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somedrunkpirate · 4 years ago

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in the dark we travel (Geraskier Sci-fi au ficlet)

Rating: T | Wordcount: 3,4 | No major warnings | pre-slash, first meeting @geraskierfunday prompt: space

//let me know if you want of this because I have too much lore for a oneshot//

Read on ao3 or continue reading below

The stench of the holding bay almost makes Geralt turn on his heel.

It burns through his nose, coming in waves so overwhelming they should’ve been visible in the air. His senses are a dubious gift as he does not only smell it long before anyone else, but can distinguish individual notes within the cacophony of abomination. The acidic sharpness of cheap hovercraft fuel; the rot of biological waste; and then that sickly sweetness of pink oil, a byproduct from the favourite spirit boosters of all the rich kids and trip tourists partying up above. It’s the most prominent smell by far and it makes Geralt want to gag.

Intergalactic travel on this side of the Tenements is always a gamble.

Jackpot would be a merchant ship, where at least the conditions have to be sufficient for whatever cargo is on board. The fact that this usually results in better living environments for the stragglers sleeping between the boxes is entirely incidental. All in all, a good deal for everyone involved— except for Geralt, sometimes. Most merchants have no desire to have him on their ship. Luckily most are scared enough to let him anyway.

A draw— earning back your bet — would be a scavenger ship. Though sleeping among scavenged ship parts and stolen goods is less comfortable than proper cargo, the experience at least comes with a sense of adventure. Playing cards with pirates; fist fights between mercenaries; drinks with old timers. For many the opportunity would be once in a lifetime.

The drawback, of course, is becoming accessory to whatever crime the scavengers end up committing during your stay. And Enforcers don’t give one shit whether you sat in the cargo hold or shot the blast cannons yourself. Geralt has enough problems to keep track of to enjoy being blamed for other people’s crimes. Scavengers are insufferable, as a whole, but the most annoying are the ones that get caught.

So, in a sense, it is only fair Geralt loses the gamble. He’d been complaining about a win or a draw anyway, and the universe does so like to remind him there is no one smiling upon him. He ran out of luck years ago.

The smell only worsens when the great metal doors open to the loading dock, and the familiar bright orange of a Garbagecraft is revealed.

Various levels of frustration, despair and anger are voiced in groans and clicks. The crowd stops as a whole, yet unwilling to accept their collective fate. Roach’s ears flicker at the unrest, her two right front hooves scrape at the metal flooring in agitation.

Geralt pats her neck, careful not to get sliced by her sharp mane, and shushes her. “It’s alright. Shh. Good Girl.”

Some of the would-be travellers— two Pervuvians, a Human and a Sketh — push their way through the crowd and gang up around the dock boy who had led them here. They begin to chow him out in various languages, but Geralt catches enough to get the gist. Give me back my money or you will feel my wrath, insert threat specificities here.

As they become more and more creative, Geralt sighs and gives a quiet command to Roach to stay at the edge of the crowd. She makes a noise that Geralt chooses to interpret as agreement, rather than the frustration regarding her current situation that it probably was.

Geralt edges around the crowd to get a better look of the situation, his hand hovering above the hilt of his energy blade. The Pervuvians are part of a larger crew, seven total, standing off to the side with their limbs crossed. The Sketh is carrying a T-1 Blaster openly, which means she’s likely got something even more illegal under that travel robe of hers. The Human is an older man; his eyes almost folded away into his wrinkles. Not a threat at face value— which isn’t a whole lot, in Geralt’s experience. He’s proven right when he activates his perm-mod, focusing his vision, and the blue and white overlay lights up around the presence of an illusion.

He only has to strain his eyes a little before the glimmer dissipates and Geralt can see the true form of the being looming beside the dock boy. A Dizan, neon glyph tattoos and all.

Geralt suppresses a groan, and grabs the handle of his silver sword instead.

Even if he’d wanted to consider suffering teleportation in favour of two weeks sleeping among trash, the choice has now been made for him. The duration of the travel should be enough to see if this one dabbles with the ways of the Ancients, and how far they go if they do.

Though, if they’re willing to kill a kid out of frustration, Geralt has his answer too.

The shouting gets progressively louder and begins to attract more people. The whole of the Pervuvian crew has joined by the time Geralt manages to reach them.

It’s not that the crowd tries to block his path — the moment the flash of his eyes reaches theirs, most have the common sense to cover and step aside — there is just nowhere they can go. The whole platform has started to fill up as more travellers climb out of the drainage pipes. And the other half of the dock is claimed by the large containers, being loaded on one by one.

And yet, the immature show of aggression has managed to claim a small open clearing in the middle of the platform, as people press into each other trying to get outside of the blasting zone. Quite literally, as the moment Geralt breaches this unspoken border, the Sketh puts her hand on the trigger.

The boy goes pale. “Please! I do not have it. You must go to Kestra, the dock master, if you have a complaint.”

Geralt flickers a quick look to the Dizan — still frustrated, but passively so, eyes sparking with interest between the Sketh and the boy — and assesses his options. He grabs his energy blade and activates it.

It doesn’t make a sound, but the purple glow should be obvious enough to the Sketh once he—

“Friends! Please calm yourselves.”

A young man slides in front of the boy— in front of the blaster — hands held open in a placating gesture.

Geralt swears internally and deactivates his blade. The Sketh has her hand on the trigger, but hadn’t aimed the blaster. Even if she’d pulled while Geralt subdued her, it would’ve gone wide, cascading over his head.

But the man, standing taller and a step closer to her, has it pressed right against his heart.

He doesn’t seem to be aware of this fact, smiling brightly at the Sketh and then at the crowd at large. It seems so out of place— so confident, that even the Sketh is taken off guard and takes a step back reflexively. The barrel is no longer touching him, but the shot would be equally deadly.

The man is handsome, though garishly colourful compared to everyone in the vicinity. He looks like he’d gotten lost on his way to Erilisis Boulevard and somehow ended up in a sewage-cum-space station, of all places.

Despite his appearance, he carries himself with ease, even familiarity. There is no sign of an illusion to explain his reckless confidence— Geralt checked. If this is all an act, the only thing the man is playing is himself.

“I understand that the recent actions of our honourable Tin Men have us all on edge, as it is their overbearing application of the law that has many of us seeking out new sights in the first place!”

A few murmurs of agreement rumble over the crowd.

“I assume that most are not here out of free will, but rather out of necessity,” the man continues with sympathy. “We are leaving behind friends, family, business— life. No one should expect any of us to be happy, never mind calm.”

Nodding. Someone whistles, others hum. They’re listening.

The man’s face changes, his passionate expression becoming wry. “And look, I also am not eager to sleep among the left over drab of Zevos’ finest.” He pauses and then continues with a sly smile, “Never mind with all of you stinking up the place.”

Some smile, some even chuckle.

Geralt has to work to maintain an expression of neutrality.

The Sketh still has her hand on her blaster, but her finger has slackened, as if she’d forgotten that she was about to pull the trigger. The tension of the crowd at large is easing; the sharp border around the clearing is melting away. The man, with a few words, has them enthralled.

The man seems to be aware of this, because his attention slides off the crowd in a split second. His posture changes. From the wide and tall stance of a stage performer, he slackens slightly-- pulls in and leans forward, almost intimate. He’s looking at the Sketh, his voice low and almost gentle, but there is an order hidden under the kindness.

“Come, scivan. I know the stench is worse for you, but this might very well be the last ship of the day cycle. And with the Enforcers dogging the Magistrate’s tail, the whole operation could be shut down any moment. We cannot afford a delay, none of us can.”

And that is when Geralt realises the man does have a perm-mod after all. Not an illusion patch like the Dizan, but a rarer and much more volatile augmentation: a speech-mod.

Where temporary speech mods might translate your words for a day, or make your singing slightly more passable for single performance, a permanent speech mot does not add anything to the user. It just enhances what is already there.

If you’re good— if you are truly a master of tone, words and whatever fucking else comes with skilled communication, the Ancient Ways are nothing in comparison. Violence is obvious. Ancient crafting leaves traces of some sort behind, even if it is just merely the use of something else. But talking— speech, it takes nothing, it leaves nothing. It is as fleeting as a memory, an experience. Done well, you don’t even remember it, because you don’t know you’re being convinced in a manner more potent than normal interactions.

At least, the ones Geralt has come across prefer an art of subtlety. This man, quite clearly, is more like the ones who wear their speech mod openly, shimmering on the back of their necks, some curving down to their throat in graceful lines. Entertainers, singers, writers; all whose persuasion and manipulation is seen as harmless— made safe in the illusion of fiction.

And yet, despite the apparent taming of danger, they have been given the same title of a specialized class that once lived on the planet called Earth. Those who were able to leverage their seemingly frivolous talents to gain access into the highest courts; become confidants of Kings while serenading them to sleep.

Bards.

Geralt has always found it ironic. To expect these people to only use their powers for entertainment and laughter, named for a group that ostensibly did the same more than a millennium ago, while conveniently forgetting an important fact.

Most Bards were spies.

Gerat carefully sets his thoughts aside when the Bard moves. His focus returns fully to the situation at hand.

The Bard is reaching out to the Sketh, slowly, carefully-- recklessly, idiotically, completely careless of the danger, of setting her off.

She flinches when the Bard’s hand touches her fur covered arm— the one holding the gun.

Geralt takes a careful step closer. His hand hovering over the activation pad of his blade.

He’s quiet, but the Bard clocks him— a glance, eyes unwavering, before he focuses on the Sketh again and says, low, “Let this go.”

There is a breath. Geralt waits.

“Fine,” she spits out. “But I claim best bunk.”

She isn’t looking at the Bard’s face— doesn’t catch the relief before it's drowned out by a companionable smile and a hint of satisfaction. Geralt does. Geralt sees all of it.

The man’s expressions are as garish as his clothing. He is too animated-- too bright-- to belong in a place like this. Amongst people like this. These are people who lie through suppression, not misdirection. Even if it's all false, it is out of place. But it isn’t-- false. Parts of it are genuine, and Geralt doesn’t think it's a mistake. The Bard doesn’t mind people seeing him. It’s disconcerting.

The Bard claps his hands together and turns back to the crowd. “You heard her, the show is on the road!”

As if on cue, the platform shifts and rumbles. Walkways start to extend from the edges toward the sides of the ship. Doors shift open with heavy sighs of pressurised air. The dock boy takes the distraction to get the fuck out of dodge, though he throws a grateful gaze to the Bard as he slips away. The Bard’s smile goes incrementally brighter.

“Now,” he says, raising his voice, “Those with smell sensitivities should have priorities to the upper decks. Let’s show those fuckers we aren’t as inconsiderate as they make us out to be, eh? Behave and you might be treated with an entirely free performance of Craven Roses!”

At that, the Bard bows to a scattering of applause. The promise of potential entertainment brings a measure of good cheer among the passengers— any travel without warp-speed is an exercise in boredom regardless, but the trip between Zevos and the outer ring of Xadan is especially notorious for it. After the purple glow of the Zevos System is left behind, the following week of utter darkness is enough to drive anyone cabin-crazy. The appearance of Xadan eventually brings light. It isn’t pretty, but it's at least something. A measure of progress, watching Meteor Border come closer and closer.

The worst is never the dark, it's feeling like nothing is happening. That you’re moving, but will never arrive.

Geralt shakes his head to himself. He can deal with that. He’s used to it— whether he is in a spacecraft or walking on solid ground. But most people aren’t. Geralt would prefer not to suffer through thinly veiled innuendos posing as a passion play, but the alternative might be even more tedious. He has a sense that this won’t be the last time the Sketh will become a problem.

At least, for now, she isn’t his concern. He clicks his energy blade back on his utility belt and is about go back for Roach when a voice calls out—

“Witcher!”

The Bard.

Geralt stops. He doesn’t turn around. “Few know to call me that.”

The Bard circles him and grins. “Ancienthunter is a bit of a mouthful, if you ask me. Witcher is more of a statement— a strange word for a strange profession; as old as the beasts you’re hunting.”

Geralt snorts. “Funny you say that, Bard.”

“Jaskier, and thank you,” the Bard-- Jaskier says grandly, seemingly unaware of how very much Geralt did not intend it as a compliment. Or maybe he did and doesn’t care. “What a twist of fate, is it not? Two men out of time, on the edge of the universe.”

Geralt snorts and begins to walk.

Jaskier rushes after him, slipping deftly between people to keep up. “Wait!”

“I’m not here for your tales,” Geralt says. “Find another audience.”

Jaskier huffs and makes an affronted sound, but persists. When Geralt eventually breaches the edge of the crowd, he’s caught up, a little out of breath.

“Come on, Witcher. Let me just— I’ve heard of the adventure of people like you and I was wondering—“

His voice cuts out and his eyes go wide, when Roach comes out of the shadows. Mouth agape, he stares.

Geralt reaches out for her lead and turns his back on Jaskier. He’s not interested in seeing the inevitable terror— or, if Jaskier is as reckless as he seemed to be in front of a blaster, anger. Geralt puts a hand on Roach’s neck, knowing that one sign from him and Jaskier wouldn’t have a chance for either. Not that it would help his case.

It’s quiet for so long that Geralt almost thinks Jaskier managed to retreat in complete silence, but when he turns, he’s still standing there, mouth agape.

“I thought—“ he says, and there is no terror. “I thought they were extinct. I thought you— Witchers had hunted them all.”

He isn’t afraid. He is awed.

Geralt thinks of the busy stalls in Kae’r Mor, the gentle huffing, soft rumbling and kind eyes that follow you as you pass through the halls. Dozens of lives saved through secrecy, protecting a species deemed undeserving of existence, merely because some had used them in horrific ways.

He thinks of Vesemir, furious, as Geralt took Roach from her stall.

—selfish. Your actions put all of them in danger, and you know it.

But one survivor shouldn’t — can’t — be able to ruin it. He’s careful, he avoids the corners of the galaxies where they’re most known. Where they’re more than just a story. He can lay the blame all on himself: it shouldn’t be hard to understand one monstrous creature having bonded with another.

He just hadn’t been able to leave her behind. Not if he wasn’t certain he’d ever be back.

“Amaureen,” Jaskier says, quietly, startling Geralt out of his thoughts. To hear that word spoken in such a way— with wonder, is disorientating.

“Does she have a name?”

“Roach.”

There is a stunned silence, and then Jaskier laughs. “Not what I expected for a creature straight out of legend.”

Geralt shrugs. “She likes it.”

Jaskier smiles and then looks at Roach again, hesitating. “Can I—“

“You can try,” Geralt says, gruffly. But he centers himself, trying to project calm— not trust, he can’t lie in this, but he shows her what he saw. Jaskier talking down a crowd, levity cutting through a knife through the tension. Light in a moment of darkness.

Roach huffs and holds still as Jaskier’s fingers brush her snout. His eyes go impossibly bright, and his breath catches when Roach, unprompted, presses against his hand.

“She likes me,” Jaskier says, too surprised to be smug about it.

Geralt doesn’t respond— doesn’t disagree. He feels unbalanced, put off. None of this— none of this is going like it is supposed to go.

Roach responds to his distress, stepping back with a huff.

Jaskier takes his hand back, doesn’t press for more, and says, “Thank you.”

As if that is something people say after touching an Amaureen. Geralt feels a headache brewing.

“Hmm,” he says, and tugs on Roach’s lead. They begin their walk to the farthest end of the ship.

Jaskier doesn’t take the hint.

“How did you find her? Have you had her long?”

“None of your business, Bard.”

“Jaskier, or Dandel, on stage,” he says blithely, “and okay, fine, but you have to understand. This is momentous. I’ve always known there was something off about all those tales. How could a bond-species suddenly turn against their riders? Why all at the same time?”

Geralt makes a noise of warning. Roach’s mane bristles.

“Okay, have it your way. Something else then.” There is barely a pause before he asks, continues, rapid-fire and passionate: “Have you ever encountered a hag? I’ve been hearing about one running a spirit bar in the Dekolijn but that could be a myth. Do they have the intelligence to do such a thing or are they more beast-like?”

Geralt’s jaw tenses, glancing sideways to glare and growl— something, he doesn’t know what, because the moment he turns, he sees something else.

The Dizan, watching them with interest.

For a moment Geralt’s stomach drops— Vesemir was right. He should never have taken Roach with him.

But then he realises that the Dizan isn’t looking at Roach.

They’re looking at Jaskier with a considering look in their eye.

Resignation falls like a heavy cloak around Geralt’s shoulders. He forces his expression in a blank slate and allows Jaskier to follow him, giving occasional one word answers like breadcrumbs, that lead him into the ship— away from that pale white gaze.

As they walk through the bowels of the ship, bile in the back of Geralt’s throat, his nose burning, and a headache in full bloom, one thought circles around in the forefront of his mind, over and over:

He should’ve gone with teleportation after all.

#geraskier #geraskier fic #geralt of rivia #Jaskier #witcher #the witcher #geralt/jaskier #witcher fic #myfic #alternate universe scifi #in the dark we travel

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deviationdivine · 6 years ago

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Be The One Destroyed (RK900!Prompt Request)

TLDR: When your ex makes an unexpected appearance Nines decides to show you what you really mean to him...

Word Count: 4.4k

TW: Fluff to Smut, Language, Mentions of Abuse

A/N: Follower/Reader Appreciation Drabble | Prompt: “Ice King? More like spice king.” - @tropfenlady request! Here we go baby! Thanks for putting in your prompt request! Could it be fluffy/protective Nines? It just might be!

I'll never see what you wanted, love

RK900′s protocols are state of the art. He analyzes data at utmost accuracy. Sampling DNA at crime scenes are much more proficient than this burning sensation he feels. Deep in his artificial gut a fire spreads. This inferno is agitating. Furthermore it melts a perpetually stoic facade into heated anger. Showing emotions is not part of his repertoire. Deviancy is a means of feeling. He does so. Others do not need to see it for their pleasure however.

Curiosity is an abomination of this human race. While adept at integration just as his predecessor it hardly means he wishes to��“chit-chat” with these fools.

Does it stop his interest in you? An officer who works quiet but diligent filing piles of paperwork. At first he assumed you were simply another typical leech such as Gavin Reed. Most do not seem to take proper consideration of time management. It would seem they are not actually working as detectives in a precinct.

Nines’ attitude does not make easy conversation. Yet that did not stop you conversing with him. The first time he imagined you somehow mistook him for Connor despite several glaring clues to the contrary. To say this stern android was taken aback at your genuine interest to converse with him is - frankly undesirable.

Or so he thought – until he spies you one afternoon in presence of another man during a lunch break. Enjoying such at a cafe located several blocks from DPD, Nines similarly found himself in the area following a locally reported incident. He took notice easily through shop window.

Something stilled him where he would otherwise continue without distraction. Witnessing your downcast exterior, lips drooped and not that insufferable smile he replays to memory. There is an odd atmosphere surrounding your company. Unwanted company from body language and RK900 is equipped with all the latest technologies. Reading humans is part of his programming but you-you are…different.

The android also does not like another male around you. He sneered, entering shop without a care. Eyes glued to him instantly. A tall imposing figure standing out in white stepping foot in an all human establishment will create a circus for them. He scoffed before deciding to interrupt your ‘date.’

You were the one rising from seat. Not giving him a chance to come over but practically hurrying to reach him.

Nines’ indicator became a glow of amber. Deciphering your actions only seemed to be more difficult. It makes him uncomfortable. Is that the correct word for this strange feeling cast inside his gut?

“Nines!” You smile automatically washing away whatever anxiety is left in your body. Seeing him spurs life into you, warm and safe.

“Detective,” he greets curtly. “You are needed back at the station.”

Blatantly the android lies. He glowers at the back of the man who does not turn around. Merely sitting with hunched shoulders but presumably listening. His death glare snaps away from your unknown companion under a snag of your hand. Fingers dance at the cuff of his sleeve. Warm digits brush atop synthetic skin as you pull him back outside. The event comes to haunt his system. There is something uneasy surrounding you but it is not due to him.

He casts a look back into cafe. Seemingly aware of the culprit it may not be as he suspected after all. “Is there something you require?”

“Is that how you’re always going to talk to me?” Poking at his chest under that emblazoned RK900, you can’t help grinning up at him. His face holds this permanent resting bitch face. You’d like to kiss it right into submission if you’re being honest. Still, android Darcy is at his finest playing hard to get in genial conversation.

Nines’ eyes shift down. Fingers catch in his before pulling away and he feels how stiff you freeze. Your eyes float up to his and he gently allows freedom to your soft hand.

Clearing your throat isn’t cutting it. What was that? Can’t tell if he was annoyed that you poked him or-?

“You’re not very sociable are you, Nines?”

The playful tone suggests you are teasing. Perhaps flirting would be an appropriate alternative. A tiny smirk curls lips but he forces them to a line just as quickly.

“I am programmed for sociability if it is required of me,” he bites back. “Perhaps you would prefer Connor’s demeanor for idle conversation.” Part of his statement is a test to see if you hold interest outside this vexing meeting inside cafe.

Is that jealousy? Please. Please, let your ice king be jealous. That’d be so good. “Um, don’t get me wrong. I love Connor. He’s just a cute bunny. One that can rip my head off but… So could you. Probably worse. But I prefer your company - Ice King.’

Letting it roll off your tongue for the first time leaves no shame. You hope it riles him just a little bit.

While the android does not show his hand it does exactly what you wish. He believed this is the moment he gives you proper permission to approach him more. While he does not elaborate or confess any strange sensation building up in him, Nines unfortunately does not realize what you need from this cordial relationship.

“Perhaps if you paid proper attention none of this would have happened!” Invoking frustrations to the end results of this case leaves Nines in a state of fury. A simple apprehension would have been by the book and most assuredly productive. If it were not for your senseless distractions!

“Shoot me for having a bad day once in my life!” Shouting back in his face only amplifies stress. You feel it piling on some days. This-this is not helping!

Why does he have to be the one to say it’s a fuck up? Why can’t someone else do it? Why not Connor for once?! Just let the very android that you’re growing so goddamn attached to be the one to crush you in his bare hands.

Those hands could do unspeakable things. Oh, how sure you are. Too bad fantasizing at work doesn’t get you past this friendship. Is it even that? Sometimes you wonder why you bother!

“Suffering what you refer to as a ‘bad day’ is not an excuse!”

You seize to the spot. Having to listen to this is too much. “You know what Nines!?”

“Pray do tell!” He snarls. Leaning closer, eyes sweeping over you as if prey ready to be caught on a live hook.

Something stirs in your stomach that hasn’t taken over in a while. It’s not good. It just makes you feel sick. You shrink back from him. All too aware that your flighty reaction will only make you look worse.

“Never mind,” you whisper quietly. Anger dissipates too quickly not to cause a swirl in his indicator. He is scanning isn’t he? As if you asked for that or-or him to latch on.

Is he truly attached? No. You continue to work frustrated with how easy it is to fall. When his attitude is hardly pleasant most times with others around why do you continuously go for the asshole type? Depends which type but-but maybe it isn’t fair to compare. Honestly there is nothing at all to compare. He wouldn’t…

The android snaps straight at your abrupt departure. His gaze glues to you until there is no more hesitation.

Something drives this advanced android to follow. Unaware of how much this will change things. Perhaps unaware of how much is to change. No. He does know. The RK900 wants you.

Slamming locker door only rings in ears causing your pounding headache to worsen. Banging your hand into the metal surface won’t cure it but it will make you feel better. Just beat something in since that was such a great way for that motherfucker to do when he-

A sob chokes. Coming fast along with your slide down to bench you land in a huff. Isn’t it enough that work gets to you sometimes? Added personal drama doesn’t help nerves and insecurities.

God. You were so over this. Just because that son of a bitch starts popping up again. He blew the city a long time ago while you were still a weak wisp compared to now. You work at the damn DPD. If you wanted to you could punch that bastard in the throat and he wouldn’t be able to take you down. Not like he used to knock you down…

“Y/N?”

Your head snaps up. Realizing your current state is on full display to the last person you want to see you fall. What is he doing? Did he need to add more to a list of offenses you perpetrated today? According to him the list must be a mile long.

“I heard you already, Nines. I don’t want…”

“I am sorry,” the android interrupts firmly. Can you stop speaking for one minute?! “Is that not what you wanted to hear?”

Wanted to hear because what? He doesn’t mean it?

You get up. Finding inner strength is easy. “Oh, that’s funny. I thought you actually wanted to come down here and apologize. Not tell me what I want to hear as if I’m some…!”

Nines’ fingers snag around your wrist. Pulling you slowly to him, he narrows steely ice searching for a true answer now. “Why were you crying?”

Zero hostility floods his voice. He genuinely wants to know. Why tell anyone? Why not tell anyone? At least tell the android…man…that you’ve fallen in love with.

“Do you remember the cafe that one day?”

An unnecessary question, he finds, for a prototype who stores information. However, he nods without adding more words that may upset you further.

“That man at my table,” you explain disgusted. “Who I didn’t want to sit down? My ex.”

Ex? As in ex partner. RK900′s lip twitches nearly curling a sneer.

“Just kind of popped back around. Another reason why I wasn’t exactly focused today.” Where does this bastard get the gall anyway? As if you’re that stupid? Anybody who goes back to that type of situation is just beyond getting out. “I just - want to not have to see that scumbag. After what he…”

Nines does not have need for an elaboration. Flinching away from him previously offers insight into residual trauma. It would appear this so-called ex laid hands upon you at one time.

“Y/N,” his voice softens. Uncharacteristically he allows the facade to fall entirely for you. “I would never harm you.”

Tears run freely in a river of personal woes. Problems should be hidden in some capacity while working. Have a bit more self respect for yourself why don’t you? You find a small laugh suits.

Fingers brushing streaks off your cheek is unexpected but not unwanted. For a haughty one he sure makes your heart thud.

“OK.” Trusting him is easy because he’s different. Even if he is a smug hardass, Nines is something special. “Ice King.”

The RK900′s brow creases sharply at such an endearment. He scoffs. How strange and beautiful you are.

I was the one that you needed, love

Snowflakes never looked prettier dotting his head of rich dark hair. Resembling dollops of whip cream atop steamy cocoa it sure touched your sweet tooth. Craving his lips is nothing new. They do know how to zap breath right out from your lungs. Lately you’ve been really craving him and not just those spicy make outs.

Maybe it’s time to take this to another level? Dating Nines is definitely a roller coaster, a safe one that won’t derail any moment. Doesn’t mean it’s dull by any stretch.

Who would’ve thought you’d wind up falling for a chiseled, pompous prince? He meets all those standards and more.

Grabbing his hand is perfect since he clearly hates PDA. In this frigid atmosphere he does not disentangle. He heats up those systems just a bit. His fingers are warmer now against your chilled digits. Mister advancement likes showing off subtlety.

“Is this necessary?” he huffs impatiently.

“Don’t tell me my big, strong android is afraid of a little snow.” Teasing relentlessly produces such a smolder. Nines can ravage you with his eyes alone. They are so beautiful. Silver chimes tinkle goose bumps all over your body. “You’re not going to melt, Nines. Unless you suddenly became the wicked witch of-”

The android halts you. Sweeping an arm around your waist drags you to him. For this moment he will forget the derision he holds for public display. The more you move your mouth the more Nines wants to devour the curve of lips.

Breath hitches divinely and his eyes are fire. “Ice King? More like spice king.”

Leaning up on toes settles you directly against his warmth. His lips melt softer than snow. Into yours, savoring and teasing with teeth as he nips your bottom lip for access. Willingly parting lips for his tongue sends you somewhere distant.

For being against PDA he certainly is holding snug to you middle of snowfall. Dotting atop your figures, creating a frosty cocoon and this is the warmest you will ever be.

“Y/N?!”

Breaking the kiss prematurely wipes away this cozy moment. Dropping down on level after leaning to exceptionally tall boyfriend attention falls to one witness that inherently makes your blood run cold. You shift towards Nines instinctual and also a means to prevent something happening.

You already know this is not going to go well. The tension in Nines’ arm is clear beneath your fingers. Still you squeeze in hopes he will not kill someone.

“It is you.” Your ex laughs a bit before nodding at the android. “Who’s this guy?”

“Who do you presume I am?” The RK900 detaches from you with a snarl on his breath.

“Wait, a minute. You’re an android?” Squinting at the LED glowing in the snow your ex couldn’t help laughing. It was particularly gut busting. “Are you fucking kidding? You’re with a goddamn android? Wow. How low can you go? I mean, I always knew you were a hard up, worthless…”

Before another word drops from his breath Nines has him slammed into the nearest chain link fence. It comes so swift there is no reaction time.

“Nines!” You move quickly over snow. Trying not to slide on any unsuspecting ice this is just great!

“I will gladly rip the tongue from your throat!” The android growls ferociously.

“Let go. Nines, just don’t. It’s not worth it!” Is he even listening? No! He’s not listening! As much as you hate this piece of shit you don’t want anybody to have their limbs ripped out of sockets. There is no doubt Nines could do it effortlessly. “Nines…please!”

Drawing his gaze to you relinquishes the flood of rage in his system. Stress levels are higher than normal. For you he will do anything and if you do not wish him to pulverize this leech so be it.

“If I ever see you near Y/N again,” the android twists his collar threateningly. “I will destroy you. Do I make myself clear? You pathetic worm?”

“Y-yeah! I-I won’t bother Y/N. I won’t!”

Nines wrenches him clear of fence. Boosting him along makes the human stumble but he continues a speedy exit. “Shall I escort you home now, My Flower?”

You shake your head. He’s not going to say a word about what just happened? “I swear to God, Nines!”

I was the one when you needed love

Throwing a coat down doesn’t stop your nerves. Everything’s haywire when things were just fine. Of course it goes south. What else did you expect?

“You should not have stopped me from squashing that pathetic insect.”

Just what you want to do is argue, right? Twisting around, you watch him drape long black coat and pull sleeves up forearms. The black sweater is snug definitely warm to look at. Eyeing his arms through material does offer a pleasing sight.

Let it be known you are attracted to strong forearms. Make that strong everything. Never would’ve guessed while dating that scum years ago. “It wasn’t worth doing. Besides, aren’t you supposed to be a detective? We both are.”

Incessantly stubborn you are for a morsel he desires on his artificial tongue. He says nothing. Moving towards you is all the words he will speak.

A shiver runs teasingly down spine. Nines’ wolfish gleam makes you weak in the knees. Already he is there sweeping you against his hard body. You have nothing to protest just succumb.

Lips on lips, hands clawing, pinching; his teeth nibble your earlobe sending a wave straight between legs.

“I want you,” he hisses into the grind of your hips. “I will show you how precious you are.”

“Nines,” a whimper crawls up throat.

He too crawls, slithers cool fingers between your legs. Swiping delicately, his eyes train upon your face. Watching eyelids droop for him in surrender and he pushes your knees apart.

All that DNA sampling you witnessed him do never prepares you for how smooth his tongue actually is. Running up your slick trembles sweetly through your body. Your hips rock on this wave. Reaching to pull at the hem of your shirt to get it off while your android boyfriend goes down on you so passionately it’s about to get interesting.

“Oh. Oh! Nines!”

His head lifts at the frantic grab of his hair. He removes his fingers from their deep stroke. “Do you want me to stop yet, Little Bite?”

“No. I want you to come up here.” Reaching down for him nothing stops his slink up your figure to oblige. He pauses before making any move to kiss. You watch him shift to unbuckle dark jeans and completely shed himself of any remaining garments. Biting your lip is the only thing you can think to do when appraising him.

Cyberlife designers must be perverts because he’s delicious.

You laugh when he grabs onto your hips. Cupping his face drags him into you for a sweet kiss. There is still the essence of you inside hot mouth. You moan past his lips, shifting legs to give him access.

His thick waist welcomes the squeeze of your thighs. Welcoming him in return, wanting his torso between legs for all eternity. You come undone, naturally accepting him sinking up to the hilt in all of his thick glory.

Your head falls back.

The android lies heavily against your heat. Creak of the mattress beneath your supine form a soundtrack stuck in his audio processors. A naturally human aura to find in a bed with you sprawled, naked and unafraid of his android exterior. Instead you plead for him and Nines aims to deliver.

“Please,” begging him to move is futile. Peering up into his eyes they are silvery wisps, morphing a glacial hideaway for a mere mortal loved by power itself. Swiping hands along his hips you can’t help but tease that modeled perfection. Even his ass is a sculpted wonder.

Digging fingers there into the flesh finally gets his hips moving. You sigh. Wrapped up in how good he feels shuts thoughts off to the world.

Those hands are to die for. Clutching in sweeps and drawing you further down to deepen this tantalizing connection. Nines curls fingers beneath your thigh. Forcing your leg up props the limb against his shoulder opening you up further for his pleasurable snap.

Your lips part breathless. The more he fucks into you the more you lose whatever worries plague the heart. This is more than that. This is all you want.

“N-Nines, please.”

“I want to hear you say it.” The android groans delectably within your clenching walls.

“I-I’m going to…”

“Not yet,” he hisses, snapping his body.

A sculpted piece he hovers serene in his shivering euphoria. Experiencing this rush through his system overheats but coolant releases itself automatically to stifle this burn. His advancement allows for many things.

Tonight he will simply show you what these inane emotions have done to him. They are as real as this deviancy but never more true than you are.

Protesting any upcoming ideas is farthest from mind. Questioning your android lover might not end well for this night. Depending on how one from an outside perspective views this relationship. They may think so. Not you, never you because an unwell end means the most satisfying, spirit rendering fuck you will ever receive. In your life he makes you like a cloud floating on horizons distant, euphoric in cosmic heavens.

Gladly your body responds as he grips onto your hips. Hoisting up from where you lie on back, your arms drop around his neck. His eyes lock onto yours glimmering.

“Oh,” you huff against his lips. “God, Nines.”

He moves with your body attached to his. Carrying you center of bed as his knees sink into mattress under weight of a muscled plastic frame; he is alive, precious to your heart. Bringing you down atop his lap now rests your bodies in a comfortable entanglement. Wrapping legs around adjusts you better onto his hard body. Despite that inner shell his synthetic skin is creamy.

Caressing him with lips is a dream become reality. Often imagining what he might taste like. Kissing the broad curve of his shoulder doesn’t disappoint. There is something too natural about androids. Honestly it gets things going even more.

His hips move up into you as he groans sharply into your collar. Such a beautiful sound rumbles deep from that chest you dig nails to. Swirling a thumb to circle the android’s nipple heightens his growl. The sound gets you off better. Knowing he feels everything just as you do. This is beautiful. He is a beautiful being and you rock hips to swallow him whole.

The android grazes teeth along your flesh. Nibbling at your skin he takes time to flick tongue over each mark he imprints. Causing your moans to heighten, his fingers dig into your hips hard and possessive.

“Mmm. Yes. Nines, you’re so good to me.”

Slipping in with you brightens a smile. Tugging at your swollen lips, snuggling into him you do not fear rejection. Where he began cold he warms you every night. You completely come into contact with this muscled android. He allows you just as he allows this peace.

Others might find it strange. Smug Nines with his penchant to turn nose up at most people whether they are android or human. Hardly matters when he has the indifference against the world. With you though? This man is the best lover you ever had. Not just when it comes to his bedroom skills, which are plenty amazing. He is just strength, sheltering and today proved that.

Whisking you off after running into your old ex. Nines barely managed out of that without murdering the asshole. Upset after did no good but this-this is everything.

“Are you well after our session?”

An uncontrollable giggle slips out. Who calls it that?! Oh, you love him.

Everything stands still battling these fantasies of the mind. This is reality. Finally being together this way but does he mimic those very words desiring escape? Confessing may ruin it all. Always a story told with you the main character; you twist away to break transparency untold. How it shines so brightly in your eyes. He will read it then. Only thing left is turning a cheek to the one. An android of all beings in the world.

Silence does not bode well for an android as meticulous as Nines. He shifts. Silver sparkles in glacial heat making your entire body fidget. Soft rustling of blankets, sheets do little to hide.

“I love you, Nines,” professing undoes the world.

Inside his space you feel mighty. A shield cast of steel not once dented even though you most certainly were before. He comes as a crystal knight riding the palest steed. He is a handsome prince not of sunshine or rainbows no not he; one of pursed lips, naturally harsh brows. Never is he harsh with you. Power that can crush in those wonderful, large hands if he so chose.

He chooses to grip, caress and fondle you into oblivion. Ecstasy pours from fingers, wine spills from his smooth lips; your heart cannot stand it.

“I’m sorry if you…” Shuddering breath slips your tongue at cool fingers. Gently kissing skin of cheek, strokes to calm erratic thrums of your heartbeat. Does he realize that will not work? Touch alone arouses wonders in you that never rose to the surface until this.

He makes you feel wanted. He makes you feel worth. You deserve actual love and protection. Why did it take so long to find?

The android does not speak. Simply using action to seal an oath as he already did by taking you every which way you desired. Many more ways will come. Many other times he will make stars come alive in the hues of your eyes that capture his human side. Deviancy will be his to share.

Nines captures soft lips. Hungrily he cages your form pressing beneath his sturdy frame. The tangle of your leg with his sends a delicious shudder in an otherwise unsettled shell. He cracks under sweet pressure of you.

“Nines,” a number craved mumbles wet.

Vibrating on the android’s tongue flicking against yours does not end this affection. While he pleasured you any way you asked it’s still amazing to feel those edges go soft. Kisses with him can be ravenous but also sweet. This is a mixture of both sides. Two coins clink together in harmony.

The RK900 does not shun your confessional. He does not detach because it is too late. You are part of his circuitry. Lifeblood of thirium could not power his existence more. Even if he bled every ounce Nines will continue to function…live for you.

Resting forehead against yours, drawing fingers to dust gorgeous curves, tracing delicate. He will show you that nothing will come to tarnish your beauty again. None will touch you, inflict harm upon you without swift retribution.

“I love you as well,” the android reveals in your shared solitude. “I will always protect you. My Flower.”

Tag List: @elydith @your-taxidermy @tropfenlady @connorswink @tommy-10-k

#rk900 x reader #dbh rk900 x reader #nines x reader #dbh nines x reader #rk900 #fluff #angst #follower/reader appreciation #tropfenlady #nines gave me my needed fluff quota #this is nice #even if there is some angst #songfic inspo #be the one (destroyed)

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prissyhalliwell · 6 years ago

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Cover art brought to you by the one and only, @timelordthirteen!

Summary: Rumplestiltskin reflects on his life ten years later.

Read on AO3

EPILOGUE

If Rumplestiltskin had thought his life would grow simpler with the loss the Dark One’s curse, he was very much mistaken.

Years later, he would often joke about how relaxing those years under the curse had been, though no one around him ever did anything more than roll their eyes at his quip.

The Dark Castle, which had once been a solitary and lonely place, was now full of life. At first, it had just been him, Bae, and Belle as they tried to figure out how to be a family. Despite Belle’s insistence that he should have natural magic abilities, his fairy powers never amounted to much. He still had enough to create potions and basic spells, but never again would he wield power close to that of the Dark One.

Considering the price that power had cost him, he was just fine without it.

Now that his quest to find Bae was over, he spent less time locked up in his study and more outside, catching up on centuries of stories with Bae or helping Belle with her gardening. Now that his magic wasn’t dark, Rumplestiltskin found it much easier to grow a flower without turning it to ash.

As for Regina, Belle had been right in her suspicions when she’d noticed the queen gazing at the Dark Realm’s children longingly. Regina had been more than willing to take in a young girl named Drizella, who was already exhibiting an aptitude for magic. A year later, Regina had used some of her fairy dust to locate her soulmate. Now the four of them, including her husband’s young son, lived in a manor house on the edge of the forest.

Jefferson had used part of his share of the dust to make his cat visible. Unfortunately, it didn’t work perfectly, and the cat would often pop in and out of sight, though they later came to suspect that this was based on the cat’s whims rather than a defect of the dust. During a rather boisterous party at the Dark Castle some years later, a drunken Jefferson had convinced an equally inebriated Regina to help him find his true love. Less than six months later, he and Priscilla were married and expecting their first child.

Belle spent a good amount of her time at the castle being human size, though she would often revert to her original form while gardening. Once their daughter Rose - named for how they had met - came along, it looked like Belle would be full-size most of the time, until they realized on their daughter’s third birthday that she too was able to change size. Between Rumple’s magic and Belle’s flying speed, they were usually able to keep her from getting into too much trouble.

Gideon had been an entirely different matter altogether, having inherited the strangest combination of magic from both sides of the family. Bae was the only one could really keep him in line half the time, and Gideon would regularly disappear from the castle for hours, only for them to find the toddler playing in a meadow somewhere, happy as could be.

Both Jefferson and Regina’s families frequently visited the Dark Castle and often overstayed their welcome, at least in Rumplestiltskin’s opinion. As he was the only one in his family who thought this way, his opinion was noted and then ignored.

Despite sometimes wishing his friends weren’t so comfortable swanning into this home at any and all hours, Rumpelstiltskin was grateful for the easy friendships that it provided for his children. Though he had not been the Dark One for many years now, a reputation that dark never really faded. He remembered the loneliness of a childhood spent without friends, ostracized because of his father’s reputation as a cheat and womanizer. He had not wanted his children to suffer the same. Thanks to his insufferably friendly acquaintances, he never had to worry about that happening.

Still, Rumplestiltskin liked nothing better than sitting in his garden with Belle while the children ran around them, occasionally trampling flowers that he and Belle would have to spend the next morning coaxing back to life.

It was one such afternoon when Rumplestiltskin was in a contemplative mood, his mind reflecting back on the events that had transpired in the Dark Realm over a decade earlier. Something was niggling at the back of his brain, but he couldn’t put a finger on it.

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” he wondered aloud to Bae who sat next to him. “I spent centuries trying to get to the Land Without Magic because I thought that’s where you were. I must have tried every possibility out there to cross over, but nothing worked. Had I actually succeeded, I would have been trapped and we never would have been reunited.” He gaze swept over the garden. “I never would have met Belle, and neither Rose nor Gideon would even exist.”

Bae looked over at his younger siblings, chuckling as a fairy-sized Rose dodged the flower bombs Gideon was sending towards her.

“Perhaps it was fate, Papa. Or maybe Fiona had a hand in it. We know she sent you on a wild goose chase after the Dark Curse. It would make sense that she wouldn’t want you to actually succeed in getting there.”

Rumplestiltskin nodded thoughtfully. Those theories made as much sense as anything he had been able to come up with.

“I guess we’ll never know,” he said finally, realizing that was an answer he could live with. Whatever had brought him to this point, he was grateful for it.

Bae chuckled. “What do you want to bet Belle will find an ancient fairy prophecy that predicted the whole thing?”

With a groan, Rumplestilskin ruffled his adult son’s hair affectionately. “Let’s not tempt fate, hmm?”

Considering the strange course his life had taken, there wasn’t much that would surprise him at this point. He had hated fairies for centuries, only to find out that his entire life has been more or less orchestrated by one of the most powerful fairies in existence. He had discovered that he himself was part fairy. Most importantly, he’d found True Love with Belle, a woman who embodied the best characteristics of her people - kind, loving, and stubborn as hell.

After all these years, Rumplestiltskin was happy to admit that perhaps he didn’t hate fairies quite so much, after all.

Author’s Note: We’ve reached the end! Thank you to each and every one of you who has read this story, reblogged it, or taken the time to leave a sweet comment. Your support has gotten me through writer’s block, the uncertainty of trying new things as a writer, and the general anxiety of staring at a blank Word document thinking “WTF HAVE I GOTTEN MYSELF INTO?” So thank you once again and I hope to see you around! <3

#rumbelle #rumbelle fic #rumplestiltskin #belle french #fairy belle #the fairy gardener

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yes-dal456 · 8 years ago

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Kin By Mania: The Bond I Feel With Other Bipolar People Is Inexplicable

She moved like me. That’s what I noticed first. Her eyes and hands darted as she talked — playful, acerbic, digressive.

We talked on past 2 a.m., her speech breathless, crackling with opinion. She took another hit from the joint and passed it back to me on the dorm suite couch, as my brother fell asleep on my knee.

Siblings separated at birth must feel this way when meeting as adults: seeing part of yourself in someone else. This woman I’ll call Ella had my mannerisms, giddiness, and fury, so much so that I felt we were related. That we must share common genes.

Our talk went everywhere. From hip-hop to Foucault, Lil Wayne, to prison reform, Ella’s ideas branched. Her words were torrential. She loved arguments and picked them for fun, like I do. In a dark room, if lights were tied to her limbs, they’d dance. So did she, around the suite she shared with my brother, and later, on a pole in the taproom of a campus club.

When bipolar people meet, we find an immigrant intimacy, a solidarity. We share a suffering and a thrill.

My brother’s roommate gave me pause about myself. I found Ella exhilarating, but exhausting — bright but reckless, possessed. I wondered, feared, if this is how people felt about me. Some of Ella’s opinions seemed hyperbolic, her actions extreme, like dancing naked on the college green or flicking off cop cars. Still, you could count on her to engage. To react.

She had an opinion, or at least a feeling, about everything. She read voraciously and was fearlessly herself. She was magnetic. I was struck that my brother with his laidback, practical, frat-bro spirit, got along so well with Ella, who was excitable, artsy, and absentminded.

None of us knew it that night I met Ella in Princeton, but within two years she and I would share something else: a stay in a mental hospital, meds, and a diagnosis we’d keep for life.

Alone, together

The mentally ill are refugees. Far from home, hearing your mother tongue is a relief. When bipolar people meet, we find an immigrant intimacy, a solidarity. We share a suffering and a thrill. Ella knows the restless fire that is my home.

We charm people, or we offend them. That’s the manic-depressive way. Our personality traits, like exuberance, drive, and openness, attract and alienate at once. Some are inspired by our curiosity, our risk-taking nature. Others are repelled by the energy, the ego, or the debates that can ruin dinner parties. We are intoxicating, and we are insufferable.

So we have a common loneliness: the struggle to get past ourselves. The shame of having to try.

Bipolar people kill themselves 30 times more often than healthy people. I don’t think this is just because of mood swings, but because manic types often wreck their lives. If you treat people badly, they won’t want to be near you. We can repel with our inflexible focus, our impatient tempers, or our enthusiasm, that egocentric positivity. Manic euphoria is no less isolating than depression. If you believe that your most charismatic self is a dangerous mirage, it’s easy to doubt that love exists. Ours is a special loneliness.

Yet some people — like my brother, who has several bipolar friends, and the women I’ve dated — don’t mind bipolarity. This type of person is drawn to the chattiness, the energy, the intimacy that’s as intuitive to a bipolar person as it is beyond her control. Our uninhibited nature helps some reserved people open up. We stir some mellow types, and they calm us in return.

These people are good for each other, like anglerfish and the bacteria that keep them aglow. The manic half gets things moving, sparks debate, agitates. The calmer, more practical half keeps plans grounded in the real world, outside the Technicolor insides of a bipolar person’s skull.

The story I’m telling

After college, I spent years in the rural countryside of Japan teaching elementary school. Nearly a decade later in New York, a brunch with a friend changed how I saw those days.

The guy, I’ll call him Jim, worked the same job in Japan before me, teaching at the same schools. Sempai, I’d call him in Japanese, meaning older brother. The students, teachers, and townspeople told stories about Jim everywhere I went. He was a legend: the rock concert he performed, his recess games, the time he dressed as Harry Potter for Halloween.

Jim was the future me I wanted to become. Before meeting me, he’d lived this monk’s life in rural Japan. He’d filled notebooks with practice kanji — row after patient row of characters. He’d kept a daily vocabulary list on an index card in his pocket. Jim and I both liked fiction and music. We had some interest in anime. We both learned Japanese from scratch, among the rice paddies, with help from our students. In the countryside of Okayama, we both fell in love and had our hearts broken by girls who grew up faster than we did.

We were also a bit intense, Jim and I. Capable of fierce loyalty, we could also be detached, steely, and cerebral in a way that chilled our relationships. When we were engaged, we were very engaged. But when we were in our heads, we were on a distant planet, unreachable.

We are good for each other, like deep sea fish and the bacteria that keep them aglow. The manic half gets things moving, sparks debate, agitates.

At brunch that morning in New York, Jim kept asking about my master’s thesis. I told him I was writing about lithium, the drug that treats mania. I said lithium is a salt, dug from mines in Bolivia, yet it works more reliably than any mood-stabilizing drug. I told him how manic depression is fascinating: a severe, chronic mood disorder that is episodic, recurrent, but also, uniquely, treatable. People with the mental illness at the highest risk of suicide, when they take lithium, often don’t relapse for years.

Jim, now a screenwriter, kept pushing. “What’s the story?” he asked. “What’s the narrative?”

“Well,” I said, “I’ve got some mood disorder in my family … “

“So whose story are you using?”

“Let’s pay the bill,” I said, “I’ll tell you while we walk.”

The upside

Science has begun to look at bipolar through the lens of personality. Twin and family studies show that manic depression is roughly 85 percent heritable. But no single mutation is known to code for the disorder. So recent genetic studies often focus instead on personality traits: talkativeness, openness, impulsivity.

These traits often appear in first-degree relatives of people with bipolar disorder. They’re hints as to why the “risk genes” for the condition run in families, and were not weeded out by natural selection. In moderate doses, traits like drive, high energy, and divergent thinking are useful.

This doesn’t mean that mania brings genius. What mania inspires is chaos: delusional confidence, not insight.

Writers at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, like Kurt Vonnegut, had higher rates of mood disorder than the general population, one classic study found. Bebop jazz musicians, most famously Charlie Parker, Thelonius Monk, and Charles Mingus, also have high rates of mood disorder, often bipolar. (Parker’s song “Relaxin’ at the Camarillo” is about his stay at a mental asylum in California. Monk and Mingus were both hospitalized, too.) The book “Touched with Fire” by psychologist Kay Redfield Jamison retrospectively diagnosed many artists, poets, writers, and musicians with bipolar disorder. Her new biography, “Robert Lowell: Setting the River On Fire,” describes art and illness in the life of the poet, who was hospitalized for mania many times, and taught poetry at Harvard.

This doesn’t mean that mania brings genius. What mania inspires is chaos: delusional confidence, not insight. The ramble is often prolific, but disorganized. Creative work produced while manic, in my experience, is mostly narcissistic, with distorted self-importance and a careless sense of audience. It’s rarely salvageable from the mess.

What research does suggest is that some of the so-called “positive traits” of bipolar disorder — drive, assertiveness, openness — persist in bipolar people when they are well and on medication. They appear also in relatives who inherit some of the genes fueling manic temperament, but not enough to cause the ragged, swerve-y moods, the sleepless energy, or the giddy restlessness that defines manic depression itself.

Brother

“You’re kidding me,” Jim said, laughing nervously, as he bought me a coffee that day in New York. When I’d mentioned earlier how many creative people have mood disorders, he’d hinted — with a sideways smirk — that he could tell me plenty about that from his experience. I hadn’t asked what he meant. But as we walked up the nearly 30 blocks to Penn Station from Bond Street, he told me about his rocky past year.

First, there were the hookups with female colleagues. Then the shoes he filled his closet with: dozens of new pairs, expensive sneakers. Then the sports car. And the drinking. And the car crash. And now, the past few months, depression: a flat-line anhedonia that sounded familiar enough to chill my spine. He’d seen a shrink. She wanted him to take meds, said he was bipolar. He’d been rejecting the label. This was also familiar: I’d avoided lithium for two years. I tried to tell him he’d be OK.

She wanted him to take meds, said he was bipolar. He’d been rejecting the label. This was also familiar: I’d avoided lithium for two years.

Years later, a new TV project brought Jim to New York. He asked me to a baseball game. We watched the Mets, kind of, over hotdogs and beers and constant talk. I knew that at his fifteenth college reunion, Jim had reconnected with a former classmate. Before long, they were dating. He didn’t tell her at first that he was buried under depression. She learned soon enough, and he feared she’d leave. I’d written emails to Jim during that period, urging him not to worry. “She understands,” I insisted, “They always love us for how we are, not despite.”

Jim gave me the news at the game: the ring, the yes. I pictured a honeymoon in Japan. And hoped, in this too, that sempai had given me a glimpse of my future.

The family madness

Seeing yourself in someone else is common enough. If you’re bipolar, this sense can be all the more uncanny, as some traits you see can match you like a fingerprint.

Your personality is largely inherited, like bone structure and height. The strengths and faults it’s laced with are often two sides of one coin: ambition bound to anxiety, a sensitivity that comes with insecurity. You, like us, are complex, with hidden vulnerabilities.

Theirs is a family I’m proud to be part of: curious, driven people, chasing hard, caring intensely.

What runs in bipolar blood is not a curse but a personality. Families with high rates of mood or psychotic disorder, often, are families of high achieving, creative people. People with pure bipolar disorder often have a higher IQ than the general population. This is not to deny the suffering and suicides still caused by the disorder in people who don’t respond to lithium, or those with comorbidities, who fare worse. Nor to minimize the struggle still faced by the lucky, like me, in remission for now. But it is to point out that mental illness, very often, seems to be a byproduct of extreme personality traits that are often positive.

The more of us I meet, the less I feel like a mutant. In the way my friends think, talk, and act, I see myself. They are not bored. Not complacent. They engage. Theirs is a family I’m proud to be part of: curious, driven, chasing hard, caring intensely.

Taylor Beck is a writer based in Brooklyn. Before journalism, he worked in labs studying memory, sleep, dreaming, and aging. Contact him at @taylorbeck216.

The original article appeared on Healthline.com

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imreviewblog · 8 years ago

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Kin By Mania: The Bond I Feel With Other Bipolar People Is Inexplicable

She moved like me. That’s what I noticed first. Her eyes and hands darted as she talked — playful, acerbic, digressive.

We talked on past 2 a.m., her speech breathless, crackling with opinion. She took another hit from the joint and passed it back to me on the dorm suite couch, as my brother fell asleep on my knee.

When bipolar people meet, we find an immigrant intimacy, a solidarity. We share a suffering and a thrill.

None of us knew it that night I met Ella in Princeton, but within two years she and I would share something else: a stay in a mental hospital, meds, and a diagnosis we’d keep for life.

Alone, together

So we have a common loneliness: the struggle to get past ourselves. The shame of having to try.

The story I’m telling

After college, I spent years in the rural countryside of Japan teaching elementary school. Nearly a decade later in New York, a brunch with a friend changed how I saw those days.

We are good for each other, like deep sea fish and the bacteria that keep them aglow. The manic half gets things moving, sparks debate, agitates.

Jim, now a screenwriter, kept pushing. “What’s the story?” he asked. “What’s the narrative?”

“Well,” I said, “I’ve got some mood disorder in my family … “

“So whose story are you using?”

“Let’s pay the bill,” I said, “I’ll tell you while we walk.”

The upside

This doesn’t mean that mania brings genius. What mania inspires is chaos: delusional confidence, not insight.

Brother

She wanted him to take meds, said he was bipolar. He’d been rejecting the label. This was also familiar: I’d avoided lithium for two years.

Jim gave me the news at the game: the ring, the yes. I pictured a honeymoon in Japan. And hoped, in this too, that sempai had given me a glimpse of my future.

The family madness

Seeing yourself in someone else is common enough. If you’re bipolar, this sense can be all the more uncanny, as some traits you see can match you like a fingerprint.

Theirs is a family I’m proud to be part of: curious, driven people, chasing hard, caring intensely.

Taylor Beck is a writer based in Brooklyn. Before journalism, he worked in labs studying memory, sleep, dreaming, and aging. Contact him at @taylorbeck216.

The original article appeared on Healthline.com

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