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gothgirlmahi · 25 days

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Ah, I love reading about Geralt’s crazy ass 😭. He’s diabolical!!! Keeping her passport and ID?! JAIL!

Thanks for sharing this with us, these updates always get me hella excited. I had to lay down in bed and get comfy for this one 😂

Dark!Rockstar!Geralt AU: Intoxication

Dark!Rockstar!Geralt X Reader: Intoxication

Words: 2.5k

Rockstar Geralt Masterlist

TW: 18+, dubcon, drugging (sex pollen esq), heavy drinking, kinda exhibitionist, aggressive and controlling partner, daddy kink, if I’m missing any let me know

A/N: at this point I’m just gonna stop apologizing for not posting bc I say it everytime lmao. I promise I won’t be abandoning this series I have so much more planned. I’ve written a lot for pre-dark Geralt but I’m planning on doing more dark Geralt updates.

Written, edited, and posted from my phone so if it sucks idk what to tell you bestie

You are responsible for your own media consumption. By continuing reading you confirm you are 18+, I do not give permission to have any of my work reposted or translated in any other platform even if you give credit.

The after-party music was blasting in your ear, the bass of the speakers vibrating your feet as you looked over the sea of people all with their own reason of importance.

You didn’t know what fucking city or country you were in, what the day was, where your phone or wallet or even passport was, you just knew that you’d drank every glass handed to you because it was better than dealing with Geralt sober. You were still faintly hungover from the night before but Geralt convinced you to drink the hair of the dog that bit you. You didn't fucking care anymore.

A European leg of the tour felt like it had gone on for ages but it had only been two weeks of nonstop shows. Usually between every couple of shows, there were days off planned to recuperate in whatever city you had landed in but you were in a stretch without it. You didn’t speak the language, you didn’t even know where Geralt was. You just drank whatever was in the flavorful pink glass you were handed. You stopped questioning Geralt’s commands a while ago.

For a brief moment, you considered finding someone, anyone, who could speak English and try to find a way to get to the embassy and get home but there was no point. Geralt would just find you again and again and again and again. He was smarter than most gave him credit for, he kept your passport and ID and all of your money with him claiming you didn’t need it and he’d pay for everything but really he was keeping you from escaping. He said you’d earn more freedoms back over time as if you were a grounded child. It’d only been two months since he forced you from your normal life and drowned you in his.

“There’s my girl.”

At this point, you were convinced he could read your mind and knew you were thinking about running away.

You only replied with a grunt before taking another drink. “What do you want?”

His hand latched to your wrist tightly, enough to remind you of your place but not too noticeable to a wandering eye. “Behave.”

“Whatever you say.” You rolled your eyes pulling your arm away. “What’re you gonna do about it? Punish me in front of all these people? Do it, be my fucking guest.” Your words barely came out the alcohol already making you tongue-tied but you just left his gaze and drank more.

In your peripheral, you saw him rub his palm angrily over his mouth before taking the now-empty glass from you. “Fuck off-“

He was quick to grab you by your hair and pull you in his aggressive embrace to kiss you. He may be a piece of shit but god no one could make you weak like him. His tongue swirled with yours as you felt something slide against to roof of your mouth before he pulled away. “What the-“

You ran your tongue over whatever he shoved in your mouth before you realized what it was and quickly tried to pull the dissolving pill out. “What did you just give me?” You tried to wipe out your mouth but the drugs had disintegrated too quickly for you to entirely spit out.

“Just helping you loosen up.” He chuckled as if it was a harmless prank before forcing you flushed against him. “I’d never give you anything dangerous, I took it too.”

You slapped him but his head barely moved as if you hadn’t just put all your strength into it. “You fucking drugged me!” You broke free of him.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He grunted trying to corral you back to him.

“I’m going to go try to puke this up, get off me or I’ll do it all over you instead!” He finally let you go as you stumbled drunkenly away from him and toward the neon red sign on the wall adjacent to the bar that spelled something you couldn’t understand but thankfully the universal toilet sign next to it was all you needed.

This club, although packed full, was small. The bathrooms were only one per person and thankfully the night was still young for most of the people here who hadn’t gotten started as early as the rockstars do so there wasn’t a line.

The walls were covered in colorful logo stickers and autographs from the low-grade celebrities who’d visited.

Falling to your knees you began to force yourself to puke but as you felt your body become numb you knew there was no point and that it had dissolved quickly.

Gripping to the side of the wall you brought yourself back to your wobbling feet, your heels too tall for you to be this drunk, and stumbled to the sink running cold water over your hands.

Your eyes fluttered at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, your sweaty palms gripping the edge of the porcelain sink, trying to figure out how to breathe normally. Your makeup was dark and heavy and your skin shone in a cold sweat.

You’re not sure how long you were in that bathroom staring at your own reflection but long enough that there was loud banging on the door accompanied with yelling in a language you didn’t understand. Forcing yourself from your trance you opened the door with your slick palms. The pair of women who looked angry and impatient when you first opened the door quickly turned concerned and asked you questions you couldn’t decipher.

Language barrier or not you could assume what they were asking. Do you need help? Are you okay?

Shrugging them off you hoped they’d just assume you were drunk off your ass but they wouldn’t be wrong.

As furious as you were, you knew you needed to find Geralt, it’s not safe to be alone like this, he knows that you know this. The heavy beating of the music bounced off your skin as if it was a ripple in water as you stumbled to VIP.

You held onto the metal railing as you tried to climb up the stairs as carefully as you could in the dramatic heels he dressed you in and the room started to spin. It felt like your skin was burning you alive while simultaneously tingling as if from the cold as you made your way to the second-floor balcony with the empty VIP entrance guarded by a man who let you pass without a word.

Geralt sat with knees spread with a glass of expensive brown alcohol swirling in his hand. “There you are,” he grinned, enjoying watching you struggle.

“Geralt, please.” You begged stumbling to him, grateful the lounge was empty as everyone partied downstairs.

“Careful, pretty girl.” With barely a blink of an eye, you were somehow in Geralt’s hold, leaning your body weight onto his chest. It felt like he magically appeared from the couch but you knew it was likely just the drugs affecting your perception of time. “You’re feeling good, yet?”

You shook your head, your bottom lip beginning to quiver as you started to cry, too overwhelmed and overstimulated. You didn’t like being out of control of your own body. It was easy to sober up when drinking, but this was intoxication you weren’t familiar with. “Hate it’. Hate you.” You whimpered. “Everything is spinning, Gee. Make it stop.”

Geralt cooed condescendingly, his large hand brushing over your head as if he were dealing with a confused child. “Gotta find an anchor, gotta find something to keep you grounded so you can enjoy the high.”

“I don’t know anything about boats.”

He laughed once more at your plea and you didn’t understand what you said that was so funny.

You were in a foreign country where you didn’t speak the language and you felt like you were tripping. You were furious with him right now but you were too terrified not to come to him for comfort. He yanked you by your arm, guiding you towards the rails, bright lights flashing throughout the club. You laid your head on his chest trying to ground yourself to anything despite being ready to kill him. “Want it to stop.” Your mouth cotton dry.

It was a new level of desire and arousal laced with confusion that you had never felt before.

His sporadic heartbeat felt like the only thing you could focus on and how he smelled of body heat and liquor that would normally make you nauseous. “You gonna be my good girl?” His large hand placed on your hip, his heavy boots kicking between your legs spreading them from each other before teasingly tracing up your thighs.

Nodding briefly you separated your legs farther apart, your hips searching for the fingers that hurt you so many times over and now beyond grateful that the VIP was secluded. The small balcony section looked over the neon bright downstairs, countless intoxicated bodies pressed together like ants.

Geralt’s masculine hand caressed your jawline, moving his lips grazing over yours just barely enough to get you to chase your head to his. A cheeky grin grew on his face as he swiftly forced a hand at your lower back indicating for you to bend at the hip against the rails. You could only focus on how badly you wanted to kiss him, how badly you needed to feel him. The drugs made your body burn addictingly. You were so out of it you felt out of body as Geralt maneuvered you to his liking.

Geralt slid your dress up, yanking your lace panties to the side, and pressed himself against your back. His hands guided yours to grip onto the railing that sectioned off the VIP and that looked over the downstairs crowd securing you in place.

It felt like you were standing on a unraveling tightrope over a skyscraper, you held on tightly to the black metal bar with clammy palms. You tried to fight against Geralt’s repositioning but it didn’t take much for him to correct you even when you weren’t drugged. “Keep your eyes on them, pretty girl.” He commanded, forcing you to turn your head back. “You don’t want them to know what you’re doing up here, now do you?”

Realistically you know there’s no way they could see the two of you from down there, at least not well enough to know what you were doing. The strobing colorful lights in the dark disguised your position as if the loud music and dancing wasn’t distracting enough. “All in their own world but you’re up here only belonging to me.”

You tried to catch your breath but you felt paralyzed in fear as if you were looking off the side of a cliff but it quickly left your lungs when Geralt had thrusted himself inside you. Your terror kept you too distracted to have even realized he had taken his hard cock out. A cry left your lips and your knees trembled.

“Look at all of those people down there.” He retorted as he began to fuck into you. Geralt always felt good, but your heightened sensitivity made you feel inhuman amounts of pleasure just seeping from your skin. “You gonna be good? Gonna make me proud of my girl?”

“Geralt,” you groaned, your head tilting back to rest on his shoulder thankful he was practically holding you upright by your bent waist as your legs turned to jello. “Feels so…”

“Feel so good squeezing my cock.” He grunted. “I’m so glad I thought about drugging you, doesn’t it feel so good?”

His offhand comment reminding you of him forcing drugs into your system made you want to revolt and pull from him in anger but it quickly faded away when he thrust into you just right. “God, you’re so wet for me it’s pathetic. Such a slut for me, isn’t that right?”

Normally if your body wasn’t melting from his you’d have snide remarks and comebacks but right now the only thing you were capable of thinking about was how close you already were and how you knew neither of you were gonna stop at just one.

“I said, isn’t that right?” Geralt repeated harsher, his large bicep wrapped over your shoulder, forcing you to keep your head on his chest, his heavy breathing fanning over your ear.

“Yes, daddy.” You whimpered desperately as his hand sped up its pace under your panties and expertly stroked your clit the way he had his guitar for thousands of people only a few hours ago. “Gonna…cum…don’t stop.”

“Atta girl,” the sharp stubble of his beard pricked at your neck as he kissed along your weak spot. “Normally I'd make you beg but I know that’s too hard for your little brain to handle. My dumb little girl, cock drunk for me, can’t even fucking speak.”

Geralts tainting tease barely registered with you as you came forcefully with the stroke of his hand. You thanked god that the music was too loud for someone else to hear your cries and that he was keeping you standing with his other hand leaving your chest and holding you by the waist with his knees slightly bent for you to collapse against.

“Gonna fuck my cum in you.” He growled in your ear with his thrusts growing tougher. “You need dick so badly you were acting like a bitch in heat for me. You need your big daddy’s cock, need to be filled, it’s your only fucking purpose.”

Your body still burned for him even though you came harder than you ever had in your life you still needed him desperately as your life depended on it. “Want you to cum in me,” you nuzzled against him with the intoxicating scent of his sweat filling your nose. “I know how much you love it, please cum in me, I need it to stop hurting. Need to be filled.”

A grunting cry flowed over your ear with the jerking abrupt of his thrusts accompanied by the feeling of his cum dripping on your thighs.

Geralt spun you back around to face him after he pulled himself from you. “Fuck, I’m still hard for you.” His lips hungrily consumed yours, one arm forcing you against him, the other groping your chest with heavy petting along your neck. You knew he was restraining from wrapping his hand around your throat. You were still in public and if someone caught sight of a celebrity with his hand wrapped around their girlfriend's throat it wouldn’t end well.

“I wanna go back to the hotel,” your chest rose and sank repeatedly as you tried to catch your breath. “Need you to fuck me sober so I can be angry at you.”

“Anything you want, pretty girl.”

///

A/N: I hate my writing teehee

Taglist is open

Taglist: @sadbucksblog @botnasty @donutloverxo o @kmuir1 @littledark11 1 @gothgirlmahi i @princessaxoxo

#fic rec

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gothgirlmahi · 1 month

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Because I could not stop for Death

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gothgirlmahi · 1 month

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me, quietly whispering to the ao3 page of an author who doesn’t even know I exist: I am obsessed with you

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gothgirlmahi · 1 month

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Don’t ever talk to me or my fictional pathetic man ever again

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gothgirlmahi · 1 month

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I hate the whole discourse of: "fanfic writers need to accept criticism so they can improve". Look, I did not post 5k of men blowing their loads so that I can become Hemingway or something, just don't read it if you don't want to, or do read it and drop your damn thanks in the tin.

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gothgirlmahi · 1 month

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Jane Austen really said ‘I respect the “I can fix him” movement but that’s just not me. He’ll fix himself if knows what’s good for him’ and that’s why her works are still calling the shots today.

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gothgirlmahi · 2 months

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If you hate “ghetto” readers so much go on and be the change you wanna see. Write the soft black readers and reblog other writers who write them. You don’t have to engage with content you dislike. “Even black people need to stop writing for black readers” be so for real right now 😂

is it just me or do even the black writers need to stop writing for black readers. for some reason, all they do make y/n this low key hypersexual, down for everything, overly confident while being submissive when it comes to her man. She’s also always in a borderline abusive relationship and fits the stereotype of being a loud, ghetto, black woman that we tried so hard to disprove. She’s also low key a thot most of the time. Why can’t we have a soft, feminine, shy, loving, calm black readers? Why can’t we be taken out on a date like a picnic, dinner, or take a walk outside with our s/o? We wanna be treated like a princess without the end of the work being total smut (jjk fandom). I just wanna be able to read a cutesy little x black reader where I wear bows and cute little dresses with my friends in a nice house with my loving s/o without the characters getting freaky at the end.

#what the fuck lmao

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gothgirlmahi · 2 months

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Just the Tip

— Thomas Hewitt x Fem!Reader —

MDNI!!!

Summary: It’s the 1960s and Luda Mae frowns upon premarital sex like any good Christian woman. You and Tommy are young, hot, and in love but the only problem is that Tommy was raised to wait until marriage and never lets you two go any further than kissing and some groping.

But the devil lives in the hot Texan sun and even God takes a break from the summer heat.

Notes: this is super short, just pure smut, self indulgent I’m obsessed with big boy Tommy 😭😭😭 i swear I’m working on part 2 of my sister Sinclair fic but Tommy has me in a choke hold and I needed an outlet.

No TW that I can think of other than bad smut and maybe ??? Coercion??? Cause Tommy wants to be a good boy and stop before y’all go too far but you flash him and then he’s absolutely 100% in. A bit of religious stuff, period typical sexism but vaguely. Let me know if I should add anything else and I’ll get right on it. Reader isn’t ever referred to using “she/her” pronouns but is described as having breasts and does have female genitalia so I tagged it fem reader to be safe

Enjoy!!!

The early morning sun burned, chasing away what little cool air remained of the night before. While the barn shaded you from the unforgiving sun and hid you from disapproving eyes — or lecherous in the case of the older men of the family — it also trapped in the heat your two bodies gave off.

Thomas pressed his open mouth to your own, tongue swiping over your teeth eager to taste you. Your hands gripped his dark hair, ruining any half-effort attempt he had made earlier in the day to smooth down his unruly hair. He held you in his arms, body pressed tightly against him in an attempt to get as close as possible, his large frame hiding you even further from prying eyes than the shadowed corners of the old barn. The kiss was deep and hungry and served as a brief respite from Luda Maes ever watching eyes. While she had been fine with you living with the family before you and Tommy were married, she forbade you from sharing a room or being intimate, a rule she absolutely refused to budge on and one that Uncle Charlie took a strange glee in ribbing you about. But much like the Texan heat, the heated looks you gave each other were unavoidable and only grew hotter as the summer days went on. Luda Mae wanted to wait until the following spring to make your union official but at the rate the town was drying up, there wouldn't even be a priest to officiate the ceremony, much less any guest to attend. You highly doubted anyone outside of the family would want to witness your union anyway but still, Luda Mae didn't want the few who would to get wise and start counting months.

These stolen moments in the barn were as good as you could get — and by god were they good.

Tommy’s large hands groped at your breasts, pawing roughy at your nipples through the worn fabric of your old dress. It wasn’t long before you found yourself in the familiar position of being sprawled out on the barn floor, coarse hay a discomfort you had long learned to endure for the sake of pleasure.

You desperately thrust your sex up onto his growing bulge, whining when he groaned and pinned your hips with his own, preventing you from getting your desired stimulation. “Please Tommy,” you beg, lips separating, “We don’t have to do too much, I just wanna touch you.” You press open-mouthed kisses to his neck, pulling softly at the flesh with your teeth and tongue dragging across the bites to taste the salt on his skin. Your hands eagerly worked to untuck his faded green shirt and wrap around him, roaming the vast expanse of his back. His whole body shuddered in your arms, an attempt to hold back from eating you whole.

You know Thomas will put an end to your romp soon, the tense lines of his shoulders and the way he shuts his eyes a sign that he's reaching his limit, that if you two don't stop now you won't be able to stop — but that’s exactly what you want.

You're tired of holding back, of this constant edging you have to endure when you’re in his presence and it gets harder every day. Just yesterday afternoon, Uncle Charlie sprayed Tommy with the hose, telling him that he was filthy and needed to get out of those clothes before he went inside. Watching as he undressed by the back door so that you could put his clothes on the line to dry had nearly given you a heatstroke — and if Charlie’s leering grin was any clue, you swear he did it on purpose in an attempt to rile you up. You ran off before you sinned right there in the yard, the memory of Thomas's shirt clinging to his arms, his chest glistening with water had kept you company well into the night.

So before Tommy puts a stop to your roll in the hay you make your move. You lift your dress up past your breast and expose yourself to him, you can see his breath stutter in his chest, this was quickly becoming the farthest you two had ever gone.

“Just watch me, Tommy, watch me,” you say breathlessly.

And he does, he sits on his haunches like a predator, his engorged cock straining against his pants and imagining just a taste has your tongue darting out to wet your lips, his gaze fixated on the movement.

Sliding your panties off your legs, your fingers dip briefly into your wet hole, gathering slick to rub onto your clit. At the very first touch, you let out a shuddering breath and you watch as his shoulders heave.

You begin rubbing your clit at an intense pace already turned on from the earlier heavy petting, not once breaking eye contact with Thomas as you do. With each moan you muffle you see his eyes grow darker with desire breathing with his mouth open as though he could taste your scent in the air. When he finally lets his cock spring free you let out your loudest moan yet. It’s better than you ever thought. His cock is thick and heavy, drooping slightly under its own weight but still undeniably firm. It curves slightly and you imagine that if it was inside you it would scrape against your walls in a way you've never been able to do with just your fingers.

Thomas grips his cock firmly and gives it a few tugs, eyes alternating between hungrily drinking in the sight of your blissed-out expression and your dripping pussy. You buck your hips, desperate to press your clit against your fingers and Thomas jerks his length even faster, rubbing his tip and spreading his precum on his hand.

God, you wished it was you that was touching him.

Thomas settles onto his knees and after a brief hesitation begins to shuffle closer to you. The sight of him crawling to you on his knees with his dripping length in hand made your pussy clench around nothing and you let out a whimper. You remove your fingers from your clit, feeling the heat radiating from his cock as he settles on top of you, legs spreading around his waist, your hips slightly raised and resting on his thighs.

The tip hesitantly pressed against your clit and your moan fills the small space before you can suppress it. This was better than you were hoping and it felt as though you were pressing against the boundaries the lord had set for you. Tommy’s eyes find yours looking for reassurance, asking without words, “Do you think this is okay?”

You find enough comprehension in your lust-addled brain to come up with a coherent answer, “It should be fine, I think,” you stammer out, “I mean, it’s not like — not like you’re putting it in so, it should be fine.”

You’re not overly familiar with the word of God outside of Sunday services and Luda Mae’s lectures, both of which you were forced to attend and spent tuning out in favor of watching the sweat build on Tommy’s brow while he worked through the window.

You think that if God could feel the weight of Thomas like you did, feel the heat like you could, you think he’d forgive the sin of your act.

It seems like that was all the reassurance that Thomas needed because no sooner than the words fumbled their way out of your mouth that he begins to drag the length of his cock against your slit.

God, if this is what hell was supposed to be like, burning and full of decadence, then perhaps you didn’t mind being a sinner.

The way he ruts against you is euphoric. Heavy breaths escape you both and you can’t help the words that spill from your lips.

“God, Tommy, I wish you would put it inside me,” you whine out “‘wanna feel your fat cock in my pussy, wanna get filled,” you might as well be begging at this point, and Tommy's increases his pace to the point that you think he wants the same thing, that he’s desperate to thrust into you rather than against you and —

And then the tip of his cock catches on your entrance and you both stop breathing.

“Maybe — Maybe it doesn’t count.” You stammer out, “It didn’t go in and it’s just the tip, and I don’t think that the tip counts” With the slightest twitch of his hips the tip of his cock has slipped inside.

"It's - it's just the tip it's fine” Your words sound empty even to you but the reassurance is all Tommy needs to push forward and let the head of his cock slide into your welcoming heat

His soul nearly leaves his body when he feels your raw pussy on the head of his cock. He jerks his length furiously and your fingers begin to move against your clit again, eager to meet your high with Thomas.

But it’s not enough. He was right there, right there just one push of his hips he’d be right where you needed him

“Please Tommy” Canting your hips slightly so the tip begins to dig deeper into you, you begin to plead once more, “wanna feel you fill me up, wanna remember the shape of your cock please”

Thomas feels years of control break at your words and with one swing of his hips, he bottoms out instantly. You feel like you've been punched in the gut as the air rushes out of you and you let out a sound like a wounded animal. Tommy stays still deep inside you, shaking and heaving, absolutely drunk on the feeling of your soaked walls clenching vigorously around his length.

You feel full in a way you've never thought possible. His length throbs, its girth stretching you in a way that burns.

When he finally starts thrusting, you’re not ready. He’s like a man possessed, solely focused on the feel of you around him, your skin pressed against his, his blood pounding in his ears.

“Wait— Tommy, ah, slow — slow down, oh god!” You can’t hold back your moans and he can’t stop, both fully engrossed in the feel of each other with no control over your own lust. Thomas crashes his lips onto yours in a halfhearted attempt to keep down your moans, it’s sloppy, clashing teeth and drooling tongues, spit escaping your lips, unlike any you’ve shared before.

This is completely different from what you’ve imagined your first time together would be like. It’s not your wedding night, you're laying on the dirty barn floor and there’s absolutely nothing gentle about the way Tommy is ravaging you. Your pussy is sopping wet and with every thrust, it lets out an embarrassing squelch, your juices and Tommy’s pre-cum leak down your ass and make a sticky mess in his dark pubes.

He doesn’t stop even as your walls spasm around him, cumming on his cock and digging your nails into his strong back. He works you through your orgasm even as your mouth clumsily forms the words to beg for him to slow down or to give you a moment. It’s too much, the sensations completely overloading your brain and all you can do is hold on tightly to him, lost in the ecstasy of your release.

Thomas lets out a deep, guttural groan as he cums, hips stuttering as he bullies his fat cock into the deepest part of your sex, filling you to the brim and your vision goes white.

Boneless, neither one of you makes a move to separate from the other, so thoroughly satisfied and content to lie where you are holding each other, Thomas’s softening cocking slipping out of you and spilling his release onto the ground.

His weight on you is comforting, you gently press kisses to his face and bask in the way his heavy breaths caress your sweaty skin.

“I love you.” You whisper into the shell of his ear and he squeezes you against him, repeating the words in his garbled voice the best he could. Your love is just for the two of you, no one else had a place in your world, no one else had the right to peak in on your affection or gawk at your differences.

This moment in time was just for the two of you.

“Thomas! Where the hell are ya, boy!”

Well, until Uncle Charlie’s voice brought you back down to reality.

#fic rec

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gothgirlmahi · 2 months

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“how did you get into writing” girl nobody gets into writing. writing shows up one day at your door and gets into you

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gothgirlmahi · 2 months

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Baby Fangs

Synopsis: Baby Alethaine is severely sick, and Astarion is afraid his daughter is going to die.

Tags: hurt/comfort, dadstarion, dhampirs

Alethaine's age: 5 month

Thanks @queenofthespacesquids for beta-reading!

Read on AO3

Masterlist

Headcanons

Astarion has never been so afraid in his life.

Not when he was dying in the streets of Baldur’s Gate. Not when he thought Tiriel had gone. Not when Cazador had inflicted tortures on him.

It just can’t compare to the fear of losing a child.

“She needs to make it till morning,” the healer says. “If she is alive by sunrise, she will get better.”

“But can we do anything?” Tiriel looks as if she is going to fight. “There are healing spells, potions, anything!”

“And most of them aren’t fit for a five month old child. Astarion, Tiriel, I give you my word. I’ve done everything I can. There are probably some clerics and wizards who can heal your child immediately but none of them live in Daggerlake. I am sorry.”

The healer walks away, leaving a dreadful silence in the house.

Astarion sits on the bed, clasping his hands together. Of course, things couldn't be this good. Of course something had to go wrong! How could he have been foolish enough to believe that things could be good for him?

His little daughter, Alethaine, is such a miracle, such a gift. When he first held her in his arms, he dared to hope that everything would be all right from then on. And now they tell him she's dying? That she would be dead by morning?

Alethaine whimpers weakly. She is already too tired to cry.

Tiriel looks terrible. She is a warrior, a fighter, but for the first time in her life, she has no enemy to kill. The enemy is her daughter's fever, and she can't beat it the way she beats monsters.

The baby starts coughing.

Astarion doesn't need to be a vampire to feel his daughter's pain. Her muscles are too tense. Her breathing is ragged and her heartbeat is too weak. Alethaine is suffering at this very moment, and there is nothing her parents can do about it.

Can’t give her medicine. Can’t soothe her pain.

There is a grip of death around her tiny heart and neither Tiriel nor Astarion can unclench it.

Tiriel sits on the bed, cradling Alethaine in her arms. Astarion wraps his hands around them.

“So what do we do?” he asks.

“We wait,” she answers. Her voice sounds exhausted.

He nods.

Yesterday, Alethaine was perfectly healthy. She tried to sit up, but each time her head proved too heavy and she fell on her back. Then her black eyes clouded over and a fever rose. She refused to eat and only cried like a wounded animal.

“What if she doesn’t make it?” Astarion asks.

Tiriel doesn't answer and he sees tears flowing down her cheek. “We will keep living. Could you please bring a blanket?”

Astarion reluctantly lets them go and picks up a thick fur blanket from the floor. Then they sit together with their backs against the wall, covering their sick daughter with the blanket. Only a desperate cough echoes through the room.

Children die all the time. Mostly little kids like Alethaine. Daggerlake isn't a very big town, but Astarion knows that at least three babies have died this year. From disease. Small children like this are too vulnerable. It happens all the time.

There's a chance that tomorrow Astarion will have to dig a grave and put a tiny bundle in there that never had a chance to grow up.

It's so unfair that it makes Astarion want to howl.

"Astarion," Tiriel touches his curls. "Let's talk. The silence is killing me."

“What do you want to talk about, my sweet?”

“I don't know… Anything.” Tiriel places the girl in his hands and Astarion flinches sensing the heat of Alethaine’s body. Fever. A terrible killing fever. “Do you think she is a dhampir?”

“She is an elf like I was before I died.”

When Tiriel was pregnant, he read as much as possible about dhampirs. Deadly and fast, half-vampires don’t need blood and can live in the sun. But they have vampiric strength, can walk on ceilings, and regenerate much faster than mortals. No wonder vampires are often jealous of their children.

But at the same time, the life of a dhampir is full of hardships. Neither a vampire, nor a mortal, they are doomed to be alone. Once they feel bloodlust for the first time and fangs replace the canines, they are outcasts often disowned by their own mortal families.

But does it have to be like that? Astarion has been fighting the odds against his vampiric nature for the last twenty years. Why can’t his daughter?

But Astarion is afraid they will never learn the answer to either of their questions. Alethaine opens her mouth and makes a deep breath as if suffocating. Something doesn’t allow her to breathe and she makes hissing sounds. Her little eyes are watery - by this time she can only cry.

So can her parents.

“I wouldn’t want to, I think,” Tiriel says. “If she is dhampir it means she is alone. Even if other spawns have children too, what is the chance she will ever meet them?”

Astarion kisses Tiriel’s cheek. if Alethaine dies, they bury her and leave. Daggerlake is a welcoming town but it will be a place of sorrow for them.

Tiriel adjusts herself a bit.

“Fuck” she mutters. Astarion immediately smells the blood. Tiriel’s thumb is bleeding. “A fucking splinter.”

Alethaine cries at the top of her lungs.

Astarion stares at his daughter with shock. She screams with the strength they didn’t know she posseses. It’s desperate. Angry.

Demanding.

This moment she doesn’t sound like a child. She sounds like a little beast.

Before Astarion makes up any coherent thought, Tiriel puts her bleeding thumb to Alethaine’s lips, making the blood pour into her mouth.

“Tiriel, what are you doing?”

Tiriel doesn’t answer. The girl makes sucking movements as her mother squeezes drops of blood from her finger.

And then her dark eyes turn red.

They glow in the half-lit room like two tiny lights.

Tiriel puts her fingers away and Alethaine makes a disgruntled sound. Her elven ears twitch.

The eyes stop glowing so intensely and return to their natural black color.

And then Alethaine laughs.

She is kicking her legs and stretching her arms to her parents.

The girl is happy. Happy like a well-fed vampire.

“Astarion, look at her gums.”

Two baby fangs. Very small, almost kitten-like.

“It wasn’t a fever,” Astarion mutters. “It was a bloodlust.”

Of course… If she was older she would just try to get blood from somewhere.

But when you are five months old you can’t do a lot of things.

Poor girl, how she suffered those two days.

Is dhampir bloodlust the same as vampiric? Was she feeling her stomach being ripped apart, her throat hurting and bleeding? Maybe it was even worse for her? Maybe her mortal nature was fighting the bloodthirsty monster, causing Alethaine to cry in pain?

Helpless baby alone with her pain and fear while her parents didn't think of the most obvious explanation.

** Astarion sits at the doorstep with a plushie doll in his hands. The toy has white hair and elven ears, and now Astarion is stitching small fangs to its mouth.

The tears prickle his eyes.

He’s condemned his child for a life of hardships. For loneliness, for constant war against herself. If someday Alethaine shows up at his doorstep blaming him for all her tragedies, he will not even try to defend himself.

“No, kitten, I don’t care if you don’t like it! I can’t breastfeed you anymore and I am not giving you any blood! You eat normal food!” He hears Tiriel’s voice from inside the house.

Alethaine isn’t going to comply easily.

Then he hears footsteps from behind.

“What are you doing?” Tiriel asks.

“Adding fangs to her toy.”

Tiriel sits beside him.

“You have mash in your hair.” Astarion notices

“I know. You should see the other girl. How do you feel about giving her a bath?”

“I don't think you should ask. It’s my child. It seems like… even more mine now.”

“Hey, don't be upset. We knew it was possible.”

“I just… Her eyes, Tiriel, you saw them.They were like theirs… My siblings…Cazador… the same fucking glowing eyes as if she was a vampire, too!”

“It’s because of blood. She doesn’t have to drink it, she can eat normal food.”

“We should have found the cure before making a child.”

“But we didn’t find any.”

Tiriel takes a wet piece of rag and wipes her hair. “Astarion, I am going to talk to you seriously and, please, pay attention to every word I say.”

“I am all pointy ears, my love.”

“I was beaten and humiliated daily for who I was. My family didn't even give me a name because they despised me. But when I met elves for the first time they called me “garbage” - Biir. Half-something, half a person. Half elves aren't uncommon. There are surprisingly many in big cities. But I’ve been taught to despise my body, to hate my ears, to be embarrassed of my own existence. And our daughter is a dhampir. And I am sure there aren’t many like her. This world will have a thousand opportunities to shove her differences up to her nose. This world will teach Alethaine to hate herself. I can guarantee you she will try to pull her fangs out or maybe will ask someone to knock them out. She will cover herself not to let people see how pale she truly is. And we must not be a part of her problems.”

“Tiriel, I would never - “

“She is a girl, Astarion. Her image of herself will be formed mostly by you, not by me. The way you will perceive her will be the way she will see herself. And if she sees resentment, if she senses your sorrows that she isn’t a normal child, she will start hating herself. She will feel it. And it will stay with her till her long days are over.”

“Tiriel, what exactly in my behavior tells you that I am going to mistreat her? She is my child! She is…”

“I didn’t mean to ignore the fact she is a dhampir. You must cherish her differences. We must love her for being a dhampir. We must form this idea that it’s good she is a dhampir.”

Astarion chuckles. To be honest, he has never accepted his vampirism. It happened against his will and he would give anything to get rid of it. It is a curse. And now… his daughter is cursed as well.

“Astarion, this is important. Even the tiniest things will affect her. And we will have to deal with the consequences.”

The girl cries for her parents, and Tiriel, planting a kiss on Astarion’s forehead, returns inside.

Several hours later, when a washed and clean-clothed Alethaine is happily lying on her parents' bed and trying to make some coherent movements, Astarion finally finds enough moral strength to accept the reality.

He takes his daughter in his arms and walks up to the ceiling. The girl laughs and tries to bite him.

"Aren't you the cutest dhampir in Faerûn?" he mutters. "I can't wait to teach you how to use those fangs in battle. You will be deadly, my princess! But don't bite your mother, that's my prerogative."

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#fic rec

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