it's like he's hitting on everybody x)

6

Nathan, man you’ve been working for your whole life for this. You can’t say no. You know what it’s like to hit a game winning shot. The whole crowd loves you…everybody treats you like you’re a star. I get to feel that every time I play. I mean, you know, you’ve felt it.

Breathe

Request: Hello! I simply adore your imagines. Could you do a NewtxReader where the reader has severe anxiety but Newt doesn’t know until he finds her in the middle of a panic attack. And he calms her down and loads of fluffy moments. (Ps. I love your angst imagines. They make my heart ache, which apparently I like. Who knew?)

Word Count: 1,325

Pairing: Newt x Reader

Requested by @aceandawkward but also tagging @red-roses-and-stories @dont-give-a-bother @caseoffics @myrtus-amongst-the-stars @ly–canthrope @thosefantasticbeast2 @benniesgalaxy @whatinbenaddiction


The world works in facts, standards. X + Y = Z. Multiply 5 by itself and you’ll earn 25, no matter the circumstances. Throw something solid in the air and it will come back down regardless of its weight.

It’s comforting, this certainty, to know that if X happens, Y will follow without fault.

You wish as you sink to your knees that humans worked the same way. That every situation resulted in only one outcome, one feeling. You know it’s impossible – emotions are messy – yet as you land on the cool tile of the bathroom floor, your last coherent thought is about how nice it would have been to know that watching seven strangers and three friends walk in that door would be the terror’s invitation, that only minutes later some unseen antagonist would waltz on up from its nest in your gut and take over everything.

You lie down, the cool tiles a welcome break from the sweat beading up on your face, ordering yourself to breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Merlin’s sake, just breathe.

A knock at the locked door interrupts you. “Love, did you want me to put the chicken in the oven now or in a few minutes?”

Newt.

You suck in air and muster the last of your strength. “Now.” A lie. It’s not supposed to cook for ten more minutes, but saying that takes far more breath than you can draw in.

“At 425?”

You drop your head onto the ground, gulping in breaths as the world spins around you, a whirling mess. “Yes.” The word’s quiet, little more than a whisper, as you shut your eyes.

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