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

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Artemy / Daniil, vivisection

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

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

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

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!

im so glad you liked it op......... thank you for enabling me

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*

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.)

thank you! daniil has his priorities in order. are they the right order? thats highly debatable, but hes going to stick to them anyway.

also know i am EXTREMELY eyes emoji at the prospect of an artemy-side fill and i can't wait to see your take

Well, this took a while, but now this prompt can finally stop eating away at my brain! This is from Artemy's POV, and evolved into something much more surreal and angsty than I had initially planned, so - have at it.

- - -

Even before he opens his eyes, Artemy can place himself. Rough-hewn stone arches over his head and scuffs against his boots, muffling his footsteps in that peculiar way. But the Abattoir is quieter than he remembers. Emptier. Darker.

(There's a brief moment where he doesn't remember, where he's free of guilt.)

The springs of earth's blood are dry and depleted when he brushes his fingers against them on his way past. No odonghs or albinos are there to guide him, but something drives him forward. Someone's waiting for him.

And there, at the end of the bridge, stands a familiar figure.

"We've been waiting," Rubin says. "But I guess you weren't in a hurry. You never are."

"Look, I came as soon as I could." Artemy speaks as if reciting lines from memory, instead of what he wants to say, which is How the hell did they even let you in? Rubin looks unimpressed, then pulls out an intricately carved blade from his robes. A blade he shouldn't even be allowed to touch.

"It gives me no pleasure to admit it, but I need your hands for this," he says and holds Menkhu's finger towards Artemy. Artemy looks from the blade to Rubin for an explanation, but Rubin only indicates the path to his right.

"Cut him. Cut him so that he remains living."

Artemy balks. He can't do this.

(Couldn't do this. He already failed someone.)

He shakes his head. "How do you expect me to do that?" he says. "Here? I need—" Swabs, bandages, a sterile environment.

"You know your Lines, don't you?" Rubin says.

"As if you even know what you're talking about! You're setting me up to fail!" Artemy snaps in response.

Rubin scoffs. "Well, I can't do it. He won't let me," he says. What is that in his voice, wounded pride?

Artemy flexes his jaw and nods. "Fine then. Give me the blade."

He walks past Rubin and rounds the corner to the little alcove on his left. For a brief moment, it feels like his vision splits in two. The first shows him a crowd gathered around the slab, lit by torchlight, and in the center a painfully familiar face. In the second, he's on stage before a bloodied operating table, lit by a swaying spotlight.

Then the afterimages fade away, and before him sits a lone figure in his shirtsleeves. His hands are folded, as though in uncharacteristic prayer, and his gaze focused on some unseen point in the distance. Then he notices Artemy and that gaze snaps to him in all its intensity.

Artemy expects a greeting or at least some snappy comment on his lateness, but Dankovsky seems oddly content to just stare at him in silence.

"Rubin... He said you'd been waiting," Artemy says, the statement uncomfortably turning into a question in his mouth. Dankovsky nods and then moves as if to speak – but his mouth opens and closes without a sound, the muscles in his throat flexing without success.

Artemy shakes his head in confusion. "What? What do you want from me?" he asks. Dankovsky rolls his eyes and raises hand to his throat, then squeezes his eyes shut as if in pain.

Some distant memory stirs in Artemy's mind. No throat, no voice. "Dankovsky," he says. "Daniil."

Dankovsky's eyes open and settle on him with a look of gratitude. "Finally," he says in a sigh of relief. He nods to the blade in Artemy's hand. "I see you have all you need. We shouldn't waste any more time."

He starts undoing the buttons of his shirt. Artemy watches as the pristine cloth parts and reveals... nothing but pale, unmarked skin.

(Of course there's nothing. What markings was he expecting?)

Artemy takes the shirt from Dankovsky's hands and folds it at the head of the slab.

"Lie down. I need the light."

Dankovsky acquiesces and lies down on the slab, the skin stretching awful thin over his ribs when he does. Artemy takes one steadying breath – in, out, and in – and steps close.

He draws a line from the jugular notch to the end of the sternum with his fingers, then presses the blade in to where the bone gives way to soft tissue. He glances up at Dankovsky at the first incision, gauging for pain, but Dankovsky only raises his eyebrows in response. His expression is that of clinical interest, almost amusement.

It doesn't truly even feel like he is cutting into something, but rather tracing the surface of some viscous liquid. The blade easily parts skin from muscle, muscle from sinew, each layer pulled aside and folded like pages of a book.

He wipes his hand of excess blood on his apron, and in that moment notices Dankovsky's left one in his peripheral vision, lying still on the slab. There is dirt under his fingernails and smears of what looks like mud on the grooves of his knuckles. It feels out of place. Dankovsky's always struck him as a very fastidious man, the kind to keep his hands clean.

(No, that wasn't— who is he thinking of?)

The blade slips and digs a notch too deep, and Dankovsky's mouth twitches in distaste.

"I suppose it's too much to ask for your undivided attention at a time like this," he mutters, and Artemy wrenches his focus back to scowl at him.

"Trust me, you will feel it if I've lost attention," he says and turns back to his work. Thankfully, the slip of the blade is not too deep, and he can widen the cut to reconnect it to the line running towards Dankovsky's navel. With a few more smooth movements, he cuts and lifts away a V of skin and muscle to reveal the curve of the lowest rib. Beneath it, the plethora of internal organs is almost in view.

He nudges aside a layer of soft tissue to inspect the ripe-plum sheen of the liver. There it is, the center of Bachelor Dankovsky's mind and knowledge. It, at least, looks healthy.

(Was that what he was hoping to see?)

"Do you even know what you're looking for?" Dankovsky asks. Artemy clicks his tongue in irritation. Dankovsky only sighs in response, and for a delirious moment Artemy thinks he can see the movement ripple through the flayed-open muscles and membranes before him. His head swims.

The gut. That's where he'll find it.

He cuts down past the liver until he can reach down deep enough to brush his fingers against the velvety surface of the stomach. He smells gunpowder. Ashes. Blood? Well, of course there's blood. He's elbow-deep in blood.

Dankovsky hums in disappointment. "And I thought I was being so clever..." he mutters.

Artemy makes a small incision, wide enough to feel inside the cardia with the tip of a finger. It meets something hard and irregular, like something was blocking the very entrance. Strange, from the outside the stomach doesn't look distended at all.

He pulls his fingers back to widen the incision, carefully cutting around the arteries. He sets the blade aside on the slab when he's done, and braces his other hand on Dankovsky's chest while he reaches inside. He traces the odd ridges and corners of the object which dig into his hand when he wraps his fingers around it. Something sharp presses into the ball of his thumb. There is a faint, fluttering pulse, beating at odds with Dankovsky's own heart, pumping away under Artemy's hand.

"I need to take this," he says, and Dankovsky shakes his head.

"You're killing me," Dankovsky says. "This will cost me my life and you know it."

"But I'm doing this to save you," Artemy says. "All of you! If I just..." He sighs and closes his eyes for a moment. "If I just do this, you'll all be safe. You'll be alive."

"Some of us," Dankovsky says. He places a hand over Artemy's one resting on his chest. "But you'll have to choose."

Artemy waits for a heartbeat, then two, then three. He opens his eyes. "I'm sorry," he says and with the hand wrapped in Dankovsky's guts, he pulls.

For a moment the object, whatever it is, catches, and he has to tug again until it comes loose with a sickening wet click. Dankovsky's eyes snap wide and he gasps – the first sign that he feels what Artemy's doing to him. His hand squeezes Artemy's like a vice. Artemy whispers an apology after another, but the words do nothing to ease the pain. A wave of liquid warmth rushes up from the gaping wound before him, spilling over Dankovsky's sides and dribbling down onto the stone beneath them.

He can't look. He can't. Dankovsky stares up at him, wide-eyed, smears of blood on this cheeks. "Artemy." He speaks his name, but his lips aren't moving. He has to look.

Slowly, Artemy turns his eyes towards the wound to see what he's pried from Dankovsky's gut. But his hand is empty and bloodless. The skin beneath it is whole and unblemished. Dankovsky's frowning down at him, his hair slightly tousled and backlit by the faint glow of a bedside lamp.

Artemy feels a dizzying tug of gravity and falls back against the too-warm sheets of the bed.

"You woke me up," Dankovsky says, voice rough with sleep. Artemy swallows to wet his throat.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. His hand traces the unbroken skin of Dankovsky's abdomen. Dankovsky glances down at the point of contact, and Artemy can see, even freshly awoken, how his brain makes a mental note of this action, to process later. Dankovsky rolls around to reach for the wick of the lamp and turns off the light once more.

"You should get more rest," he says and lies back down, his back facing Artemy.

Artemy stares at the line of Dankovsky's torso against the darkness of the room, faintly illuminated by the light from the Stillwater's windows. He itches to reach for him, to run his hands over that expanse of intact, warm skin. But that's not something their newly-found truce is ready for. The wound he carved into the Bridge Square has barely had time to scab over, and too heavy a touch would risk ripping it open anew.

Dankovsky already holds him accountable for the destruction of one miracle. To then freely incriminate himself for his actions in the Abattoir would be... unthinkable.

So he lies awake in the dark, waiting for the sense memory of that strange fluttering pulse to fade from his hands, and hopes for a dreamless sleep to find him before dawn.

oh this is really cool... i love the details and dreamy-ness of it, artemy's little slip-ups where he can feel something's off, and daniil's cool detachment and commentary, and the way everything twines back to artemy's choices. great fill, thank you!!!!

Holy shit, the symbolism and call backs...! This is art!!

anon!! your prose is beautiful... and the hints at what artemy pulled out of daniil were just *chefs kiss* i love when post diurnal ending fic reckons with how complicated daniil and artemys relationship would be going forward.

This was absolutely breathtaking, I love the dreamy direction yiu went for and the descriptions... The symbolism, too, and the part with Rubin too, just. Ahhh. Ahhh this was lovely, from start to finish, and the bittersweet end of Artemy realizing it was a dream but not wanting to walk over the delicate relation... Ahhhh
This was amazing, thank you so much!

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FILL: artemy/daniil, vivisection

Re: FILL: artemy/daniil, vivisection

Re: FILL: artemy/daniil, vivisection

Re: FILL: artemy/daniil, vivisection

Re: FILL: artemy/daniil, vivisection

Re: FILL: artemy/daniil, vivisection

Re: FILL: artemy/daniil, vivisection

FILL 2: Artemy/Daniil, vivisection

Re: FILL 2: Artemy/Daniil, vivisection

Re: FILL 2: Artemy/Daniil, vivisection

Re: FILL 2: Artemy/Daniil, vivisection

Re: FILL 2: Artemy/Daniil, vivisection