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geniusgub · 4 years

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north//chapter one

here she is!! after the long wait, here is the first chapter of north! I hope you all like it. let me know what you think. more chapters to come soon🖤

also i dont have a tag list for this but if anyone wanted to be tagged in this fic then let me know and I’ll create a tag list

genre: fluff

pairing: spencer reid x female oc

warnings: very basic troupe that I’m sure some people are tired of lol but other than that, none!

word count: 3k

SPENCER

Being late to work is not something that I tend to enjoy. I hate it, in fact. I feel like I'm letting my team down if I'm ever late to round table meetings or if I miss a briefing. But these days, sleep is rare. And if I do sleep, it's not uncommon for me to sleep over the array of alarms I have.

Coffee is a must have for me at all points of the day. No sleep means exhaustion and exhaustion means my brain doesn't work as quickly as it could and that means we don't solve cases and not solving cases means more people die. I can't have more people die on my watch so I drink as much coffee as I can. But the coffee in the bullpen isn't always the best so if I ever have time, I stop at a cafe on my way to work. I take the extra five minutes to walk there before hopping on the metro.

I mumble off my coffee order to the tired looking barista and she scribbles down my name. I hand over a few stray bills to pay and get some change in return, tucking it in my pants pocket. I give a tight lipped smile to the barista before moving to a table in the corner of the cafe, pulling a book out of my messenger bag and starting to read, crossing one of my legs over the other. I don't look up while I wait for the barista to call out my name, not even when two people bump into each other in front of the door or a tourist asks someone else for directions. I just read my book and chew my lip, tapping my fingers against the hardcover.

"Spencer," I hear my name being called and finally allow myself attention to be lifted.

I stand quickly, tucking my book in my bag and closing the flap before heading back to the main counter. But the buckle of my bag gets caught on the button of my sleeve when I try to close my bag all the way. I pull at my sleeve, trying to get the buckle unlooped. But in this tussle with myself, I don't even realize that I'm still walking until I bump right into someone. I move my attention from my bag and catch the person's shoulders so I don't completely knock them over and make not only a fool of myself, but of them too.

"Oh my gosh," I say immediately, my eyes widening, "I'm so sorry,"

"It's okay, it's okay," the girl laughs, her hands squeezing my arms as she regains her balance, “didn’t even fall. You caught me. I didn’t even break a sweat!”

My eyes finally find the girl's face and I'm rendered absolutely speechless. I somehow notice everything about her right away and I memorize her beauty. Her eyes are a bright, beautiful shade of ocean blue and her eyelashes cast shadows over her perfectly pink cheeks. Her hair is wavy and blonde with brown roots, but there's a yellow and blue patterned scarf tied around the front of her head like a folded bandana with pieces pulled out to frame her face. Her nose is small and I can only liken it to a button. Her lips are full and plump and a pretty light pink color and her Cupid's Bow is one that Cupid himself should be jealous of. Both of her ears are full of different types of piercings, and her nose even has a hoop in her right nostril.

She's wearing a light blue knit sweater tucked into a tight denim skirt, along with a pair of short black boots with small heels on them. Her nails are painted white and her fingers are full of rings, each of them different styles and various shades of silver with yellow gems. I notice a tattoo on one of her fingers but she moves and I can't make out what it is. I wonder if she has more tattoos. I find two straps around her shoulders and realize she's wearing a leather backpack, one probably very similar to my own bag. The last thing I notice is the old fashioned camera hanging around her neck, resting just above the waistband of her skirt.

I've seen my fair share of pretty girls. I've seen girls that I wouldn't mind getting to know better. I've met girls that have caught my attention. I've even been in what I believed to be love. But what is this? If I thought I'd seen a beautiful girl before, I clearly hadn't met this girl before. She looks like an angel sent directly from heaven. She looks like she was crafted by God himself and put on this earth to grace mankind with her beauty. Is it fair for one woman to be this beautiful? Is it even possible? I didn’t think that one woman could possess such beauty.

What the hell is wrong with me? I can barely even breathe. I’m just staring at this gorgeous specimen, admiring her smile and trying to memorize the way her fingertips feel on my forearms. I quickly try to think of something to say, another apology for running into her, but I can barely even breathe when I stare at her, much less speak.

"Spencer," the barista calls out my name again, setting my cup down on the counter before walking away. Saved by the barista.

The girl smiles at me and her face lights up, only further illuminating her features. She's got two dimples on her cheeks, bringing out a childlike spirit in her that I pick up right away. "Um," she says with a laugh, "is that yours? You should probably grab it before someone else steals it,"

Okay, Spencer, breathe. You can do this. You’ve spoken to pretty girls before. Sure, it’s hard and it’s scary, but you can do it. Just say words. Preferably, coherent words. Preferably, maybe, a full sentence.

"Right," I finally force out, dropping my hands from her arms. I hadn't realized until now that I was still holding onto her and she was still holding onto me. I reach over and grab my steaming coffee, almost wincing at the heat under my fingertips.

The girl still hasn't moved when I turn back to her, but now she's fiddling with her camera. "Are you," I start to say before hesitating. Her head pops up and she smiles again, letting her camera fall against her stomach. I gulp, shuffling my feet against the floor as I attempt to speak a full sentence. "I didn't mean to bump into you like that,"

"Oh, it's totally fine," she waves her hand at me casually. "I wasn't paying attention either. No harm, no foul. Like I said, I didn’t even break a sweat,” The girl pushes her hair behind her ears and places her hands on her hips. With the confident way she speaks, I almost expect her to keep speaking, but she doesn’t. She just looks at me with the cutest smile, even baring her teeth, waiting for me to say something else.

So I clutch my cup of coffee and swallow thickly. “I-" I hesitate yet again, but when the girl's eyes scream for me to continue, I do. "What's your name?"

She opens her mouth to speak but before she can, another cup of coffee is placed on the counter. "Amelia," the barista announces before walking away.

Amelia laughs, taking a step over to grab her cup, which I immediately notice is tea and not coffee. "Took the words right out of my mouth,"

"Amelia," I repeat as if testing the way the word rolls off my tongue. It tastes sweet. "You heard already, but, um, I'm Spencer,"

"It's nice to meet you," Amelia holds her hand to shake mine, and the panic starts to set in. For a moment, I debate on actually just shaking her hand so I don’t seem like a total freak to this girl that I seem to have a massive crush on. But the prospect of shaking a total strangers hand is repulsive and when I find myself looking at her hand for more than two seconds, I’m starting to count up the amount of germs that would be present there and I have to force myself not to make a face.

So of course, while my hands get clammy and my heart rate speeds up, I do what I do best. I spit out a fact that Amelia didn't ask for. "On average we carry 3,200 bacteria from 150 different species on our hands,"

Amelia's fingers curl into her palm and she retracts her hand, looking down at her palm and smiling just a tiny bit. "You know, I don't blame you for not wanting to shake hands. It is kinda gross anyway,"

"Sorry," I blurt out immediately, still shuffling on my feet. "That was rude of me,"

"It's not rude," Amelia counters, sipping her tea without so much as grimacing at the inevitable heat. "Are you in a rush?" I glance down at my watch and see that I still have ten minutes until I should be getting on the train. I relay this information to her and watch as she smiles again. "Would you like to sit with me then?"

"Oh," my eyes widen slightly and I squeeze my coffee cup so hard that I think I might poke holes in the sides, "y-yeah, sure,"

"Cool," she breathes out, waving me on and leading me to a booth on the other side of the cafe. I'm far too anxious with this situation and by Amelia's beauty and her comfortability around me to even think about relaxing, or drinking my coffee, or taking my bag off from around my shoulder. I definitely can’t remember any of Morgan’s advice on how to chat up girls or any of the conversation starters I’ve memorized for social situations like this. My mind is completely empty, just when I need it to be full and plentiful. How lovely.

Amelia sits across from me and grins, and every time she does, I swear my heart skips a beat and another butterfly breaks through its cocoon in my stomach. "So where are you off to this morning, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Work," I answer, and then realize that's an incredibly vague answer. Amelia raises her eyebrows as she lounges back against the booth, clearly waiting for me to elaborate. "Uh, I work for the FBI, actually. More specifically, the BAU- the Behavioral Analysis Unit,"

"You're a profiler!" Amelia perks up again, sitting up straighter with a huge grin on her face. "That's super cool! My dad is a police officer, sheriff actually, back home in Texas and I'm pretty sure he's worked with the BAU before and he says you guys are awesome. You catch serial killers, right?"

I'm almost stunned by her reaction. Most people don't believe behavioral profiling works, and most people resist the practice, especially local police. But her acceptance of it is incredibly refreshing, and it's welcomed. Honestly, any type of excitement from this Amelia girl is welcomed. It’s a beautiful sight.

I can feel my cheeks turn bright red as I nod, still clutching my coffee cup. "Yeah, we do. And um, what about you?" I hate talking about myself so I change the subject. "Where are you off to?"

"I'm actually meeting a friend of mine to go shopping a few blocks over," Amelia gestures out the window. "But since we're talking about your job, I'll tell you about my way less cool job, which is an artist. I went to Carnegie Mellon and then moved here and I’ve been here ever since. My preference is canvas painting but I bring my camera around a lot, hence," she holds up the camera around her neck, "the camera now. I try to capture spontaneous moments for when I do exhibits and galleries and such,”

"I've always loved art. Never been talented at it, but I like it." I shrug nonchalantly and sip my coffee, trying to divert my eyeline down to the table, but when Amelia smiles at me, I can’t find it in me to break our eye contact.

Something about Amelia's smile brings me in. Every time she flashes her teeth, I feel myself sink further into my seat and I feel my head get fuzzier. I almost forget that I have to get to work in just a few minutes. But I don't want to go anymore. I want to stay here and keep talking to Amelia. I want her to keep going on and on about canvas paintings and her education at Carnegie Mellon, or even just tell me why she likes tea over coffee, if that’s even true. I don’t know anything about this girl but I want to.

"Nobody is technically good at art," Amelia responds. "Everyone has their strengths and weaknesses in the arts, everyone sees art differently, and that's okay. I'm sure you're not horrible, I'm sure you just haven't found your strength yet, Spencer," She enunciates my name with such beauty and grace that I almost ask her to say it again. I'd do anything to hear her say my name again.

"If-" I'm cut off when my phone rings in my pocket, so I lean over and fish it out. I read a text from Garcia that tells me we have a case, meaning we'll be briefing for a new case this morning. I sigh defeatedly, wishing I hadn't just gotten a text that usually piques my interest. Today, it makes my heart drop.

"You have to get to work?" I look back up at work to see yet another smile on Amelia's perfect face. "Go ahead, it's okay," I’m so used to seeing disappointed faces when this text comes in, not a smiling face. It’s odd, somewhat confusing.

I grab my coffee cup and stand as Amelia does the same. She holds her cup to her chest, looking down at her feet. "Will," I chew on the inside of my cheek when she looks up at me, ocean eyes wide with anticipation as I struggle with my words for the umpteenth time, "can I see you again? We barely got to talk and you-"

"Yeah," Amelia nods before I can even finish my sentence. "Can I give you my number?"

I have to hold myself back from jumping up and down in excitement. "Y-Yeah, sure, of course," I pull my phone out yet again as she does the same. She tells me her phone number slowly so I can get it down, but of course, it sticks in my brain immediately.

"Just text me," Amelia murmurs, looking over my shoulder at my phone where my shaky thumbs press against the buttons on my phone to type out- hi, it's Spencer. She waits until her phone rings and then she smiles at me. "Great, I've got it. Now, um, go. Don't let me be the reason you're late in helping people. You don't have to text me if you don't want to," she pauses for a moment, and I wonder what she's waiting for. Is she waiting for me to confirm or deny that statement? Is she waiting for anything at all? Is it an open-ended statement? Where have all my profiling skills gone? Forget profiling- where is my common sense? "But if you do wanna text me," I'm thankful when she starts talking again, "don't until after you've solved your case. Don't worry about me until you've saved lives. But like I said, if you don't wanna text me, you don't have to,"

My phone buzzes again and I can only imagine it's someone from the team asking me where I am, hurrying me along so we can get started on our briefing. I ignore it for now. "Well," I have to clear my throat to be able to speak again. I give Amelia a bashful smile holding up my phone for her to see, "I'll text you when I'm back home,"

Amelia blushes, her bottom lip being pulled between her teeth. She breathes out a tiny laugh, nodding. "I look forward to it, Spencer,"

I take a step towards the door and feel my body grow cold at the distance starting to increase between us. "I'll talk to you soon, Amelia,"

And with that, before I have it in me to take one more look at the angel standing in the corner cafe, I hurry out the front door. There's a dumb smile on my face as I rush down the stairs to the train platform, struggling to swipe my card and respond to Penelope's text at the same time, all while running to catch the train at the platform. I'm somehow successful at all of this and only manage to breathe once I'm inside the stuffy car. Amelia's face is stuck inside my head and I can't get it out, and I'm positive that I never want to.

///

"Reid? Reid!" My head pops up as Morgan forcefully says my name, catching my attention and bringing me out of my daydream.

When I look up at him, he's already staring up at me with his eyebrows raised, clearly expecting an answer out of me about something. I have no idea what that something is, but he’s wanting an answer about it. I clear my throat, placing my cup of terrible police station coffee on the table and running a hand over my face. "Sorry," I apologize half heartedly, "I was thinking,"

Morgan sits across from me at the table and folds his hands. "Case related?" I glance up at him before deciding to completely ignore him, standing and walking up to the board, returning to examining the geographical profile. "Reid, come on, we've been on the case three days. You've been distracted ever since you walked in for the briefing. You can talk to me," I keep ignoring him. I stare at the map in front of me. "Is something going on? Is it your mom?"

"My mom is fine," I spin around and cross my arms over my chest, ignoring the way my heart starts to speed up when Amelia’s face resurfaces in my brain. “Can we just solve this case so we can go home?”

#nikos north fic #spencer reid #dr spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x oc #criminal minds #matthew gray gubler #matthew gubler #mgg #gublernation

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wickymicky · 4 years

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i got tagged by @chuukitten like a month ago lmao oops

rules: answer 21 questions and tag 21 people (im too lazy lol im sorry i just like to talk about myself so thats what im gonna do HAHA)

im gonna put this under a read more cause it got long

1. nickname: my bf calls me cube

2. zodiac: i dont do zodiac shit lol sorry

3. height: i dont actually know, im bad with remembering things like that

4. hogwarts house: the “fuck jk rowling” house (okay fine im hufflepuff)

5. last thing i googled: farmersonly… dont worry about it

6. favorite musicians: i mean yall know my kpop ones haha… loona, dreamcatcher, fromis 9, pentagon, exid, red velvet, twice, eyedi, weki meki, etc……. outside of kpop oh man where do i begin… its tough cause ive basically only listened to kpop in 2019 but okay so i’d say the band idles, death grips, grimes, streetlight manifesto, huh idk i have a lot that i like but i dont know who else i would consider my “favorites” at the moment

7. song stuck in my head: right now its pirate king by ateez

8. following: 1800 lol

9. followers: on this blog 264, but 724 on my main

10. do you get asks: occasionally

11. amount of sleep: i should sleep way, way more than i do

12. what are you wearing: pajamas

13. dream job: hmmm. i mean i dont dream of working, i dont have a dream “job”, but if the question is about my dream “thing i wanna do a lot of in my life” then i guess my answer is… idk… something where i can just engage in whatever is interesting to me at the moment. like in the vein of my tumblr blogs where i can just post and talk about stuff im interested in. idk if that means being a youtuber or journalist or just someone who does something else and engages in my interests as a hobby, but yeah. or something to do with linguistics of course. though like i dont wanna be a teacher and thats basically the only path lmao (that i would even consider, anyway)

14. dream trip: you know i dont actually have a lot of interest in travel. idk, it stresses me out. i cant think about going places without worrying about how i’ll get around, what i’ll be doing, what i’ll be able to eat since i have a lot of food anxieties… idk. if someone i love wanted to go on a trip with me i’d probably be down, but i dont really know on my own.

15. instruments: i wish i could do music lol

16. languages: are amazing and i love them. okay fine lol i only speak english, but i took german in middle and high school, i took latin in high school as well, then took latin and ancient greek in college, and then after college i did a lot of looking into hungarian, vietnamese, a little bit of indonesian, turkish, and polish, and then recently i’ve been pretty focused on korean for obvious reasons. i speak none of those languages tho, lol. if i heard someone speaking some of those i could get the gist of what types of things theyre talking about most likely, but honestly my whole thing with languages is that im more interested in learning about the intricacies of how languages work and especially how they change over time than i am in actually learning the language. i’d love if my dumb adhd brain allowed me to focus hard enough and really commit to becoming fluent in a second language because so far i’ve only steadily approached being barely conversational, i’ve never actually reached even that point yet lol. and being only fluent in english makes me feel like a stupid american lol. i pick up bits of language really easily, but the rigor of learning ALL the vocab and ALL the little details you need to become actually fluent is where i fall off.

like whenever i go through an anime phase, i pick up lots and lots of japanese. like if they keep using a word i’ll see it in the subtitles and figure that it must mean that, and then i’ll pay attention to the endings they use and how they inflect it and i’ll make little inferences about what those signify, so then when i hear a word that i dont recognize but it has a grammatical ending that i know, i can infer the meaning of the word from context, and im going through this same learning process with korean now and it’s super super fun and i’m loving how much progress ive made (though i could have been making progress like three times as fast if i was actually taking a korean class)… but the actual work of learning common phrases, learning the sheer volume of vocab, all that stuff… yeah that’s where i fall off. so idk how fluent i’ll get in korean, but i’m down to find out, lol. maybe this is the one i’ll really try to focus on and achieve it with!

17. 10 favorite songs as of now: of all time????? um okay i cant possibly do that without spending a looong time thinking about it, so i’ll just do the first ten songs that come to my mind when i think of songs that i adore more than most others

keep the streets empty for me by fever ray

colossus by idles

watch it crash by streetlight manifesto

lucky girl by fazerdaze

realiti (demo) by grimes

egoist by loona (olivia hye)

picky picky by weki meki

mother by idles

peekaboo by red velvet

hi high by loona

18. if you were an animal: red panda maybe haha

19. favorite food: pizza cause im a garbage trash person

20. random fact: idk... if yall couldnt tell and didnt already know this, i’m a linguist haha. i went to school for linguistics, i majored in linguistics and classics (latin, ancient greek, etc) though honestly i was only into the languages, roman and greek history is cool and all but not really what i’m most into. majoring in classics was a mistake lol but oh well. i didnt end up graduating though because of unrelated reasons.... adhd, depression, just a general sense that the way the whole system works just wasnt made for me and it didnt click with me and ive never been good at forcing myself to be good at school... and like i was tired of hearing from professors that i have “a very organized mind when it comes to linguistics stuff” (something a greek professor said that meant a lot to me) or that i “understand how language works better than most other students my age” and that im a natural and that its impressive how nuanced my understanding of these concepts is.... while also failing or almost failing all of the classes whose professors said that about me. like basically all those statements were followed by a “, but” or a “, so if you just-”.... sigh. so i guess i’m not “actually” a linguist. whatever “actually” means there.

so other random fact i guess, which is still related but anyway... i have a conlang! that’s a constructed language. ive been working on a language for like 6 or 7 years. its at a state right now where it’s not really something i can just like... speak? it was at one point, maybe. but basically what i like to do is try out various ideas i have about language and phonology and morphology, so my language is kind of like a sandbox lol. if youre a scientist you conduct experiments, if youre a linguist i think you should try making a conlang. its not a common hobby but its something i spend an unconscionable amount of time thinking about lol. like basically 24/7. i’m almost always thinking about my word for x thing im seeing or thinking about, or like some sound change i heard that some language had, and how that would sound if applied to the words in my language...

like the reason my language isnt at a point right now where i can speak it is because getting into korean has made me think about massively reconfiguring how the grammar works. its always been kinda like latin and german, cause those are what i was taking when i started, and then it got kinda like ancient greek, so the grammar has/had a lot of complicated conjugations that are just honestly so superfluous... its such a mess lol... i have a much better understanding of how those systems come about in language now, so even if i remake my language to have verb conjugations like latin or greek, it’d be a much more coherent and natural system than the one thats existed in my language for years... but after learning about hungarian and korean in particular, i really wanna try making it a lot more logical like those languages are. but my big thing is phonology (speech sounds), so i just get hung up on sound changes and cool new consonants and vowels to add, so i keep putting off actually fixing my language lol. also ive become attached to my awful, amateurish words haha. im so bad at this... a real conlanger like tolkien or the dude who made the languages for game of thrones would look at mine and scoff haha. most of my words are just straight up stolen from words in latin, german, many others, but predominantly... english. i just mangle english words and call it my own lol, and ive been trying to replace those words with original ones that i made up arbitrarily... like my word for nose is just “nass” and my word for dog is “handir” which is just based on english “hound” and german “Hund” and stuff lol. i wanna change those

21. my aesthetic: if you actually read this long ass post, you know that my aesthetic is just “too much information” but not in a sexy way or even an interesting way

#personal #kitty #long post #writing #idk i should have a tag for stuff people tagged me in #tagged

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inkstainedfanfics · 7 years

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To Spot a Friend

Request: Hello, dear Author. Can You do the following request. Hope it will interest You. Reader is a famous singer, whose voice gets is a voice of a angel, but she hides her face behind a mask. Newt running after niffler is in concert hall and heard her. He sees her singing and fell in love with voice. But she had an abusive boyfriend, who is heating her... and here can be any variation of action...

Word Count: 5,703

Pairing: Newt x Reader

Requested by Anonymous but tagging @caseoffics @red-roses-and-stories @dont-give-a-bother

WARNING: Allusions to an Abusive Relationship

Part 2 (Drabble) | Part 3

The silver lights cast the room in a sultry glow that drapes over the red plush seats and diamond-and-pearl covered guests like a silken shawl. Their conversations, soft under the intimidation of the glow, drift languidly toward the high ceiling of the theater and mingle together as they wander through the room.

A soft jazz tune weaves through the crowd, no more than a lazy cat no one pays much attention to as it sneaks over their heels and between the legs of their black slacks. The song wafts from the open orchestra pit, a moat between the seats and the massive wooden stage that juts out, looming in front of the crowd, a stage with such a history of grandeur that few agree to step onto it.

Some women shift in their seats in an attempt to peer around the velvet curtains that guard the back of the stage, separating audience and artist for now. They murmur to one another, wondering if the brave artist is back there, hidden in the folds of the shadows, listening to the conversations swirling around. Their chairs squeak as they move, trying to earn the first glimpse of the acclaimed performer with the voice of a cherubim.

They never see her, though, never notice you as you lean against the cool stone wall and try to understand the bits of muffled conversation that amble past you. Your eyes are shut, arms wrapped around your stomach, while you take slow breaths in through your nose, let them out through your mouth. The terror you’d known your first time on stage still haunts you, a ghost you can never rid yourself of no matter the amount of glowing reviews in newspapers or number of sold out concert halls. Terror is a constant in your life, one of the only constants you’ve known for the past four years.

Two hands wrap around your waist, covering your own hands, a wave of thick cologne that ruins your slow breathing and causes you to cough accompanying them.

Theo’s hot breath, smelling of cigarettes and whiskey, scrapes across the side of your face. “You know you’re not supposed to hang out side stage before the show, darling.”

“I needed a break.” You murmur as his stubble scratches your cheek and his chin digs into your shoulder.

“Your wardrobe team tore backstage apart looking for you. They want to get you ready.” He tugs you against his chest.

“They have plenty of time.”

“They need to start soon or you won’t look radiant tonight.”

The insult doesn’t upset you, not anymore. “What does it matter how I look if they’re here for my voice?”

His fingertips dig lightly into your stomach. “No one wants to listen to an ugly person sing. You need to shine, darling. We’ve been over this.”

The bile in your stomach simmers and you feel sick, but you nod at his words. “I’ll meet with wardrobe soon.”

He presses a rough kiss against your exposed neck. “Don’t be long. They need to get to work or we’re paying them for nothing.”

“I know, love.” You whisper as his arms unwrap from around you with one final squeeze.

You shut your eyes again, fighting the tears that threaten to gather. They rise and fall without once finding their way between your closed eyelids. You’ve fought tears plenty of times, enough to know what to picture to drive them away.

Your mind wanders instinctively to that image, to your happy place. You’re on a front porch somewhere, sitting on a two-person swing as the spring sun covers the field in front of you with a comforting warmth. An animal—a dog this time, though it changes every week—pads around in front of you, sniffing the old oak boards and panting. It barks when one of the buzzing insects that surrounds the house hops by, and the dog gives chase to the poor bug. Children’s shouts come from a nearby park, and the screen door leading into the house creaks open as your spouse comes out, sweating glass of ice water in their hand, smile on their face. You smile back, taking the glass as they lean down and kiss the top of your head before sitting next to you and rocking the swing gently. The condensation on the glass drips onto your thigh, a nice break from the summer’s heat, and you reach up to wipe the sweat gathering on your forehead. The world shakes apart, breaking up, when you touch your forehead, not the hard brim of your mask.

You open your eyes, straightening your back and your mask. It covers the top half of your face and runs down the bones just in front of your ears, curling around your jawline for only an inch. Theo despises the thing.

“Let me take it off.”

You shake your head. “It’s mine.”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “Don’t be ridiculous, darling. You can’t go on stage like that.”

“I am.” You say the words quietly but with the strength you can muster.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am.” You repeat, bowing your head as the anger starts to materialize in the hard lines around his mouth and the crack of his neck.

“Darling, take it off.” Now his voice is quiet, but he doesn’t have to work to say it with force.

You close your eyes, hands trembling at your side, but you shake your head. He clenches his jaw and strides toward you.

You shake the memory out of your head as you touch the black half of the mask, fingers twisting one of the gold sequins that outlines the smooth fabric. You’d found the mask three and a half years ago and slid it on before a show.

You haven’t taken it off in front of another person since then. Theo has tried to tear it from your face so many times you’ve lost track of the exact amount. He doesn’t understand. None of them do. The press begs for it to come off, to learn who the women hidden underneath is, and the fans themselves will try to pluck it from your face, an occurrence happening so often you stopped allowing them at your side.

You’ve turned yourself into an enigma that the world eats up when all you want is to rest. A long, bottomless rest.

The world calls, though. Calls with diamonds and emeralds and queen visits and every luxury you could want, but also with hours upon hours of traveling and days without enough food and a deep exhaustion no amount of sleep can erase from your bones. Some days, you worry you’ll never sleep it off, never outlive it. That doesn’t matter, though, not to the world. It calls and you must answer.

Chaos runs rampant backstage as your wardrobe attendants and makeup attendants wring their hands and turn pink when Theo flirts with two of them and tells a joke to the others. Lighting directors creep up to you and ask for an autograph, curtain boys flirt heavily with you, whistles follow you as do children and nieces and nephews of the stage owners, swearing up and down they are big fans and want your attention, just a piece of it. Two sons of the conductor are begging to see what rests under that mask. Is there a scar? A disfigurement? Have you lost an eye or are you a cyborg like in the comics?

Theo spots you and starts your way, sifting past the crowd accumulating and resting a hand on the small of your back. It’s a little too low but moving it will only ruin his decent mood so you imagine your happy place again.

This time, there’s a cat.

You don’t tune into whatever information he’s spewing until you reach the door with your name plastered across it. Your attendants pop up from your left and right, taking your elbows and leading you into the room, leaving Theo behind as he tips his hat, making half of them swoon.

You let them raise your arms and paint your face and pull your hair until it hurts. They never pin it until it aches. One tentatively runs her finger over the white half of your mask, asking if tonight’s the act. You shake your head, earning disapproving shouts from three different women.

You shut your eyes when they tell you to as they paste eyeshadow over the little skin of your eyelid showing. It’s gold, bright gold to match the sequined dress they shove you into. The dress sparkles and gleams every time you move or breathe. It molds to every curve of your body, clinging to you like a life raft.

You eye the dresses hanging on the rack to your right. One’s snowy hem skims the floor, glimmering when the light hits it the right way. You imagine yourself in that dress, how it would feel to wear something that doesn’t reveal every flaw on your body, something that doesn’t turn you into a chandelier that spins slowly in the dining room, loved only for the way it looks. You want the dress that floats out, that looks like the first snowfall of winter.

Theo’s never let that happen, though, and you don’t bother to argue anymore. The brightest manager sits next to his name in type, the headline of many newspapers that he shoves in your face anytime you work up the nerve to question his decisions. If that doesn’t end your protests, he reverts to other methods.

You shift, tugging at the long sleeves when they bunch up around your shoulders. Your attendants swat at your grasp, telling you to leave it be, you’ll ruin the design and rip it.

Dropping your hand, you nod, pretending to understand, pretending to care.

One of them clamps a hand around your arm, thumb burrowing right into a fresh bruise. You yelp. They don’t care as they swing the door open to present you to Theo. He’s there, of course he’s there, and he opens his arms and hugs you so tight you can’t breathe as he mumbles something in your ear about not messing up.

The attendants don’t hear him, just whisper about the romance to one another, wishing they had someone like him. They don’t understand where the bruises they saw came from.

You can’t find it in yourself to care.

You allow yourself to be ushered to the stage, to take your place in front of the silver microphone. The heels they squeezed your feet into are a half size too small, but you can’t change now, not as the clock off stage ticks down to a minute before eight. You nod at their directions as they hurriedly explain lighting and the microphone. You don’t care. You don’t care at all about being up here. Not anymore.

But when the lights above turn from silver to gold and the heavy curtains in front of you swish away, you open your mouth and sing.

“Get back here, you pest.” Newt mutters as he dives for the niffler again. The slippery bugger ducks under his grasp and darts forward down the abandoned New York street and past the closed shops. He skitters away when Newt starts forward again.

“Stop that! Come on…” His feet pound against the sidewalk, echoing around the silent street. “Oh for… It’s getting late. You’re not going to find anything out here.”

The niffler stops short, looks sideways, then shoots around the corner.

Newt curses. His feet ache, his chest burns from running for so long, and the finger he jammed against the asphalt earlier throbs in pain. The night is not in his favor right now.

Still, he rushes around the corner, pausing to scan the area for the niffler. He spots him scampering down the sidewalk, heading for a door that’s been propped open.

Strains of a song drift from the door, lovely music that Newt thinks he may enjoy if it weren’t for the bloody nuisance leading the chase.

“I’ll take away your stash if you don’t stop.”

To Newt’s surprise, the niffler does stop. Right in front of the open door. He sits, and Newt thinks he may be going crazy when he sees the tiny creature sway.

The niffler looks at Newt, watches him rush forward, then hops to its feet and runs in past the door.

Newt rolls his eyes and follows suit, footsteps muffled by thick carpeting when he slips inside. The niffler’s nowhere to be seen. Fortunately, a path of tiny gems and coins leads to a staircase.

“You bother.” Newt grumbles as he follows the path up the steps. It twists, and he wonders how the niffler made it up so quickly as he continues, legs burning.

When he turns the corner, he sees the niffler: leaping into a woman’s purse. She opens the door to the theater, stepping into the seating area. Newt catches it before it can close, shouting out a woman’s name so the guard’s think he’s with her.

The niffler peers out of the woman’s purse, not rifling through her belongings, not stuffing the shiny necklace poking out from under a handkerchief into its stomach, just staring at the stage.

Newt creeps forward, snatching the furry beast from the purse and clutching him, tightening his grip in anticipation. The niffler doesn’t squirm, though, just stares at the stage, transfixed.

Newt follows his gaze and freezes. A beautiful woman with a voice purer than he’s ever heard stands alone on stage, voice wavering on a single note, the end of a song.

He can’t move, as in awe as the rest of the audience. Not a person speaks, not a pen scratches against a reporter’s notebook, he’s not even sure a person breathes.

The note ends, falling, tripping into silence for only a moment before the crowd erupts. Even the niffler taps his paws together twice.

Then he wriggles out of Newt’s grasp and runs out of the room.

Newt finds him on the main floor, three rows from of the front of the room. He ignores the dirty looks and angry patrons as he walks down the side aisle, sticking as close to the wall as he can to avoid anyone that might throw him out.

When he reaches the niffler, he swipes him up again and drops him in a deep pocket of his jacket that he charmed months before. He closes the button on it and leaves his hand over the top as he watches your performance.

He leans against the wall, listening to the subtle vibrato in your voice, the way you transition from each note, the obvious passion in your performance. His heart wrenches when he sees water drip from your jaw. Tears.

He doesn’t know you, doesn’t know your name or why you have that black and white mask on, but he knows he wants to stop your tears. The niffler shifts in his pocket, but he knows he has to find you after the concert and make sure you’re okay.

The final note of your final song trembles in the silence. You let it, let your emotions bend and warp it as they see fit. It’s the only victory you have left: control over your voice.

When it ends, the audience erupts into applause, whistling and shouting your name, cheering for you. You wonder if it’s for you or for your dress and voice. It can’t be both.

You step back from the microphone, head high. You should nod, should acknowledge their compliments, but you don’t have the energy to, not when they don’t mean it.

You turn to walk off the stage and slide the heels off your feet when you notice him. A man standing at the side of the aisle, not clapping, not cheering, just staring with an unusual expression painted across his face. You’ve seen many expressions in your four years of performing. You’ve seen lust, jealousy, envy, anger, pure joy, false tears, even bliss, but you’ve never seen whatever is in this man’s eyes.

You stare at him, meeting his eyes as you walk past and into Theo’s arms.

His grip tightens around your forearm. “What do you think you’re doing?” He hisses, words hidden under the applause still booming behind you. “You didn’t bow.”

“I can’t.” The dress would tear.

“Don’t lie to me.”

You can almost taste the alcohol on his breath. “Theo-“

“Don’t ‘Theo’ me. I know you’re trying to ruin my business, but I won’t let you. You go back out there and bow.”

“Please-“

“Now.” He growls, turning and shoving you back.

You stumble on stage, tears welling up in your eyes at the embarrassment. The crowd breaks into cheers again, thinking you’re performing another song.

The new blisters on your feet grow as you stride to center stage, lip wobbling imperceptibly. You lift a hand, waving once, twice, three times before pressing it across your stomach. Your eyes dart to Theo. He scowls, waving his hand. You sigh and look back over the crowd, bowing.

You shut your eyes as you feel cool air sneak up an inch of your now-exposed spine. The dress strains and tears slowly, but you remain bowed until you count to ten in your head. When you stand, the crowd is on their feet, but you just glance for the man you saw earlier.

He’s gone.

Disappointment filling you for some reason you can’t fathom, you turn, revealing the tear to half the audience, and walk offstage.

Theo doesn’t smile, isn’t pleased with you. He just slides his hand into yours when everyone around you looks and squeezes until you yelp.

A sugary grin appears on his lips as he looks at you. “Something wrong, darling?”

You don’t bother to reply.

He drags you forward, asking the attendants to leave you two alone, implying the exact opposite of what you know is coming, and pushes you into the dressing room. You stumble forward, grabbing the rack of dresses to regain your balance.

He pulls a cigarette and lighter from his pocket as he shouts. “You think you just get to go out there and give a performance like that? Huh?”

“Theo, please-“

“I said stop that!”

You shut up, bowing your head as he takes a drag from the lit cigarette.

“You think you can just go out there and ruin me like that? Go out there and give a half-hearted performance that doesn’t include the dance moves we went over?”

“My dress was too tight.”

“My dress was too tight.” He mocks in a high-pitched voice. “I don’t care if your dress is glued to every fold of your body, we paid good money to teach your clumsy self how to do those moves. You will put them to use. Understand?”

You nod meekly, waiting for the peak of his anger to finally come.

“If you want to stay popular, stay important, you listen to me. You think your brand works because of you?” He coughs out a laugh.

Smokes washes over your face.

“You better think again, darling. I’m the reason you are where you are. If it weren’t for me, you’d still be singing in small town coffee shops. You’d still be a nobody that no one cares about.”

Tears tremble at your lashes. You close your eyes, trying to transport yourself to your happy place. It doesn’t work, though, as his voice rises and rises until you wonder if the audience can hear.

“Are you listening?” He grabs your bicep, yanking on it, sending you lurching into the wall. He cusses at you, calling you slur after slur as he works himself into a frenzy, grabbing the dress rack and throwing it onto the ground before he stalks over to you.

“I won’t have you ruining me.”

You shut your eyes when he raises his hand.

The hit never comes.

A flash of red light breaks through your eyelids and something nearby thumps onto the ground.

You open your eyes to see Theo laying on the ground in front of you, not moving. You think you’d scream if you weren’t so tired. You drag your eyes up from Theo’s body when the door clicks. The man from the audience is there, something in his hand, staring not at Theo but at you.

“Are you okay?”

You just watch him as he walks forward, hands raised.

“I won’t hurt you.”

You can see that in his face, the soft lines there, the way his lips twitch into a smile.

He gestures toward Theo with his chin. “He’s alive.” He says the words to comfort you, but there’s ice in them, as though he doesn’t quite wish for that to be true.

Oh. Good.

“I just stunned him.” Here his face hardens, but it softens when he looks at you.

“He was my boyfriend.” You murmur simply in response.

“Didn’t look much like one.” There’s a subtle edge in his tone, a protective quality you’ve never once heard used around you.

You consider his words, turn them over in your head before you look up at him. “He wasn’t much of one.”

The man grabs a blanket from the back of the tiny armchair and tosses it over Theo. “He’ll be stunned for a few minutes, at least. Enough for us to talk. If you’re okay with that.”

You reach up, biting your thumb nail as you look at him. He’s standing a few feet away, hands still raised, that unrecognizable look painted on his features again. Though the terror you’re accustomed to stirs, you nod at the ground in front of you.

He steps over the fallen rack and sits in a pile of dresses. “Your performance was beautiful.”

“Thank you.” You mumble around your nail.

He nods. “But…” he hesitates, that expression strengthening in his furrowed brows and pursed lips.

You just wait.

He finally falters. “Do you mind if I say something personal?”

You shake your head, dropping your hand onto your lap. “Go ahead.”

“I know what loneliness looks like.” He smiles humorlessly at some memory. “I’ve not been the most outgoing, and I’ve spent plenty of time alone.” He drums his fingers on his thighs, staring at his knee for a moment before jerking his head up to look at you. “Are you lonely?”

You freeze as you start to realize what you couldn’t figure out before.

“I’m sorry if that’s too assumptive of me. I just thought… I know the look too well.”

Understanding. That’s what fills his eyes.

Tears you don’t want to chase away fill your eyes. “Thank you.”

The words are soft, probably confusing, you figure, as he has done nothing to deserve thanking, not that he’s aware of, but you say them nonetheless.

And the man, you want to hug him, nods. “It’s difficult, isn’t it? Being alone.”

Your lower lip wobbles as he waits, aware that you’re going to respond. A knot works its way up your throat, choking you, hindering your ability to speak for a couple of minutes. He sits there, though, hands fiddling with his shoelaces, not saying anything, just flashing you a grin every now and then to reassure you.

“It’s so hard.” You finally manage, tears dripping onto your mask.

The man nods again. “You have me, if you want.” He laughs at himself, easing the embarrassment of your tears. “I’m not in the highest of demand among other people, but I do consider myself an all right friend.”

“Thank you.” You mumble again, wishing you could say something else but not knowing how else to convey your gratitude without breaking into a sobbing mess.

“What’s your name?” He asks, quiet now.

You stare at him. He doesn’t know? He hasn’t seen the posters, heard you proclaimed as perfect on every radio station?

He’s too good to be true.

You shake your head as you tell him and ask for his.

“Newt Scamander. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise.” You say, shifting as your back starts to protest the hard stone wall. “Except for…” You trail off, gesturing to everything around you. “All of this.”

He frowns. “You don’t like it?”

Shame fills you. You have everything you could want: money, adventures, fame, but you hate it. You hate every bit of it.

“It’s nice.”

“But not what you want?”

You meet his reassuring eyes again. How does he just know? “Yes.” The word breaks, cracks open on your despair, on your worry that he’ll judge you. The terror surges, gaining a foothold on your heart, sending it pounding away in a pulse you can hardly control.

But Newt doesn’t glare at you, doesn’t shake his head in condemnation. He just tilts his head and asks, “Would you leave?”

The question smacks you square in the chest, granting the terror a chance to crawl up your chest and constrict your throat, control your tears, and hasten your pulse. You’d never let yourself consider such a terrifying question. There had never been reason to with Theo around. And when it had first started, when you first heard your name over the crackly radio speakers, you’d found a thrill nothing else could match. Singing for money, for life… it was all you had wanted since you were young and holding concerts in your tiny kitchen. Music was all you had, a lifeline you couldn’t just leave behind. But the fame, the fame you could do without. You could do without the pictures and the rumors and the late nights and early mornings and diet after diet.

You shake, terrified at the thought of running away, of leaving Theo, but also excited.

Newt crawls around to sit by you. “I’ll help you, if you’d like.”

The image of the porch swing returns. You can almost feel the cool rim of the glass when it presses against your makeup free lips, hear the squeals and laughter of the children as they play, smell the fresh spring breeze that floats past you. It’s all right there, right in front of you. The radio never plays one of your songs, no one ever stops you and asks for autographs, no one cares about who you are except the person standing next to you.

A utopia you know you could never have.

“I can’t.” You say, voice cracking.

Newt slowly reaches up, waiting for you to nod before wiping away the tears soaking into your mask. “Why not?”

“There’s so much.” You have to stop, breathe, before you can continue. “So much here that will follow me. How could I just give it all up?”

Newt grins at your words. “I know someplace where they won’t find you. You just have to trust me.”

“Where?”

He shakes his head. “You won’t believe me until I show you, but I think you’ll love it.”

You’re inclined to trust him, to believe him despite his refusal to reveal the place. “Do you—do you really think you could do it?”

He nods, fingers moving from your wide eyes to the gold sequins around your mask. “If we don’t dally.”

“How?”

“I’ll sneak you out of here.” He says it simply, with no worry, no doubt whatsoever. Such confidence without any of the arrogance of Theo is something you haven’t seen in years.

“Everyone here knows me.” You pick at your nail, embarrassed at the arrogance you yourself seem to be showing, but the statement is true. Everyone here could pick you out in an instant.

Newt takes in your dress, your shoes, and your hairdo. “I can fix it, but,” he hesitates, “the mask. Are you willing to take it off?”

Your hands drift up to run over the bottom of it. The thing is your only comfort, your only way of beating back the terror, the only way you can look in the mirror and live with yourself.

Newt takes your silence as an answer. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to.”

You jerk your head up to meet his green eyes. “Are you sure?”

He presses a finger to his lips, staring at your mask. “We’ll need a hat and to let your hair down.”

You shake your head. “A wig would be better.”

He brightens at the thought. “That would work. One minute.” He frowns as he digs in his pocket and pulls out a stick.

You flinch when he raises it, sending apology after apology tripping out of his mouth.

“It’s all right.” You murmur.

“This won’t hurt. It’s magic. I’ll explain later.” He continues when he sees your expression. “I promise I’m not a crazy man.”

You figure it doesn’t matter if he is at this point if he gets you out of here.

He waves it, mumbling something to himself, and you watch, mouth open, as the tight, glittering fabric that you so despise melts away, loosening and freeing your chest and stomach. A long-sleeved button up takes its place, loose and flowy. Black slacks free your legs, allowing you to walk normally, and a pair of fuzzy socks and simple sneakers appear over your feet, easing the pain of the blisters as the heels fade. To finish, a wig—a black bob—and a newsboy cap land on your face, blocking most of the mask from anyone else’s sight.

Newt’s sweet smile steadies your heartbeat. “You look lovely.”

You grin, eyes dropping to your torn apart nails.

He continues. “I’ll create a distraction outside the door so you can sneak out.”

“What are you going to do?”

Newt grins mischievously. “I can be quite clumsy at times, I’m sure something interesting will happen.”

“Are you going to use more… magic?”

“Maybe.” He grins again, but it fades when he realizes something. “Would you hold onto something for me?”

You agree to with a nod.

Digging in his pocket, he scowls at his jacket. “Come on out, you little bugger. There’s jewels out here.” A fluffy little creature emerges nose first from the inner pocket. Newt holds him out to you. “Yes, she’s the one you liked.” Cheeks pink, he looks up at you. “This is a niffler. Crazy about anything shiny and a squirmy little guy. Hold on tight to him, okay?”

You take the niffler into your hands, holding him up to your face. “He’s adorable.”

“A bigger pest than you’d imagine.” Newt stands. “Are you ready to go?”

The niffler fades from your thoughts as you glance around the dressing room again, at everything you’re leaving behind. The dresses, the jewels, the glamour, but, worst of all, the music.

You bite your lip. No, the music is with you always. The fame is all you’ll lose if you walk out of here, and you can live without it.

You kick the blanket that Theo rests under, still unmoving. Good. You hope he landed on something that will leave a kink in his back later.

“I’m ready.”

Newt nods, face pure determination as he turns and slips out the door. You walk up to it, placing one hand on the handle, cuddling the niffler in your other, and pressing an ear against the crack to listen to whatever may happen.

Three loud bangs sound from backstage. Taking it as your cue, you push the door open and step out, keeping your head down so the hair blocks your face. You hold the niffler to your chest, praying the rattling of your racing heart doesn’t scare it. Each step feels like your last, like someone will tug you back and ask where you think you’re going. Your mouth is dry as you pace forward, trying to speed up but feeling like you’re walking through honey. You force yourself forward as sweat beads up on your forehead and the world becomes really loud. Black spots dance in your vision, and you force yourself to breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth.

In through your nose, out through your mouth.

The door leading outside is in front of you, just out of reach, when you begin to fall. Despair yanks down your chest. You’re not going to make it. They’re going to find you and drag you back. You’ll never have that front porch swing.

Then two hands wrap around you, tugging you gently against their chest and helping you forward, forward, forward. Then you’re outside and the cool breeze hits your face and you can’t help but cry as Newt murmurs words of encouragement to you.

“Come on, just around the corner. There we are. You can sit now.” He grunts as he helps you down.

You cover your eyes and sob.

You don’t know how long you weep, how long you sit there, Newt’s hand rubbing small circles over your back, crying, but you know it’s a long enough time for most people to have decided to leave.

When you finally stop and hiccup, you look up at Newt.

Worry creases his forehead, but he smiles. “You made it.”

A friend. A real friend.

You reach up with shaking hands and pull off the hat and wig. Newt says nothing, letting you do as you please.

You try three times to get your hand under the bottom of the mask, and when you do, you peel it off, squashing the doubt that tries to stop you. He deserves this. You finally met someone that knows the real you.

Newt says nothing at first when you stare at the mask in your hand, at the symbol of everything from the past four years. He still says nothing when you pull your arm back and fling it deep into the alleyway, screaming for the first time in years.

You could sob again. You’re free.

But instead, you look up at Newt, let him see who you really are.

And he smiles at you, lifting a hand to run a finger down your cheek. “You’re beautiful.”

You close your eyes, repainting your happy place into a forest, a beach, a lake, anywhere, anywhere as long as this man is with you.

This time, it’s a niffler.

#newt scamander #newt Scamander x reader #newt Scamander imagine #newt Scamander one shot #fbawtft #requested #I don't normally ask but would any of you be so kind as to let me know what you think of this?#even if it's bad I'd like to hear it #I wasn't sure when I sat down to write this how it would turn out #but I kind of like it #idk #lmk please? I'd really appreciate it #and thanks for the request!#Have a lovely day everyone!!

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