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thatesqcrush · 5 years

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Road Show

Harvard! Rafael Barba x Reader. Inspired by a post I saw from @cutiepiesub, which stated “Car sex while it’s raining. Both of you in the backseat, one on the others lap, making out and giggling while softly touching each other, the rain pouring down and drowning out each other’s moans. The rain and foggy windows making the lights outside a blur of pretty colors.” CW: NSFW for smut and language. 18+ fo’ sho.’

AN: It’s Harvard based Barba, but he’s an adult. Tags: @madpanda75 @ottosuricato @delia26 @sass-and-suspenders @glimmerglittergirl @melsquared79 @mommakat32 @southern-magnolia @niyashell @tropes-and-tales @imjustreallynosy @whyissvuruiningmylovelife @evee87 @scarletsoldierrr @kscarlett1 @cesarofangirl78 @redlipstickandplaid @dreila03 - anyone else just ask.

You huffed as you threw another duffel bag into your trunk. You pressed the bag down onto the others, trying to make it fit. “How many bags do you need for a weekend trip?” Rafael asked as he approached you. His eyes bounced from the sight of your full trunk to the one duffel bag he had. “Not a lot,” you replied defensively as you slammed your trunk shut. “I’m meeting your mom and friends for the first time; I want to make a good impression.” You shoved your hands into the back pocket of your jeans. The wind blew, and the autumnal leaves whipped around your feet. You shivered. “How many times do I have to tell you? Just be you. They’ll love you.” Rafael reached and pulled you into an embrace. Rafael brushed some hair back, before cupping your cheek. “Just as I love you.” He gave you a slightly goofy grin; you felt your insecurities dissipate and you relaxed into his embrace. “Okay,” you replied. “Now, do you want to do the first leg of the trip? We can change around New Haven. Or I can do it, whatever.” It was your turn to feel Rafael tense. “Uh... I don’t...” “It’s fine,” you replied, cutting him off. You pulled away to open the car door. “Driving helps with my anxiety so it’ll be good for me to — “ you stopped, noticing your boyfriend was looking at the ground, his face reddened. “Rafael you know how to drive don’t you?” You questioned as you jingled the keys. Rafael let out an audible sigh and looked up at you. “I have a permit, but I don’t know actually. I grew up in the city. You don’t need to know how to drive because you can get by on the subway.” You smiled sympathetically at your boyfriend. “You’ll have to learn eventually. I’ll teach you. Not today though. It’s going to be a long enough drive as it is. Now come on, let’s go. I want to stop and fill up and then get coffee.” Rafael perked at the mention of coffee. “Okay. Gas and coffee are on me.” **** The traffic wasn’t as nearly as bad you imagined it’d be for Columbus Day weekend. That all came to an abrupt halt when you approached the Whitestone bridge and things came to a crawl. You sighed, irritated. Rafael squeezed your thigh and you gave him a small smile before you slammed on your horn at another driver. “I thought you said driving relaxes you,” Rafael chuckled as he changed the radio station. You glared at him and stuck your tongue at him. “He cut me off!” “Remind me to take you Mulally Park. It’s really pretty this time of year if you look past the litter,” Rafael replied staring out the passenger window. He watched as the city’s skyline came into view. He felt a pang of wistfulness - he didn’t want to leave the city but when Harvard beckoned, he knew he had to leave. **** Finding parking along Jerome Avenue was tricky. You managed to parallel park under the elevated subway line along 167th Street after circling the streets for what seemed like an eternity. Rafael hadn’t even managed to be out of the car for more than a minute when he heard his name called out. Rafael turned and he broke out into a grin seeing his friends, Alex Muñoz and Eddie Garcia. “Alex! Eddie!” Rafael greeted them, pulling them each into hugs accompanied by slaps on the back. “¡Los tres mosqueteros se han reunido!” Eddie cheered. “Es bueno verte mi amigo,” Alex replied. He looked over towards you, a glint in his eye. “Hi. You must be Y/N. Rafael’s told us all about you. We never thought he’d move on from Yelina.” Rafael flushed, taking your hand in his. “Alex,” he replied, his voice low, warning. Alex ignored him. “It’s nice to meet you Y/N. For awhile I thought he made you up.” You cocked a brow at him. “Well, I’m very much real,” you replied coolly. “And I know all about Yelina.” When you saw the surprised look that came across Alex’s face, you knew he hadn’t been counting on you knowing about Yelina. His expression changed quickly and he raised an eyebrow at you. “Pues, you should come hang with Yelina and I after the game,” Alex continued, smirking at your response. “You know there’s no hard feelings.” “Why would there be; you are my best friend after all,” Rafael replied curtly, the grip on your hand tightening. You whipped your head at your boyfriend and then looked back at Alex. “How long are you in town for Rafi?” Eddie interrupted. “Just the weekend; catching the game tonight,” Rafael replied. You felt his grip on yours loosen. You opened your mouth and the closed it. The air was thick with tension and awkwardness. Rafael looked up towards the stairs that connected Shakespeare and Anderson avenues. “Here, be useful and help us carry these. Y/N is meeting mami for the first time.” Rafael grabbed your duffle and tossed it at Alex, who caught it. Alex smirked at you. “Sure thing Rafi.” *** Meeting Lucia Barba wasn’t as terrifying as you thought. Catalina Diaz, was wonderful. She reminded you of your own grandmother. She was exceptionally kind. “M’ija, eat, eat,” Catalina encouraged you as she piled another plate of white rice and black beans and sweet fried plantains in front of you. You smile and nodded. The food was too delicious. “Gracias,” you replied. You two were headed to the Yankees game that night and as much as you enjoyed stadium fare, you didn’t enjoy stadium prices. You and Rafael wanted to get your fill in before you headed out. “I found another album with pictures of Rafi,” Lucia declared victtoriously as she entered the kitchen. “This one has him getting a bath in the sink.” “Mamí,” Rafael groaned. “Really?” Lucia gave him a look as she handed you a picture. You giggled, despite your mouth being full of food. You traced the picture of the very chubby infant splashing in the sink. You swallowed your food before speaking. “You were adorable.” “Excuse me, I’m still adorable,” Rafael winked before he popped a maduro in his mouth.” “That you are,” Lucia replied, before walking over to press a kiss to the top of Rafael’s head. **** The Yankees won, after breaking a tie in the bottom of the ninth. There was a massive crowd, that spilled back onto the streets, cheering. Part of the crowd was slowly dissipating towards the subway. You and Rafael made your way back towards outside of the stadium, hand in hand. Though you both ate, you did spend money on beers and both of you were a little buzzed on the high of the game and the beer. “My first year of little league was awful,” Rafael stated. “I’m better off watching baseball versus playing.” “I wonder if your mom has a picture of you; I’ll have to ask,” you wondered out loud. “Oh God,” Rafael groaned. “I hope not.” You both walked up the concourse, hand in hand. You weren’t sure if it was the beer or something else, but you felt uneasy. “Do you want to hang out with Alex and Ye—”

“No,” Rafael replied rather brusquely. You were taken slightly aback by his curt response, but yet you continued. “So about Yelina...” Rafael dropped your hand and came to a stop. You turned towards him. A look of pain was etched on his face and he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I really don’t want to talk about Yelina,” he replied. A gust of wind blew, and he looked up towards the sky. The scent of petrichor was thick, indicating it was going to rain soon. A large drop from the sky fell, splashing his cheek. Rafael wiped it away with the back of his hand. “Let’s just get back.” You nodded and resumed walking. There was a large gap between the two of you. You crinkled your nose. “You shouldn’t keep your feelings inside. You can talk to me.” “There is nothing to say,” Rafael replied, his voice rising slightly. “I asked you to drop this.” You stopped and turned to face him. “Please don’t shut me out.” Rafael looked around and he audibly sighed, exasperated. “Fine but not here; let’s go to your car.” You nodded and followed Rafael back towards the car. You walked up the stairs and back down, huffing behind him. “I used to climb these stairs all the time.” Rafael quipped. “In the day they’re fine, but at night it isn’t the safest. Just stay close to me.” You both made it back to your car shortly thereafter, and sat in the backseat. “When you’re ready,” you implored after a beat. Rafael swallowed hard. He removed his Yankees sweatshirt, which was damp from some of the rain and his sweat. He took a deep breath and then he began. “You know how she cheated on me. She really wanted Alex; she used me as a stepping stone. I just don’t get why this still upsets me so much.” “Your feelings are valid,” you replied softly. “You were betrayed by the two people you trusted most. At the end of the day I can’t tell you who to be friends with or not, but I’d drop them if I was you,” you replied. You reached over and took his hand, squeezing gently. Rafael looked at you and shook your head. “It’s so easy to say that. But there’s so much history.” You sucked in your bottom lip and chewed out of nervousness. Looking out the window, you felt the knot in your stomach grow. You focused on the graffiti wall across from you. “Are you still in love with her?” You felt Rafael’s hand on your shoulder, encouraging you to turn to look at him. Rafael leaned over to kiss you. You pulled away. “You’re not answering my question.” Rafael cocked his head. “Y/N - I love you. And only you. Yelina is my past.” You smiled at his response and pressed a kiss to his lips. The kiss which initially began chaste, grew with heated passion. Rafael tasted like a mix of beer and mint. You ran your hands under his tee-shirt, and then back out over his shirt. Rafael pulled you so that you were onto his lap. His fingertips grazed the hem of your shirt before pushing under to cup your breasts through your bra. You ground yourself into his lap, feeling his arousal through the clothing. Your jeans provided a friction against your most sensitive parts and you could feel your panties dampen. You groaned as he began to suck on the hollow of your neck; it sent a course of pleasure through your body. Rafael’s thumbs grazed your nipples, which were already hardened pebbles.

“You have the best tits - have I told you that?” Rafael murmured as he hiked up your shirt to lower his mouth to your flesh. You could feel his warm breath on your skin and it sent a shiver up your spine; you could feel the goosebumps which started to spring on your skin.

“You might have mentioned it,” you panted as his tongue swirled over a nipple. “Oh God Rafael. We gotta make this quick,” you cautioned. “Someone can see us.”

Rafael hummed his agreement, continuing to bathe your breasts. You didn’t think you could orgasm from just your breasts being lavished upon but here you were, at the precipice, all thanks to your boyfriend’s oral skills. You ran your hands through his soft hair, gently tugging him off of you.

“Take off your pants guapo,” you replied. Rafael nodded eagerly. You lifted off of him slightly, sitting back on the seat, in order to remove your shoes and pants. Rafael did the same, raising his hips slightly to remove his jeans, and pushed them down his legs. You moved to remove your panties, but Rafael stopped you. “Leave them on,” he requested and you nodded.

“Do you have a condom?” you wondered – slightly panicking. Rafael nodded. “In my wallet.” He reached down to his gathered pants and opened up his wallet, removing a foil packet. He rolled the condom on, and squeezed the base of his cock to prevent himself getting too worked up. You bit your lip, watching Rafael intently, mesmerized by his actions.

“You sure about this?” Rafael asked, breaking you out of your reverie. You nodded, and affirmed your consent verbally. “Never more sure.”

You sat on Rafael’s lap, kissing him once more. As your lips and tongues battled each other’s, one of Rafael’s hands moved down from your back, down your side and to your hip where it placed itself permanently. The other, moved towards your panties. His fingers grazed your clitoris softly, causing you to jump ever so slightly. Rafael gripped your hip tighter, steadying you.

Rafael lined his cock to your entrance and slowly, you sunk down on his cock, enveloping him with your warmth. Rafael moaned loudly. “Oh fuck, you feel so good.”

“So do you,” you mewled. You threw your head back, and grasped the top of his shoulders as you began to bounce on his cock. Rafael kept one hand on your hip as you rode him, guiding you up and down on him. The heat that emanated from your bodies caused the windows to steam up.

Rafael thrusts into you quickened as he fucked you more intensely. You knew that you were going to be deliciously sore. “R-Rafi, I am going to come,” you warned. The hand on your hip moved to your clitoris, and he began to rub haphazard circles. You grabbed at your own breasts, cupping them. “Come for me,” Rafael choked out, driving into you over and over again. You shouted Rafael’s name, as your walls fluttered around his cock, your orgasm washing over you. Rafael held you close to him as you fell apart, his own thrusts becoming erratic and sloppy. He stiffened, and he came with a roar, your name escaping his lips. After a few minutes, you moved off of Rafael and he pulled off the used condom. He tied it and tossed it to the side.

“Wow,” you replied as you began to re-dress. “We should do that more often.” Rafael guffawed.

A knock on the window, made you both jump. Hesitantly, you looked at the window, to see a bright light being shone into the car. “Shit, Rafael muttered.

You rolled down the window, and held your hand over your eyes, trying to block out the bright light. “Is there something a matter?”

“I hate to rain on your parade, but there’s a time and a place for these things; we don’t need a road show,” the officer replied curtly. “I am going to let you off with a warning.”

“Thanks officer –” Rafael replied, his cheeks pink.

The cop nodded, “I am going to circle the block once more. You both better be gone by the time I get back.”

After a minute, you and Rafael made your way back out of the car. Rafael tossed the condom in the trash bin. “Come on; lets hurry back before my abuela sends out the search party.”

You giggled as you bounded back up the stairs, Rafael following your lead.

FIN

#rafael barba smut #barba x reader #rafael barba x reader #rafael barba imagine #rafael barba and reader

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keepingupwithlinmanuel · 5 years

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Lin-Manuel Miranda interview: from Hamilton to His Dark Materials

I know Hamilton remains wildly popular more than four years after it premiered on Broadway because of the intense response to my Instagram post boasting I have tickets to watch it the evening before meeting its creator, Lin-Manuel Miranda. "It's one of my absolute favourite things in the world ever!" raves one correspondent. "It's WONDERFUL and I defy you not to download the soundtrack afterwards," adds another. "I went last night! Second time. You're gonna love it."

The problem, however, is that I'm not sure I will love it. When theatre is great, it's the best thing on the planet, but when it is bad, as I have learnt from the bitter experience of watching three-hour open-air adaptations of Dickens' novels, it is the worst. Musicals are especially challenging: in my experience, you either like them or you don't, and given one of the few I have enjoyed was Avenue Q, which subverted the form, I'm in the latter camp.

Then, on top of this, there is the pressure of hype (and Hamilton has been more hyped than anything this side of the moon landings), and the challenge of taking hip-hop, which I love, out of an urban setting. It can easily go a bit Wham Rap!, or even worse, if you've seen the video, Michael Gove performing Wham Rap!.

It is, however, pretty good. The last thing the world needs is another long review of Hamilton, and I can't say I downloaded the soundtrack afterwards or that I didn't look at my watch occasionally, but using rap to retell the dry story of the founding fathers is inspired, and I'm so relieved that I blurt out my review to the 39-year-old writer and performer when I meet him in a restaurant in Fitzrovia. "I do find that with both Hamilton and In the Heights, my first show," responds the award-winning composer, lyricist and actor, "I get a lot of people who say to me, 'I don't really like musicals, but I loved this.' I attribute that to a very simple thing: my wife, who doesn't really like musicals. She didn't grow up going to see them, or doing theatre. She's a lawyer; when we met, she was a scientist. I have a higher bar to clear than most composers, because my first audience is my wife, and it can't just be a pretty tune."

You might recognise his wife, Vanessa Nadal, whom he met at high school, from the video of the couple's wedding reception in 2010, which like everything Miranda touches, went viral, and shows him performing the Fiddler on the Roof song To Life to his beloved.

Even my withered heart may have been momentarily lifted by it. She has accompanied her husband with their two young sons, aged one and four, to Britain, where he is filming a part in the BBC's slick new adaptation of Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials, though the reason he is in London today is that he has just been the subject of an episode of Desert Island Discs. The New Yorker takes a takes a swig of his coffee, which he tells me he chose as his luxury on his island ("I'm so basic"), adjusts his yellow baseball cap and asks me a question about the unsolicited review: "Why did you feel the need to say it?" There follows the most painful recording I've ever had to listen back to, as I make a bunch of ludicrous generalisations about musicals, speculating that perhaps they divide men from women, or the working classes from the middle classes, or straight people from gay people, or white people from brown people. It only strikes me a few minutes in that not only is Miranda living proof that the generalisations are nonsense, but I am essentially explaining musicals to a world expert in the form - a man who, before the age of 40, has a Pulitzer prize, three Tony awards, three Grammys, an Emmy, a MacArthur Fellowship, a Kennedy Center Honor, two Olivier awards, one Academy award nomination and two Golden Globe nominations to his name.

"Where do you want to start?" he responds with what is, in retrospect, startling patience. "You brought in all this cultural baggage and you're laying it at my feet and I don't know which bag to open." Another swig of coffee. "I think with musicals, it has to do with the way in which you interact with music in your own life. I grew up in a culture where dancing and singing at weddings was supercommon. So, if that's corny to you growing up, or you're taught to believe that's corny or unbelievable, then of course you're not going to like musicals."

...

He spent much of those years doing a bunch of badly paid, disparate jobs, which, given his nature, he nevertheless enjoyed. They included working as an English teacher at his former high school. ("I loved my curriculum. The class was exhilarating once I realised the less I talked, the more they learnt. I saw a future in which I taught at my old high school for 30 years and was very happy.") He wrote for a local paper as a columnist and restaurant reviewer. ("What kind of restaurant reviewer was I? Not very discriminating. If a new restaurant opened, I would go and eat some stuff and say, 'Hey, we have a Thai restaurant. I get to eat first at it. This is great!' ") And he made guest appearances on a number of TV shows including The Sopranos and House. What kind of roles was he being offered at the time? "I wasn't getting any roles! I was always the Latino friend of the white guy in the lead. And so centring ourselves in the drama, telling our own stories, is a big part of In the Heights, my first musical."

An unexpected thing about meeting Miranda is how instinctively he turns to the topic of his first musical, In the Heights, rather than Hamilton - not least when he talks about how he spent one month each year as a child with his grandparents in Vega Alta, Puerto Rico, and was inspired by the gap between his worlds. "In Puerto Rico we were doctors and lawyers. And we're cabbies in New York; we're for the most part the poorer segment of society, and on TV we were always thieves and we were always the Sharks. In the Heights was a response to that. It was, 'Are we allowed to be on stage without having a knife in our hands?' " But then he has spent part of the summer filming a movie version of that musical, which is set over the course of three days, involving characters in the largely Hispanic-American neighbourhood. It is also the project that changed his life most dramatically. The more recent success of Hamilton rather eclipses the fact that his first show, which he began writing in the late Nineties when he was still a student at Wesleyan University, Connecticut, was also wildly successful. After success off-Broadway, the musical went to Broadway, opening in March 2008 and ending up being nominated for 13 Tony awards, winning four, including best musical and best original score.

...

Miranda, described as "a fantasy of the Obama era", has since been active in politics, lobbying and fundraising for Puerto Rico and performing with Ben Platt at the March for Our Lives anti-gun-violence rally in Washington DC on March 24, 2018. Does he feel demoralised by the drift of politics to the far right? "The thing about us all being connected online is that you can read all of the worst news from all over the world and be overwhelmed. You can't let it all in; just act on what you can act on." Should Trump be ignored or fought every step of the way? "It's hard to even discuss it, right, because Trump will have outraged us on two new things in the next [few hours], as soon as he wakes up, and it won't be relevant by the time we're having this conversation. And the same with Brexit, which is just as uncertain."

What did he make of Trump's revival of the phrase "Get back to where you came from" in relation to Democrat politicians? "It's unacceptable. Just because he said it doesn't mean it's acceptable." He leans back in his seat. "Here's my fear of getting into this with you: every time I've done a UK interview, I've said incredible shit and Trump's always the headline, even if I've only said two lines about it. So I'm happy to talk about it, but I'm really scared it's going to be the headline."

I risk another question. Would Miranda ever run for office? "It's funny - I remember when I was a teenager, my dad got approached by pretty serious people about running for a state Senate seat, and he said no. I asked, 'Why?' He said, 'I don't want to have to watch my mouth.' And for me, it's similar. I also have seen in my life, first-hand, the people who get addicted to running, and it's like their moment passed, but they're still running for something, because they're chasing that thrill of winning, and it's about much more than representing the constituents. I would never want to get stuck in that cycle or that pattern. It's more fun writing songs than doing any of that."

Read the rest here behind the Times paywall.

#lin manuel miranda #times uk #hamilton #politics and advocacy #in the heights #Interviews

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artificialqueens · 7 years

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Runner (Sashea) - Spoky

A/N: A post-apocalyptic Sashea Lesbian Horror AU for Dandee. Happy Birthday, honey. [ Thnks for both betas, veronicasanders & ir**re****, appreciated. Also, title credits to Fryshook. ]

Summary: Sashea romance, Trixya angst and a something-like-a-zombie Aja.

Warnings: graphic depictions of violence & character death

Runner

The air in the dark staircase is stale and as Sasha gasps for breath; she has to stop running to cough out dust. Her mouth is dry, her lungs are wheezing and she leans to the wooden rail for support as the violent hacking shakes her body. The only source of light, the glow stick she’s holding, slips through her fingers and rolls down the stairs to the previous landing. Through the sounds of her erratic breathing and her racing heart, she can hear the echo of someone running after her, just a couple of floors below. She has two more stories to go. Forty-eight steps. She reaches for another glow stick from the side pocket of her backpack, cracks it for light, grabs the rail firmly and yanks her body forward. She has to make it. She has to.

Out of breath, pressing on the lower edge of her rib cage to ease a side stitch, Sasha reaches the fifteenth floor and sprints to the room at the end of the corridor. She makes it through the door that is purposefully left ajar and grabs the rope Shea has installed for emergencies. She holds it tightly in her grip, ready to pull, praying silently that the erratic steps she can hear approaching are Shea’s. She knows that they’re not, but that doesn’t stop her from hoping. The low but rapid palpitation of her heart pounds in her ears as she stares at the top of the staircase and as she finally sees Aja reaching the top, she wants to scream in frustration. Instead she yanks the rope forcefully but the door doesn’t slam shut, not the way it’s supposed to.

Shit.

She wrenches the rope frantically and this time the door moves, but it still doesn’t shut fully.

Shit, shit, shit, shit.

Aja is getting closer, roaring maniacally, her red eyes fixated on Sasha. Her arms are flinging about uncontrollably as she runs along the hallway and smacks her jaw.

Sasha can’t smell her yet. Aja is not close enough. But she can imagine the stench, the rotten human flesh between Aja’s teeth and underneath her fingernails. Aja is surprisingly clean for a runner, there’s hardly any blood on her, but Sasha is certain that she smells. They all do.

Sasha can remember the time they used to have drinks at the bar downstairs. Gin, mainly. Sometimes rum. Aja would brag that no crawlie would get her, that crawlies were too slow and too dumb. “Old age! That’s what’ll kill me, old age!” she’d say and laugh loudly. Aja had always taken unnecessary risks with the crawlies and now, as foreseen by most, she was running. In a couple of weeks she’d start crawling and a few months after that she’d stop and just lay there, rotting, until Chi Chi or Katya would clean up the body. The thought makes Sasha shiver in disgust and anger.

Reckless idiot.

Right now, though, Aja is running and Sasha needs to move. With one leap she reaches the thick, steel door and starts to push.

“It’s perfect. There could be a herd of runners and we’d be fine.”

Shea had insisted they use the office because of the lock and the metal. Now, Sasha is not so sure. What use is a security door if you cannot close it? Her wet sneakers are slippery against the stone floor as she struggles to make the door budge.

Aja crashes against the steel on the other side and for the first time ever Sasha feels grateful that Shea has tortured her with the early morning push-up routines.

“Ten more, babe. Come on.”

The thought of Shea sparks anger inside Sasha and with a roar she pushes the door shut, accidentally trapping Aja’s fingers between the hinge. Aja shrieks loudly, but Sasha doesn’t know whether it’s because of a denied meal, or of pain as the tips of Aja’s fingers are cut off by the sharp edges of the steel door. Sasha doesn’t know whether runners feel pain. She doesn’t know if they feel anything at all.

The first inch of Aja’s index finger rolls on the floor and bumps against Sasha’s left foot, smearing blood on her shoe laces.

Ugh.

Sasha closes her eyes and sighs heavily. She has to consciously remind herself that this is not Aja’s blood on her shoes. It’s crawlie blood, not Aja’s. They’re crawlie fingers on the floor, not Aja’s. Creepy running crawlies. Sasha hates crawlie blood on her things. She’ll have to wash the shoes – again.

Fucking Aja.

Sasha reaches for the security lock on her left and snaps it closed, sealing the door completely. No one will get through and into the room before she decides to open it again. Not Aja. Not a runner nor a crawlie. Not another human being, even. Not Shea.

She glances down at her dirty sneakers and then at the fingers next to them. Shea would probably joke about eating them.

“Technically, it’s not cannibalism. It’s crawlie and not human flesh.”

The thought makes Sasha laugh hysterically. She’s not going to eat Aja’s fingers! Nor any other crawlie parts for that matter, familiar or unfamiliar. Not even if she has to eat just canned beans for yet another five days. Besides, Acid and Bob should be back soon with some rabbit and rats. Sasha will wait.

She gets up from the floor, picks up Aja’s fingers and walks to the window. She pushes aside the small teddy bear that’s sitting on the window sill and opens the ventilation window to throw out the crawlie pieces. She follows their fall and imagines them crashing against the dark asphalt underneath because her eyesight is not good enough to actually see it. The street is surprisingly quiet and Sasha pauses to enjoy the out of place normalcy of the view. The sun has yet to fully set and the final rays paint long shadows of broken cars and unkempt trees to the ground. The air is fresh after the rain.

“Petrichor.” “Huh?” “The smell of rain. It’s petrichor.”

Sasha knows a lot of useless words like that and absolutely loves the way Shea looks at her whenever she brings up one of them.

With a heavy sigh Sasha turns her gaze to the Mattel window across the street. It’s the fifth window left from the worn out Starbucks sign, seventh floor. There are two pillar candles lit to the otherwise dark window, Chi Chi’s and Peppermint’s, meaning that they’re both safe and sound. Sasha knows she should feel grateful, but as she moves to light her own candle she feels mainly indifferent, maybe slightly resentful as she looks down at Shea’s unlit tealight. She likes to think that Peppermint would forgive her if she knew.

Trying to shed the feelings of resentment Sasha closes her eyes and wonders why they still refer to the spot as the Mattel window, especially as Trixie has been crawling for weeks. Katya still visits her.

“She should just kill and bury her. Move on.”

In principle Sasha agrees with Bob. She’s seen the look in Katya’s eyes as she approaches the crawlie dressed in bright pink, the haunted desperate hope as Katya reaches to pet the crawlie’s blonde curls and tells her that she loves her. It’s simultaneously disturbing and sweet. It makes Sasha sick to her stomach, but she gets it. She couldn’t kill Shea either. Despite that Shea insists on it. She’s made Sasha swear she’ll do it.

“Just jam my brain in. You know how.”

Sasha does know how. Shea has shown her; taught her. Thanks to Shea herself, she wouldn’t be the first familiar dying at Sasha’s hands. No, Alaska had been given the honor of being Sasha’s first.

“She’d want it to be you or Katya, but Katya doesn’t need the practice. You do.”

Staring down at Alaska in anger, Sasha had grabbed Shea’s baseball bat and scowled.

Alaska had always been skinny but as a crawlie she’d been skeletal. Her long nailless fingers had scratched the ground, trying to reach for Sasha as she approached. The yellowish white bone of her ribcage had been showing as someone, or something, had eaten the flesh above. There had been no signs of humanity as she’d lifted her eyes to meet Sasha’s uncertain gaze.

Closing her eyes, Sasha had lifted Shea’s baseball bat and smashed it through the back of Alaska’s skull with one swift movement, exactly the way Shea had instructed her to. Sasha could still remember the cracking sound and the surprising ease in which the bat had broken through the bone and tissue. Afterwards Shea had wiped the murder weapon clean with an old New York Times.

Sasha had initially hated Shea for forcing her hand, but now she understands why. She can see the reason in Katya who refuses to kill Trixie despite that it is the right thing to do.

“Let her be. I mean it.”

If Katya had killed Alaska, instead of mere unfamiliars, maybe Trixie would no longer crawl on Lexington Avenue. But she does, and it’s fucked up.

Sasha reaches for a hand mirror from the coffee table and pushes it through the ventilation window. She aims it to reflect the tall Ronald McDonald statue around the corner and looks for the window where Katya keeps her candle. Like Peppermint’s and Chichi’s, it’s also lit. Katya refuses to stay at Trixie’s old place, even if the flat is probably the safest place on Manhattan. “I can’t breathe there,” she says and stays out.

“She’s going to get herself eaten, acting crazy like that. Fucking lunatic.”

Aja’s words had made Sasha roll her eyes at the time. Pot, kettle, black. She hadn’t said anything, though. Ironically, it was now Aja who was running while Katya’s candle lights the old fast food restaurant. Katya is crazy. Sasha acknowledges that. But she’s the cockroach type of crazy and will outlive them all, Sasha is certain of it.

She sets the mirror back on the coffee table and eyes around in the space she has started calling home. They’d stripped the Deutsche Bank back office from useless dollars, worthless commercial papers and most of the office clutter. With Bob’s reluctant help – “Privacy, my ass. Trixie’s is safe and big enough.” – they’d brought in a bed and an arm chair from the apartments below. In the corner, right next to the window, Shea had placed a tall turquoise vase she’d found in the lobby.

“It’ll make it feel like home, you know? Our home.”

Sasha can see Shea’s touches everywhere. In the green carpet stolen from Macy’s and in the bookshelf filled with ornaments instead of books. Shea’s presence is especially clear in the wardrobe where her bright colored clothes hang next to Sasha’s collection of black, black and black. The space seems to scream Shea’s absence, highlighting every detail, and it’s hard to breathe. Sasha figures she’s experiencing a similar Shea-interspersed emptiness Katya feels at Trixie’s. The thought makes her slightly nauseous and she immediately regrets entertaining the possibility that Shea might not come back. The familiar walls of Deutsche Bank seem to close in, the bed sheets suddenly reek of death and the maneki-neko figurine on top of the bookshelf laughs in epicaricacy. Sasha grabs it and throws it against the wall, shattering the ceramic into teeny tiny pieces.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit!

If Shea doesn’t come back, Sasha won’t stay in Deutsche Bank. There’s no way. Maybe she’ll move to McDonalds with Katya, now that there’s no Aja making smartass comments about it. With Katya, Sasha can argue about the meaning of meliorism and visit the graves of their respective ex-lovers. They can stroll around the quiet streets of New York and talk about Trixie’s love for pink plastic or Shea’s fascination with 1980s fashion magazines. With Katya, Sasha will feel safe, as safe as with Shea, and probably with time she’ll fall for the crazy-lady – because Sasha is not made for being alone.

“Serial monogamy, that’s like your thing.”

Shea’s accusation was made with humor. That doesn’t mean it’s not true.

Sasha shakes her head in frustration. She doesn’t want to fall for Katya, so Shea has to come back. She refuses to think about the large herd of runners they’d stumbled upon in Central Park. She blocks away the memories of Shea’s screams and orders. She doesn’t think about the fact that Shea is faster than her, a lot faster, and therefore often stays behind to deal with the runners, giving Sasha a head start.

“Sasha, right! RIGHT!”

Sasha refuses to acknowledge that the shortest route from Central Park to Deutsche Bank is to run right and down the 5th Avenue, all the way down to E 51st Street – or that the easiest way to distract and confuse runners is to split up. Sasha hates splitting up.

“Babe, you’re slower than Trixie, your opinion doesn’t count.”

It was rare to see herds anymore. The first few months there had been runners everywhere, spreading the virus quicker than malaria, quicker than any influenza. In four days, a million bodies and three million runners in New York city alone. Back then there had been only runners and soon enough nothing for them to eat, so they’d started to slow down, eventually collapsing to the ground and starting to crawl before dying of malnutrition. Creepy fucking crawlies. Occasional runners were the norm nowadays, not flocks, and Sasha has no idea where the herd in Central Park had come from.

Aja banging against the door stirs Sasha away from her thoughts. She hasn’t given up on her meal and Sasha sighs. Runners tend to wander away when they cannot smell food, but Aja’s hand is trapped between the hinge. Sasha realizes she’ll need a plan for how to kill her before she can open the door. She glances at the radio on the other side of the room and wishes she knew how to use it. Aja, trapped in place, must be an easy kill for someone coming from the outside. But Sasha doesn’t know anything about radios. It had been Aja’s job to figure them out. Sasha’s job is to learn the drugs in the downstairs pharmacy.

“Come on, babe, you’re the only one here who can pronounce this shit.”

It wasn’t because Sasha knew anything about drugs or nursing. It was because she had Masters degree in Latin and Linguistics, meaning that she could enunciate difficult letter combinations such as dihydrocodeinone or phenazopyridine. She didn’t mind, though. It was better than hunting, and definitely better than cleaning. Not that Shea would’ve let her clean. No, that was Chi Chi’s and Katya’s job, to keep Turtle Bay as crawler free as possible. Shea used to tag along with them but after Trixie, she’d moved to collecting with Peppermint and Bob. Sasha had been secretly grateful.

Aja cries loudly, and Sasha squeezes her eyes shut, covering her ears to block out the noise. She knows she needs a plan, to eat something and clean her clothes, but Aja’s screeching is distracting her. Sasha’s brain is a useless bundle, her thoughts bouncing between important and unimportant things. It always happens when she’s stressed.

“Don’t panic, babe, it’s fine.”

Ever since their first meeting, Shea has known how to calm her.

Sasha had been standing next to a stage, scared of the spotlight, fondling her necklace nervously, when Shea had appeared from seemingly nowhere, crossed her arms across her chest and grinned. “They say you should imagine the audience naked, but honestly, there are so many dicks in there that I’d rather not.” The comment had made Sasha laugh and relax, allowing her to deliver the best slam poetry performance of the night. Afterwards she’d asked the bartender who the girl in bright purple jumper was. “Shea Couleé. She’s trouble – if you know what I mean.” Of course, Sasha had been immediately intrigued.

“Oh, c’mon! You just wanted to fuck a black girl.”

The race thing had been exotic, Sasha wasn’t going to pretend otherwise, but there had been more to it. She can still remember their first date like yesterday, mainly because of how uncomfortable Shea had been the entire time. “Not really my scene, you know,” she’d said, eyeing around in the edgy café over the rim of her Irish Coffee; a drink Shea still considered a waste of perfectly good whisky. With the exact same ease Sasha can recall the first time they’d spent a night together; how nervous she’d been, fondling unskillfully Shea’s wet kitty lips.

“Try this, babe. Yeah, like that.”

Sasha takes off her shoes and examines the red stains on them in disgust. She decides she wants a new pair and is about to thrown them outside the window when a loud bang from the hallway gives her a fright. Aja’s agonizing scream sends chills down Sasha’s spine and she holds her breath, eyes wide, all senses heightened. There’s another bang and Sasha’s heart is hammering franticly. She tries to keep her breathing calm while listening closely. Finally she recognizes a familiar three-time-knock and sighs in relief. Shea.

With a couple of quick strides Sasha makes it to the door and opens the lock. Slowly, she pulls the door slightly ajar and sees Shea in the hallway. She’s breathing heavily, the familiar baseball bat resting on her shoulder. Aja is lying at her feet, silent and still.

Sasha closes her eyes and reminds herself that the body is not Aja, not really. She takes a deep breath and pulls the door properly open as Shea turns to look at her. She has blood and dirt all over her, on the yellow t-shirt and on her denim shorts. She has it on her hair and on her forehead, just above her left eyebrow. Her baseball bat is similarly covered in the slimy red liquid and Sasha can’t recall a time she felt equally happy. Her heart is pounding excitedly and the only thing she wants to do is to squeeze Shea’s filthy body against her – but she resists.

Shea smirks, as if reading her thoughts.

“You smell disgusting,” Sasha sneers, swallowing down the happy laughter bubbling in her chest.

“Yeah,” Shea says with a grin. “Missed my appointment at the Mandarin Spa.”

“Oh yeah?” Sasha asks scoldingly, cocking her left eyebrow, and a smile escapes to her lips despite her efforts to stay stern.

“Yeah,” Shea nods and drops the baseball bat with a clang that echoes in the hallway as she steps up to Sasha. “I’m sorry,” she whispers and lowers her head to drop a gentle kiss onto Sasha’s lips.

“Mm,” Sasha acknowledges the apology and wraps her arms around Shea’s neck, rising to her toes. Shea’s figure is firm and familiar against hers as she deepens the kiss, pulling Shea closer. “Don’t ever,” Sasha mumbles between the kisses, “-ever again,” she repeats as Shea grabs her ass and squeezes. “Just leave me-” Sasha whispers as Shea traps her lower lip into a gentle bite, “-like that.”

“I won’t,” Shea lies, they both know it, and presses her nose against Sasha’s cheek. “I won’t,” she repeats quietly, and Sasha takes a deep breath, inhaling Shea’s scent before pulling her over the threshold to Deutsche Bank, back to safety.

* *

It’s some moments later, after some cleaning up and after lighting the tealight on the window sill, that Shea pushes Sasha onto the bed. Their bed.

The sheets are soft against Sasha’s back and the ceiling is high above her. The room smells like the New York Ritz-Carlton – or what she imagines the Ritz smelled like years ago, rich but comfortable. She closes her eyes and feels the fabric under her shoulders, under her heels and toes as she presses them harder against the mattress and thrusts her hips up involuntarily. She brings her hand in between her legs and fondles Shea’s shaggy coils as Shea traces her inner thigh with hot committed licks. As Shea moves forward, the wet traces cool down, sending small shivers through Sasha’s wrought-up body.

Shea’s light, teasing touches are slow and as she scratches her teeth against Sasha’s skin, Sasha bites down to her lower lip, barely preventing a high-pitched whine. She lowers her hand to scratch Shea’s neck, just underneath her left ear and urges her to move lower.

“Shea,” she whispers pleadingly, keeping her eyes closed.

“Hmm?” Shea hums and kisses Sasha down there, drawing a soft whimper from her.

“If- If you, oh,” Sasha gasps and spreads her legs wider. She rolls her hips to rub against Shea and opens her mouth to a silent moan.

Yes. Right there.

Sasha’s brain re-catches her earlier thoughts and squeezing her eyes shut firmer, forcing her body to obey, she picks up on where she left off: “If you die.”

Shea gets up on her knees, pressing open mouthed kisses on Sasha’s stomach and chest as she moves on top of her. “Yeah?” she asks quietly and lifts Sasha’s knee up for a better position, bringing the synthetic cock strapped on her hips against Sasha.

“I… I think I-” Sasha whines and reaches up to pull Shea into a hungry kiss, clinging to her in desperation. “I might,” she sighs against Shea’s lips and then whines quietly, squeezing Shea’s forearm as Shea pushes the dildo inside her with a slow, careful thrust of her hips. “Fall for- oh fuck, fall for Katya,” Sasha pants.

Shea’s bright, bubbly laughter fills the room as she draws back and drops a hasty peck on Sasha’s cheek before fucking into her more forcefully.

“I know, babe. I know.”

______________

A/N2: I hope you liked it. xx

#runner #spoky #sashea #sasha velour #shea coulee #aja #trixya #horror #lesbian au #happy birthday dandee #rpdr fanfiction #zombie au #s9 #tw horror #tw violence #tw cannibalism #tw character death

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backseat-negan · 7 years

Text

|Long-Awaited Savior: Part One|

This is my first ever fic - not just in the Negan fandom, but for anything. I’ve never been much of a writer or reader. Deciding to try something new. Feedback is MUCH needed and appreciated.

Masterlist

Characters: Negan (JDM) x female reader

Words: 2,012

Heads up: violence, swearing, a rapist being found out, bondage (non-kinky), flashbacks, and there will definitely be smut in the upcoming chapters/parts :)

Setup: Negan & the Saviors overrun your community and dole out some long overdue justice, changing your life in the process.

Part One: Justice for One

You jerked awake as you heard the unmistakable sounds of a fight occurring just outside the shed you lay in. Blinking repeatedly, you hastily tried to clear away the dirt that had collected on your eyelids. Your shoulders and hips screamed in aching protest at another night spent sleeping on the solid earth.

For fuck’s sake, I need to learn how to sleep sitting up.

Well, it would help to be able to move around in this tiny shithole.

There were shouts from dozens of voices as gunfire rang out. While adrenaline quickly flooded your veins, your brain went into full fight-or-flight mode, and you weren’t entirely sure which avenue you should pursue. The muscles in your jaw and fists clenched instinctively, but you had to calm down - you were no good if you allowed your body to take control. You focused on your breathing, closed your eyes… and prayed that after all this time you wouldn’t lose your life to a goddamn looter. Or worse, one of the dead.

You tried to push yourself up with your elbow as you strained to distinguish the sounds going on outside, but after a few pathetic failed attempts you collapsed back onto the hard dirt with a frustrated groan. Despite the gag pulled achingly tight across your mouth and the tape shackling your wrists behind your back and your ankles together, you mentally prepared yourself for a fight as the sound of commotion drew nearer. You rocked your body back and forth until you managed to twist yourself into a sitting position - back pressed against the wall and feet coiled, ready to lash out at whoever was planning on coming through those god-forsaken doors.

Come at me, motherfucker.

There was a deafening boom at the door, and while the chains on the other side rattled violently you heard a deep voice bellow, “Are you holdin’ out on me? Hiding more shit? I swear to fuck, if I find more guns in here, we’re gonna have a big fucking problem. I will shut that shit down. I won’t ask you again, open the goddamn lock.” Your lips curled in disgust as you heard an all-too-familiar voice stuttering excuses as the lock and chains continued to clang against the heavy door. Wesley.

Be my guest and kill the fucking prick.

After a split second of silence, you heard a soft click followed by a thud and assumed the dickwad had finally found the right key. Funny how he never had to fumble around with the lock when he was the one trying to get in. You dug your feet into the dirt, pressing yourself into the wall with such force that you could feel the splinters tearing at your elbows and shoulders. After a deep breath, you pulled your legs back to your chest, and as soon as the sunlight spilled through the opening doorway, you launched your legs out and up with as much force as you could muster and connected with solid flesh.

I’m not going down without a fight, bitches.

“JESUS FUCK!” you heard the unfamiliar voice roar. Before you could even consider winding up for another kick, you were quickly dragged out into the blinding sun by your feet. Squinting through the sudden burst of light, you could just barely make out the outline of a tall man hunched over in pain and gasping for breath. He was leaning on something… some kind of pipe or bat. As you squirmed to get a better look, you felt cold steel press roughly into your temple and throw your head back into the dirt as a different voice whispered, “You move or try to pull that shit again and I’ll end you right here.” You chanced a glance up the barrel of the shotgun and saw a glimpse of a man with a dark mustache at the other end of the gun.

A bullet in my head would be the best option I’ve had in a good long while.

You were genuinely considering throwing in one last kick to end your life on a high note, but then you heard the first voice again - the tall man - gasping hoarsely, “Put the fucking gun down, Simon. Does it looks like she’s gonna fucking kill me taped up like that?” You felt the pressure on your temple ease up, and you quickly squirmed onto your back and tried to sit up. You pathetically toppled over almost instantly and continued to struggle, eliciting an enthusiastic eye roll and smirk from the man holding what you could now see was a baseball bat wrapped in… barbed wire?

I’ve seen some twisted shit, but… that might take the cake.

“You’re just a fucking ray of sunshine, aren’t ya? I’m Negan. And those were my balls you just kicked.”

When you finally managed to sit up with your back against the shed, he squatted almost on top of you, his face mere inches from yours. His eyes were like wildfire, and the grin showcasing his perfect teeth was more dangerous than inviting. You began to take in the rest of his features - the dimples set deep into his cheeks, the silver sheen in his beard - and found yourself becoming slightly enthralled before his booming voice interrupted your wandering thoughts.

“What the fucking hell did you do to get locked up, beautiful? Had to be some pretty fucked up shit. What’d, you try to kill someone? Sabotage a run? Hey fuckface,” he called over to the one miserable face in the group that you recognized, “Come over here and enlighten me. The fuck’d she do?”

You felt your heart pounding in your ears and chest as Wesley came close, sweat beading and rolling in rivers down his balding head as his eyes darted nervously between you and the man called Negan.

Fucking pig.

Your eyes jumped to the blood soaking through his shirt near his hipbone and gleefully wondered if he had been shot. You’d even be happy with a stab wound at this point, but if it had been up to you, he’d be bleeding in a lot more places.

“Caught her tryin’ to sneak a .45 out a few weeks back,” Wesley spat out with a shit-eating grin, his eyes now glued to yours. “She ain’t ever even been on watch duty, so she’s got no reason to carry. Little bitch can’t even be trusted to wash fucking dishes without trying to fucking steal shit,” You unconsciously growled through your gag and lunged forward, only to be thrown back against the shed wall by the bat man’s powerful hands.

“Now just hold on for one fucking second,” he drawled. “I gotta hear both fucking sides of this story. This is gonna be good, I can already fucking tell. Simon, cut it off.”

Mustache man stepped forward with a blade drawn and before you could even hiss your disapproval at him, he had sliced through the coil of linen that had been gagging you. Trying not to look surprised, you opened and closed your jaw over and over as the rag fell from your face, trying to stretch out the muscles that had been strained for weeks.

Hell, it could’ve been months for all I know.

Negan - with his nose still mere inches from yours - quickly studied every inch of your face, a frown setting deeper on his lips and an even wilder fire igniting behind his eyes with every passing second. For an instant you thought he might kill you for the theft Wesley had accused you of, but you realized that was far from the truth when his eyes softened for just a moment as he whispered quietly to you, “What happened, doll?”

You’re gonna pay for your sins today, you sick fuck.

“I’ve never taken a goddamn thing from this prick,” you growled quietly through clenched teeth. “Never a fucking shirt, never a bottle of water, never an ounce of food, and definitely never a fucking gun.” You spat hatefully in Wesley’s direction, and immediately saw his eyes flare with anger. But as quickly as he reached for the knife hanging from his belt, the man named Simon grabbed him by the shoulders and threw him to the ground, busting his lip open on impact.

“Go ahead and move, prick. I dare you,” Simon whispered in a dangerously calm tone, kneeling and dropping his knee heavily on Wesley’s back. You watched the blood trickling down Wesley’s chin with satisfaction.

“This fucking asswipe has been shoving his dick down my throat and up my ass every chance he’s had since I got here!” you half shouted, surprised at your own audacity. You quickly realized there was more of a crowd gathered than you had previously noticed, and somewhat regretted the boldness of your statement.

You watched the look on Wesley’s face go from getting-away-with-murder to shut-the-fuck-up-right-now in the span of mere seconds. Negan turned his head slowly to take in the full picture of Wesley held chest down in the dirt - sputtering excuses yet again - before turning back to face you. You tried desperately not to tremble, but your adrenaline surged again - if your hands weren’t still taped, you would no doubt be at Wesley’s throat.

Negan turned lazily to look at Wesley once more before turning back to you and raising his hand slightly above his head, prompting Simon to shove the shotgun into the side of Wesley’s head. You felt your breath catch in your throat. Was justice actually going to be served, and on such a glorious platter?

DO IT. Fucking end him, right here and now.

Negan looked you hard in the eyes as he softly tipped your chin up with a leather-gloved hand and whispered so quietly you were certain you were the only one to hear him. “Did you ever consent? Did you ever say yes?”

You couldn’t hold back the tears that silently pooled in your eyes and rolled down your cheeks as images flashed back in your mind. They were tears of rage, despair, embarrassment, fear, and agony. Tears for every night you spent screaming into the gag while no one could hear, every night you heard the lock click shut as you lay trembling in the dirt, feeling filthy, used, and worthless. You closed your eyes before shaking your head slowly and whispering with a cracking voice, “No… no… I never wanted this.”

You weren’t sure which came first, the gunshot or Negan’s hand signaling Simon. They seemed to happen in the same instant. There must have been shrieks of surprise from the camp members who had gathered judging by the looks on their faces, but all you could hear was a ringing in your ears as you stared at the pieces of Wesley’s head littering the ground. Your mouth hung open in stunned silence as Simon handed Negan a knife.

It’s over.

Negan’s touch was surprisingly gentle as he carefully peeled the broken tape from your skin, but you barely even felt the tug of the adhesive. Your eyes darted back and forth from Wesley’s obliterated skull to Negan’s eyes, which were far too focused on releasing you from your bonds as painlessly as possible. You were still in shock. He occasionally glanced up at your eyes to assess how you were coping as he finished removing the shackles you had worn for far too long.

It’s fucking over.

“Let’s go, doll. Come with me,” Negan murmured in your ear, but you were frozen in place, still staring at the brain flesh strewn everywhere. “Get the truck,” Negan nodded to Simon as he delicately scooped you up into his arms and brought you close to his chest. The tears still streamed down your cheeks as you stared blankly ahead, trying to process the events of the last ten minutes. Negan leaned down and tenderly kissed your forehead as he walked to the truck, whispering what your head had been repeating to you since the gunshot:

“It’s over.”

Next Chapter (Part Two)

Ahhhhhh!! It’s so terrifying to finally post this! There is DEFINITELY more on the way, but I didn’t want to blow my load for Negan all at once :) The naming of the rapist as Wesley was a therapeutic thing for me and has nothing to do with the show or comic. Please leave feedback - I absolutely need it!!

Tagging those who have asked or have inspired me to write - if you’d like to be removed or added, please just let me know: @wickednerdery , @flames-bring-a-ton-of-ash , @negans-network , @negans-dirty-girl , @my-achilles--heel , @ladylorelitany , @marythenurse

#negan x reader #negan fanfiction #twd fanfiction #negan's thirst squad #negan's network #noob writer #first fanfic

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