#pathologic x reader

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daniil had a complicated relationship with spirits, much like everything else. he had a complicated relationship with eating, with sleeping, with romance, with the possibility of failure and with the concept of death which he sought to vanquish. but spirits were simultaneously the bane of his existence and a blessing he would consider thanking god for. the former was because daniil was, above all, a physician and a researcher whose job required lucidity at all times. spirits would only hinder his thinking, further erode his fraying nerves. but when thanatica's lights dimmed, and the chatter died down as all but the chief retired to their homes, he could finally quieten the thought of indulging in his most despicable vice. the bottle of vodka is always well hidden in the last drawer of his desk; untouched, still full and clear as ice. the first few shots are measured, he knows exactly how many ounces he's taking and the percentage of alcohol present in the clear liquid that goes down his throat like fire. for a man like him, vodka is a blessing; odorless, colorless, tasteless, and could serve as a disinfectant. it is a practical liquor for a man with countless anxieties and who is constantly plagued by a headache. when daniil drinks out of his own accord, it's always vodka. the good kind. when he drinks elsewhere, he pretends to like the sparkle of champagne, or the notes of the wine his host yammers on about. all of it is noise to him. as extensive as his palette can be, he finds comfort in what tastes like nothing but gets the job done.

by the fourth shot, daniil contemplates putting the bottle away. his notebook is open in front of him, and the sketches seem alive. his alcohol tolerance was "good enough", but he was never one for overindulgence. one more, he thinks, one more and then it's done. and then it's his third one more, and the floor seems like it's made of feathers and silk. the music doesn't make his head hurt, and the woman singing about "no such words" brings him to tears that refuse to fall, just as stubborn as he is. the floor beckons him and who is he to deny? his knees hit the floorboards until he's lying on his back, staring at the warm shadows cast upon his ceiling by the oil lamp on his desk.

daniil was a dashing man, it was an undisputed fact. even those who hated him could not deny his charm, and not even drunkenness, which often turned the most eloquent of speakers into fools, could strip him of his grace. if anything, daniil had far less control over his words and emotions, and poetry flowed out of him incessantly when provoked. or rather, when you were around. once, you were with him at the lab as he drank after a particularly disastrous meeting with a potential patron. you watched the frustration drain out of his eyes as it was replaced by an unprecedented fire; born not of mania, but of utter passion. his passion for research, for conquering death, and you. he was a dancer, a poet, an unstoppable force as he raved on about finding funding elsewhere, claiming victory over death and marrying you. he'd take you to france, trace the path of la seine on your spine and you shiver from mere words. he looked like dionysus himself, as he did not allow you a minute of rest between drunken daydreams and you had to summon all of your strength to restrain yourself from having him against that desk of his. he was drunk, and you weren't senseless. then, you had to deal with this vision of a man, a soft pink dusting his cheeks, his lips stained with liquor as he quoted ryleyev at you, eyes glazed and holding you in his gaze as though you had hung the moon in the sky. you remember laughing excessively, and digging your nails into your arms as you crossed them, silently praying to whatever power out there to grant you strength.

however, tonight he was alone and silent. his only companion was the sweet voice of a woman singing of a planet of love and stars that never go out, coming from the gramophone that would otherwise be collecting dust. the wooden floor feels like water, and he lets himself float. he wades into the thought of you as easy as breathing, because that's exactly how it was, once upon a time. like breathing, and he recalls it now because it's oh so predictable of the alcohol to do this. and what was he to do but let it? let it remind him of the way your hand carded through his hair or tied his cravat. your gentle smile that greeted him every morning, your endless wit that made him fall in love with you over and over again when you'd wield it against him, and your mercy. oh, how you'd forgive him every time. daniil was never brave, and he knows. his father had known from the very beginning, he thinks. had he been half the man you thought him to be, he wouldn't have driven you out of the capital and he wouldn't be drowning in the thought of you. daniil lets the floor swallow him, or so it seems, until his headache wakes him up before the sun can. for now, it was another day where he could pretend all of this was going somewhere.

You appear from behind the wooden door, wearing your favourite button up that had adorned you last night and a stolen pair of Dankovsky's pyjama trousers. The sight is enough to turn Daniil pale, slumping back down onto his pillow unceremoniously with a soft thump and an inelegant groan.

It takes everything you have not to laugh at his delicate state, certain that it would get you thrown out of his apartment post-haste. Instead, you move to sit beside him on the bed, placing a cool hand upon his troubled forehead, eliciting a grateful sigh. His eyes flutter open after a minute or so, catching the fond smile playing at the corners of your eyes and making him wish he had kept them shut tight instead.

He may have been slightly intoxicated the previous evening, but everything that happened between the two of you was by choice. He remembers every detail; how you were the last two out of your coworkers at the bar, how you fervently exchanged theories and constantly tried to outshine each other with only slightly exaggerated tales of your scientific achievements, as a result growing closer and closer to each other in the booth until he could feel your warm thigh pressed against his, and your ordinarily gentle hand gripping his arm when speaking on a topic that you were especially excited about in a way that made his chest tighten with fondness.

He remembers stepping outside for a smoke, sharing the same lone cigarette with you and tasting the remnants of your lips on the filter, mixing with the bitterness of tobacco and the after-burn of cognac into something new and addictive. He recalls insisting that you not walk home alone so late, and that his place was closer anyway. It only made sense that you stay the night with him. You were uncertain, and his solution was to take you by the arm and guide you, assuring that he could be a good host when he wished it. You didn't attempt to pull away, and it did not go unnoticed.

He remembers you asking if you should sleep on his sofa. He had insisted that you take the bed, and had followed it up with the most mortifying sentence he could ever possibly have thought to say in that situation, caught up in the sway of alcohol and attraction. "The only question remaining is whether I will be joining you?"

He cringed at the memory, wishing that he had been a tad drunker so that perhaps his recollection wouldn't be so vivid. It would have been a double-edged sword however, as if that were the case he wouldn't have been able to clearly remember what followed either, and that is something that he would never want to forget.

He remembers that you were the one to initiate physical contact, the urging from Daniil's embarrassing question having been enough to encourage you to close the gap and press your tantalising lips to his. He remembers pulling you into his bedroom and biting your neck hard as you both fumbled with each other's clothing. He remembers hearing a tear when he shoved your trousers off a bit too aggressively, and how you had pushed him down onto the creaky sprung mattress before he'd had the chance to make a fuss over it.

He remembers the blissful pressure of having you on top of him, the thrilling electricity of feeling your bare skin beneath his hands and running the soft pads of his fingertips over the intricate system of stretchmarks that sprawled across your stomach and thighs, reading them as if they were braille that held answers to all of his most sought after questions.

He remembers your face flushed a deep pink, eyebrows knit together in pleasure and disbelief. He remembers the way you held a twitching hand up to your own mouth in an attempt to avoid bothering the neighbours, and how he had selfishly taken that hand in his, pressing kisses to the erratic pulse in your wrist and holding it there so that you couldn't suppress any of your heavenly gasps.

What a treat it was, to see a mind such as yours, so alert, so busy, so intelligent, go completely and utterly blank.

He draws his eyes away from yours now, sneaking a peek at the spot where he had previously clamped his teeth down on your neck and feeling an undeniable satisfaction at the reddish-purple bruise that had begun to bloom beneath your skin; evidence that he had been there, that he had not dreamed up an enticing fantasy.

"Where did you go?" he grumbled, his voice coming out gravelly and tired, recalling that he had initially woken up alone.

"I had thought to make some breakfast, but you don't even have any bread here. What are you going to do about that hangover without breakfast?" you chastise, though without any malice. You had suspected the man didn't take proper care of himself, and his noncommittal huff at your pestering doesn't convince you otherwise.

You drag your hand down from Daniil's forehead and move to cup his cheek instead, a gesture that is far too affectionate for the dynamic you share. He leans into the touch regardless.

A brief period of comfortable yet equally heavy silence stretches out between you, until you decide to break the protective glass around the moment. "This doesn't have to change anything between us," you offer, hoping against all hopes that he will reject the notion, that he will want to continue playing whatever-this-is out with you. Despite your rational mind screaming at you that this was a mistake, if not for both of you then at least for Dankovsky, you can't help but want to pursue it further.

"It can't," Daniil shudders out, and he hopes it doesn't come out too forced, but all he wants is for this to change things. He wishes he could reach out and kiss you again and for the consequences of such an action not to matter, but he is dictated by rationale and reason, and he regrettably knows better than to get intimately involved with a colleague.

Okay so. you know Hysteria?

uh huh yes that one. and you know how pathologic time-period setting is kinda messed up but in general it is semi-medieval?

You see where I'm going with this?

So back in the old times, those terrible dark ages, uh doctors used to diagnose women who showed any signs of emotional outbursts with hysteria because they were ignorant and misogynist, right?

Both Daniil and Artemy do use "hysterical" to describe other people ingame, not just women, but men too. Especially when those people are disagreeable with them, then they just scoof and claim they must be experiencing hysteria.

One of the cures for hysteria is a series of sexual climaxes. It was what led to the invention of vibrators as a medical aide to doctor's who's hands were getting numb.

Now, with the plague and all, I doubt either would care to deliver that particular cure since a panacea takes priority. But if we just...sweep the plague under the rug and use an au where Daniil and Artemy came back to an actually functional and normal town. Maybe no polyhedron au?

Or no, no. just delayed plague au? so this would take place on Day 1, but the plague doesn't arrive until 4 or 5 days later whatever.

Logistics of how to make it possible aside.

Then I clearly see them agreeing to attend to someone with an urgent case of hysteria because that's what good doctors do.

-

In Daniil's case, it doesn't feel that hard to get him to agree. He is fully convinced that hysteria is a real serious issue, and based on his medical books and degrees, an organic and easy-to-deliver cure like this is the most preferable.

He'd be clinical about it, white rubber gloves and a clean disinfected towel covering the mattress. Hangging his snake coat on the frame of the bed as he orders you to undress and lay down to begin the operation.

A bored look in his eyes, he's the furthest thing from bashful or coy. Pouring a lubricant on his gloved hand, holding your thigh with the other to stabilise you when you're surprised how cold the lubricant feels against your hot skin.

His silence is unusually comforting, not a hint of judgment in his eyes. He truly makes you feel like you're in safe hands with an experienced professional. This is his job, what he spent years studying. He will never shy away from all the requirements that come with being a doctor, including making a nervous patient feel calm and comfortable.

The pace he builds up is gradual and calculated, thoughtful of you and your body language. He informs you of his next steps before he takes it, be it moving his hand faster, going rougher or softer or paying attention to other stimulating parts of your body. You're completely aware of his movements and what's about to come.

If you pay attention, you'll notice the focus in his eyes. As if he's recalling past information. What he learned about each part of the genital organs and naming them in his brain. Testing his knowledge, studying your body as he compares it to his memories of drawn autonomy maps.

Eventually, as you get closer to your release and sink further into the bed below, his body leans more and more over you as if he doesn't want to miss this moment. To witness the fruit of his hard work, be it for self-gratification or just ensuring that you're experiencing actual pleasure and not just indulging him out of politeness. He's not a child, his ego will definitely handle the hit if his performance wasn't satisfactory enough. He'd rather go through trial and error until he finds what makes you tick rather than stick with something average and good enough to get the job done and over with.

No. he's just as invested in this as you are, if not more. It's his pride as a doctor on the line, as a bachelor of medicine, you need to be experiencing the highest of pleasures the human body could get through this.

Looking straight into your eyes as your last thread snaps, hips spasming through your intense release. His hand doesn't falters as he drains you dry of everything you could give him then have the audacity to ask for more even while his gloves are fully drenched in your cum.

Daniil doesn't waste a moment before he gets up and disposes of his sulled gloves while you get your breathing under control. He swaps them for a different new pair, bringing a small bowl of warm water and a clean cloth with his as he sits down on the edge of the bed.

Cleaning you up, wiping down your thighs, and between your legs. The same mechanical focus in the patterns of his hands.

Even after this whole experience, he doesn't seem the least bit phased. If anything, you almost catch a hint of satisfaction in the way his usually tense shoulders are relaxed, the way his eyes seem brighter. Getting to play proper doctor for a small moment in time did better to his mental health than whatever detective act wannabe the kains are making him do in order to uncover Simon's murder.

Your throat is dry, it's obvious in the crack of your voice as you attempt to answer his post-operation inquiries about your state of mind and wellness. Daniil gets up and gets you the glass of water without having to be asked, taking care of his patients seem to come second nature to him. It's what he prides himself on.

He informs you that you'll be allowed half an hour of rest before the next operation commences. As much as he'd like to give you more time to recover, hysteria is a serious thing you see, and he needs to make sure this cure takes effect.

Leaving you with a blanket on the bed, even offering his coat if the material of the blanket wasn't comfortable enough. He sets an hourglass down as he moves to the desk on the other side of the room, occasionally glancing at the grains of sands trickling down as he gets busy going over his hypothesis papers concerning Simon Kain's immortality.

-

I'm thinking about Artemy's and how different his methods would be. tbh if Artemy ever needs that cock warmed then I'm free from 9am to 5pm, I gotcha king. but personal feelings aside, I think he'd contrast Daniil in a lot of ways.

I mean, you could read the above drabble as Artemy's pov with doctor Daniil, who just insisted he must be treated for hysteria, just sprinkle in some insults and arguments.

A tock, then a tick, and a tock—and a spring flew out.

Landing near the foot of your chair.

Another sigh, now bearing the edge of long brewed frustration. Closing his eyes, Dankovsky rubs the temple of his head, before getting up, dusting off his coat, with the intention of crossing the room to retrieve the piece. The very same one now resting in the middle of your palm, with you standing up next to him, having abandoned your semi-comfortable seat.

"Daniil..." Your tired eyes are met with equally exhausted ones, "operating a machine isn't the same as understanding how it works." You peer into the inner mechanical guts of the clock, ones usually hidden behind the wooden panel. Squishing the spring between your pointer and your thumb, you click it back into place.

There's a newly formed glint of hope in Dankovsky's eyes, "Do you—"

You shake your head, "just a lucky guess." A white lie; this isn't your story to resolve, but his. Whatever abstract responsibility this broken clock clearly symbolised, it was his to process. A lesson that must be learnt.

There's irony in the way his hands were more steady resting against the trigger of a pistol than the delicate pivot of a clock. Observing the jungle of mechanical parts and gears, you don't envy his position, although it must look less intimidating for someone far removed from the picture than he is.

After all, you can merely interfere from time to time, before retiring back to your chair. You could always step away whenever it became too much, but he couldn't, for the play you absentmindedly watched was the life that he's living.

While it's your first time experiencing this, he's relived it all more times than he could count, heard all your lines over and over, time after time. The spring was new this cycle around, he admits, yet the clock itself is more tangled than he's ever seen it. The dread of the possibility this might’ve been his last rewind forms a pit at the bottom of his stomach.