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probably ooc but do you have obsessive daniil thoughts
very much so, yes. i do not worry about him being "ooc" since i found that focusing too much on making sure it's "in character" prevents me from expressing myself fully. obsessive, worshipful daniil under the cut, as you wish.
you make him sick. mad, completely beyond reason. this was the fifth quarrel of the day, and you were very much gone. not forever, of course. he hoped. but gone nonetheless, and he was barely keeping it together.
the first hour, he is pacing the lab. he mutters to himself about theories he'd thought up and somehow it all leads to you; your mouth, your hands, your eyes, the way you take breath, your heartbeat, every blemish on your skin. he could name every bone in your body, you loved when he did that. you'd say his name so breathlessly, like it could be the last thing you say and you're happy with that. the way you say his name, the way he'd make you say his name, your voice, your voice, your voice. even when you're cross with him, daniil would not admit to you the way his blood burns when your voice raises. the way his breath shudders when it's not "danya", nor "daniil" but "daniil dmitrievich". his breath catches at the memory, and his fingers dig into his own wrist. curse you, curse you and your beautiful mouth. he paces like he wants to break through the floorboards, a cold sweat forming on his brow that he convinces himself is normal. it's normal, so are the tremors. all is normal. he is normal.
the second hour, he returns to work and has to brace himself against your handwriting on your joint notes, and the casual intimacy of seeing his name produced by your pen, in your hand. daniil feels like he is spiraling, and he says it out loud to acknowledge it. the papers are tempting. what an absurd thing to think. he is not tempted by your notes. he would like not to be anyway, as all he wants to do is press close to where your hand was on the paper and breathe you in. it's an itch, a very real one that makes him shed his waist coat and walk to the window as he loosens the cravat around his neck. the cold air does nothing, neither does the view. he thinks he has two choices here; jump out of the window, or chase whatever is left of you in your notes. he almost stumbles on himself as he prostrates before you, sweet you in the form of cursive and he feels like he can finally breathe. the smell of ink and parchment, but you are there. unmistakably.
the third hour, daniil is still. you had left a scarf behind that he found and set over his pillow. the smell of your hair is so within reach, yet so far away. he gets up in one motion, driven by nothing but instinct. mad beyond reason, he looks for you again amidst his belongings, for the twentieth time that evening hoping to find something to hold him back from finding you.
the fourth hour, daniil is still. the desperation wears off, and he sits eerily still as he works. to anyone he looks composed, but had you been here you would've immediately pulled him out of whatever he was doing until he regained lucidity. he tends to go quiet like this when dealing with a great blow. you would've known. you always know. what will he do?
the fifth hour, daniil reminisces over the way you met. he remembers asking every living being who'd encountered you on that day about you. the receptionist at the hotel you were staying at, the bellboys, the barkeeper, the random noble lady you briefly chatted with in the lobby, anyone. every trace of you, he followed until you were his. but he would never say it. every time you'd asked him what drew him to you, his answer was the same "you were the only person with sense in that godforsaken congress, my dearest. i tire of old hermits and their ceaseless babble during such events." you had listened to his ceaseless babble with great interest however, as you were open to the unorthodox when it came to medicine. daniil was enraptured with you at first glance, the way you were just as unafraid to express yourself as he was, just as eccentric. he lies down on his bed, the thought of you like a boulder on his chest, making him sink further and further down into the mattress until it seems like he's in the netherworld. daniil thinks he is, to a certain degree. how unbearable.
it is not the sixth hour yet, and daniil is up again in a singular motion. he moves through his quarters in a flurry of fabric and leather until he's out, and he finds you, sweet cruel you in the lab. you wanted to return, it seemed. you were only biding your time, pretending to work as you refuse to look him in the eye and mutter about his inefficiency. you are both pathetic, and both of you think that as he melts into you in an embrace, and you can barely contain him, sinking down to his knees as his gaze remains on you. he kisses your hands until they're warm enough, pressing them to his face as he asks for forgiveness in a way that is too religious for an apostate. he almost wants to tell you not to blink, not after this. not after you had deserted him for hours. and what choice do you have but to absolve him again, just so he'd pick himself up and come back to you in all of his pretentious glory? the same pretentiousness that puts you in this situation every time? however, daniil promises you restraint and more thought before speaking in the future. he beckons you to bed and tells you to leave everything to the morning, and you go willingly because you are tired and that is what you say. what you do not say is that you had missed him and that you shouldn't have left, but daniil voices that for you; "strike me if you must, but do not leave in anger. i cannot bear it, not for a second. i wouldn't have known how to live with myself if you had deserted me, my dearest. do not make me imagine it." his voice is soft, raw against your neck, and your hand moves down his back in the way that makes him inhale sharply before he dissolves, and you contain him like you always do. you did not have to say anything, neither of you needed language for this, after all.
⟡ Andrey Stamatin x gn!reader
⟡ Another long evening as the plague spread, a few drinks to forget. But this evening will be better than an usual one.
⟡ Reblogs ⇄ & Likes ♡ are heavily appreciated !
⟡ Word count: 1154
It is not the first time that you enter the Broken Heart and you hope the last is far from now. You've almost become a regular, trying to drink away the growing concern occupying your mind. This new illness, the Sand Plague. In town, words are spreading quickly, and you do not know how to decipher the truths from the rumors and opinions. You really need a drink, something to change your mind and forget, at least for a second.
The heat of the pub mixed with the smell of the twyrine envelop your body. It is relaxing, perhaps a bit too much, but that doesn't matter to you in the moment. You make a way between the already drunks regulars and the few newcomers trying whatever drug has been shown to them. The regular percussions and cords fills your ears, you've started to be used to this sounds filling the background as glasses cling together and words blur together. A bar seat frees itself as the man moved to observe the Herb brides' dances and you quickly take it.
A quick smile to the bartender, a first glass nestled between your hands, some looks at the dancers, eavesdropping on conversations to stay up to date with the latest discoveries. Your newly found routine was disturbed by a loud laugher which turned heads. Anyone in the pub would recognize the voice kilometers away, it was the owner and Grand Architect, none other than Andrey Stamatin. You knew him through constructions like the Polyhedron and the multiple Stairways to Heaven covering the abandoned terrains. But you have never cared enough to gain his attention with words, or perhaps it was a belief that you were not worthy of this attention. Yet, the architect had noticed you. A few days back, seated alone drowning in a sea of empty glasses, he had seen you when you thought you were invisible to the world crumbling outside.
And he had his eyes locked on you again, you were in his sight.
Slowly, yet with ease, he advanced through the crowd until he stood behind you. His voice made you jump of surprise as he spoke. "Who have we gotten here? Drinking alone is quite a sad pastime." Before any answer, he sat on the stool beside yours ignoring the creaks of the well used wood and two more glasses slid your way. He downed shots quicker than you believed humanly possible. For your three glasses, he had the double already empty, and before you noticed, you laughed at his dumb jokes.
A hand slid onto your shoulder as he spoke. "Tell me about the pretty face that caught my eyes," Andrey asked, his voice was like honey to your ears, perhaps it was his charms, or the drinks. Nonetheless, you talked, slowly and carefully, sharing with a warm smile and rosy cheeks as the alcohol worked its way into your brain. He reciprocated the gesture, listening to each word as if you were preaching a new scripture even if his state was worst than yours by now, implementing a few "Is that so?" here and there. You could feel his stare. But you let him, enjoying some positive attention.
He hummed as you ran out of subtile and interesting informations to share. You bit you lower lip before daring to question what were his latest projects. "Enjoying the music and the drinks. Perhaps, some of the ladies. But right now, you've got all of my great mind working ways to keep you beside me," he had said, making you giggle stupidly but you quickly caught your reaction, exaggerating a sigh to pretend being unimpressed by the comment. "Honey, you don't have to pretend here," Andrey let his hand wander down to your waist, pulling you closer with a quick move that made you gasp. "I know I've got quite the charm," he noted, confidence bleeding through his eyes.
Despite your tries to stay calm, the heat grew on your cheeks and you let out a chuckle. You loved his arrogance, some part of you wanted to believe the words had deeper meanings than a meaningless flirt to get you into his bed. But you knew he was a player, everyone knew, yet in that moment you didn't care about feelings and just let your head rest against his shoulder. "You're somewhat funny," you uttered as if surprised of this fact, eyes closed to soak yourself with this moment. As if to prove that affirmation, Andrey tried a joke. A terrible one that still pulled a giggle out of your throat. "See. I am funny. I am a man of many qualities," he emptied one more glass. With a roll of the eyes and shake of your head, you claimed the alcohol in your blood as excuse and he scoffed.
His hand rubbed up and down your arm as he spoke, alone, you were getting too tired to answer. You had always been a sleepy drunk. And somewhere also, you didn't want to stop hearing his gentle tone as he explained an architectural concept you didn't quite grasp. "Darling, I believe you're falling into slumber's arms," he said, gently yet with a smirk on his tone. You hummed, slightly opening your eyes and looking up at Stamatin through your lashes. "I claim one of your qualities is a comfortable pillow," a bad attempt to revive a conversation, however vain as he saw the tiredness.
Andrey saw your eyelids drop, your lips part. He felt the slow and regular rise of your chest. With a shake of his head, he helped you up, "Come on dear, let's get you to a bed." A hand gently guided your right arm over his shoulders before wrapping around your back. The second settled around the back of your knees. With a quick move and a small grunt, the architect was now carrying you. Ignoring the whispers, he walked around the Broken Heart, which had now slightly emptied if you put aside the blackout drunks. His voice was gentle as he reassured you it was all fine and you were no bother. He made a joke about how people he brought in his bed were usually more awake, and despite the sleepiness, you laughed.
The walk upstairs was quicker than you felt it, and slowly you were put down on a mattress. Andrey smiled, he gently moved the hair off your face. "You sure are quite cute with those sleepy eyes," he whispered as he put a soft kiss on your forehead. The mattress dipped as he laid beside you, held you close his face nestled in your neck. And, perhaps it was the warmth of another body so close to yours, or the idea of a loving cuddle but you had the greatest and safest night you've ever felt like you had since the Sand Plage had started, simple thank to an architect.
I hope this was a nice read because it was a nice request to write (and to keep my head off the stress of uni). I'm bad at staying in character, especially with pathologic as every character is extremely complex :,)
Daniil Dankovsky x Thanatologist Reader: The Morning After
(mild nsfw)
Daniil Dankovsky awakens alone in his bed, his brain thudding against the walls of his skull with a dull ache; an unpleasant reminder of the amount he imbibed last night after work with his colleagues. At least today was Saturday and he had nowhere he needed to be.
The sound of his bedroom door creaking open unexpectedly nearly frightens him out of his right mind, and he shoots up in bed despite his pounding head only to be greeted with a familiar face.
𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒
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.
You remove your hand from his face and nod, flashing a professional smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes, a stark contrast to the warmth from moments ago. The skin where your hand had just been cupping Daniil's cheek burns, hot and aching.
But. Theoretically. If i were to write pathologic x reader, here's what I'm thinking.
heads up, this is gonna be like ethically kinda terrible with a side of medical malpractice.
[ Smut below ]
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.
Or still on the x reader route. Artemy would make it more intimate, use his bare hands, put those golden fingers to use. He'd believe that skin contact is the key here, would probably strip with you too just to get you on his lap and work you over.
‧₊˚ ┊ Hi!! I'm Aera (they/he, 22) and you have just so happened to stumble across my writing blog! I'm an amateur writer looking to practice by writing about my blorbos. You can find the list of fandoms I write for as well as my rules below!
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you came to Gorkhon town on commission work for the Olgimskys. You don't speak a lick of Russian but thankfully Vlad thought ahead to hire an interpreter to accompany you throughout the duration of your stay. At most, only a handful of townfolks can somewhat communicate with you in your language through broken sentences
Daniil Dankovsky is one of the few people who holds rudimentary understanding of your mother tongue enough to get the gist of what you're saying, but not enough to construct very cohesive sentences himself
Through the incredible feat of listening rather than talking, you manage to make plenty of friends in the town who assume you're just a very thoughtful and reserved person, unaware that you're letting them yap at you endlessly because you don't realise the meaning of a single word they're saying
This is the story of how Artemy Burakh makes it his mission to successfully flirt with you and take you out on a date before your brief stay comes to an end, with the sole use of the poor Interpreter who's stuck translating back and forth between the two of you
Think romantic comedy levels of misunderstandings born due to the interpreter being clueless to the steppe terms Artemy uses, and taking creative liberties to fill in the gaps. Lots of awkward gesturing and miming attempts to communicate with each other whenever the interpreter is away. Both you an Artemy assuming the other person made the first move due to the aforementioned interpreter's embellishments
A tick, a pause, then three tocks in hurried succession
Finally, a defeated sigh, the sound of gears rewinding followed after.
"There is a clocksmith in town, multiple even."
His fingers tightened around the tweezers, leather creaking against the metal. You shift around the chair attempting to placate your rigid body, crossing and uncrossing your legs, face resting against your closed fist.
The hours you've been sitting in this armchair felt like days, if they were truly hours to begin with, not that you'd know, with the broken clock and all. At the very least, you've been sitting down, can you imagine how painful it would've been to kneel in front of the grandfather clock instead? Dankovsky can.
"Eva wouldn't care that you broke her clock, I don't think she comes up here that often." You try a different rhetoric for the third time. "The Kains adore you. Victor made them didn't he? You should just carry it to him, I'll help you, the crucible is just around the corner." And a fourth.
No reply. Dankovsky grew eerily silent an hour or so ago. You chalked it up to being one of his focused episodes that feels like minutes to him.
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.
A tick, and a tock, followed by a click, and the sound of gears turning.
