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
WARNING: Allusions to an Abusive Relationship
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.