fancy neck tie or a leash or something.

And here's one more person 100% agreeing about the inherent eroticism of vivisection. Apparently. Damn, this was a really cool take on the premise. I love how guarded and cautious Rubin is as he tries to make things clear between them. His utilitarian frankness, especially contrasted against Daniil trying to get what he wants through actions rather than his words, is just wonderful. I also liked the throw-away lines that imply the shape of their relationship - there's a lot to read into here.

Damn, hardcore prompt. I second this one about a million percent.

i really wish i could give this the review it deserves because the way you write their relationship as so natural is making me lose my mind but alas prostate massage + overstimulated bears are the hottest things in the world so i'm too busy screaming about that to scream as loud as i want to about how good their dynamic is

WOW this was hot. i loved the buildup of tension... and daniil being in charge. thank you author anon!!

he doesn’t understand what dankovsky does to him.

artemiy has spent the past half hour tossing and turning on the little cot in his lair with heat pooling in the pit of his stomach and swimming around in his chest with his pounding heart. exhaustion is no match for this obsession, or this desire, or whatever this is. glassy lips, warm brown eyes, three perfect moles against weathered porcelain skin. artemiy draws his knees into a bend and wraps his arms around a pillow. he tries not to think too hard about how it feels to hold it against his chest, how the scruff of his chin itches against the edge of it. a sigh parts chapped lips.

of course, he’s a full-grown man. it’s not like he doesn’t know what this is. he certainly wasn’t sheltered as a child, he always knew, but…

but it’s not really that simple, is it? of course he’s always known what this feeling was, but it was always from the outside, it was always a hypothetical, it was always mild envy for the people who could feel it so openly, for the people who knew they could feel it at all. he was fourteen when he first realized that, if it were to happen to him at all, it could never be with a woman. he never dared to tell anybody.

dankovsky’s coy smile greets him when he closes his eyes. he wonders if his hands are soft beneath those gloves of his. he wonders what his lips would feel like, if they were to graze against his. he wonders if he has more beauty marks under his shirt.

shame had always been enough of a barrier that he never even felt the need to hide anything—there was nothing to hide. every passing thought of a boy was enough to make him back off, every rush of blood beneath the sheets at night was matched with its requisite guilt. as time went on, he learned to blame his absent interest on his responsibilities; he had no room for those kinds of distractions while studying to become a menkhu, or trying to get his degree, or tending to the sick and wounded in the war. a whole decade passed, and he was uncertain if he was even capable of love.

but then, there he was. artemiy buries more of his face into the pillow. there he was, all smarts and ego and altruism, jet black hair and airy baritone, and suddenly that taunting pull beneath the sheets was back. suddenly, artemiy was acutely aware of exactly how capable he was. a groan is muffled by old, beaten feathers. it’s humiliating to be so thoroughly undone like some stupid teenager while he’s well into his twenties. his heart feels like it’s about to float right out of his chest, like the only thing holding it inside his ribs is this stupid pillow he’s hugging the way lara used to when she’d lament a wilted flame at their sleepovers, the ones that were just between the two of them. his cheeks burn red. his legs shift, and he rolls onto his side.

the embarrassment of being too old for this kind of pitiful pining isn’t enough to stop his thighs from rubbing idly against each other. it’s an old habit—he thinks with his hands. the thought of debasing himself with one of them has always been a line he’s been too scared to cross, lest it make it all feel too real. usually, this restless squirming has been enough to get him through the worst of any urges until they died down enough to ignore.

it has not once been enough since dankovsky came into the equation. when his heart drags him under into the endless sea of thoughts to think about that man from the capital, he’s totally helpless against the butterflies in his core, the same ones he always thought were some metaphorical exaggeration borne from lovestruck poets. he closes his eyes against the downy fabric. some of the warmth in his chest bleeds into his cheeks. he can feel it.

but how is he supposed to help it? how else can he feel when daniil treats him the way he does? how is he supposed to feel when daniil sits so close their thighs touch, when he brushes his gloved hand over artemiy’s, when he rests a hand briefly on the small of his back, when he makes it so clear how much he appreciates him every time they speak, when he plays coy with double-entendre, when he says that he likes being with him and means it? how is he supposed to not fall in love with that?

guilt has been enough to stave off the worst of the temptation up until now, but what other conclusion is he supposed to reach? he crosses his ankles and flexes his feet. the buzzing in his fingertips is spreading to his belly, sinking lower beneath his beltless waistband. artemiy lets out a short huff into the pillow. what would daniil think if he knew?

what if daniil would like it?

artemiy isn’t prepared for the sharp breath he sucks in on instinct, nor for the electric coil that shoots down his spine, and certainly not for the twitch between his sweating thighs. he can hear his heart in his ears like it’s pounding at the door. would daniil like knowing he was thought of this way? artemiy swallows hard, swallows to get his heart out of his throat. it leaps right back up. artemiy shudders through an exhale and, hesitantly, loosens his grip around the pillow.

it creeps slowly down his body as he pretends to consider the ramifications of what he’s about to do, but it settles inevitably between his thighs, knuckles white against the top to keep it in place when his hips rock forward. his jaw unscrews itself from its perpetual tension to let his lips hang parted. if daniil were here, he wonders, what would he do? would he run his thumb along his cheekbone, endeared? would he tell him to let go? would he invite him in for more?

artemiy flushes when he whines because he no longer has anything to muffle it with. one hand unfists itself from the top of the pillow and comes to rest on his face so he can bite at the meat of his palm. his undignified noises are unfazed. he wonders what daniil would think of him, hearing him make noises like this. would he tease him? would he shower him with praise in that kind, earnest way he does? if artemiy could touch him, would he start whimpering, too? would he forget his polite russian and opt instead to speak to him in keening, open-mouthed cries?

artemiy moans. the pallet supporting his cot creaks with every desperate roll of his hips. he wonders what daniil would feel like on top of him, sitting on his lap and rocking down against him, he wonders if daniil would kiss him. he wonders what those darling pink lips taste like. he wonders if daniil would whisper into his ear and promptly realize how sensitive they are, if he would lave his coy tongue around the shell of one, if he would wrap his arms around him and pull him in closer—and suddenly, his hips hit an angle that feels right, that drags a lewd moan out of him, and any coherent fantasy dissolves into a rush of disjointed thoughts. the feeling of daniil’s hand on the small of his back. the sound of daniil’s perfect voice. the feeling of their thighs brushed up against each other under the table. the hand at artemiy’s mouth scrambles to grip at the pillow bunched up between his legs again.

his hips rut against it with a stuttering rhythm, now, as he reaches his peak. as his thoughts swim around, too frenzied to hang onto, the nerves creep back up on him. is this okay? is it okay to think of another person like this? he can’t stop bucking against the pillow, his desperate moans are only getting louder, he’s drooling on his sheets, is it really okay? his chest feels so light and fluttery even just thinking about him, is that okay?

but if it’s not, then how can it feel so right? if it’s not okay, why would daniil look at him like that? how else is he supposed to feel? how else could he possibly feel?

he rocks forward in that just right way again, and his whole body seizes. when he spills over into the pillow, his mouth opens wide in a perfect cry, wide enough to let some of those butterflies out without clipping their wings on his cheeks. his hips twitch forward more, more, more, until his toes are curled and his thighs are writhing, and then until the knot in his core unravels itself, slowing to a gentle stop.

for a long moment, artemiy can’t hear anything over the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears, the insistent pulse of his heart as he pants to catch his breath. he can feel sweat on the back of his neck, in the pits of his knees where he had his legs bent. he uncurls his hands from the pillow and rakes one through his hair. the other hand comes up to rest on his chest to make sure it still exists despite how weightless it feels. where he expects to feel the familiar twinge of shame, he just feels his own full heart. it’s relief, it’s satisfaction, it’s the heavy blanket of sleep tugging at his eyelids. tomorrow, he resolves to ask dankovsky on a date.

i need this so badly.

hey OP i'm not making any promises here but do you have a preference on which POV you'd like this from

OP here! I don't have a preference, both POV can be really interesting for this so... If you do it, pick the one you prefer! :D

thank you!!! rubin doesn't mind being used but he also needs to be sure daniil isn't putting the moves on him for the wrong reasons. the ordeals of being a principled guy and also a service top.......

So Pathologic 1 Maria definitely has a thing for Daniil, as so many of the Utopians seem to, and Pathologic 2 Maria is... terrifying. How would Maria/Daniil play out with Pathologic 2 characterisation? It probably isn't easy saying no to Wild Nina's heir.

+Bonus if Daniil is trans!

Thirded! This sounds super hot!

I think it would be good if someone gagged Daniil and then had sex with him when he can't talk back or bite. Please.

OP.... i can't stop thinking about this. delicious. seconded.

Andrey and Daniil went to school together, but they didn't hook up. Now, years later, they finally have the chance to reconnect. Sexily. In Bed (on the floor, against the wall, whatever).

I like to imagine that Andrey spent their entire university career flirting with Daniil, who was too oblivious/self-absorbed/focused on his studies to realize, but I think it could work either way! I just want them to fuck to make up for all the not-fucking they did when they were younger.

hi OP i hope you were looking more for the sensual gore aspect than the surgery one!!!

---

The mirror is Daniil’s idea. The painkiller, Artemy’s condition.

“One part blood to eight parts twyre,” he said, as though that might make Daniil feel better about it. “Enough to blunt the edge of the pain, and no more.”

The taste had been decent, against all expectations, but he scowled at it anyway. Now, grudgingly, he must concede Artemy spoke true: there’s not the haze he feared, and his mind feels clear as ever. He lies down on the stone slab that passes for an operating table, turns his head, gets back up so he can tilt the mirror a little more to one side, lies down again.

Artemy doesn’t insult him by asking one last time if he’s sure about this. When he lays his hand flat over Daniil’s belly the pressure is diffuse, muted. When the edge of his scalpel presses into the skin of his abdomen Daniil sees more than he feels it, a bead of red against the metal of the blade.

Artemy cuts down, and left. His hands are steady, his movements sure. Through the mirror Daniil watches, transfixed, as his skin parts. He isn’t supposed to speak, but the cut is lower than he thought it might be. Nowhere near the lungs, and so precise the pain hasn’t even hit yet. His breathing is steady.

“I thought there would be more blood,” he says. Artemy flicks his eyes up at him, smiles. He doesn’t lift the blade.

“If I wanted you dead, exsanguination isn’t the way I would go.”

Daniil, having seen his work with a knife, cannot argue the truth of that. But you aren’t going to kill me now, he almost shoots back, the words only held back because Artemy continues to speak.

“There are ways in which a body wants to be cut,” he says. He wipes blood from Daniil’s skin with one hand even as he turns the scalpel, the curved blade slicing neatly through soft tissues, membrane and fasciae. Blood is rising again, staining Artemy’s hand. “The world was created like this, you know. So say the Kin.” He inserts fingers inside the cut to judge its depth, and Daniil can feel it, signals that pierce through the effects of the tincture as Artemy drives the scalpel down.

“My father taught us this way. He let us prepare the tools, and watch. Had a light touch, when he wanted.” He pauses, considers his work, Daniil gutted and willing under him. “How’s the pain?”

He’s had worse, if he’s to be frank, but there’s something about this. Being undressed, being beaten, fucked or held or touched in a moment of tenderness, being shot — none of it compares. Artemy must take his lack of answer to mean all is well: he lifts his scalpel, returns it to the point where he started the incision, then cuts. Left, and left again. Daniil’s nerve are numb still, but he does feel it. The pain curls at the back of his throat, underneath his heart. A trickle of blood has made its way from his chest into the notch of his jugular.

Watching himself from the mirror’s remove, at a distance, he can hold himself still. Artemy above him; Artemy’s reflection above his own, mouth thinned by concentration, peeling his skin back from him to reveal what lies underneath, laying his insides bare.

It’s a wonder, isn’t it? That what is inside a body is more body; that it is contained and container, that though so easily splayed there are mechanisms within that have yet to be grasped. That he will, eventually. He breathes and he can see the way it trembles through him, raw and red drowning the soft pink and white, what sliver of animal terror remains in him pinned down by Artemy’s hand around his viscera, Artemy’s blade over his sternum.

“Do you remember that night I sewed up that wound at your side?” he asks. “How you said I wouldn’t die.”

“I was right, wasn’t I?” Artemy replies. Daniil sees him stroke his thumb along a curl of entrails, wonders what the future looks like that he might see in them. “Do you see it?”

“The future?”

“Whatever it was that you wanted this for.”

What he wanted — the vocabulary doesn’t exist yet. It’s a failure on his part; he is still working on it. If he must approximate: to untether himself, to scatter body and spirit and soul and remain, still, in the after — to look Death in the face and find the right words.

Artemy puts his hand over his chest, his fingers spread, spanning from clavicle to the opened space under his sternum. “Look,” he says. Under his palm skin, and under that the suggestion of bones, and there, beyond the darker shape of his liver, the thick lines of aorta and vena cava: the heave of his diaphragm, the implication of his heart on the other side. Under the surge of instinctual panic and intellectual wonder, the pain steadily growing stronger, it’s a bitterness that lingers. What he wouldn’t have given to see this back in Thanatica, to have records, photographs, his laboratory and team —

“Well?” he snaps when he can no longer bear his own thoughts nor Artemy’s silence and immobility.

“I know you would let me cut there,” he says, thoughtful, almost tender. Daniil cannot meet his eyes. In the mirror he looks pale, almost a ghost. The irony isn’t lost on him. “I’d have to hold you down, so I could get through the ribs. Here...” his hand sweeps over Daniil’s breast, nail scraping lines over the skin so he can see the path he would take, “...to there. Your beating heart in my hand. Is that what you need, or should I aim higher?”

His mouth is dry. He aches. Yes he wants to say. There is something here, almost within his grasp. Of his theories not all concern preservation; some of the most promising are flight, flock, return, transition. Common sense says what is inside the body should stay inside the body, but common sense doesn’t know Polyhedrons or Kains or steppe men with sharp blades and steady hands.

“You aren’t the first I’ve cut,” Artemy says. He touches his fingers to Daniil’s lips, he puts his hands back into the open wound of his gut. “Let me be right again, kheerkhen. Enough.”

A body is so easily taken apart; so delicate to sew back up. This Daniil also watches. The needle going in, the needle going out, the machinery of the body slowly covered up. He feels strange. Adrenaline, perhaps, or the pain now registering in full. Still the sense he is missing something important and delicate, a connection, some sort of hollowness inside. In the mirror he meets Artemy’s gaze, drops his own to the gleam of the scalpel now set aside.

He closes his eyes. Breathes. Artemy told him once about the Abattoir. Something he said, about coming back. Gutted, and full of light.

OH. PLEASE. ANON THIS IS SO FEELING AND DELICATELY HANDLED I live Artemy calling him kheerkhen to stitch him I ADORE the ending this is delicious all the way through

OP here and ahhhh this is. Absolutely perfect, yessss. The part with the heart is so good, so full of feelings... This is amazing, I love how you wrote this, this is excellent, thank you!

I love Odonghs and I would love for someone (anyone) to kiss or be kissed by one. Bonus points for, you know, cool xeno stuff.

this is sooo good. i love the description of all the sensations!! and the part about being able to see the future in his entrails like a haruspex *chefs kiss*

Seconded! I think this would be a really interesting idea

i want to see nina top daniil as viktor. trans daniil is great!

holy crap i love this! daniil's musings about thanatica even while he's looking at his own guts was so him.

(also i'm kind of glad you depicted this from daniil's point of view, since i started working on a fill from artemy's pov that's more on the weird and gory side, but it's slow going.)

OP YOUR MIND.... ULTIMATE POWER COUPLE FANTASY

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Pathologic Kink Meme!

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artemy/daniil, choking

Re: FILL Daniil/Rubin

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FILL 2: implied burakovsky, internalized homophobia, and first love (1/2)

FILL 2: implied burakovsky, internalized homophobia, and first love (2/2)

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Maria/Daniil, Rising Dark Mistress

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Daniil/Anyone, gags

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Daniil/Andrey, "I've been waiting for this."

FILL: artemy/daniil, vivisection

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Any/Odongh

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Nina (as Viktor)/Daniil: possession

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