summary: locked in a cycle of violence, obedience and blame, you've never thought to try and form any sort of connection with anyone. you are dangerous, an animal kept in a cage for everyone's safety. you fight for their entertainment.
you've killed for it.
and you despise it.
but what else is there to do?
surely there is more to life than this. this eternal struggle for scraps off a plate you never get to see. fight to survive something your body had long since given up on.
after another punishment leaves you bloodied and unconscious, someone who had sworn off closeness, especially with you, is afforded the chance to bestow a bit of kindness.
content: 18+ mdni, dead dove: do not eat, implied/referenced non-con, self-loathing, suicidal ideation, dehumanisation, lack of autonomy, self-harm, angst, slow burn, hurt/no comfort to hurt/comfort, yearning, guilt, AFAB reader (reader is genderqueer and it will be plot relevant eventually), vague medieval/fantasy setting, enslavement, violence
chapter 1. And as the full star tries his best to make the white pearl shine,
Hai!!! Can you write a long story on female reader and monty playing in gator golf- both are really good at playing , And then after a while they sit down and have a little kiss scene? And then reader gets kinda tired and rests on montys lap?
Thank you SO much if u see this
Have a lovely day/ night! 🥰
Sorry that this took so long! I tried my best on this, and I really hope that you like it!!
Monty x female reader
Sitting up, you rub your eyes, yawning as you do so. You’ve been working at Freddy Fazbears Mega Pizzaplex for about a year now. You’ve gotten to know all of the animatronics pretty well. But Monty is your main dude. You guys have hit it off well, earning a smile and a nod from him instead of his past glare and sneer.
You get out of bed and head to the kitchen, making your usual breakfast, Then following your everyday routine. You make your way to work, not really looking forward to anything since your job is just to do whatever management tells you. So cleaning, restocking, repairing, the sorts.
Getting to the Pizzaplex doesn’t take too long, it’s about 10 minutes away from your place. Saturdays are hell. You remember the moment you walk in since it’s insanely packed. Every main cast member is getting swarmed. You squeeze through the crowd and make your way into the employees only room. Checking your phone for what you need to do for today, “Check soap dispensers in floor 2 bathrooms, clean up soda spill at birthday table 5, fix stage lights,” Etcetera.
But your favorite part of your job, besides the breaks, is to see Monty. Ever since you guys met, something brought you two together. You really liked him, he was so cool. But you felt as though you two could never really hit it off since he probably didn’t feel the same way. You guys did become pretty good friends. At least, you think so. You never hung out though. You just assumed he would always be busy and you didn’t think you could handle the rejection.
Finally on your lunch break, you go to the break room, finding your locker. You change into the extra pair of clothes in case of emergencies, which there was an emergency. A kid lost control of his race cart and got dizzy, resulting in him losing, getting off the race track, and letting all of his pizza and soda filled stomach projectile all over you.
After changing you dread getting back out, considering just taking the day off but that might just get you fired. You head out of the room, spotting a mom yelling and her kid crying behind her. You peek at who she’s yelling at. Monty. She’s screaming about how her kid deserves to have a picture with him. There are other families lined up, you guess they are all taking pictures with him. That woman and her son storm off, leading to Monty huffing. He notices you, and he takes a few steps towards you but the next family in line stops him. You continue walking to wherever you were trying to.
Hours later, your shift ends, and relieve washes over you like a waterfall. Today was tough, you did so much more than you thought you would. Making your way towards the entrance, you get stopped by a yell of your name. You look over your shoulder and see Monty jogging over to you.
“Hey, Y/N! Can I talk to you for a sec?” Monty asked as he caught up to you, standing in front of you.
“Oh, sure, what’s up?” You reply.
“Do you want to hang with me up in my golf course? If, if you want to of course,” He stutters. You’re shocked, he’s never invited you to hang out with him,
“Yeah! I can do that,” you spat out keenly.
“Ah, great. Let’s go!” Monty exclaims jubilantly.
You both make your way towards the elevator, rising up and stopping, stepping out and then towards Monty’s Gator Golf.
Stepping inside, you have to get used to all of the green your eyes are being exposed to.
“Do you know how to play?” Monty questions.
You scoff, “Do I know how to play? Buddy, I am the master at golf.” You clear up.
“Oh really now?” Monty queried.
“What, you don’t believe me?”
“Nope. I guess you got to play in order to prove it.” Monty mischievously inquires.
You beam, ready to impress this grinning Gator. Walking over to the iron clubs, you pick one up, also getting a ball. Setting it down you ready up your club, you bring it up in the air and strike! The hole is pretty far, so you had to use a bit of strength. The ball rolls and rolls until, it falls in!
“Yes! Beat that Gator!” You scream out in delight.
“Wow, that was impressive,” Monty admits.
He walks over and grabs his own club and ball. Setting it up, he strikes once and he also gets the ball in the hole with one hit. “But you’re going to have to try harder than that to beat me. My whole thing is being good at golf. That’s why I have a golf course,” Monty challenges.
“Haha, you’re on,” you agreed.
Back and forth you guys took turns, missing a few times but getting your composure back in check after to not be the loser. Then, there were no more courses, and the final results were in. 15-18. There were nine courses and you missed 6 strokes. Monty missed 8. You won.
“This really made my day better. I had such a horrible afternoon,” you explain.
“Really?” Monty questioned, “What was horrible about it?”
You walk over to the fake grass and sit down with a sigh.
“First, some teenager bumped into me and I spilt my dirty water all over the floor. Then some kid threw up in me. And then I got hit in the head with a soda can,” you unravel the day.
“Oof, that’s rough critter.” Monty replied as he came over and sat down next to you.
“Critter? Where did you get that from?” You put a question to.
“It’s cause of how you’re always scattering around, keeping yourself busy trying to get all of your work done.”
“Wow, that’s smart.” You compliment.
“Ha, thanks for the ego boost.” Monty joked.
“You are very welcome,” You chuckled, “So, how was your day?”
“The same old same old. Getting bombarded with passive aggressive or just aggressive families.”
“Ah, sorry. I saw that today, remember?”
“Oh yeah! That woman was out of her mind. I told her to wait her turn because she skipped the family in front. Treating them like pushovers.” Monty inquired.
“We really need some human decency around this place. Everywhere, actually.” You add on.
After saying that, everything goes silent except for the occasional crack and twitch of the metal in the establishment.
“Do you think I belong here?” You asked.
Monty looks directly into your eyes, “What?”
“Like, do you think I even make a difference being here? My job barely matters. There are bots everywhere and management can replace me in a second.” You sputtered out.
“I—“
“What if I lose this job? What if I can’t pay my rent in time? What if I can’t find any other good jobs? What if—“
Monty leans forward, grabbing the back of your head and gently placing his lips against yours, barely putting pressure. Leaning away after a few seconds.
“I want you here. I don’t want you to think you don’t belong here Y/N. If management ever decides to fire you, I’ll shove a bag of golf balls down each and every one of their throats!” Monty exclaims, acting out what he said.
Seconds pass before his eyes widen.
“OH GOD! DID YOU EVEN WANT THAT KISS? I just thought that all of those glances and talks meant something! Oh gosh..I’m so—ugh! Why did I have to go and assume—“ You pull him back into a kiss to shut up his intrusive thoughts. Pulling back after a good bit.
“I thought that you didn’t like me.” You admit, looking away from him.
He smiles, chuckling as he also looks away, “You know, I didn’t think I’d ever feel love.”
“Why’s that?”
“Cause I’m a robot. I didn’t think the higher ups would let me feel it.”
“Well are you glad they did?”
“Definitely.” He looks at you again, smiling so much.
You smile back just as much and the heat swarms your whole body, your hands getting sweaty. But then a yawn forms in your mouth.
“I think it’s time for me to go. I don’t want to drive even more tired than this,” you say, about to get up.
“Wait!” Monty yells, grabbing your hand gently. “If you’re already tired, maybe you shouldn’t drive at all. Maybe you should stay here for the night.”
“Huh, do you think I’ll get in trouble?”
Monty continues to attempt persuasion, wanting to spend more time with you, “I don’t know, but I do know your health is at risk if you drive so you should stay here for the night.”
“Fine fine. I’ll stay here for the night. But let me change into some more comfortable clothes, I think I have some casual ones in my locker.”
“Alright! But I’m also going to head down. My room will be better for sleeping so meet me there once you are done. It's to the very left of the entrance and all the way in the back."
You then make your way back down into the main lobby, heading back into the employee’s break room to get changed.
Knocking on Monty’s door, he basically immediately opens it. Looking more excited than he should for a simple greet and sleep.
“I don’t have anywhere else for you to sleep but the couch, is that alright?”
“Yeah! I’m cool with that!”
“Cool, haha..” He awkwardly laughs.
You walk over to the couch, plopping down and taking your shoes off.
“Will you also be sleeping?”
“Ah, I mean I can if you want. But I’d have to sleep in my charging station in the back right there.” He points towards a black and yellow striped door.
“Actually, do you think you can stay near me? I don’t feel so safe in this place since it has so many fans that might break in during the night.” You explain
“Yeah, I can do that.”
“Okay, great! But the real question is where can you be? Cause there’s no other place for you to be near me except the floor.”
“I could sit on the couch with you. Near your head, I mean.”
“Huh, yeah that could work. Nice idea.”
He looks away, “Whatever,” you guess he might be flustered since he expresses himself through body language and he’s currently fidgeting.
You pat the seat he needs to be at. “Come here already, I’m getting more tired every second.”
He scoffs, gaining his confidence back. “Okay drama queen.”
You dramatically gasp. “How dare you insult me at my worst moments!” You playfully responded.
“Just go to sleep already runt.” Monty says with a smile in his voice, walking over to the couch and sitting next to you.
You lay your head down right next to his thigh, not on it though. Putting your feet on the other couch.
An hour passes, Monty stares off into the distance, mind racing with thoughts about today. You shift once, twice, and you’re sitting up, putting your head onto Monty’s lap. He freezes, looks down, and panics. Should he move you? Wake you up? He starts to move but then you grab onto his thigh. Not hard, but enough to stop him from moving you. He doesn’t believe that you really want to be so close to him in this moment but he catches a glimpse of your face. You’re smiling.
He gasps and then he grins, starting to run his claws through your scalp, soothing you deeper into your slumber. He doesn’t know if you woke up and moved or you really did that in your sleep, but he’s grateful that he could be this intimate with you.
Fnaf Security Breach. Montgomery Gator x F!Reader.
Feels like this last arc is finally kicking off. The chapter deals with past abuse and the trauma of coming face to face with your abuser again, manipulation, complicated emotions and the complexities of love.
So this was a hard one to write. If you guys are still reading this, I genuinely want you to know that your support means more than you could possibly know, especially with how fraught things have been at home lately. Love you guys. x
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There’s a cruel irony in the way a body responds to being hit by a sudden and blindsiding shock.
It becomes exceedingly difficult to tear your eyes away from the source, as if rooting yourself to one spot and watching the disaster unfold might somehow prevent it from happening.
You’re old enough to know just how well that works.
You wish you couldn’t see him. You wish you had the capacity to turn away from that awful, unassuming face that’s embedded itself into every crack and contour of your life for such a long, long time. But your vision is already tunnelling, drawing inwards and blearing at the edges of your periphery until all you can focus on is the facade of a man you hoped you’d never have to look upon again for the rest of your life, and well beyond that.
You’re dimly aware of a curious pang in your cheekbone, nothing more than the ghost of an age-old ache rising to the surface.
Sluggishly, you blink as a smoky fog starts creeping into the room, and you’re almost thrown by the vacant notion that the building might be on fire, though you only have to wonder at it for a second before you realise it isn’t the room that’s filling with smoke…
… There’s something wrong with your eyes.
Again, you blink unevenly, deaf to the insistent but muted thrum of sound pressing against your left eardrum, and blind to the vast splotch of green that shifts and swells sporadically at your side.
A chill has sprouted at the back of your skull. Steadily, it inches lower and lower, like cold water trickling down your rigid spine.
It’s only when the heart in your chest gives a violent, swooping dip and your head feels lighter than air on your shoulders that you realise with startling mundanity, ‘… I’m going to faint.’
‘And that,’ a timid voice whispers somewhere between your ears, ‘can’t happen.’
With a fervour that’s blunted and dulled by distress, with the very last traces of a fast-fading consciousness, you start trying to claw back control, fiercely aware that to pass out now is to leave yourself vulnerable, like a ten-point buck laying down in the sights of a hunter’s gun.
But wrestling back cognizance is no easy feat when you can’t even bring your fingers to twitch. The fog doesn’t clear just because you want it to.
With a wild lurch, your brain hurls itself on its side, and the entire world tilts roughly to follow.
And then you’re falling, teetering laterally until Parts and Services - and even his face - become nothing more than a confusing blur of shapes and smeared shadows.
There is a blessing in the fall though, for what little comfort it brings.
For all that being defenceless in his presence horrifies you beyond measure, at least you can finally tear your eyes away from Hunter.
Overdrive is never a pleasant state for an animatronic to exist in.
Too many systems fire off at once, putting strain on the CPU as it tries to prioritise functions at a clock speed of two gigahertz.
Two billion instructions hurtle through Monty’s processor in the span of a second, an alarmingly significant number of them pertaining to you - namely how to help you… Which hinge to loosen in his jaw so he doesn’t crush his own teeth under the pressure… The contents of every single one of those damnable first-aid manuals Freddy sends around each time management feels like adding a new godforsaken comma to them.
And still, if he hadn’t been so aggressively pressing into your space and all but bellowing your name into your ear with the desperate hope of a response, he might have caught the signs of a faint before it even happened.
Manual forty-six, chapter three, line seven: ‘A sudden scare precedes the widening of human blood vessels, coupled with the heartbeat slowing too quickly… Therein lays the perfect recipe for an episode of syncope.’
“Lady!” the gator barks, both of his servos hovering uselessly in the air as his optics scan you over from head to toe. All the while, he tries to close the half-dozen alerts that keep flashing onto his HUD.
He can’t help you if his own systems won’t even let him see you.
And that’s when you start to fall.
“Woah, woah!” With a fierce whir of machinery, Monty lunges forwards, almost dropping to his knees as he throws out one hand to snag you by the waist, slipping the other around your shoulders just before you turn to dead weight in his arms.
Somewhere nearby, Chase blurts out, “Shit!” which perfectly concurs with the sentiment Monty only wishes he could convey.
“Hey,” he croaks instead, sinking to the floor and sliding his servo up to cradle the back of your head, so carefully that his motors strain to clunk along at such a slow speed, “Wake up!”
Somewhere amidst the melting of his circuitry, he has the wit to refrain from giving you a shake, desperate as he is to rouse you back to consciousness.
“What’re you doin’, huh?” he rasps unevenly. And as gently as he can, he nudges his fingertips behind your ear and rolls your head towards him, bending his neck until his snout is perilously close to brushing your cheek. There, he pries his jaws apart and lowers the output of his speakers to emulate his softest whisper, “I just got you back…”
This isn’t fair.
A quiet spark of anger ignites somewhere deep inside the animatronic’s innermost wires.
This isn’t fair!
All at once, Monty’s audials fill with the slap of shoes on concrete as Chase abandons his mess of tools on the ground in his haste to reach the gator, voice pitched high with alarm. “Is she okay?!”
His question provokes a similar effect as waving a red cape at a bull.
Chuffing a great rumble from his speakers, Monty starts rising onto one knee, optics cycling from crimson to a hot, furious scarlet that burns the inside of his bulbs.
“You tell me!” he snaps, curving his neck around towards the techie and baring his fangs, hackles raised as he tucks you closer against his quivering chest, “What’d you do!? She was fine before she saw you!”
Taking a step back and throwing his hands up in surrender, Chase flits a nervous glance between you and the gator’s teeth, sputtering out, “I-I don’t know, man! I just got here!”
“You-!”
Monty only just manages to cut off the rest of his retort by slamming his optical shutters closed and pulling in an enormous swathe of air through his nostrils, cooling the fired-up systems inside his frame.
He still hasn’t grown accustomed to the voice of reason he’s begun to notice whispering at the back of his processor.
… This is a waste of time…
‘Right,’ he agrees, swivelling his gaze down to peer at you, laying limply across his forearms. Any more time wasted here is time he isn’t tending to you, after all.
“Send a message to Andy Flowers,” he grumbles at Chase instead, taking a thunderous step towards the far doors with his tail hanging rigidly at his back, gears taut with agitation, “Tell ‘im what happened. I’m takin’ her to a first-aid station.”
His progress, however, is brought up short when Chase lets out a noise of alarm and skids into his path, forcing the gator to an abrupt halt.
“Woah! Wait, what are you doing!?” the human squeaks, raking a hand through his hair, “You’re not supposed to move someone if they’ve fainted!”
And just like that, Monty’s snarl falls to the wayside, vanishing in one blink of his optics. “…Wh-… What?” he croaks, effectively thrown off his stride.
The briefest check through one of Freddy’s digital manuals confirms that… no, he’s not supposed to move you…
He can almost hear Roxy’s admonishments.
Taking advantage of the gator’s pause, Chase starts wrestling with his purple jacket, tugging his arms out of the sleeves as he dares to venture a step closer.
“You gotta lay her down, with her head on here,” he rattles off, bunching up the discarded vestment and stooping to drop it on the floor near Monty’s feet, “If it’s just a faint, she’ll come around soon…” Then, almost as an afterthought, he straightens up and considers the animatronic for a second before adding, “Maybe you should get her some water. It’s meant to help.”
… Help….
Monty’s processor clamps down on the word like a vice.
Perhaps it’s the urgency of the situation that lends him obedience, but this is you. He’s long past the point of taking any risks where you’re involved, and if Chase says to lay you down… Well, reluctant as he is to admit it, it stands to reason that a human would know what’s best for another human, right?
Unwilling to waste any more seconds on indecision, the gator lowers himself down to his knees once more and lays you out on the ground, gently manoeuvring your head until it rests safely on the fabric of Chase’s jacket.
“Okay, good,” the techie sighs, and Monty almost allows himself a small modicum of relief at hearing that he’s done something right for a change, “Now, you need to find her some water.”
“Why can’t you get it?” he argues back, jerking his chin roughly at the rear doors of Parts and Services. It’s as close as he dares get to admitting that he doesn’t want to leave your side.
Chase, however, is quick to poke a hole in his proposal. “I-I’m still new!” he insists, “You know this place way better than I do. And besides, you’re the fastest!”
True enough, Monty thinks, but -
“She’ll be grateful for it,” Chase continues, grinding the animatronic’s thoughts to a dead-stop.
Arduously, Monty drags his optics away from your face and raises them to the technician’s, peering up into his earnest expression and finding a countenance that seems to have sprouted a few years of wisdom in the last couple of seconds, less the face of a nervous newbie and more the collected air of a man who knows what he’s talking about.
“Trust me,” Chase adds through an encouraging smile, “Don’t you want to help her?”
More than anything in the world. More than he wanted to be part of the Glamrock band, more than he wanted so badly to be loved like others are, even more than he wants to feel the gentle warmth of your lips on his cheek again.
Monty wants to help you.
It’s an impulse so strong that it effectively overrides his misdoubt of the human standing before him.
Resolute yet stricken by the blinding surge of protocol that beats insistently at his core, the gator spares just enough processing power to detach his claws from your shirt and nod his head weakly at Chase.
He’d made a promise – aloud to himself and silently to you – that when you returned to him, to the Plex, he’d be the one to watch your back, the way any good friend should.
He’d rather be taken offline than concede that privilege.
It’s an undeniable struggle to tear himself away from you, and were he slightly more cognizant, he might have wondered at the inextricable connection that seems to keep him tethered to you, as if there’s a part of him that knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that it shouldn’t stray far from your side. Yet still, with a reluctant groan of his metal frame, he heaves himself onto his legs and sends a fearsome glare at Chase.
“Andy-“ he begins.
“-Flowers,” the techie finishes for him, raising his Fazwatch and tapping at its screen with a ‘beep,’ “I’m pinging him right now.”
Giving a satisfied nod, Monty turns on his heel and tilts into a lumbering run, optics dead-set on the doors ahead. At the side of his HUD, a map of the whole floor springs into view, and he locks at once onto the nearest staff room, betting with everything he has that there’ll be water somewhere in the vicinity.
With his latest mission laid out plainly before him, he shoulders his way through the exit and out into the hallway beyond, disappearing with a flick of his green-tipped tail.
The line of Chase’s mouth thins ever so slightly as he stares at the still-swinging doors, listening to Montgomery’s quaking footfalls recede down the corridor in search of water.
“Not the sharpest tool in the shed,” he observes, letting his hand drop from the Fazwatch as he turns to the sound of a quiet moan, peering down at your scrunched expression with a tired, flat look.
“But,” he cedes, heaving a sigh when the eyes he used to know so well start to flutter open, “At least he’s loyal.”
There are few things worse than coming to to that voice, its cadence low and calm and utterly inconspicuous.
“… loyal.”
The word cuts straight through to your heart and wrenches you cruelly from your moment of respite.
Body cold as the grave, you start to rise stiffly – not unlike a corpse – onto your elbows, and although your head swims threateningly for a moment, you bite down hard on your lip and wait for it to settle whilst you try to peel your eyes open, blindly reaching a hand out to feel for Monty’s reassuring presence at your side.
“Of all the places…”
A chill rolls up your spine instead, and your hand remains empty.
“Of all the jobs I could’ve applied to…”
Cracks of light bleed through your eyelids, and at last, you pry them apart, ungluing your lashes to squint against the fluorescents buzzing overhead, your jaw clenched so hard that your ears ring with the tension.
“I land a gig at the same place as you?”
Pulled under by a sudden wave of dread, you realise something terrible; Monty isn’t at your side.
His plastic casing doesn’t find its way under your fingers… His rough and gravelly voice doesn’t reverberate through your ears.
Only then, with an air of inevitability hanging around your neck, do you lift your head to face the painful truth of the matter.
Your friend is gone.
And standing over you, bold as brass, a mere seven paces away with his hands stuffed into his pockets is…
“Hunter…” you breathe thinly.
And it all comes crashing back at once.
They never really left, the memories, you’ve just grown more adept at keeping them safely at arms-length over the years, usually inciting a headache if you focus too hard on not focusing on them.
Memories of pain and love and sorrow coalesce inseparably with fear and delight and laughter. Times that were bad, times that were worse than bad, and even times that were gentle and good if you looked at them cockeyed, all of it was supposed to stay safely entombed.
Now, all of that work, all of that effort and time you’ve spent trying to make sense of it, flitting between the awful conviction that you’d brought this on yourself and white-hot rage that you’d stayed as long as you did…. Was any of it worth it, if all it takes is one look at him for everything to come undone?
It’s supposed to get easier with time... You’re supposed to be able to move on!
You’re not meant to be reminded so abruptly of all the terrible things he did… Or worse, the times that weren’t so terrible at all.
It isn’t fair…
It isn’t fair to remember that you loved him.
And oh god, seeing him again now, you know… you just know that there’s a tiny whisper of yourself that still does, even if you’ve buried it so far below the surface of your skin that you were sure you’d die with it trapped inside you.
“Chase…” he utters.
His voice is soft, but it still causes you to flinch, which in turn leaves you wanting to kick yourself for falling back on instinct so quickly.
Peering down at you through warm, doleful eyes, he clears his throat and rubs awkwardly at his elbow as he repeats, “It’s… ‘Chase,’ now. I had it changed after… Well. Y’know…”
Chase?
You want to scoff. You want to be sick. If you had even an ounce of courage, you might snarl, ‘Bit on the nose, isn’t it?’
But… you’re not brave enough.
In truth, you’re waiting for him to make the first move as he always does, like a rabbit bracing itself to be set upon by a hungry wolf. If you run, will he strike? And if he strikes first, will you be able to run?
How easy it is to fall victim to the paralysis of fear.
It’s like being sent all the way back to square one.
“How…” Voice breaking, you set your jaw and swallow. Hard. “How did you find me?”
Hunte… – Chase’s brows snap together as he gapes at you slack-jawed. “Find you?” he asks faintly, incredulously, yet he still doesn’t take a step towards you. He does, however, draw his hands from his pockets, and that alone is enough for you to hone in on them.
You learned early on to always keep an eye on his hands, every twitch and clench, the purple bruises that used to stain his knuckles which are now so bare and pristine under the lights that he almost looks underdressed without them.
“Y/n.”
Your skin crawls at the sound of your name on his tongue and you drag your reluctant gaze back up to his face.
Holding his hands out, he tips his palms to the ceiling and says, “I was never looking for you.”
You can’t resist giving a highly dubious scoff at that, only to nearly swallow your tongue when he takes a tiny, imperceptible step forwards.
You’re on your feet in a flash, heedless of the dizziness that still lingers at the corners of your brain and causes you to stagger sideways for a moment before you lock your knees and right yourself.
“If you come near me, I’ll scream,” you bite out in a panic, raising a hand up as if to ward him off.
To your unmitigated shock, Chase stops dead in his tracks.
He neither snorts derisively nor does he make another move to try and close the distance like you expect. He never did like being told what to do, after all.
That in itself gets your back up.
He isn’t behaving normally.
Why isn’t he behaving normally? Where’s the volume? The belligerence? Is it building inside him like a pot about to boil over?
Of their own accord, your muscles grow tense, driven by a faraway memory that whispers at the back of your mind. ‘He can’t damage any organs if your muscles are in the way.’
You’re suddenly reminded of that first day you came face to face with Montgomery Gator, all bristling plates and fists that were curled into dangerous bludgeons… He never did hit you though, did he?
You blink, and Monty’s snarling maw is replaced by a very human face, one wearing an expression you don’t recognise at all. It’s drawn. Solemn. Brown eyes grim with sorrow and a mouth that’s curved towards his chin, as though what you just said has left him sad rather than enraged.
If you didn’t have his face burned into your frontal lobe, you could be led to believe that standing before you is an entirely different man to the one you used to know.
“I’m not gonna come near you,” he utters, quietly enough that you don’t feel inclined to flinch this time, “I’m not gonna do anything to you ever again. I’m not…” Squeezing his eyes shut, he misses the flash of indignant disbelief that crosses your face.
When he opens them again, you have to do a double-take, floored at the sight of honest-to-god tears glistening behind his sweeping lashes.
Your first thought is, ‘How dare he?’
How dare he cry in front of you? What gives him the right?!
“I know,” he murmurs as though he’s just read your mind, “I know I don’t have any right to even be speaking to you. But… if you’ll let me…”
Unconsciously, you brace yourself, holding your breath captive in your lungs.
“… I just want a chance to explain.”
The breath you let out is charged.
The audacity…
What gall.
‘NO!’ you want to shout emphatically. From the rooftop. Down every echoing corridor. No, you don’t want to hear a damn thing he has to say. No, you won’t listen. You don’t have to. You won’t let him…
… But… How long? How long have you spent fantasising about hearing an apology from his lips? How many nights did you waste dreaming up all the different ways you’d rebuff his insincere words? All the things you’d say to him if you ever saw him again, all as cutting and damaging and cruel as the words he’d spit at you in his worst moments.
… But words spoken from behind the lens of safety always seem easier to voice.
Now, you realise that all of your bravado was nothing more than misplaced confidence. You were never going to have the guts to raise your voice at him and be brave, not as much as you wanted to believe you could be.
Maybe that’s why, instead of telling him to shove whatever he wants to say where the sun doesn’t shine, instead of turning your back on him and marching away with your head held high, you keep your mouth sealed in a tight, flat line, brows furled inwards and your fists clenched like vices.
Because deep down, past the anger and indignation, past the fear of his untimely appearance and horror at the prospect of having your life ripped out from under you all over again, there’s still a piece of you – small but not yet insignificant – that wants to hear him say it. It’s the same part of you that still holds a flicker of hope for the man you used to love so much.
In the space left by your silence, Chase opens his mouth and begins.
“I didn’t know you worked here,” is the first thing he says, “The court didn’t tell me this is where you moved…”
Of course they didn’t. They didn’t know. Nobody knew where you ended up except you and Doctor Timpson. And that man would have taken the knowledge of your whereabouts to his grave, you’re certain of it.
Before you can cast any real doubt on his claim, Chase takes a monumentally shaky breath and continues, “If I knew, I’d never have put in my resume to work for Faz. But this was the only place that looked at my… background and didn’t toss it in the shredder.”
Now that, you can believe. Begrudgingly.
It’s one of Faz. Inc.’s worst kept secrets, that the company has had some shady dealings in the past. Rumours of cover-ups, conspiracies, children going missing and the inexplicable and sudden ‘resignations’ of multiple security-guards all contribute to the pile of unscrupulous happenings at Fazbear’s. Something so infinitesimal as foregoing a background check on one of their hires wouldn’t even cause a raised eyebrow in the locker room anymore.
But there’s one thing you can’t let slip…
Eyes hanging like a pair of daggers in your skull, you aim a glare at Chase, steeling yourself to meet his eye as your jaws creak open and you ask, “Why change your name?”
It doesn’t add up. Why hide who he was - who he still is, just with the veneer of a synonym slotted into his name badge?
Chase is quiet for time, and you watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows thickly before finding his voice again. “There was a woman,” he starts, “Doctor Brown. She was my board-appointed psychiatrist.”
You can’t help but raise a brow, recalling precisely how he’d reacted when you first broached the topic of seeking a relationship therapist.
You never patched that hole in the drywall, did you?
“She was good,” Chase says, huffing out a nervous laugh, “I think it helped that she was a… well, you know.”
“A woman?” you guess hoarsely.
He lowers his eyes in deference to your answer. “Yeah,” he gulps, “She, uh… She helped. A lot. Made me realise things I… Shit - I probably didn’t want to realise. Made me see what I was doing to my life.” As you watch him, trying to keep your expression impassive and cold, he lifts his gaze to yours once more and whispers, “What I did to you.”
Your breath hitches, then turns deathly stale in your throat at what he blurts next.
“I did love you,” he announces suddenly, reeling himself back at the outburst to add, “At least, I thought I did. Not that I expect you to believe me, but I wanted…” Squeezing his eyes shut, he amends, “I want to be better. If not for you, then for anyone else who might come into my life. I changed my name because I hated who Hunter was, but I didn’t want to forget him, ‘cos, it’s like, if I forget who I was, how can I build towards something better.”
Huffing out a deadened laugh, he shakes his head at himself and admits, “Chase’ seemed like… a happy medium, I guess. A good place to start from scratch.”
Several pinches of discomfort remind you to ease your fists out of the balls they’ve curled into, pulling your nails free from the skin of your palms and leaving deep, curved crescents behind in their wake. You used to think you’d be so sure of yourself if you ever happened to meet Hunter again years down the line. But now?
Now you’re not sure of anything, let alone yourself.
Hunter was never very good at lying to you, not as well as he could lie to other people. You don’t think it was because you could see straight through his deception, more that he didn’t see any point in keeping up appearances with you. Sometimes, you used to wonder how anyone could be so dense as to believe him when he told them you were just a bit under the weather and couldn’t come to the door, couldn’t join your friends for dinner, couldn’t make your appointment…. In hindsight, you’re starting to suspect why it might have been difficult to see through his veneer.
It's easier to believe that someone is lying than it is to prove it. And the truth of the matter is, you have no idea whether this man is spinning you a lie or not.
The headache building behind your eyeballs turns sharp and searing as your confusion mounts.
If Chase is aware of your pain – as per usual – he doesn’t acknowledge it.
Instead, he clasps his elbows, angling his face towards the ground near your shoes. “I’m sorry that this was the place that hired me,” he confesses, “I’m sorry I ever put in my stupid resume.” Trailing off, he raises his head, shoulders back, and looks you directly in the eye, and although he doesn’t come any closer, you can almost see the hand he’s reaching out towards you, holding it open to offer you the very thing you’ve been waiting for all these years.
“I’m sorry, Y/n,” he tells you at last.
At long, long last.
You start to think you must be having a fever dream, and you’re actually still in bed at home, twisting your fists into the sheets. You brace yourself for the surge of catharsis that’s sure to bowl you over at any moment…
But it never comes.
Huh.
Blinking wetly down at the floor, you raise a stiff hand and rub your fingertips over your chest. “Why should I believe a word you say?” you bite out, like you’ve tasted something sour.
“I’m not asking you to believe me,” he tells you simply, “I’m not even asking you to forgive me - God knows you don’t owe me that. You don’t owe me anything. I just thought you deserved to know why I’m here… Why you’re having to see me again.”
The hand on your chest goes still, and slowly, ever so slowly, your furrowed brows drift apart.
“I don’t forgive you,” you exhale, feeling an indistinct weight rise off your shoulders and float off into the air with your words.
Suddenly breathless, you suck down a deep, trembling lungful of air and blink back tears.
You think, more than you needed to hear him apologise, you needed him to hear you reject it even more. It feels like you’ve wrested back a modicum of control.
Far from surprised, Chase merely bows his head acknowledgingly. “Okay,” he whispers.
Okay.
… Okay. As if anything could ever be that simple.
“So,” you croak, focusing on the pinch of your fingernails in the chemical-worn skin of your palms, “What… happens now?”
Too late, you remind yourself that you should be the one telling him what happens now. But the question is already out, and Chase’s expression is already falling blank for two beats of your heart before he seems to pause, lowering his brows and peering at the floor in front of you with a pensive frown.
“Two weeks…” he murmurs under his breath, almost too softly for you to catch.
Suddenly, his head rises once again and he flicks his eyes to yours, tilting his body forwards in your direction, though his feet remain firmly rooted to the floor, obeying the unspoken rule you’d set out that warns him to keep his distance.
“Listen,” he swallows thickly, wringing his hands, “I-I know you don’t owe me a damn thing. Not one thing. But…”
A violent lancet of ice rips up the length of your spine.
“… But?” you prompt, canting your head towards him apprehensively.
On the cusp of breathlessness, he leaps forwards into an explanation. “It’s payday at the end of the month. That’s in two weeks,” he blurts so quickly, like he’s afraid you’ll stop listening at any moment, as if he isn’t holding you hostage with his mere presence, “I’m just asking for your silence for the next two weeks. Just until I get paid. After that-…”
Splaying a hand directly over his heart and pressing the fabric of his shirt down hard, he carries on, “… After that, I’m gone. I promise. I just…”
Again, there are tears in his eyes that he blinks away furiously, heaving in a rattling breath. “I need that money to get out of state. I don’t want anything else… Not from you. I just want…”
Slowly, he allows his arm to drop away from his chest, hanging limply at his side, palms tilted towards you, helpless as they are entreating.
“I just want another chance to do things right for once.”
It takes the restraint of a champion to stop yourself from recoiling, but all the composure in the world couldn’t keep the moisture on your tongue from drying up at the stark familiarity of his words.
What was it Monty had said all those weeks ago, that same night he braved decommission just to come to your flat and make sure you were alright?
‘I just wanted to do somethin’ right for once…’
A solid wave of guilt slugs you firmly in the chest, galled at the comparison you’ve made between Monty and your ex.
And yet…
What had Mick said?
‘Bots don’t just change... Never trust a dog that’s bitten once not to bite again.’ He was, of course, referring to Monty… You thought him unfair for what he said about a bot who – to you – had so obviously been striving to do better. You’d argued that monty wasn’t a dog, and that the situations weren’t comparable.
So, by your own argument, what does that make Chase?
You’d been so staunch in defending Montgomery Gator from a man who had genuine reason not to trust him, and now, you’re struck by the notion that you might be no better than Mick, belligerently refusing to accept that anyone, regardless of their past, can change for the better.
Somewhere far in the distance, from the bowels of the Plex’s maintenance tunnels, your ears pick up the indistinct yet audible sound of a door slamming.
Chase’s expression doesn’t even waver at the noise.
The inside of your cheek sits clamped between your teeth as you force yourself to hold his gaze, searching for… anything. A glimpse of deception that’s surely about to spark behind his lashes. A glimmer of victoriousness that’ll twitch the corners of his lips when he realises he’s made a compelling argument.
Something that’ll help you discern the truth from his lies.
… Anything?
Deep, tremulous rumbles start up beyond the swinging doors at the back of the room, too faint to be heard – not yet - but powerful enough to be felt through the soles of your shoes, like the rolling approach of a train, or perhaps the heavy, hurried footfalls of an animatronic running at full tilt.
‘Monty,’ you find yourself hoping.
Mick was right about one thing. Hunter did have you well-trained.
Your face gives nothing away when a massive force hits the doors and they explode inwards, shoved apart by a speeding torpedo of green and purple. You’re too focused on Chase, helplessly picking apart the man in front of you like he’s about to reveal something that’ll tear his whole act asunder.
But when he whips himself sideways to face the oncoming gator and breaks your line of sight, you give a sudden blink, eyes dried from staring and red from failing to withhold your tears as it hits you.
You have no idea if he’s telling the truth or not.
What’s more, you have no idea what to do next.
And what an awfully familiar feeling it is to have.
So, in lieu of answers, you let your shoulders slump, deliberately unwinding the tension at the back of your neck as you twist yourself around to follow Chase’s gaze.
Once again, you’re surprised by how viscerally relieving it is to lay eyes on that green, galumphing giant.
“I got some!” Monty exclaims, holding something over his head as he skids around the containment chamber and barrels across the room towards you and Chase, “I got water, I got-!” Cutting himself off, the gator’s optics widen comically behind his glasses when he finds you standing on your own two feet.
“LADY!” he bellows at once, silicone lips splitting apart in earnest delight, evidently just as relieved to see you as you are to see him.
Above his head, sloshing its contents all over the gator’s shoulder struts is one of the large, plastic bottles you’d find on the water coolers dotted around the Plex. Apparently, this one has been ripped from its dispenser to be held aloft by the animatronic as he careens to a halt between you and Chase.
“You okay?” he demands, barely giving you a second to breathe before he’s thrusting the entire bottle at you and tilting the open end of it towards your mouth, “I got you water. Couldn’t find a cup or nothin’ but – here!”
“Wh-! Monty!” Spluttering, you lean backwards as the bottle nudges at your lips, forcing you to throw your hands up and catch it by the neck before he can upend the entire thing down your throat.
Pausing, he blinks down at you, the pinprick lights behind his glasses dimming in surprise.
At last registering the mild alarm on your own face, he lowers the bottle, electing to scan you over from head to toe with a telltale whir of apertures.
“I… got you water…” he repeats, lifting his armful slightly in indication, as if you might not have noticed, “You passed out. I… thought it was s’posed to help.”
There’s a very persistent throbbing at the base of your skull, an oncoming headache borne from the effort of keeping up with the ever-changing flux of emotions.
“It-…“ You cut yourself off with a hard sigh, forcing your stance to relax enough that you can flash a smile up at Monty that you hope appears more grateful than agitated. It isn’t his fault you’re in this predicament. “It does help,” you tell him at last, glad to see his shoulders slump minutely at your reassurance, “I’m just glad you’re back.”
With a clack of plastic eyelids, Monty blinks, dumbstruck. His stupor doesn’t last more than a moment however before he’s hit by a giddy warmth and straightens up, pulling the bottle away from your face to offer you a wide, dopey grin, his subroutines singing at the unexpected praise.
It might have been a nice moment, were it not for the voice yanking the pair of you back to reality. “Me too. Reckon I can finish your diagnostic check now?”
In an instant, Monty’s smile shifts, silicone rippling and bending around a low, resonant growl.
Clawed fingers squeak nosily against the bottle as his hands tighten their grip, and he snakes his head around to send Chase a murderous look.
“Y/n,” he murmurs from the corner of his mouth, ignoring the technician’s question, “You wanna tell me who this guy is?”
The heart in your chest gives a dull thud as it crashes forwards against your sternum.
It’s a fair question.
Who is Hunter?
Once, a friend? A lover? The monster hiding under your bed?
Leaning sideways, you meet Chase’s eyes around the gator’s arm, wide and imploring, and it’s with a sick thrill that you realise you could end all of this with just a few, simple words into Monty’s audials. You’ve seen firsthand just how quickly and viciously the gator will jump to your defence, and with him at your side, any threat Chase poses will be rendered innocuous.
For the first time, you’re the one holding all the cards.
Deep in the darkest pits of your soul, you wonder what Monty would do to Chase if you told him that this is the man who hurt you… Then almost immediately, you flinch away from the thoughts as if they held tangible heat, scowling at yourself for having them in the first place.
What exactly do you suppose would happen to Monty if he was found threatening a member of staff?
… Nothing good, to be certain. Mick already has it out for him and would likely look for any excuse to throw the proverbial book at the animatronic, regardless of whether or not Monty was only acting in your defence.
No. It was a selfish fantasy anyway.
The weight of a decision hangs like a blade above your neck, and you’re no longer certain as to what the correct choice should be.
Absently, your eyes drift to the gator standing between you and your past.
The animatronic with ‘violent tendencies…’
… ‘The Monster of the Megaplex,’ who has hurt people, who has been dangerous and destructive… But, who – in front of your very eyes – has also made an admirable and valiant effort to change.
You exhale a note of defeat. ‘Son of a bitch…’
If there’s a chance of this being resolved peacefully… if there’s even a sliver of a shot that you can see this through without dredging up your ugly history for all of your coworkers to see and scrutinise…
It’s just… two weeks, right?
The man in front of you stares straight back into your eyes, sparking another flash of defiance in your gut.
It would be so, so easy to ruin his life. The echoing taste of vengeance bays eagerly at the back of your mind, chomping at the bit.
Who is he?
You open your mouth to speak….
“Nobody,” you utter, cold and steady, “Just some technician they must have hired while I was off.”
You don’t care what the man had been expecting to hear. You hope it hurt to be called a nobody. Perhaps he thought you’d throw him under the bus. Perhaps he thought you’d say he was just an old friend.
Tough shit.
You’re already turning your back on him, marvelling at the fact that, for the first time, you feel safe enough to do so, because now you’ve got a two-tonne gator watching it for you.
You owe Monty big time just for his presence, and you sure as shit plan on making it up to him once you’re out of this room and away from the foul air that seems to have infected every corner of it, seeping into your pores and clogging up your throat.
The weight of your limbs is pronounced as you stagger towards the service lifts.
Monty isn’t far behind you, casting one last, dubious sneer at Chase over his shoulder and growling, “Diagnostics check can wait. I got more important things on my plate,” before he swings his massive bulk around and stomps heavily after you, closing the gap in a few, lengthy strides, hauling the water bottle along on his shoulder.
Jamming a thumb onto the button of the lift, you hold your breath, even when the doors rattle open and you step inside the box, feeling it dip with a groan of metal as the animatronic crowds on after you.
It’s only once the doors have slid shut and the whole contraption begins rumbling upwards that you finally release your lungful of air and throw a hand out to brace yourself against the smooth, white wall.
At once, Monty is shifting the bottle to one hand and laying the other one on your shoulder, trying to tug you around to face him. “Hey!” he barks urgently, “You alright? Y’ain’t gonna faint again, are you?”
“No, no,” you’re quick to soothe, reaching your free hand up and back to lay it over his, inadvertently sending a crash warning straight to his CPU, “I’m just…” You trail off, fumbling for an excuse.
His hand slides from your shoulder as you turn to face him, but you don’t let go of it yet, slipping your fingers around his and holding them loosely in your grasp while he gazes down at you, his glasses knocked askew by his charge through the Plex.
Melting into a fond smile, you stretch an arm out and stroke delicate fingertips along the length of his snout, watching his optics track the movement, enraptured.
“I’m just really, really thirsty,” you lie, pinching the frame of his glasses and righting them on his nose, earning a grunt of surprise, “Guess it’s a good thing you brought all that water, huh?”
Immediately, a warm curl of pride lights up the wires interwoven around Monty’s chest.
Preening, the gator casts a glance down at the bottle near his feet, letting out a gravelly chuckle as the lift grinds to a stop and the doors sweep open, spilling light into the storage space behind his green room and illuminating the hulking figure standing just beyond the lift.
“There you are!”
Monty’s tail clangs noisily against the floor and he parts his jaws, releasing a loud, incredulous groan whilst in contrast, you light up with faux exuberance, plastering on a modest level of cheer for the bot standing just beyond the doors.
“Freddy!”
High on the uppermost level of the Plex, at the bottom of a forgotten stairwell that’s tucked safely out of view in a cramped space filled with boxes stacked from floor to ceiling, Vanessa waits, her back pressed rigidly to the cold wall behind her.
Lips pursed into a thin, unimpressed line, she sends yet another scowl down at her wrist, and the Fazwatch strapped tightly around it.
At her feet, she idly toes an old bowling ball back and forth across the floor.
The persistent headache that seems to shadow each of her long, arduous days gives a dull throb as the stairwell suddenly begins to rattle, and a set of unhurried footfalls begins trundling down towards her.
Vivid green eyes snap up from her watch and narrow upon the figure that hops off the last step, sporting a lackadaisical grin as he saunters over to her, one hand stuffed in the pocket of his jacket and the other drumming a rhythm on the front of his jeans.
“You’re late,” she says waspishly, glaring him down.
Sweeping a hand through curls of brown hair, ‘Chase’ shrugs a shoulder, exuding nonchalance in the face of her admonishment. “Got waylaid,” he replies easily, “And you did pick a spot to meet that’s, like, right in the furthest corner of the Plex.”
Vanessa shoots a pointed look at the fingers still tapping away at his thigh, and to his credit, his hand finally falls still.
“Did you get it done?” she grinds out.
“I think so.”
“You think so?” she echoes, slanting a thin brow at him and folding her arms neatly over her chest.
Again, Chase lifts his shoulder in a shrug. “There was an… unexpected hiccup,” he admits slowly, “‘Sides, the gator wasn’t as easy as Chica and Roxy. Had to take down twice as many firewalls. You got any idea how hard it is to hack an independent circuit without tripping every alarm these bots have?”
“Will it work?” she stresses as her own fingers begin to drum on the sleeve of her shirt.
There’s the minutest twitch of his eyelid, but Chase merely blinks it away and says, “The pathways are open. But I didn’t manage to get to the circuits under Monty’s arm panel. Just means it might take a little longer for the virus to find a way into all of its systems.”
Inhaling deeply through her nose, the security guard lets her skull thunk back against the wall, thinking hard. “It’ll have to do,” she decides after a few moments of introspection.
Chase nods his agreement and adds, “Freddy’s the only one left.”
“Saved the easiest for last, huh?”
“Got that right. He’ll be a breeze compared to those fucking attendants you got.” The technician’s nose curls distastefully in recollection. “Damn blue one took one look at me and tried to rip my head off. Had to scrub almost all of its internal memory before it stopped recognising me…”
Vanessa, however, has already tuned out the man’s incessant droning. She’s heard what she needs to hear.
Things have almost, almost fallen into place. “I’m running out of time…” she murmurs to herself before darting her gaze up to Chase once more, her expression hardening like ice. “I want Freddy’s defences down ASAP,” she orders, pushing off the wall and brushing past the technician, “After that, you can scurry on back to whatever hole you crawled out of with your payment, and -!”
She’s jerked to a sudden halt by the firm hand that snakes its way around her arm and pulls her up short.
“- Speaking of…” Chase drawls, blithely ignoring the wild and dangerous look she slowly aims at the fingers clasping her shirt, “I’m gonna need that payment up front, before I get to the bear.”
A vein in Vanessa’s temple jumps furiously as she grits her teeth and grinds out, “That wasn’t the deal.”
“Yeah, well, you’re not the only one pressed for time,” he quips back, unfazed by the borderline hostile glint of her teeth, “Give me some incentive now, or this little plan of yours – whatever the Hell it is – gets put on hold. Indefinitely.”
Cute, she sneers, forcing down the ugly beast that peels its head from the walls of her gut and stirs at her own personal pot of rage. “You really want to start this game?” she asks, her voice a sudden well of unsettling calm that does its work to unglue his hand from her arm, “I wonder what the cops would say if they heard about your own little plan, hm?”
Although Chase’s hand flops to his side, he’s nonetheless quick to lean back onto one leg and fix her with a snide grin. “I suppose these are the same cops who’d be pretty interested in learning that an officer of the biggest entertainment franchise in the States is removing safety regs on all the animatronics?”
Vanessa’s expression doesn’t falter in the slightest, but he can almost feel the white-hot fire spitting indignantly beneath her collar.
Feeling emboldened, he spreads his arms out wide as if to usher her wrath down upon him. “Your move, Chief,” he says.
For several, charged moments, the woman merely pins him with a look so fierce, he can only match it with an unaffected appraisal of her clenched fists and tight shoulders, wondering if he’s picked his battles a little off-centre this time.
But at last, with an almighty grunt and whiplike precision, she dives into her pocket and snatches something from it, thrusting it out towards him while her nostrils flare and her jaw strains around her words. “Just don’t doing anything stupid like try to skip town before the job’s done,” she seethes, “If you want the money, you’ll see this through to the end.” Then, peeling her lips back, she lowers her chin and peers darkly at him from under the brim of her cap, uttering three, distinct words. “Is. That. Clear?
Without further preamble, she drops a piece of crumpled paper from her outstretched fist, regarding the man disdainfully as he swipes it out of the air and unfolds it with hungry fingers.
After sparing a second to scan over the note, he looks up and flashes her a wry grin, raising two fingers to his forehead and knocking off a salute. “Clear as crystal, boss!” he declares.
Irked, Vanessa’s eyes roll up to the ceiling, but she turns her back to him without another word, taking the stairs at a steady pace and leaving the giddy technician behind in the stairwell to stare down at the note in his clutches.
On it are scrawled no more than three lines of writing, scribbled in black biro by a hasty, uncaring hand.
A two-digit number.
The name of a building.
And the name of a street.
“Gotch’ya,” he whispers, lovingly brushing the pad of his thumb over the paper whilst a triumphant smile worms its way across his face.
Monty x Reader where you're offered a job as the manager of this newly emerging rock band: The Glamrocks. It's gaining popularity fast and you're fine with the deal they're setting... until you realise the band is made up of monsters. Now you have to get used to being amongst these creatures with too-sharp teety and too-strong bodies. Not really ideal for a human. And yes, Monty's temper too.
