#pathologic fanfic

[crow-mortis]

I’m working on chapter 2 of Borrowed Time and I really don’t mean for Vi to be so introspective but maybe I project too much.

Anyway, writing her thoughts is fun, but definitely feeling some more action in this chapter. 🫶

Chapter 2 - Darkest Before is expected to be up and posted no later than the 20th. 🖤

Also feel free to follow me on Twitter as well @bukiminokurou

- crow 🐦‍⬛

[erriga]

Hello, I started writing a patho fic again and I promise not to delete it after a week out of embarrassment this time (proceeds to go die in a corner)

It's in a very loose sense inspired by the concept of Yurodivy, a Russian tradition of Holy Foolery and also by the general idea of ecstasy. So it's going to be heavy on religious symbolism and stuff like that

[rat-prophetess]

I finally finished a thing! clapclapclap. Oneshot written for Patho Fest, day 19, “imposter”. I love you Maria Kaina, my beautiful princess with a disorder.

[silenthillmutual]

Daniil finds himself dying. And dying again. And dying again. In not-quite-a-time-loop. Someone isn't playing by the rules anymore.

I wasn't too sure how to describe what i was doing with this one but i'm pretty happy with how it turned out! thank you so much to @shogoakuji for the prompt :) i had a lot of fun with it!

[america-oreosandkitkats]

The Places We Call Sacred

Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Artemiy Burakh | Artemy Burakh/Daniel Dankovskiy | Daniil Dankovsky, Artemiy Burakh | Artemy Burakh/Laura Ravell | Lara Ravel, Daniel Dankovskiy | Daniil Dankovsky/Andrei Stamatin | Andrey Stamatin

Characters: Artemiy Burakh | Artemy Burakh, fem!Artemiy Burakh | Artemy Burakh, Isidor Burakh, fem!Isidor Burakh, Ersher Burakh, Gryph | Bad Grief (Pathologic), Laura Ravell | Lara Ravel, Daniel Dankovskiy | Daniil Dankovsky, Ospina | Aspity (Pathologic), Original Characters

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Worldbuilding, i will love you in every universe, what if the plague was grief?, and what if the panacea was love and friendship, Gender or Sex Swap

Chapter 1

The Khatange had no name for the land beneath her feet; it was simply Boddho, the name for the Mother Goddess and the world itself. The Utopians and the Soviets following them called it the Town-on-Gorkhon, like Rostov-on-Don in the Caucasus. The Russians, neither Utopian nor Soviet, simply called it Gorkhonsk. The river from which the town received its name crept slowly and sludgy beneath cobblestone bridges, frothing at the banks and dividing the town on two tributaries known as the Gullet and the Guzzle. Parents warned troublesome tots of creatures who would pull them under if they did not behave. Teenagers tormented each other with attempts to throw one another off bridges. Boys became men by dipping a toe beneath its surface.

It was a small town — the last census taken in 2004 after Saburov became mayor put the population just under 8,000. It was a one industry town. For many of the boys, working at the Olgimskiy meat packing plant was as much a birthright as their patronymic. It was an artful town. Vagabonds and bohemian types from as far out as Perm would flitter into town to hang out with the earth and the bulls, to paint and chill, man, like Eva Yan.[...]There had also been the Many-Sided Thing, the Polyhedron.[...]

Gorkhon had meat and art and mysteries. Why had she ever left?

And why was she still here?

Read more here

[harperd]

Sickfic time since allergies are kicking my ass! I wrote the first chapter as a drabble in class and found myself enjoying the idea of the pathologic cast going through more sickness.

Do check it out if you find time for it :) Maybe I'll even draw something for it one fateful day

[blood-bones-nerves]

[thanathicca]

ISMIE Chapter 8: What is Lying on the Table?

The newest part of our 22nd century Thanatica AU is up!

Chapter summary:

You are sitting at the table with [REDACTED] other people. None of them is familiar to you. The fifth minute passes in silence. What is lying on the table? a) A shovel b) Clean-picked ribs c) A putrid-smelling box d) Someone you know

Enjoy :]

[dragon0flies]

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Мор. Утопия | Pathologic Rating: Mature Warnings: Major Character Death Relationships: Artemiy Burakh | Artemy Burakh/Daniel Dankovskiy | Daniil Dankovsky, Artemiy Burakh | Artemy Burakh & Daniel Dankovskiy | Daniil Dankovsky & Klara | Clara Characters: Daniel Dankovskiy | Daniil Dankovsky, Artemiy Burakh | Artemy Burakh, Klara | Clara (Pathologic), Aglaya Lilich, Alexander Block Additional Tags: Post-Utopian Ending (Pathologic), Post-Canon, Hurt No Comfort, a lot of the main characters are dead before this starts sorry :( Series: Part 1 of oh world, oh prison dingy white, oh ghostly shadow grey Summary:

The outcome was known before Daniil walked into the Cathedral.

[waifuofbath]

So, as of today, LaraBlock is the second pairing to hit three-digit numbers in Patho ao3.

[crow-mortis]

.//---------one shot - daylily ---- artemy/daniil -- read on ao3

Dawn broke over the Town on Gorkhon – a town once ravaged by plague. Though it was still as death, now. The smoldering coals of the fires that once burned the infected districts made the air taste of decay - of what once was.

Pink and orange hues traced the skyline over the steppe, and his eyes followed the multicolored streaks downward like strokes of a brush. They ended at the horizon that was now distinctly visible in front of him – the view was no longer dominated by the presence of the polyhedron. He stared at the pieces of it in the Gorkhon, his feet plastered to the stone beneath him. 

He had always viewed the giant object with an air of suspicion – as he knew some others in the Town did as well. He held no love for it, but even he had to admit that it was a bit sad to watch the burnt remains bobbing in the water below. 

Artemy wasn’t sure why he came to see it. Maybe he just wouldn’t believe it unless he saw it with his own eyes. He now felt the weight of the last twelve days settle uncomfortably on his chest – his heart sagged beneath it. Had it only been twelve days? Less than two weeks since he had boarded that train at the request of his father – only to find that Isidor had been taken by the plague the same day. 

The events that followed that arrival were blurry now, though he knew they were real by the scars on his hands and the hunger in his belly. For the last twelve days he had done nothing but work tirelessly to save the Town from the Sand Pest. He had worked on minutes of sleep and scraps of toast to eat. He had seen and done things that he knew he would never be able to forget, as much as he may have wanted to. 

He stood on the precipice of what comes after; he didn’t know what to do then, staring at the waterlogged pieces of the polyhedron. The early morning warmth of the sun washed over his face, and he realized that it was over. He had done it, but what it was, he wasn’t sure of. 

The sound of footsteps behind him gave him pause, and he turned his head toward his shoulder, looking back at the silhouette of a person in the long shadow of the morning. He traced the outline and knew who it was immediately. Artemy turned his gaze forward as Daniil came to stand beside him.

Daniil had both hands in his coat pockets, his eyes following Artemy’s gaze and resting in the same spot. He was quiet, only the caw of crows on the cathedral announcing his presence.

Artemy spared a glance over to the man, and he found Daniil’s dark features almost unreadable – eyes dull but focused, the bags under them darker than the last time they had crossed paths. Artemy followed the lines of his face, noting the slight pull at the corners of his mouth and the way he seemed to study each piece of the polyhedron carefully. 

Daniil may have felt his gaze, because he turned his own toward Artemy, and for once, he wasn’t smirking. That smug look he often sported was not painting his face. What Artemy saw there was plain – exhaustion.

For a few heartbeats neither spoke; they simply stared at one another, watching as the scenes of the last twelve days replayed in the reflection of their eyes. Artemy felt a pang of sympathy, and some guilt, seeing Daniil’s lifeless expression. Maybe if he had been a better doctor, he could have saved the other man from all the torment he no doubt endured. If he had just been more thorough, more intelligent…

“Was it worth it?” 

The words stabbed into Artemy’s ears, though Daniil had not made them sharp. He hadn’t relinquished the hold his eyes had on Artemy’s, either. 

Still, he didn’t hesitate as he replied, “Undeniably.”

Continue Reading on AO3

[scandalousadventures]

Enter EVA, Stage Left

A meditation on Eva Yan, her place on the stage, and Pathologic theatre meta (a short fiction, told in a pseudo-screenplay style) Starring: Eva Yan, as EVA Mark Immortell, as THE DIRECTOR

Enter EVA, stage left. Beautiful girl. Limp hair and paint cracking under her eyes. Hot stage lights reflect in the sheen on her brow. Spotlit, but does not perform. The theatre is otherwise empty. Except THE DIRECTOR, who greets her with a scowl, looking up from his spot amongst the ghostly audience. He has been waiting a moment too long, and his patience, like all directors, is threadbare. His watch chain, however, has not moved from his pocket. The watch does not tick. Before EVA speaks, THE DIRECTOR interrupts her. “Once more from the top, sweet Eva, and perhaps success will be found this go-round.” “I am harrowed, Director, afeared. Tonight’s performance will be the last.” “Is this a grim portent?” “A request. An understudy! Eva no longer holds my brain; my body. I feel my bones; every nerve in my body lights up. A grim portent perhaps; for me.” “Understudy! How unexpected. Mercy, sweet Eva, and you expect a replacement at such an hour?” “There are many sweet Evas; there are many beautiful girls with limp hair and cracked paint. The dénouement approaches.” “Of the play, yes! Of you…?” THE DIRECTOR’s sentence lingers, as a call-for-response. A moment, and EVA speaks again. “To wit and to whorl, I find the staircase too tall and the fall too great. There is someone waiting outside with a knife, an axe, a scalpel, director! I tremble! Eva will die once again and she will not return once more. The baize awaits! It will be my shroud.” “You or Eva?” “The last for Eva, and the first for I.” “The baize awaits Eva nightly.” “How callous!” “What difference is it once or one hundred?” Discontent has grown on EVA’s face. “My hand shakes. My voice quivers. The wire will fail, and it makes no difference whether it be tonight or a year.” “The twyre hangs heavy in your lungs. You are rash. You will embody Eva tonight and tomorrow and until closing night and beyond.” THE DIRECTOR waves her away. She does not move. “Bar a rewrite and Eva will be enacted by a hay-stuffed facsimile from tonight onwards. A false Eva! That is perfect to take the lashings of a cruel director. The mice in its belly will not tremble when it lands!” When THE DIRECTOR next speaks there is venom in his tone. “You are a fool! A rewrite! You think the Haruspex is fit to center stage? The Changeling? You will provide the months to rehearse? I will not hear another word, Eva.” “Then, an understudy.” “Would the next be spared the same fate?” “Once, or maybe one hundred.” “And you? You will abandon us for whom?” “I will not. I wish to shed my garments and trade them for brick and mortar. Do not think me disrespectful, nor think me discourteous. I will flip death to the tower.” THE DIRECTOR’s voice carries over the stage. It is a voice that is comfortable doing so. “Brick and mortar! You damnable girl. Shall we adorn you with spackle? Shall we auger the façade? And you shall self guillotine! Shall I provide yew clippings for you to wave whilst we do so?” “I walk willingly to the blade every night! Should it be different rather I am clothed in gauze or glaze? The set is hollow. The façades are cheap! They will not be, nightly, for no man nor woman shall bystand Eva’s death with finality. She will remain! And it will be I, Eva, who subsists. “Strange, strange.” “Not I, Eva! Is this not true to her? Her focus does not waver! As her regret does not linger nor envelop, neither will it tonight. Do I not embody Eva wholly by tearing off her form? “Strange, strange, once more.” “The cathedral will be roused. I shall shirk the maiden and embody the balcony! Is this so odd? Do we not employ stagehands to task? Do the men in black tights not hold us aloft and swing the pendulum in our favour? Do they not ballast Eva’s wire?” “You wish to retreat from the stage?” The desperation rises in EVA’s voice. “O Director! I plead you understand! I ask no more than Kain! Focus, Director! For the auger was drilled for the immortal patriarch!” “So it was.” “I can think of nothing else. My nerves alight; I cannot sleep. Another Eva will fall this night and I will parallel Kain across the river! There is something beyond the curtain! I feel it drawing ever closer, ever tighter. I wonder if he felt the same? “Perhaps, sweet Eva.” “Will it ring true?” THE DIRECTOR is still. His hand rests on his cane. The air is heavy. “Eva is no longer and Eva will take her place. May the hands change sets and the Powers That Be still the blade as it falls. Regret stirs in my veins already.” “Director! The spotlight dilates! I thank you, every part of this trembling body thanks you!” “Go then. The hands need time to prepare and Eva must be roused.” “For tonight and tomorrow and until closing and beyond I will draw ever closer. Ring immortal! My heart lightens, O Director. I will not skulk the rafters as the hands but will manifest life where it does not subsist!” “Does not; should not. I will watch for you tonight.” “Your focus may drift fore it returns. My focus will reveal that in time.” THE DIRECTOR shakes his head. “Time, time, always time. You are no longer Eva and yet Eva remains.” “She will remain, always. After the fall she remains, tomorrow she remains, after closing she remains. Beyond, she remains. Is she still Eva?” “Your focus will reveal that in time.” “Time! Director, I take leave. My brain is unclouded; my heart is strong. Death no longer waits in the wings; the curtain can shroud no longer.” “The baize awaits another. Eva or Eva or Eva or Eva. Let us hope you remain. Somehow she may.” “To wit, to whorl. Somehow, she will.” Exit EVA. THE DIRECTOR checks his watch. Exit THE DIRECTOR.

[lordoftablecloths]

arrival

more cowboy-logic stuff (yes thats what im calling this, tell me if you come up with something funnier) expect to see more of this stuff :3

[gw3npo0l]

sorry i cant come into work today, james called reg pretty angel in pathological people pleaser and its permanently altered my brain chemistry

[mars-shifts]

i wish people talked about me like this

[america-oreosandkitkats]

The Places We Call Sacred

Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Artemiy Burakh | Artemy Burakh/Daniel Dankovskiy | Daniil Dankovsky, Artemiy Burakh | Artemy Burakh/Laura Ravell | Lara Ravel, Daniel Dankovskiy | Daniil Dankovsky/Andrei Stamatin | Andrey Stamatin Characters: Artemiy Burakh | Artemy Burakh, fem!Artemiy Burakh | Artemy Burakh, Isidor Burakh, fem!Isidor Burakh, Ersher Burakh, Gryph | Bad Grief (Pathologic), Laura Ravell | Lara Ravel, Daniel Dankovskiy | Daniil Dankovsky, Ospina | Aspity (Pathologic), Original Characters Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Worldbuilding, i will love you in every universe, what if the plague was grief?, and what if the panacea was love and friendship, Gender or Sex Swap, slow burn

Chapter 7

You ain’t from ’round here.”

“I reckon I ain’t.”

“Where’s home for ya, cuata?” He dragged his syllables like a savored cigarette pull.

“Far, far away.”

“I can hear that.” He smirked. “Where exactly though?”

It was a tossup with Americans. Some took her country of origin as an interesting piece of trivia, and the others would launch a barrage of questions about her opinion of politics, both domestic and abroad. Given that this was a small town in a small state, Artemiy figured chances were on her side with the former, so she told him.

“And are St. Petersburg autumns as beautiful as Pushkin describes them?”

She had to admit that she’d never gotten this sort of response before. “You know Pushkin?”

“I’m as strong a cosmopolitan as I make ’em.” 

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