#Everyone is having a not okay time
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On the Ropes
Chapter 25 - Uninvited Guests
Montgomery Gator X F!Reader
WARNING:
-Noncon touching, inappropriate behaviour, abuse of authority, implied s/a, self-doubt, mild threat
Summary: Tempers flare, emotions are high and boundaries are tested. You worry, but Monty worries more. He just isn't as good as expressing it as you are.
Sorry this one took so long. A few months ago, my parents made me a partner in their company with a view to take over the whole damn thing when they retire, and I've had to learn how to run a business without a lick of experience in the field, so that's been taking up a lot of my life lately. I'm still finding time to write, but it is harder.
Still! I hope a nice, long, juicy chapter full of angst and fluff and hurt/comfort makes up for the hiatus. Love to the brim. X
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As ideas go, Monty concludes that his latest might have been best left on the backburner, never to see the light of day. He hardly dares move, locked in place by his own mechanical parts as he stares down at you on the sofa, and you in turn, gawk up at him, your eyes still wet and shining with tears.
And for all his artificial intelligence, for all the state-of-the-art programming slapped into his circuitry, the most eloquent response he can conjure up in the face of his own blunder is a weak, faltering, âUhâŚâ
But what else could best encapsulate the jarring realisation that heâs been caught? He hadnât really fathomed being caught at all, hadnât even considered what he might do if he was caught.
Well, too little too late now, he supposes. Thereâs no way he can simply duck back through your open window and feign ignorance when you inevitably return to the Plex to confront himâŚ
âŚ. Could heâŚ?
⌠No, no. Definitely not.
Closely observing your expression, the gatorâs proverbial stomach sinks as your face begins to lose all aspects of shock and instead turns towards something more closely akin to anger, unpleasant in its familiarity, and Monty realises heâs running out of time to come up with a believable excuse to explain away his presence here, as if a 'good' excuse even exists.
Brows scrunching together, your jaw creaks shut, teeth meeting with an audible âclick,â that pulls an involuntary flinch from the gatorâs tail.
He can handle Mick being angry with him. He can handle Andy and that exec, the staff and guests and all of their cross words and scathing looks.
Yet for some reason that he dare not examine, the very notion of you pointing your wrath at him fills Monty with a dread so palpable, heâd swear the coolant in his hydraulics freezes solid. The irony of the revelation doesnât escape him. Until now, heâs spent so long being angry at everyone around him without sparing much thought as to how it must feel to be on the receiving end.
Beyond the threatening wave of apprehension cresting over him, he can still hear the sizzle of water against a hot stove-top somewhere nearby â the very culprit that had landed you on the floor, and him here in the first place - and in his eagerness to set things right again, Monty latches onto the one task heâs at least semi-certain he canât mess up.
He doesnât break eye-contact with you, not until heâs edged his way into the little kitchenette and finally tears his gaze from yours to spin around to the stove, knocking his tail against the fridge with a jarring clang of metal. He winces at the force, hoping he hasnât dented it.
Grimacing at the knobs and dials sitting innocently on the cooker, he elects not to tackle them, instead reaching out to engulf the saucepanâs entire handle in a single fist where he simply lifts the whole contraption off the stove.
At once, the water boiling within its metal confines eases to a manageable simmer.
âMontyâŚâ When his name leaves your lips this time, itâs deeper, colder, with the barest tremble flecked into your voice. âYou⌠you canât be hereâŚâ
The gator has enough sense not to bark out a nervous laugh at the centuryâs greatest understatement.
Clenching his fingers around the handle, he carefully plops the saucepan down near the back of the stove, away from the burning, red ring of heat. Excess water still dribbles in tiny rivulets down the side of the counter, but he turns his processor away from the mess by physically twisting himself around in the cramped space until heâs facing you once more, clutching his hands up to his yellow chest plate.
âYou canât be here,â you reiterate thinly, your eyes blown wide and pupils small and dark like pinprick holes, locked in his direction.
Then, with the suddenness of a bullet firing from a gun, you explode into motion.
Lurching over at the waist, you swipe your discarded crutch from the floor and begin shoving yourself gracelessly from the sofa with such fervour, Monty is momentarily struck by the ludicrous idea that you might be on your way to attack him.
âOf all the-! the stupid-!â you sputter, slamming the crutchâs rubber foot into your carpet and heaving yourself upright, wobbling across the room on an unsteady leg, âDangerous! Irresponsible-!â
You continue hurling out adjectives and lumbering forwards, and Monty â suddenly alarmed that youâre about to topple face-first into the carpet again â kicks himself into gear. His pistons carry him across the room in a few, loping strides where he meets you at the edge of the kitchen linoleum, mindlessly throwing both of his enormous palms around your waist to steady you.
Almost at once, you latch onto him roughly, your fingertips squeaking against plastic as they attempt to gather purchase around a too-thick wrist.
âMonty!â The acrid taste of panic steadily trickles down the back of your throat. âMonty, this isnât funny! Iâm not kidding! This isnât funny, you cannot be here!â
But Monty isnât laughing. And although you sound borderline hysterical, there isnât a trace of humour in your expression either. Maybe you hope it's a practical joke, or that you're seeing things. Anything except for the gargantuan reality peering down at you from behind star-shaped sunglasses.Â
âI know,â is all the gator can muster up as a reply. Because he does know. He canât be here.
And yet, he is.
âThen what-â you snap, â-the fuck are you doing here!?â Itâs the first time youâve really raised your voice at him, and thereâs a sharpness to it that tucks the animatronicâs snout down towards his chest, rendered contrite in the face of your reprimand. Something deep in his subroutine starts to hum, discontented. Perhaps itâs the fact that the shoe is on the other foot now, and this time, heâs the one on the receiving end of someone elseâs anger.
Another tear spills over to clump your eyelashes together.
Whirring loudly behind his glasses, Montyâs optics track its path over the swell of your cheek, and again, he creaks his jaw open, hoping something more substantial than his previous answer will miraculously come to him. As it is, he merely utters a soft, âI⌠donât know.â
Evidently however, that had been the wrong thing to say.
For several seconds, your mouth flaps open and closed in disbelief before your face screws up into a tight ball of incredulousness and you manage to shrilly proclaim, âWhat do you mean you donât know!?â
You snatch your hand away from his wrist to rake trembling fingers through your hair, digging into your scalp with the tips of blunted nails. âOh god, oh god⌠This is bad, this is bad! YouâreâŚâ
Trailing off, you lean away from the animatronic, shoving a palm against his solid chest and giving your head a harsh shake, as if you might somehow throw the whole situation from your mind. Even as you pull away, his hands retain their firm point of contact on your sides.
After a beat of silence, you go still once more, blinking up at the gator and confirming that, no, you arenât imagining the hulking, green goliath towering over you, looking far too large to occupy the space between your ceiling and floor. âMonty, for godâs sake,â you say through gritted teeth, âYouâre in my flat!â
âI.. I know this looks bad-â he tries, removing a hand from your waist, palm tipped towards you in a placating gesture, âBut, itâs okay-â
â- In what universe is this okay!?â you fret, batting at the massive paw that stretches towards you, âMonty! Youâre outside the Plex! If youâre caught, theyâll-! Christ! You could be decommissioned! Is that what you want?!â
âI wanted to make sure you got home,â he emphasises.
âYou canât do that though!â you almost wail at him, shaking your fists beseechingly as if to beg him to comprehend your desperation, âYou understand why you canât do that, right?!â
âI was just-!â Thereâs a sudden buzz of static as he cuts off his own voice box, rendering the end of his sentence effectively unspoken.
But he ought to have known you arenât about to let him get away with silence, not when youâre so clearly distraught and prying for answers.
âWhat, Monty?!â you exclaim, pinning him with your glare like a butterfly to a corkboard, âYou were just what?!â
The gatorâs jaw works mechanically, grinding the gears on their pivots as he clenches and unclenches it. Heâs unwilling to give up the vulnerable words that have lodged themselves in his voice box, words that seem far too soft coming from the mouth of an animatronic with an unmalleable frame.
The only sound to break the silence is the steady âdrip,â âdrip,â âdrip,â of your leaky faucet.
âMontgomery,â you snap when his silence starts to overstay its welcome.
And the gator, despite his best efforts, flinches.
Plastic eyebrows slot together with an audible âclackâ as Monty lowers his optics to the carpet at your feetâŚ
Youâve fallen back on his show title.
Itâs a⌠rather decisive step away from the nickname he asked you to call him. The chasm that stood between you and the gator was wide when you set foot his green room not so long ago, yet in spite of first impressions, that gap has slowly been closing up over the last few days.
But now? Calling him âMontgomery,â and in so terse a tone feels too much like the rift has just inched a few notches wider again.
Perhaps itâs that solemn, borderline desperate urge to regain what precious ground heâs lost that drives him to finally lift his gaze from the carpet and aim it somewhere near your glistening eyes instead.
âJust⌠tryinâa do what you did for meâŚâ he utters.
Your face immediately untwists, brows launching up your forehead as everything about you opens up in clear surprise.
Whatever excuse youâd been imagining, he hadnât provided it.
âWhat?â The question squeezes out of your throat, rasping and tight.
Hiking up the volume in his voice box, Monty retorts, âYou came to make sure I was okay at the Plex. I-Iâm just⌠doinâ the same thing!â
Sputtering around half-formed words for a several seconds, you finally manage to exclaim, âThere is an astronomical difference between a human going to their place of work, and an animatronic up and leaving the place they were built, Montgomery, you canât even try to pretend there isnât!â
Youâre well aware that comparing your autonomy to his own is a little below the belt, but the truth, whilst certainly ugly, is still the truth.
âAndy can tear me a new one for not going home after surgery,â you continue frantically, âBut thatâs nothing compared to what Faz Co. will do to you if they find out youâve gone awol! And thatâs not even the half of it! I mean - What if you run out of charge!? Or â or!â
As you steadily approach the line between distraught and thoroughly panicked, your voice begins to rise, cracking at the apex of your sentence, hypotheticals darting relentlessly through your head.
âWhat if someone saw you!? How did you even get here! Oh, fuck, Managementâll scrap you for spare parts, or - Damnit, Monty!â you blurt, ducking your head to try and meet his downcast optics, âAre you evening listening to me!?â
He is listening, as a matter of fact, quite intently. Though his visual feed may not be focused on you, the gator is hanging on your every word. But it isnât the realisation he could be decommissioned thatâs caught his attention. He already knows that the outcomes youâve just listed are very real possibilities, should his little escapade ever be discovered.
No, instead, itâs the clear and undeniable fear laid thickly in your voice that grinds his processor to a halt. It sits on your tongue like a glaze, shining brightly for him to pick up on, and wonder how he missed it in the first place.
This isnât anger.
This is something else dressed up to look like anger, and the tragedy is, itâs a disguise he knows all-too well, so well, in fact, that he should have recognised youâd donned it the moment you opened your mouth to speak.
Youâre afraid.
If animatronics were built to house spirits, Montyâs would be tentatively lifting their heads. However, the revelation that perhaps he hasnât driven off his best and only friend is cut woefully short when all of a sudden, his audio receptors give a ping, alerting him to new input approaching from a nearby source.
Without warning, the gatorâs head snaps towards the door of your flat, mechanical clicks filling the unexpected silence as his optics adjust to the change in distance.
Footsteps⌠heavy and unhurried, slowing as they draw nearer to your doorâŚ
âMonty?â you hiss, distractedly following the line drawn by his glare, âDonât try and-â
âKnock.â
âKnock.â
âKnock.â
Three deliberate raps on your front door cause any further arguments to shrivel up and die at the back of your throat. You stop breathing altogether, and every noise suddenly seems too loud in the ensuing silence.
âWho the Hell-?â you wonder, dumbfounded, â-Itâs the middle of the night!?â
No sooner has the thought occurred to you than a finger of ice-cold dread drags a chilly path up the notches on your spine, right to the fine hairs prickling at the nape of your neck.
Like a jackhammer, your heart rams itself up against your sternum over and over again.
âHe couldnât have⌠Shit. Could he? But... How?â
âY/n?â
Youâre too slow to clamp your mouth shut around a gasp when you hear the voice, muffled but undeniably masculine, calling out from the other side of the door. Montyâs silicone lips ripple apart, though he at least has the forethought not to push an audible growl through his speakers.
The voice, however, doesnât sound as though it belongs to the⌠the person you thought it might have belonged to.
You canât place it straight away. Youâre only sure that you know it from somewhere, but with several centimetres of wood standing between you and it, details are distorted and difficult to pinpoint.
Another knock startles you again, even more-so when itâs followed by, âAre you in there?â
A pregnant pause stretches until your teeth start to ache from keeping them pressed together so firmly.
And then, the words you thought youâd never have to hear again filter through the cracks beneath the door. âI thought I heard shouting.â
Thereâs an instinct that rises from buried depths at the utterance, instincts you thought youâd put to bed long ago.
It's as though someone has lit a fire under your feet. Mechanically, you twist around towards the sofa, your eyes locking onto the remote controls sitting on its arm rest. Limping up to them with stilted, frenetic movements, you snatch them up and aim them at the television, jamming your thumb into the âonâ button with far more force than necessary. Plastic creaks beneath your fingertips.
Seconds later, the screen flickers to life, landing on a film you donât bother to try and recognise. Hiking up the volume until the tinny sound kicks out of the speakers and fills your meagre living space, you toss the remote back onto the sofa cushions and make your way arduously to the door.
Yet another knock indicates that your late-night visitor is persistent, youâll give him that.
Several steps from the entrance, your progress is stopped by a sudden wall of green stepping in front of you, blocking your path forward.
âMove,â you rasp through gritted teeth, too quiet to be heard over the television as you smack at the gatorâs tail thatâs trying to curl around your thighs.
Montyâs head swivels around to frown at you. The purple casings surrounding his optics slide half-closed to give you the impression of a beseeching look.
You wonder if he knows whoâs at the door.
âHello? Y/n?â the stranger calls again.
âI - just a second,â you blurt out, ignoring Montyâs grimace as you bully your way past him, using your crutch to keep him from stepping around you lest he risk tripping you over, âSorry, Iâm... still getting the hang of these crutches.â
You have half a mind to demand to know who the Hell would have the unmitigated audacity to come around and knock on your door at this time of night.
Behind you, Montyâs claws try to hook into the back of your shirt, but the fear of accidentally tearing anything you own keeps him from holding on with any real purpose. As such, itâs only too easy to slip out of his grasp and press your eye up to the peep hole, the blood in your ears rushing to a watery crescendo.
A distorted yet familiar face peers back at you through the glass, sweat glistening off a ruddy forehead that shines under the overhead lights.
âMick!?â you burst out.
What in the name of God...
Whirling around to face Monty, you throw an arm out, gesturing wildly towards your bedroom door.
The gatorâs jaws are clenched tightly enough that you suspect if you were to toss a lump of coal between his teeth, heâd spit out a diamond, and while his tail twitches back and forth in clear agitation, he doesnât otherwise move.
âAh, you are there,â your not-so-mysterious visitor exclaims, âMind opening the door?â
Yes, you mind! You mind very much! What is he doing here!?
UnlessâŚ
Your head turns slowly over a shoulder to gape unblinkingly at the animatronic looming close behind you. Your eyes find his, your stomach clenchesâŚ
âHello?â
âUh, just⌠hang on a second!â you stall, fumbling and fiddling with the metal latch, pretending to fight with it whilst you cast another, desperate look back at the gator. âDamn lock is always getting stuck.â
The moment his optics catch your eye again, you mouth, âPleaseâ, jerking your chin at your bedroom door, âPlease. Hide.â
Ever so slowly, Monty blinks, taking in the harsh lines that cut crevices down the centre of your forehead, right between your furrowed brows. And just like that, the corners of his snarl start to fall, and the apertures of his pupils expand to hide blazing, crimson LEDs.
A thousand calculations run through his processor at once, all of them pertaining to the risk of leaving you to face Mick by yourself. His programming shrieks in defiance as he takes a reluctant step backwards, being light as he can on cumbersome actuators.
He should stay⌠Neither of you know why Mick is here, though he can hazard several guesses.
Youâre afraid, youâre vulnerable⌠You need him.
But probability reminds him that perhaps the situation isnât so dire. He's sure he hadnât been spotted on his way here, and if he was, why would Faz Co. send Mick â of all humans - out for retrieval?
What if the man's being here is merely down to chance?
If that's the case, then should he catch you with one of the Glamrocks in your home, the repercussions will be far worse than whatever Monty fears could happen by leaving you to deal with the situation aloneâŚ
So, driven back by the urgent glimmer of tears shining over your sclera, Montgomery Gator begrudgingly makes a decision that goes against his very programming. He retreats from the room, slinking backwards as silently as a two-tonne bot can through the door and into what he can only assume must be your personal recharging station.
All the while, you watch him over the threshold, waiting until the gatorâs hefty bulk disappears into the darkness of the room beyond. Even still, you wait for him to push your door shut with an undetectable 'thud' before you finally wrench the lock on your own door free and tug the whole thing open, remembering to plaster a tentative smile on your face just in the nick of time.
âMr Matthews,â you grind out sweetly, praying that the television in the background covers your stumbling addition of, âWhat a⌠a nice surprise!â
The man on the other side of the door straightens his posture at once. It doesnât escape your notice that heâs keeping one arm behind his back as he too slaps a grin on his face, though you imagine his is slightly more authentic than your own.
âY/n, my dear,â he returns, revealing his hidden appendage and, to your surprise â and confusion - producing a fistful of limp, strikingly dark dahlias, the kind you might pull off the bargain shelf at your nearby petrol station.
 âI wasnât sure youâd be awake,â Mick continues, edging towards you until the toe of his winter boot pokes over the threshold, âBut I was in the area and thought Iâd stop by to see how you were doing.â
With the flowers practically shoved under your nose, you try to surreptitiously lean backwards, putting your weight on the crutch as you reply, âO-oh, thatâs, ah, very kind of youâŚâ
Can he hear your pulse thundering? Oh god, can he see the dilation of your pupils? Does he know who you have hidden in your bedroom? He must⌠He has to. Why else would he be here?
Almost running on autopilot now, you continue, âYou didnât need to come all this way though. UmâŚâ Trailing off to bite at the inside of your cheek, you hedge, âI didnât realise you knew where to find me.â
To anyone with even a modicum of self-awareness, the statement is poised as a direct question, in expectation of an answer. âHow did you know where I live?â is being broadcast from every facet of your voice and expression.
But Mick, clueless or perhaps deliberately obtuse, merely lowers the flowers an inch and replies, âOh, youâve mentioned it to me a few times now.â
⌠Have you? Itâs⌠entirely possible, you suppose. After all, you talk about a lot of things at work, and subsequently, you forget about a lot of things too. But who would remember all the small talk you make with co-workers, or the unimportant comments you toss out while youâre responding to âcheck-upsâ from management?
Your home address however⌠It took you a long time to even tell Andy where it was, in case of emergencies⌠You canât imagine itâs something you let slip without noticing.
But⌠Mick is hereâŚ
So how else?
Shoving down the frustration at yourself for being careless, you clear your throat and nod at the flowers. âAnd, can I presume those are forâŚâ
Mick jumps, staring down at the dahlias clutched in his fist as if heâs only just remembered theyâre there. âOh, yes of course theyâre for you!â he proclaims, âOf course, of course. Only courteous to give flowers to people in need of healing, no?â
You blink at him mutely, pretending not to notice the excess oil heâs slicked into his hair tonight.
Is that why heâs here? To bring you flowers? Is that all?
Part of you wants to slump with relief. Another part however, older, wiser and sadder, remains cautious.
âWell, again, thatâs really kind of you,â you tell him, reaching out to take the flowers from his hand. The stems seem to breathe elated sighs as he relinquishes his iron-clad grip. âIâll have to find a vase for theseâŚâ
Youâre not sure you even own a vaseâŚ
âNaturally,â he replies, peering over your shoulder to quirk a brow at the television blaring behind you, âAh. Movie night?â
âHmm?â Following his gaze, you rush out, âOh yeah, I figured⌠since Iâm off tomorrow and the foreseeable future, a little late night wouldnât kill meâŚâ
Would it be rude to ask your senior why heâs bringing you flowers at this time of night? Maybe you can tell him you were just about to turn off the TV and go to bed?
As you deliberate how best to tell the man on your doorstep to make himself scarce, he surprises you by abruptly asking, âMay I come in?â
âNo!â your own voice screams at you from inside your head, âJust say no!â
âIâm not sure thatâs-â you begin tactfully, but Mick is already bustling forwards, crowding you until you take a slight step to one side. After that, well⌠Youâve given him an inch, heâll take a mile, as it were.
Once he has a literal foot in the door, Mick sweeps past you, moving breezily into your living area and roving his gaze all over the room, hands planted on his hips. âGoodness,â he remarks, cocking his head at your bare walls and sparse dĂŠcor, âYou donât get much on a cleanerâs salary, do you? You havenât put that⌠ahem, bonus to good use yet?â
You want to bristle like a cat thatâs been kicked.
Mickâs jab is unmistakable, but his awareness of his own civility is not.
Swallowing back a retort, you simply murmur, âHadnât gotten around to it yet. Iâll go and put these in some water.â Truthfully, youâre still reeling from the fact heâd just invited himself inside.
Hobbling towards the sink, you delicately lay the flowers in the washing-up bowl and turn on the tap. An angry ring of red light catches the edge of your vision, and you glance over at the stove-top, clicking your tongue as you reach over and turn the cookerâs dial to the âoffâ position.
Teeth find the inside of your cheek and bite down on the fleshy wall, worrying at it while you wait for the bowl to cover half of the flowersâ stems.
âMonty knows better than to give himself away,â you assure yourself, trying to pretend you canât feel those eyes prickling at the back of your neck, âAnd itâs getting late. Mickâll want to get home soon. This isnât anything other than a concerned manager delivering well-wishes to a member of the staff.â
âThereâs a guest in the house,â a voice that isnât entirely your own pops up, unbidden, âOffer him a drink.â
âCan I get you anything?â you blurt out, turning off the dripping tap and swivelling about to face Mick, âCoffee? Tea?â
The man throws you a look, barking out a laugh. âMy word, someoneâs got you well-trained,â he chortles.
The moisture dries up in your mouth. He likely assumes heâs referring to your upbringing, or maybe your schooling, but his statement hits far too close to home and sends phantom prangs of alarm through your brain, fizzing like electricity.
But just as your head starts to feel lightâŚ
âNo, nothing for me,â he sighs, entirely oblivious to the cracks forming in your outer veneer as he nods pointedly at your television, âAlthough, uh, TVâs a little loud, no?â
âO-oh, yes,â you give a start, wobbling past him, âSorry, I wasnât expecting company.â That one was a little barbed, but you think itâs more than justified, given the circumstances.
Making your way to the sofa again, you reach for the controls, intent on swiping them off the cushions, but you freeze in your tracks when your eyes land on the overturned coffee table to your left. The coffee table Monty had knocked aside in his haste to get at you after you collapsedâŚ
Behind you, Mick of course, has already seen it.
âDoing some redecorating?â he comments.
Thinking on your feet, you resume your task of picking up the remote and turning the television off, plunging the room into an uncomfortable silence once more. âNo, just⌠had to move it earlier to do some exercises the physician recommended.â
Mick âahâsâ in apparent understanding whilst you elect to deliberately leave the table where it is, tipped on its side.
âYou wouldnât believe how much space it takes just to do some stretches,â you add, âI havenât gotten around to moving it back.â
You make a concerted effort to keep your eyes from drifting towards your bedroom door, painfully conscious that the gator must be standing just on the other side, head pressed to the wood to follow the flow of conversation.
âMm, I can imagine,â Mick grunts noncommittally, and as you return your attention to him, youâre just in time to see him helping himself to a seat on your sofa, breathing out a long, languid sigh as he glances up at you, ruddy cheeks pushing out in a smile. âCome, sit!â he insists abruptly, as if it isnât your sofa that heâs inviting you to. âRest that leg of yours, you must be tired.â
If only he knew how terribly his suggestion puts your back up and sends your pulse skyrocketing.
All of a sudden, from the direction of your bedroom door, there comes a soft, nearly inaudible scraping sound, not unlike claws dragging across wood.
To your horror, Mickâs head starts turning towards the noise, but quick as a flash, you draw his focus by stretching your jaws into a wide, obnoxious yawn and settling down on the opposite end of the sofa, leaving a respectable distance between you both.
Covering your mouth with a palm, you loudly proclaim, âOh! Oh, excuse me. I suppose I have got one foot in bed already.â
You try for light-hearted, miss and land on uncomfortable instead. But if Mick gets the hint, he doesnât outwardly acknowledge it, merely hums and pulls a handkerchief from the pocket of his shirt, daubing at a glistening temple.
As you perch awkwardly on the edge of the seat, you keep a firm grip on your crutch and make every conceivable effort to avoid casting any wayward glances at your bedroom door. If thereâs even the slightest chance that Mick isnât here because of Monty, then you arenât keen on blowing your cover.
âSo,â the man next to you starts conversationally, clapping his hands down on his knees, âYouâre holding up all right, then?â
Shrugging a shoulder, you reply, âAs well as I can be, all things considered.â
Mick purses his lips, head bobbing sympathetically. âMm, Iâm sure thatâs the case,â he admits, âBad business, that attack in the tunnels. Very bad businessâŚâ
Bad business, or bad for business, you wonder.
And talk about an understatement. You have to sternly remind yourself not to scoff.
His mention of the âincidentâ however does raise a certain flag at the back of your mind as it occurs to you for the first time that Faz Co. wouldnât be above sending someone to make sure youâre sticking by the non-disclosure agreement. You wouldnât put it past themâŚ
Is that why Mick is here? Second guessing yourself for the umpteenth time, you take a deep breath and gently try to steer the conversation towards something of real substance. âI⌠signed the execâs paperwork, by the way⌠So, you donât need to worry. The matterâs done with, so far as Iâm concerned.â
The fact that you now have enough money to start looking for a nicer place to live is certainly motive enough to keep idle gossip to yourself.
In response, Mick only tips his head back and barks out a laugh, âOf course you did,â he chuckles, shaking his head at you, beaming, âYouâre a damn good woman. You work hard, you keep your head down. You do your job, and you do it well. Youâre loyalâŚâ
Trailing off, he twists himself about at the torso to face you, the smile sloughing off his face as he adds, âLoyal enough that youâd come to the Plex the day after you were carted away in an ambulance.â
With gradual unease, your fingertips curl into the sofa cushions.
Whatever expression you pull must be dire indeed because Mick immediately drops his serious façade and lets out a chortle, leaning across the sofa to give your knee a pat just a few inches from the top of the cast, apparently too amused to notice that you blanch.
âNow then, no need to look so spooked,â he tells you, âIâm not here to lecture you about what you should and shouldnât be doing following a major incident. I just thought Iâd mention that I saw you today-â
You can barely focus on his voice. Heâs allowed his clammy palm to lay like a lead weight upon your knee. Itâs still there. Why is it still there? The temptation to kick your leg out as if to shoo away a bothersome fly is awfully prevalent.
âI must say,â he carries on, oblivious to the way your gaze drills into the back of his hand, âI was impressed by your dedication to the company. Iâd have come over to say âhello,â butâŚâ
Breaking off to torture you with a pregnant pause, the manâs jovial expression collapses, turning sour. âWellâŚâ He clears his throat, shifting in his seat. âThen I saw you were with the gator.â
Right there on the sofa, your heart seizes up.
âYouâve been spending a lot of time with that gator recently.â
âHe knows,â you fret, flicking a frantic look at the door to your bedroom. The evidence is stacking up against you. Why turn up now, and why mention Monty at all?
Fingers trembling, you start the process of falling apart right next to him, debating whether or not to just get it over with and come clean when he suddenly furrows his brows at you and â at long last â draws back, retrieving his hand from your leg. âYou need to watch yourself around that bot. You hear me?â
Relief and shock war for control for several seconds as you gape at him, only remembering to snap your jaw shut once you realise itâs been hanging awkwardly ajar for far too long. Swallowing thickly, you try to smooth down your bristling nerves and stammer out a clumsy, âI-Iâm sorry?â
âIâm not the only one whoâs noticed, you know,â Mick surges ahead as if you hadnât spoken, âMost of the staff are starting to talk. A lot of the guests too. And now thereâs that video going aroundâŚâ
Your eyes are starting to ache with the effort of keeping them affixed to the manager, not your bedroom door.
âItâs no secret that itâs taken a real liking to you,â he grunts, âAnd the way I see it, that puts you at the most risk.â
Suddenly, you find it much easier to pay attention. Several, rapid blinks put Mick at the centre of your focus as you politely admit, âIâm sorry, I⌠I donât follow.â
The look he gives you is decidedly pitying. Heaving a slow sigh through his nose, he roves his gaze up towards your ceiling as if he means to pluck the right words out of thin air. âListen,â he begins patiently, like a teacher trying to explain something basic to their struggling student, âBots donât just⌠change like Monty has. I mean, whatâs it been? Less than a week? And itâs gone from causing countless incidents of property damage and snapping at every staff member it sees to carrying one across the plex?â
He puffs out a derisive scoff and shakes his head, lips pursed. Then, leaning forward, he links his fingers together and props both elbows on top of his knees, glowering hard at the blank television screen. âIâm not buying it,â he utters darkly, âSooner or later, its old ways will start kicking in again, and when they do, whoâs the person directly in the firing line?â
Peeling one hand away from the other, he curls it into a fist, extends his forefinger, and aims it right between your eyes.
Thereâs something so inherently disconcerting about the action alone that you physically draw back from the man on the sofa, leaning away and eyeing his hand as though youâre staring down the barrel of a loaded gun. But at the forefront of your mind â and a sudden source of great contention - is his implication that Monty is any kind of threat to you. Perhaps you wouldnât be feeling a thrum of defensive indignation if the gator himself hadnât been in the other room, no doubt able to hear every word Mick is saying about him. As it is, your chest starts to buzz with the desire to correct the manâs assumptions.
Peeling a dry tongue from the roof of your mouth, you slowly press out, âWith all due respect, Sir-â
â-Itâs Mick, doll. Just Mick.â
You try not to pull a face at his interruption. âMick,â you start again, âWith all due respect, I think thatâs a bit unfair to MontyâŚâ
At once, surprise opens his expression, smoothing the wrinkles between his brows as they go shooting up his forehead instead.
âUnfair?â he deadpans.
âI just mean that heâs been trying very hard to do things right lately, and we shouldnât dismiss that just because he's had a few bad days, right?â Instances of breaking into your apartment notwithstanding. âChrist, Mick, he saved my life from that en-â
Mickâs beady eyes narrow at you.
Clearing your throat, you carefully amend, â⌠from that intruder.â
For several seconds, you watch on as the manâs face twists up once again into a frown, and he purses his lips at you, exhaling roughly through his nose. Leaning sideways across the sofa, he puts himself close to you and raises a finger into the air, wagging it at you in a manner that you really donât care for.
âOne example of the âcorrectâ behaviour doesnât negate all the harm that bot has otherwise done,â he tells you firmly, âTo the brand, to the plexâŚâ Trailing off, his eyes gloss over as they drift to the back of his hand, staring at something you canât see. After a moment, he quietly adds, âTo me.â
Glancing sideways to find you fixing him with a strange look, he pushes out a cough. âA-And it certainly doesnât prove that itâs safe. Never trust a dog thatâs bitten once not to bite again.â
âMontyâs not a dog,â you point out, your brows set in a stern, unyielding line.
âNo,â Mick agrees sharply, âItâs a two-tonne animatronic with a history of violence and a penchant for causing trouble wherever it goes.â
All at once, you bridle, clenching your fist around the crutch. Maybe itâs the fact that youâre in your own home that gives you a shot of courage straight through the chest. If Mick had confronted you with these accusations at work, you canât deny you might have been a little more hesitant to retaliate. As it is, he came into your flat uninvited, he sat on your sofa and started bad-mouthing your friendâŚ
 âNow hang on a moment, thatâs just plain wrong,â you retort, âMonty hasnât caused any trouble for me, and in fact, heâs gone out of his way to help me these past few days â quite a lot, actually.â
Somehow, Mickâs brows travel even further north towards his slicked-back hairline. He blinks, surprised, either because of your sudden and admittedly barbed defence of a bot youâve only known for a few days, or because he hadnât expected you to show him your backbone at all.
You quiver angrily on the opposite side of the sofa, heavy eyelids protesting the late hour whilst Mick blows a noisy breath through pursed lips, regarding you with newfound interest.
âNow then, thereâs no need to get yourself all worked up,â he soothes cloyingly, âI didnât come all this way to upset you.â
The willpower it requires not to bark âI am not upset!â is tremendous, even more so to fake an apologetic smile and reply, âOf course you didnât. Sorry, itâs just been a long day.â And getting longer with every second Mick sits there, behaving as though heâs done nothing untoward simply by being here.
âIâm sure it has,â he remarks.
And then⌠something happens. Something that sets the synapses in your brain firing off alarm bells left right and centre, paralysing you in your seat.
Without a word to announce his intentions, Mick shuffles himself along the sofa cushions towards you, closing the very deliberate gap youâd wedged between the pair of you minutes ago.
âIf Iâm being perfectly honest with you,â he begins in a low murmur, and you wish he wouldnât be honest at all if thatâs how he intends to speak, âIâm sorry I ever sent you into that damnable gatorâs room in the first place. I mean, granted youâve saved the company thousands in repairs since then⌠But⌠Ah, forgive me, perhaps this is unprofessional butâŚâ
His already soft voice dies to absolute silence as he stretches his hand across the distance between you and sets it down on your leg once more, just above your knee - nowhere an uninvited hand ought to have any business treading.
You canât tear your eyes off it. All the moisture in your throat has dried up, all the breath in your lungs stays trapped.
Youâre not angry anymore.
âI simply wouldnât forgive myself if that gator hurt you, you know,â his voice sounds muffled, half-drowned out under the blood rushing in your ears, âIâm only looking out for you.â
Youâre scared.
Heâs sitting close, too close, close enough that the smell of smoky cologne is suddenly clogging up your airways and sticking to the back of your throat when you inhale.
âCan you blame me for worrying though?â he asks, rubbing his hand up an inch as if heâs testing the waters. Sadly, your limits have been pushed before, further and further each time until the bad things just became mildly uncomfortable things, and the really dreadful things were simply better to ignore.
âYou really are a very good worker. But that animatronic isnât safe.â
Your breath catches in your gullet when you swallow, and even now, after all your experience and the hurdles youâve cleared, you start to doubt yourself. Perhaps Mick really is just concerned. He certainly sounds it. You could be finding horror in something entirely benign. Heâs a manager, he knows better.
Heâs a molehill and youâre sitting here wondering if you should make him into a mountain.
Fingers twitch against your skin and you blanch, prying your jaws apart to⌠what? Scream? Tell him to get his hand off you? He hasnât technically done anything wrong. You let him insideâŚ
All of your senses come flooding back to you suddenly as a strange sound catches your ear; a latch clicking out of place, a handle turning inwards. Ears thrumming with adrenaline, you at last manage to rip at least part of your concentration off Mick and train your hearing towards your room instead.
Luckily for you and the idiot gator trying to stealthily open your bedroom door for some, inane reason, Mick seems far too preoccupied with catching your eye to even register the noise.
Heâs looking for a reaction.
The appealing idea that this might just be one big misunderstanding starts to wash away bit by bit.
You cast your mind about, mentally searching the room for something â anything to derail the direction of his goal. When that fails, you reluctantly allow your gaze to wander from your television to the front door, over to the kitchen and then down to the flowers poking over the lip of the sinkâŚ
FlowersâŚ
A stray gear in your brain chugs to life, kicking out a single, blessed idea.
âHah!â you wheeze out breathlessly, forcing a wobbly smile onto your reluctant mouth, âYouâre starting to sound like Andy. He worries about me too.â
There. Itâs only for an instant, but out of the corner of an eye, you see Mickâs expression falter. âFlowers?â he asks.
âMmhmm,â you hum, âIâm surprised you didnât arrive with him actually.â Feigning an expectant glance at your front door, you school curiosity onto your face and add, âYou didnât see him on your way up, did you?â
Mickâs hand starts to raise ever so slightly from your thigh, too slow for your liking, yet you grit your teeth and bear it for a while longer, like you always have.
âSee him?â the man blinks, âI⌠no? Why would I have seen him?â
âOh, itâs just, he texted me before you knocked on the door. Said heâd be here in another ten⌠fifteen minutes to drop off some stuff I left in my locker at work. I thought you might have come together.â Shrugging a shoulder as casually as you can, you quirk a brow at Mick and continue, âYou really didnât see him? Huh. I hope heâs okay. Itâs not like him to be late.â
On the last word, the feeling of warm, sweaty skin pressed to your leg disappears.
Bingo.
âWell,â Mick announces brusquely, plastering a cheery grin on his face as he leans back and slaps his palms onto his knees, pushing himself off your sofa, âIf Flowers is on his way, Iâd better let you two have your space. Wouldnât want to crowd you, hmm?â
Though it damn-near kills you to do so, you tilt your head and ask, âOh, are you sure? I think he wanted to have a word with you about something.â
Mickâs face turns several shades paler than usual as he stumbles over his response. âAh, well, Iâm sure it can wait until I see him at work tomorrow.â Slipping a finger between his grey tie and the collar of his shirt, he tugs the fabric looser, taking several, hurried steps in the direction of your front door. âIâm sorry to have stopped in unannounced.â
Your smile reveals just a few too many teeth. âItâs not a problem,â you lie, using the crutch to lever yourself onto your feet, âI suppose Iâll see you at work, then?â
Mickâs backwards peddling might have been funny if you were in any mood to laugh.
âHm? Oh, yes, yes. Iâll see you then,â he titters, âYou just stay off that leg in the meantime.â His hand grasps the door handle, sliding clumsily around it for a moment as his damp palms clamber for purchase.
You heart soars when he finally manages to pull it open, only to step halfway outside and hesitate in the threshold of your home. For several, awful seconds, you stare at the back of his head, wondering if heâs changed his mind, or worse, if heâs called your bluff.
Sparing you a look over his shoulder, Mick catches your eye. âJust⌠remember what I told you about the gator,â he tells you suddenly, âPreferably before you decide to visit the Plex again.â
And with that, he just⌠leaves, disappearing out into the hallway and pulling your door shut in his wake until the latch âclicksâ shut.
Mouth full of cotton wool, you listen intently for the thump of dress shoes hitting carpet to peter out as Mick beats a hasty retreat down the hall. Fainter and fainter, the sound fades, until at last, you hear the far-off 'ding' of the lift doors sliding open and shut, and with a shuddering inhale, you promptly crumple forwards against the door, gasping out a wet, pitiful noise whilst you scrabble at the lock with shuddering fingers.
Itâs only when the metal latch slides into place with a definitive âshunk,â that the door of your bedroom bursts open.
With all the speed and unimpeded ferocity of a stampeding bull, Monty comes surging from the darkness of your bedroom, his shoulder struts reared back like a pair of snakes ready to strike.
âWhatâd he do to you!?â he demands, crossing towards you in just a few strides.
You spare a thought for your downstairs neighbours before you remember theyâve been on holiday since last week. And a good thing too. Each step the gator takes sends tremors through the floor below your bare feet.
Montyâs sensors â by now so well-tuned to your vitals â had been going haywire behind the door, picking up on your thundering pulse and the steady uptick in your cortisol levels. Heâd had to stand there, helpless but to listen as Mick spewed his rhetoric into your ear, and Monty hadnât been able to defend himself or refute the manâs claims at all. But you-!
Wonderful, righteous, amicable you... You had! Monty's systems were thrumming, thoroughly cowed to hear you come to his defence, which made it only more difficult not to burst into the room and sweep you away from Mick when the man all but purred reassurances at you.
But worse, perhaps, was the gatorâs inability to see what was happening on the other side of the door. Mickâs verbal blows against Montyâs behaviour couldnât have been the catalyst for your climbing heartrate, though some small, selfish code in the animatronic hopes you felt at least a little indignation on his behalf.
No⌠Something else occurred here tonight. Something Monty wasnât privy to, but wishes he was, if only to settle the ire broiling in his circuits.
You have your back to him, and your forehead pressed against the solid wood of your front door.
He has to see your face⌠He has to know. He has to read your expression and see for himself that there isnât any fear there, just exasperation or even a fiery burst of anger. Anything⌠Just not fear. He would take all the fear in the world from any human he meets if he would only be spared from yours.
Wrestling back the hissing lines of code that poke and prod at his temper, Monty slows to a halt as he reaches you, his apertures twitching wide then narrow again whilst they flit up and down your body in search of damage.
âHey,â he calls, sliding a single, clawed hand around your bicep, âYou hear me? Whatâd he-?â
If heâd have just known⌠If heâd have hazarded a guess as to where your mind had gone in that moment, he might have thought twice about laying his hand on you.
âDONâT-!â you yelp shrilly, whirling around to face him and thrusting your wrist against his, knocking the limb aside as if to parry a weapon instead of his arm.
Startled, the gator wrenches his appendage back, holding it above his shoulder in a display of surrender as he blinks down at you dumbly, jaw falling ajar.
And then, he sees it.
Youâre staring up at him, your face drawn back, haggard and half-mad with terror, your chest heaves with the effort of taking in breaths.
He doesnât have to perform a scan to determine what heâs been dreading. Humans have looked at him like that ever since he was first brought online. Montyâs processor thumps, dredging up a memory of Mick - younger and bolder than the man he is now â reeling away from the gator, face as pale as Moonâs and his eyes so wide the entire iris was exposed. Monty remembers the odd sensation of something soft collapsing between his teeth.
The animatronic violently purges the memory from his internal storage, though he knows itâll still linger there somewhere, buried behind layer upon layer of firewalls until his guard is lowered once more.
All at once, he recoils like heâs been hit by a wrecking ball, staggering backwards until his tail hits the wall behind him and heâs forced to stop. Unable to retreat any further, unable to offer you any more distance, he simply stares at you from his side of the room.
Itâs over⌠This wonderful, safe harbour heâd found in you is finally finished⌠You believe what Mick had said about Monty being a danger to you.
He always knew this had to end, of course. Good things canât thrive in the vicinity of a Faz Co. animatronic. He just⌠didnât think the time would come so soon.
Even still, he canât help but cling with raw, desperate hope to you, scrabbling to keep a hold of your good graces because heâs too stubborn or too foolish to let go.
âI-I wouldnât -â he starts, concealing his claws with his fists and tucking them against his chest, â- Iâd never⌠I wouldnât hurt you. Not you, not ever. YouâreâŚâ
His voice box sputters, cutting out for a moment as he searches his bank of vocabulary for what you are.
When it finally dawns on him, his processor almost grinds to a halt.
âYouâre all I got,â he confesses slowly, surprising himself with the revelation, âI donât got nobody elseâŚI ainât gonna hurt you, you know that.â
You have to know that.
Please know that.
Gradually, far too gradually for the gatorâs highly strung code to endure, you lower your arm  too look at him, brows high on your forehead.
âMonty?â you utter quietly, sending a quick glance between the animatronicâs downcast snout and the hands he still keeps curled beneath his chest. In another blink, you realise what youâve just insinuated through action alone.
âOh, I⌠Monty â No, of course you wouldnât. Iâm so sorry, I⌠God.â Slouching back against the door, your head knocks against it as you drop a palm over your face. âThis is such a mess.â
Lowering your palm to the door, you splay your fingers over the wood behind you, drawing in a steadying breath and trying to ground yourself to the solidity at your spine. Another breath, and you finally drop your eyes to the gator.
For the briefest moment, you consider telling him why you couldnât bear to feel a hand on you right now.
Your mouth creaks open, the words sitting on the tip of your tongue.
But something along the vein of common sense tells you that it wouldnât be fair to burden Monty with such knowledge.
âBesides,â you remind yourself, borrowing your motherâs words, âItâs all in the past, and least said, soonest mended.â
Morose yet resigned, you swallow back your admission.
âIâm sorry, Monty,â you offer instead, raising a hand to rub at your drooping eyelids, âIâm sorry. You didnât do anything wrong.â
Unconvinced, the gator curls his tail inward, eyeing your arm - the one heâd grabbed.
âI didnât hurt you, did I?â The question seems to creep out of him, his volume levels set so low that you have to strain your ears to hear it.
âNo,â you reassure him, dropping your hand to give him a gentle, albeit tired smile, âNo, you didnât. You wouldnât.â
âI wouldnât,â he readily agrees, lifting his snout a little.
For a few seconds, the pair of you simply regard each other from opposite sides of the room, until eventually â and reluctantly â you have to let your smile fade away, replacing it with a worn, heavyhearted frown.
âThat was close though,â you whisper to yourself, letting your eyes slip shut, âShit, that was too close.â
How on Earth Mick didnât find out about Montyâs presence here, youâll never know.
A mechanical whir followed by a thud lets you know the gator has just edged a step closer. âYeah, no kiddinââŚâ Thereâs a pregnant pause, and then you jump slightly, snapping your eyes open as Monty raises his voice to an indignant bark, âAnd just what in the heck did he think he was doing, cominâ round here in the middle of the night anyway?â
The look you shoot the gator is withering enough to have him tilting his head sideways.
âWhat?â he asks, apparently oblivious.
You elect to gloss over his blatant hypocrisy in favour of jabbing a finger at him, though the action lacks the same hostility it might have ten minutes ago. âYou know, it wouldnât have been âtoo closeâ if you hadnât been here in the first place.â
Perhaps recognising the rising challenge in your tone, Montyâs stance shifts as he raises up on his struts, towering so high that his mohawk almost brushes the ceiling. He peers down the length of his snout at you, the line of his brows set and rigid, half shuttering his optics.
âI ainât sorry,â he tells you, and itâs so matter of fact that you give a hard blink, your own eyebrows springing up towards your hairline.
Youâre starting to feel a little like Andy. If this is how exasperated the poor mechanic feels when you do something stupid, then you owe him several, sincere apologies.
âI⌠I was, though,â Monty adds suddenly, lowering his nose as if the bluster was only ever meant to be short-lived, âBefore Matthews turned up. But now, IâŚâ
For a second, he falters, then bulldozes through his hesitation with a sharp grunt and a shake of his head, meeting your gaze resolutely. âNow, Iâm glad I was here.â
His optics flicker brightly, though they dart between your face and the cast on your leg at frequent intervals as though heâs uncertain of himself yet determined not to back down from his conviction.
âI ainât stupid,â he insists, but thereâs too much fervency behind it, like youâre not the only one heâs trying to convince, âMatthews was doinâ something to you. If you hadnâtâa got rid of him, IâdâveâŚâ
ââŚWhat, Monty,â you sigh when it becomes clear heâs hesitating to sort through his words again, âWhat would you have done, short of giving us both away?â
âIâd have stopped him,â he growls, puffing out his chest and jabbing it with the sharp claw of his thumb, âIâdâve protected you.â
Rolling your eyes, you huff, âOh, my hero. Youâd get yourself scrapped, and me arrested for kidnapping an animatronic.â
Itâs disconcerting to see a bot so large and intimidating positively wilt as though your point has just heaped a very real, very tangible weight upon his shoulders.
Letting a sigh slip through your nose, you catch a loose bit of skin between your teeth, worrying at it in the tangible silence that hovers between you and the gator.
You want to be angry with him for being here. You want to tell him how foolish and misguided his programming was to convince him that he should leave the Plex to seek you out. But if there was any strength left in you after the dayâs events, itâs been well and truly sapped clean out of you. In fact, âsappedâ is too gentle a word for it. As memories try to pile up on top of one another, it takes more effort than youâd care to admit to beat them down again, leaving you with very little residual energy to conjure any resentment for an animatronic who followed you home because he wanted to make sure you got there safely.
This behaviour is so out of character for him.
And you? Well, youâre so out of your depth. Shit, you can never tell Sun and Moon about Montyâs escape. If the daycare attendants find out that they can leave the Plex as well, youâll be in for a whole new world of trouble.
While you slump against the door, contemplating, Montyâs large head swings to the left, his optics studying the window. Heâd wrenched it open so hard the frame had torn jagged splinters from the surrounding wood. The corner of his lips turn south as he lowers his optics to the table heâd overturned. That alone had almost been enough to rouse suspicion, but youâd explained it away expertly, from what he could hear, and Mick ended up none the wiser.
It comes as no real shock to the gator that if it werenât for your quick thinking and well-oiled responses, heâd have given himself away ten times over. Heâd have given you awayâŚ
Impulsive, Freddy might call him.
Stupid, would be Roxanneâs more cutting, though no less accurate decree.
Itâs never been an easy thing for Montgomery Gator to admit that he might have been wrong. Even if his protocols thrum with a newfound urge to guard a member of Fazbear Co.âs faculty, his processor knows all too well that his coming here put you at the most risk.
The gatorâs tail drops to the ground with a dull âthunkâ of plastic and metal on the carpet. âI just wanted to do somethinâ right for once,â he utters to the stillness, his truest desire finally spoken aloud.
He doesnât look at you this time, but his audials pick up your gentle intake of breath and wonders what happened to the animatronic who would have bitten your head off several days ago just for looking at him the wrong way.
At least if that Monty did something wrong, it was usually deliberate. Somehow, as heâs quickly coming to learn, itâs so much worse trying to do something right, and getting it wrong anyway than doing something wrong in the first place.
Hurts more, he concedes.
The gator is too busy discovering the scope of his regret to notice you push yourself off the door, leaning hard onto your crutch as you squint up at him, cocking your head to one side like heâs a puzzle youâre still figuring out. Admittedly, you absolutely are. Youâre not an engineer or a programmer. You canât begin to fathom the depths that Montyâs learning algorithms can reach.
All you can see is an animatronic condemned by those who made him, trying to be better than heâs told he is. So, while you canât condone his being here, for his own sake, you realise that he - much like yourself - has likely had more than enough of people telling him off.
Sucking down a long, thick breath, you release it all in as weary a sigh as youâve ever expelled.
âYouâre doing fine, Monty,â you say, and itâs kinder, warmer than youâve sounded all evening, âYouâre doing just fine. I mean, this was a littleâŚâ Pausing to gesture loosely at the overturned coffee table, you let out a soft laugh and continue, âUh, overzealous. But your heart was definitely in the right place.â
âYour heart.â
Slowly, hesitantly, Montyâs tail lifts from the ground, rising with the edges of his crocodilian smile. You might never know how much it means to him that you donât point out how he doesnât technically have a heart. And it means even more to hear that you know his intentions came from a good place.
âBut,â you add, inhaling, like youâre bracing yourself, âIâm still not happy youâve put yourself in such a precarious position just to check up on me.â
Montyâs metal framework groans as he slumps again.
âUgh. Listen to me,â you chuckle, rubbing your temple, âIâm starting to sound like Andy.â Starting forwards, you begin limping for your room, stifling a wide, clumsy yawn behind the back of your hand. âNow, I have had, like, the longest day. And Iâm going to bed before I keel over.â
ââŚBut⌠what about your food?â he asks, sparing a glance over at the saucepan sitting idly on the countertop. The water inside has long gone cold.
Your footsteps pause as you draw alongside him, reaching out to lay a palm on your bedroom door. âIâm not hungry,â you murmur after a second. Itâs not entirely a lie. For some reason, the meagre appetite you had for cheap noodles and tea has evaporated, leaving you hollow, yes, but not nearly as hollow as you were rendered by the touch of Mickâs hand on your leg.
Giving your door a shove, you push it open and reach around the corner, sliding your fingers along the interior wall until you find the light switch, flicking it on and illuminating the bedroom with a warm, yellow glow. Monty is frowning at you, you can feel his crimson optics boring into the side of your head, but you ignore him to say, âI suggest you go back to the Plex before you run out of charge.â
You must have mistaken the gatorâs earlier acquiescence for a willingness to leave.
âI got plenty of charge,â he deflects.
As it is, Montyâs optics rove over the top of your head, widening significantly behind his glasses as they land upon the contents of the room that heâd been standing in just minutes ago. He hadnât bothered to sate his curiosity then, far more apprehensive about what was happening on the outside of the space, but now, without oppressive darkness cloaking every corner and without a potential threat to contend with, his protocols take a backseat to his inquisitiveness.
He observes closely as you shuffle into the new territory, your territory, where you immediately make a beeline for the nest â bed, his CPU corrects â thatâs set against the furthest wall.
Swinging his prodigious bulk around, the animatronic trails after you, ducking underneath the doorway and raising his snout to the air.
You donât even have to look over a shoulder to know youâre being tailed. The heavy stomps are proof enough of the gatorâs proximity. âMonty, come on,â you whine, âYouâve gotta go home.â
The gator only offers a gruff hum in response, otherwise distracted by the simple yet pivotal revelation that he, for the first time, is seeing your private, recharging chamber. Immediately, heâs struck by how much more lived-in this humble space is. Out there, in your kitchenette and the adjacent living room, everything seemed so much more bland. Less you.
In here, there are pieces of you scattered into each corner of the room, from the pile of unwashed clothes sitting in a nearby chair to the row of house plants lined up like soldiers along the breadth of your windowsill.
Curious, his optics roam towards a desk in the corner, upon which sits - to his immediate intrigue â a large, square tank filled almost to the brim with crystal-clear water, and lit from above by a cool, fluorescent light bulb. He knows what it is at once, though heâs never been privy to one in person before.
At his back, you reach the bed and promptly collapse onto your rear at the edge of the mattress, dropping your crutch to the floor and listening to it land with a sharp clatter of plastic.
âOhhh,â you groan tiredly, leaning forwards to balance your elbows on your knees and drop your face into a palm, trying in vain to rub away the bags underneath your eyes with numbing fingertips.
Your whole body aches ferociously, all stemming from the sharp twinge of your ankle that lays protected behind a thick, white cast.
Six WeeksâŚ
Day one has been hard enough. How are you supposed to make it to day forty-two? The question remains; is it uphill from here, or down?
Glancing over a shoulder, you restrain an impromptu smile before it can spread as you spot Monty creeping up to the fish tank on your desk, his head hunched low to peer through the glass at your little corydoras sifting eagerly through the substrate in search of hidden food.
âHey, little guys,â the animatronic murmurs, his optics casting the water in a gentle, pinkish glow.
Fish are a novelty for him. He knows of them, of course, has seen images of them depicting many various shapes, sizes, and colours. He knows they canât survive for long outside of water, and he knows theyâre covered in scales.
But to see for himself how those scales flash under his scrutinous, crimson LEDs, to watch their barbels twitch as they playfully chase one another along the floor of the tankâŚ
Thereâs a strange kinship there for the creatures who share the waterways with his real-life counterparts.
He likes them, he decides. He likes that you have them. It speaks to an apparent affinity for aquatically-inclined animalsâŚ
For several moments, you merely observe the gator from your bed, wondering why heâs stalling. At least, you assume heâs stalling.
âMonty,â you yawn, pretending not to notice how his purple shoulder struts jump in response to your voice, âWhat are you doing?â
The gatorâs head twitches towards you briefly. âMâsayinâ hi to the fish,â he states simply.
Shooting him a deadpan glare, you retort, âYou know what I mean. Why are you still here? You need to get back to the Plex before youâre missed.â
âAinât nobody gonna miss me,â he shrugs, âSides, Iâve still got a coupleâa hours of juice left in the tank. Donât worry.â
âBut I am worried, Monty,â you squeeze out - and oh, thereâs that pinch of tenderness to soften the hard, brutal metal hidden under his casing â âIf I wasnât worried about getting caught, Iâd haul you back to the Plex myself⌠How did you get here unseen anyway?â
âCame over the rooftops,â he replies proudly, cocking his head at a fish that approaches the glass, lured by the glow of his optics.
âThe rooftops!?â you sputter, âHow on Earth did you get up there!?â
Flashing a cheshire grin, the gator gives the casing on his thigh two hearty slaps. âGot the best pneumatic cylinders in the business. These thingsâll carry me distances you wouldnât believe. Sometimes I use âem to get from one side of the catwalks to the other. This is the first time Iâve seen what they can really do.â
Collapsing backwards on top of the covers, you splay your arms out on either side of you, letting a long, appreciative whistle pass your lips. âYou jumpedâŚ. All the way here?â you realise aloud.
âBeats walkinâ.â
â⌠And youâre going to jump all the way back?â
âCanât exactly take a cab, can I?â
You donât respond for a long while⌠So long that he turns himself all the way around and rises to his feet, half expecting to find you fast asleep on the bed.
Your eyes are closed, and youâve gone very still. Your chest rises and falls with even, steady breaths, though your legs are still dangling over the side of the mattress, toes brushing against the carpet.
Monty frowns. A hum of machinery gives him away, not so silent as he paces around the bed towards you and lowers himself down onto one knee, reaching for your legs with the intention to lift them up to the bed so you can lay flat.
His first-aid protocols are nowhere near as advanced as Freddyâs, but heâs skimmed enough medical files in the last twelve hours to know that you should keep your damaged leg elevated.
With gradual movements, the animatronicâs fingers flex and stretch for your cast. However, his purple claws barely make it within a foot of your appendage when your body goes absolutely rigid, as though youâve turned to stone right there on the mattress.
At once, Monty stops, glancing up to see one of your eyelids crack open and swivel over to peer at him, blinking slowly in the glow cast by his optics. âWhatâre you doing?â you ask guardedly. Something in your voice quivers. He catches it right away.
âI⌠just â I was gonna put your legs on the bed,â he explains.
The clock on your bedside table ticks quietly ever onwards, and itâs only when you remember to exhale that he considers your expression for another moment and finally ducks his head, asking, â⌠Can I touch you?â
Stuffing your teeth into your bottom lip, you clutch a fistful of the duvet beneath you and slowly shake your head from side to side. âNot⌠Not yet⌠Iâm notâŚâ
You falter, swallowing a painful lump that sticks in your throat like guilt. Monty didnât do anything, after all.
But for an animatronic, his response comes far too softly.
âOkay,â he nods, pulling his hands away and returning them to his lap.
And thatâs⌠all he does for a long time.
Sniffing, you lower your gaze, tugging yourself backwards using the duvet as leverage until you can haul your heavy cast over the side and stretch your legs out towards the foot of the bed, sighing in relief.
"Better put a pillow under there," Monty pipes up, jutting his chin towards the fluffy, white cushions spread out behind you.
Clicking your tongue, you stretch behind yourself and snag the first pillow your fingers grasp, hauling it over your head and tossing it haphazardly near your leg. After taking a moment to brace yourself, you lean back on your elbows and bite your tongue to keep down a cry as you lift the leg up and onto the pillow.
Through it all, Monty says nothing further. He does stare at you thoughâŚ
Youâve noticed heâs being doing that a lot lately. What was it Mick said?
âItâs no secret that itâs taken a real liking to you.â
You donât want to think about Mick.
Finally, when the gatorâs staring starts to grow a little too⌠intimate, you swallow thickly and peel your lips apart to mumble, âMonty, why donât you want to go back to the Plex?â
He perks up at his name but loses his enthusiasm as he registers the question.
âIâll go back soon,â he grumbles.
âThatâs not what I asked.â
Montyâs vents hiss as he simulates a pensive sigh - like yours - and begins folding his legs up underneath himself, his plates sliding over each other as he settles himself down onto his rear, arms draping loosely over his knees. He knows.
âSix weeksâŚâ he mutters, cautiously lowering his long chin until it brushes the duvet cover beside you. When you donât protest or move away, he gives his head a little more rein to droop, and the framework in his neck no longer strains to keep it aloft.
Confusion lays its mark bare across your face. âWhat?â
Six weeks,â he repeats, âThatâs how long youâre gonna be gone for. Thatâs a long time toâŚâ Static clings to his voice-box, stifling his words. With a grimace, Monty thumps a fist twice over his chest until something clicks audibly into place. Then, forcing a laugh, he falteringly adds, âSâa⌠long time for a bot to go without having his room cleaned, yeah?â
âYou could always let the S.T.A.F.F bots help you,â you point out.
âNah, they wouldnât do it right.â
A weary smirk toys with the edge of your mouth as you reply, âWell, have you considered â and this might be a bit outlandish, but bear with me here â have you considered just⌠cleaning it yourself?â
âCourse I have,â he retorts, âBut⌠câmon, itâd be more fun with you, wouldnât it?â
He should have known when your smirk recedes to leave him looking at a flat, sombre line that you werenât fooled for a moment.
âMonty⌠Is the truth really that embarrassing?â you pose.
âYesâŚâ he huffs wordlessly to himself, âIt is.â
 âItâs all gonna go back to the way it was before,â he mumbles into the duvet.
âWhat is?â
âEverythinâ,â he suddenly exclaims, wrenching his head back up, âItâll go back to how it was before you came along. Youâll be gone for six weeks! What if I start gettinâ angry again? What if I forget about what you taught me, âbout accidents nâ stuff?â That thought brings on another thatâs even more dreadful, and he curls his hands underneath his chest, leaning into them against the side of the bed. âWhat if you forget about me?â
You blink at him, bewildered, studying the jarringly human behaviour heâs exhibiting, and wondering, not for the first time, if it says something about you that you see humanity in so much of what these animatronics do.
âHey,â you offer, giving him a sympathetic smile when he slides his nose further along the duvet until it almost touches your arm. Almost. âYou might be overthinking things, Monty. Iâm pretty sure I could never forget you.â You laugh at that, causing him to blow a whuff of air against your forearm. âAnd besides,â you add, âSix weeks is⌠like, nothing, okay? Itâll go by faster than you think.â
Far from convinced, the gator only grumbles unintelligibly into the duvet and casts his optics to the other side of the room. The bed underneath you rumbles as the rich bass growls out of his speakers.
âListen...â you sigh, flopping your head down onto the pillow to blink up at the ceiling overhead, âWhen I was younger, one of my best friends moved halfway across the world with her family.â
Immediately, the gatorâs jaw clenches at the mention of your âbest friendâ before he catches the action and berates himself for behaving like a toddler being asked to share their favourite toy.
âWe havenât seen each other for⌠Oh boy, ten years, maybe? I still call her sometimes⌠Probably not as often as I should... And you know what?â
ââŚWhat?â
You roll your head over to peer at the animatronic beside you, finding his focus has returned to your face.
Pulling your mouth into a sleepy smile, you let out a hum before murmuring, âEvery time I ring, sheâs always so pleased to hear from me. I bet if she were to walk through my door right now, it would be like no time had passed at all.â
Montyâs optic shutters click open and shut. âHow come?â he prompts quietly.
âWell, do you think I love her any less now because I havenât seen her for ten years?â you reply, âFriends canât be together all the time, you know. Even if they might want to be. Life gets in the way. Families, jobs, fatigue, but that doesnât mean they arenât still friends. So, you donât need to worry about not seeing me for a few weeks, okay?â
You canât help but find this conversation very reminiscent to a similar one you had to have with Sunny after he learned you were leaving for a week of summer vacation.
âI ainât worried,â Monty lies through his teeth, âJust wonderinâ how youâre gonna have any fun without me around.â
âFun was not the doctorâs recommended treatment,â you yawn, letting your eyes slip shut and keeping them closed, bogged down by a cumbersome weight thatâs been heaped upon your shoulders. A myriad of hurried little thoughts swirl around inside your head, too numerous to pin any single one down. Mickâs arrival and subsequent behaviour, whether youâre trying to read too much into what might have been nothing more than a friendly gesture, Montyâs escape from the Plex and the sudden responsibility you have for an animatronic youâve barely known a weekâŚ
You just need to sleep.
âItâll all make sense in the morning,â you try to tell yourselfâŚ
Youâd make a shit salesperson.
For some time, the quiet gurgling of your tank's filter provides a soothing backdrop to the silence cast between you and the animatronic.
âCan I stay here?â Montyâs question breaks through the fog of flitting thoughts, his volume barely a digit away from being entirely mute, âWith you? Just for a lilâ while?â
Prying your eyelids apart to blink tiredly at the gator, you let your chest fill with a slow, heavy breath, blowing it all out again through your nose.
â⌠Just this once,â you whisper back.
The gatorâs optics brighten, then flit towards the movement of your hand on the bed.
Youâve raised your forearm, inching the appendage closer to Montyâs snout. Fingers worn dry and abrasive from chemicals and labour touch down on top of the animatronicâs nose, followed by your palm, spreading a pleasant flood of warmth down through his teeth and onto his tongue.
In response, some of Montyâs systems backfire, kicking errors codes to his HUD that tell him heâs overheating, and should release excess coolant to the affected areas. He ignores the alerts. He ignores everything. Everything that isnât your hand is left by the wayside, forgotten in favour of soaking up a touch that he knows would never cause hurt.
Letting his optics click shut, the gator draws his silicone lips up into a lax, lazy smile.
The muffled âthumpsâ of a heavy tail fall and rise from the carpet over and over, and Montyâs frame seems to purr as he relaxes his massive head onto your mattress, contented and committed to this spot until his battery hits zero and his limbs rust from underuse.
He knows he has to leave, but for now, just pretending⌠Itâs the happiest heâs been inâŚ
Itâs the happiest heâs been.
âJust this once.â
#fnaf#five nights at freddys#fnaf sb#security breach#Montgomery Gator#On the ropes#Everyone is having a not okay time#Monty x reader#f!reader#fluff#angst#protectiveness#tw noncon
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reading and watching âclassicâ books and films is such an interesting experience because, before you get into them, when you only know them by name and maybe the vaguest plot outline, theyâre intimidating and stuffy and up on a pedestal, but then you finally take the leap and check them out and realize that almost every story thatâs achieved such a legendary level of popularity did so because something in its emotional core reached out and grabbed a lot of people by the throat and you are NOT immune.
#not that anyone but me probably needs to hear this butâŚ#itâs OKAY to have Big Feelings about popular things#theyâre popular for a reason - it makes sense to have a big reaction#but yeah - i should really know by now but iâm STILL floored every time i read or watch a classic and it Gets Me#like. this story has been Getting people for decades or centuries or MILLENNIA and yet STILL iâm surprised#âi didnât think the story would Get meâ says man about story thatâs Gotten everyone whoâs ever heard it
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So we all know by now that Dazai is comfortable enough around Chuuya to show nervousness/worry.
Enough times for Chuuya to pick up on that pattern. The pattern, may I remind you, that doesn't have evident correlation to either nervousness or worry to most people. One that can even be interpreted as misplaced given the situation.
Which means that Dazai has done this in front of Chuuya so often, that Chuuya at first was hella confused, before he finally made a connection between when and why it happens. And still remembered that connection after four years of separation. Which gets us to my point:
What if this isn't the only emotion Dazai displays weirdly?
What if he has multiple unconventional patterns he displays for sadness, frustration, content, or disgust? The times he really feels them, and they become too strong for him to just deal with normally? What if these are the only times he's actually being genuine with his emotions?
And Chuuya is the only one who is familiar with them all?
Dazai would be jumping rope and Chuuya would be like, "quit sulking, let's get icecream"
Dazai hanging upside down on the couch and Chuuya going, "It's okay, mackerel. You can cry."
Dazai actually crying, full on heart-wrenching sobs, and Chuuya unironically going, "What, good news?"
It's just... comforting, for one person in Dazai's life to read him like a book. Everyone else would look at him like he's crazy, displaying wrong emotions/behaviors at the wrong time, but Chuuya knows that it's just how he processes feeling properly, and thus he's the only one Dazai can count on to put things into context and understand, which makes him display them even more openly.
Because Chuuya never shamed him for his quirks, as much as Dazai never did his.
#It's such a funny situation to imagine as well#Dazai doing the most out of pocket shit and Chuuya being like âIt's okay. I'm here.â#and everyone else going like: ?????#I'd like for everyone to imagine weird Dazai quirks and how they relate to his true feelings#maybe even take moments from the manga that would be so cool#imagine the out of pocket things he does had just been him processing his feelings this entire time??#and there was no Chuuya to tell us#I mean seeing Dazai roll around with any ADA member would have made that a âhaha quirky Dazai momentâ#Instead of. Oh. He's *actually* worried.#bsd#bungou stray dogs#skk#soukoku#dazai osamu#chuuya nakahara#bsd dazai#bsd chuuya#bsd hcs#bsd headcannons#bsd analysis#J's post#J's writing âđ˝#Edit: as one tag said I just described autism lmao
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staff still hasn't given me polls, what should i do?
đŞđŞđŞđŞđŞđŞđŞđŞđŞđŞ their moms 69%
đŞđŞđŞđŞđŞđŞđŞ their dads 31%
grace image os i get to look at her
#edit: edited the og post to what i want but to set the record straight i edited to the post to be mathematically correct right after the#first person pointed it out which was like ten mins after i posted the og post. now fuck offf !!!!! the rest of the tags r from the og post#for some reason i feel very immature making your mom jokes about tumblr staff. which i shldnt !!#bc they suck nd they still havent given me polls. but i ig i feel imature bc it a your mom joke đ but still i tihnk its kinda funny#EDIT: edited the post to what i want bc yall were getting annoying . but to set the record straight i edited to post to be mathematically#also its *mum* not mom okay i am NOT !! an american . but if i say mum everyone will j be like 'omg british' like i dont know i am#anyway. i want polls please. give me the rigght to force my mutuals chose between the most inane things#also i tihnk it wld b cool for the cs weekly blog. like w each episode#i cld do a poll of like. out of five stars what do u think of this ep#and it wld b a cool thing of which eps r ppls faves#also i cld have like. whose ur fave in team red whos ur fave in acme etc#id prob just have to go with vile faculty bc theres more than 10 ppl in vile. and ppl wld kill me if i didnt include nel the ell or whoever#it wld b fun !!!#oh btw csweekly thats i thing i want to start. prob on uhhh the 11th of feb ill post abt it more but its basically#a tag/blog for watching cs one ep a time watching one ep every saturday#ya !! :3#flappy rambles#inaccessible#ask to tag#(<- idk. just in case)
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ummm so have yâall seen that GQ photo shootâŚ?
this is sort of a joke for @bluelotuswrites fic The Hellblazerâs Apprentice on a fun way for bruce to find out jason is in fact alive and well. itâs also just an excuse to draw all blades jason shirtless bc iâm a hoe đ
edit: now with fic!!! please go check out blues fun fic about model jason!
#bruce finding out jasonâs alive because he passed a billboard with jason shirtless and posed like a model#he has to take a week off to process#everyone in gotham is thirsting over his undead son there are screens with the photo shoot up like itâs times square#bruce cannot escape it#dick is mortified when his friends buy the magazine#damian is horrified to see his brother from the league presenting himself in such a way but glad to know heâs okay#everyone is scarred for life#meanwhile#constantine is laughing his ass off in a corner after having scored jason the gig in the first place to get back at bruce after a mission#jason todd#jason todd fanart#batfam#fic: the hellblazerâs apprentice#GQ magazine#john constantine#bruce wayne#my art <3#my art
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Flower Empowered.
[First] Prev <â-> Next
#poorly drawn mdzs#mdzs#lan wangji#wei wuxian#lan wunian#The absolute chaos that ensued when Lan Wangji showed up...those girls went wild.#We have to give kudos to narration that takes the form of a bunch of suitor seeking ladies.#They were so loud about being here for the hotties and whispering gossip. You go girls.#Wei Wuxian most likely just picked up a already tossed flower to throw. Second hand flowers...are still flowers I suppose.#Can you imagine if LWJ had allergies? Poor lad.#Okay it's time for the real gritty discussion point. The one everyone is waiting for me to talk about:#So...from where we are in the timeline...what the hell is WWX supposed to be wearing?#I'm serious. Put all the fanart out of your brain for a moment.#We are post burial grounds and sunshot campaign so he's had his little goth moment reveal.#*BUT* he is still with the Jiang sect. And by proxy of this flashback talking about his disrespect - they never bring up his attire.#meaning he is likely in some kind of Jiang Purple.#Continuity wise it really feels like this scene should have been *before* the burial mounds.#I understand why it's post - we need to build up on the mystery of how he became the YLLZ.#But also his personality feels way more 'pre-burial mounds WWX'. I think this was probably a 'I don't want to kill my darling' scene.#(The Phoenix mountain flashback is a lot of people's 'darling'. I am knowingly putting myself in the line of fire here).#I'm willingly putting him in Wen Qing's borrowed cloak and assuming people take him wearing it as like...a war trophy.#Historians will revise this moment later on but for now he *is* a hero of that war.
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before you know about women, you hear that you do not need to love the man, just that you need to love him through his manhood. which is to say you have seen the future painted in lamb's blood over your eyes - how your mother shoots you a look about your father's inability to cook right. how your aunt holds her wineglass and says i'm gonna kill em. men, right! how your best friend bickers with her boyfriend, how she says i can't help it. i come back to him.
you learn: men are gonna cheat. men aren't going to listen when you're talking, because you're nagging. men think emotions are stupid. they think your life is vapid and your hobbies are embarrassing. men will slam things, but that's because men are allowed to be angry. if you get loud, you're hysterical. if a man gets loud - well, men are animals, men are dogs, men can't control their hands or their eyes or their bodies. they're going to make a snide comment about you in the locker room, about your body, about how you're so fucking annoying. you're going to give him kids, and he will give you the money for the kids, and you're going to be running the house 24/7 - but he gets to relax after a long day, because his job is stressful. the man is on stage, and is a comedian, and says "women!"
and you are supposed to love that. you are supposed to love men through how horrible they are to you - because that's what women do. that's what good women do. wife material. your father even told you once - it'll make sense when you're older. it was like staring down a very lonely tunnel.
it feels like something's caught in your throat, but it's all you know, so. it's okay that you see sex as a necessary tool, a sort of okay-enough ritual to keep him happy, even though he doesn't seem to care about happiness as-applied-to you. it is relationship upkeep. it is kissing him and smiling even though he didn't brush his teeth. it is getting on your knees and looking up and holding back a sigh because he barely holds you as you panic through the night. it's not like the sex is bad and you do like feeling wanted. and besides! he's a man! like... they're another species. you'll never be able to actually communicate, right. he isn't listening.
you just don't get it. you don't feel that sense of i'm gonna climb him like a tree. mostly it just feels fucking exhausting. you play the part perfectly. you smile and nod and are "effortlessly" charming. and it's fine! it's alright! you even love him, if you're looking. you could have good life, and a good family, and perfectly happy.
in the late night you google: am i broken. you google i'm not attracted to my husband. you google i get turned on by books but not by him. you google how to get better in bed.
the first time he yells at you, it almost feels like blankness. like - of course this is happening. this is always how it was going to end up. men get angry, and they yell, and you sit there in silence.
you mention it to your friend - just the once - while you're drunk. she shrugs and says it's like that with me too, i just try to forget and move on. men are always gonna hear what they want to. pick your battles and say sorry even though he's in the wrong. you play solitaire online for a month. you go to your therapist appointment and preach about how you're both so in love.
after all, you have a future to want. nobody lied about it - how many instagram posts say marriage is hard. say real love takes work. say we fight like cats and dogs but the best part is that we always make up. how many of your friends say happy anniversary to the best and worst thing to ever happen to me. if you really loved him - loved yourself too - you'd accept that men are just different from you.
the first time she kisses you, it's on a dare at a party. something large and terrifying whips through your body. you wake up sweating from dreams where her mouth is encrusted with pearls and you pick them off one by one with your teeth. fuck. you sit at the computer and your almost-finished game of sim city. you think about your potential perfect life and your potential future family. you google am i gay quiz with your little hands shaking.
you delete each letter slowly. you don't need to love him. you just need to keep going.
#warm up#writeblr#this is also about being ace btw#my identity has slowly shifted over time and maybe if everyone is REAL cool i'll talk bout it#bc it's complicated and nuanced. but this is like#trying to warn u that if you find it ârelationship upkeepâ to have sex with ur partner#and don't actually enjoy it or seek it for urself. u might just not be attracted to them.#which is fine ! ace ppl can be perfectly happy in any relationship they feel good in!#but also i wasn't as straight as i had expected!#> the first time i saw dick i was like. huh. oh okay that's fine i guess#> the first time i saw pussy i was like. WAIT ACTUALLY HANG ON I GET IT#i just assumed sex wasn't all it was cracked up to be ya know#but also like. btw? this IS NOT saying ''u might be gay not ace''#bc tbh i'm grey ace/demisexual#it's saying u might not be into ur partner. explore urself & ur feelings. turn inward.#TAKE THIS IN THE MANNER IT WAS MEANT> GENTLE AND KIND#AND NOT IN A WEIRD INTERNET WAY PLEASE#bc the truth is that there ARE ppl who are gay who assume that they just ''don't like'' sex#and ace ppl who might need a different partner w/different needs#and i would have REALLY needed to hear ''check in w/urself about if u actually like sex''#WAY EARILIER in my life. but nobody said anything bc they assume if ur having sex. u like it.#not just the actual act of sex. not once ur turned on. do you ACTUALLY like it. or is it a burden?#even if ur gay. check w/urself. maybe ur more ace than u realized. in which case. ADDITIONAL FLAG BB#i love collecting my flags. i'm at like 354 at this point#but also btw this is about how toxic relationships are SO normalized that u can be in one#and have everyone around u being like ''THATS JUST MEN LOL''
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Listen to me Suzanne Collins did not have to give Katniss and Peeta a history before the games. She did NOT have to do that. She could have just had their story begin when Peeta's name was called. She could have had them be total strangers until the moment of the reaping.
Like: "And the boy tribute is... Peeta Mellark!" Katniss: Who's that? Or she could have made them vaguely familiar with each other! Peeta's name is called and Katniss just thinks, Oh, I know that name! He's in my class, actually. Poor boy... Anyway!
Either way, SC could have written the rest of the story exactly the same! I think many authors would have done that! Because if Peeta's purpose in the book was to be Gale's competition, to be one of the 3 corners of a love triangle, THAT WOULD HAVE BEEN THE WAY TO DO IT!! But that's NOT how she did it because that's NOT what Peeta is.
And who is he? To Katniss, Peeta's someone who saved her and her family and received nothing in return except a beating. Peeta's someone she has had her eye on but has never worked up the courage to talk to. Peeta's someone she associates with kindness and hope. And all this before the start of the events of the book! Just because WE, the READERS, met Gale before Peeta and immediately felt a connection with him does NOT mean that was Katniss's experience! And that's what SC is trying to tell us!
To dismiss Katniss and Peeta's past as unimportant or inconsequential compared to whatever Katniss and Gale have in the present is to fundamentally misunderstand Katniss as a character and, as a result, condemn oneself to never fully understand the choices she makes in the future.
Suzanne Collins wrote it that way on purpose because she had something to say. And no one will ever be able to convince me that something wasn't "It was always going to be Peeta".
#thg#everlark#peeta mellark#katniss everdeen#the hunger games#sorry i hope this one's not too harsh#i just has to let it out lol#I'm not saying people only like gale because they misunderstand SC's writing#obviously everyone has preferences and that's great snd normal#but SC wrote Katniss to have preferences too?#and those preferences are pretty subtle at times I'll admit#but sometimes they're so glaringly obvious#i struggle to empathize with people who don't understand these books and honestly that's a me problem#but it really is difficult when people seem to hate Katniss because she didn't make THEIR choices#okay rant over
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satoru being one of those kids who was picked on and embarrassed with those cruel jokes. the âso and so likes you/wants to be friends with youâ ones, and when he goes up to them all excited like âwow new friend!!â they just end up embarrassing him in front of everyone because âwhy would i like you? or want to be friends with you? youâre super weird.â the entire class is laughing at him. heâs humiliated.
and now, as an adult, satoru struggles with telling when someone is being genuine to him. not many are, most people donât care to be around him which hurts in and of itself, but it hurts even worse when they pretend to like him only to end up betraying or disappointing him later. so when you come along, and he watches you approach him every day with a big smile and try and talk to him and you ask him if he wants to grab lunch together or hang out, satoru prepares himself for the worst.
he tries not to let himself get attached to you, and your friendly face, and the way you laugh at him because no one has ever laughed with him before, and those knowing stares you always give because satoru just knows one of these days youâre going to grow bored and leave him like everyone else has.
he keeps himself stuck in a constant state of denial, not realizing that your actions are indeed genuine and your motives are pure.
#everyone say thank u Logan bc they sent me the worst tiktok ever and Iâm sad#CHOOSE HIM!!!! DO NOT BE MEAN TO HIM OKAY OR I WILL SHOW UP AT YOUR HOUSE.#he has these super high walls up around his heart#every time someone shows him even the most basic kindness#satoru instantly believes they have ulterior motives. theyâre going to embarrass him. they want something from him.#they dont want him for him itâs just what he can do for them#â・ďžâď¸ summy is thinking . . . ・â#gojo satoru imagine#satoru angst#satoru imagine#satoru gojo imagine#satoru gojo angst#gojo x reader
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why are skirts inherently evil and oppressive in historical fiction until men are wearing them
I've never heard anyone going on at length about how Universally ImpracticalTM the garb of a Scotsman or an ancient Roman politician are
suddenly everyone has a concept of situational practicality that previously was not there
#history#clothing history#historical fiction#'SKIRTS are so IMPRACTICAL-' always? every time? for everyone?#because I don't know about you but I live in a city and work in museums#skirts are A-okay for me#also people have done MANY types of physical activity in skirts for centuries. sometimes pants are more practical for sure!#but. not always.#and you never hear fiction authors talking about how oppressed Scotsmen are by their kilts#'he couldn't FUNCTION because he wasn't wearing PANTS!' I'd like to see someone try it
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omg yaaay party
#OKAY THIS IS. AFTER THEY LEAVE IVO#um!! everyone is there!! they are getting drunk and having a great time yay yahoo yippee#i have a silly thing im working on that's meant to be set. literally right before this LMAO#was meant to finish this a while ago but got lazy with rendering womp womp#tripleâs#t���s art#silver the hedgehog#sonic the hedgehog#shadow the hedgehog
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What a wonderful occassion to remember this happened and is canon af:
#anna marie lebeau#anna marie#rogue#remy lebeau#le diable blanc#gambit#rogue x gambit#romy#otp: everytime we touch#mr. and mrs. x#x-men gold#x-men#they got married after three decades and everyone loves it and it's the best x-men couple#always has been#i have loved to see it i won't shut up about itđ#x-men gold:30#idc how good it was back then romy having closure is 1000 times better#their writing is better too#like yes it's been 30 years they cannot be in a perpetual state of issues that keep them apart even more than the deadly powers#you can keep that with everyone else tho it's okay đ¤#rogue and gambit#the x couple i said what i said#glad marvel hired writers that agree
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You missed the mark! (Time Travel)
Extra: Otsutsuki
(they learn Kurama is willingly there)
anndd more sketches to give
#naruto#naruto fanart#kakashi hatake#obito uchiha#sasuke uchiha#sakura haruno#naruto uzumaki#indra otsutsuki#ashura otsutsuki#fanart#art#my art#sketch#drawing#digital art#okay so when they time travel; kurama disappeared much more earlier#(so does the dad but its but a inconvenienceđ§ââď¸âŚ everyone is sweating)#and indra made the decision to be the one to go out in the world#while ashura takes charge back in their home to avoid panic#obito and kakashi are able to handle their abilities better at their ages#the rest are having fun with chakra exhaustion/drain (especially sasuke)#this au is the equivalent of team 7 acting as a family therapist#they do a terrible job (but ironically makes Indra and ashura communicateâ#because they know there is something highly wrong with them)#anyways ashura getting the chance to strangle zestu after finding out his plans#other then this this idea is just vibing away#this started off me just liking Indra design haha
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it is insane how normal i am medicated like. you mean this was an option the whole time. what
#theresbeen some hiccups like the first month i started to realize my work drive was 90% fear based#so ivehad to develop like actual work schedule and discipline thats not just 'everyone will hate me if i dont'#but its been working! now getting stuff done actually... feels.... good?#instead of like throwing water over one fire only to run to the next one#like before nothing was ever satisfying. i was always just running around panicked#now im like. okay this is what i have to get done today. yay! i finished it! now i go to bed. okay now its the next day#the only other thing ive noticed is ive become seemingly like. more. autistic acting.#like i get More fixated on my special interests now. i can think about something for hours straight instead of getting guilty and thinking#'oh im being greedy im being lazy with my time i should be doing something productive'
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I live in Western North Carolina. I have no idea if anyone knows what is going on here. I finally have gotten sufficient enough cell service to get online.
We are never going to fully recover. Whole towns are gone. My town was flattened. My street, a few miles south of town, was spared. We had no power or running water for four days. We lost hundreds of dollars of food from our fridge and freezers. We have no internet and no idea when it will be back. I work from home. My partner works two jobs - or worked, because one probably doesnât exist anymore. My car took minor damage from the storm. Even if we had jobs, we probably couldnât get to them. We got really lucky.
I so far have not lost anyone. Many of my friends are displaced. Some watched their homes be swept away. Some of them lost their pets. Some of them had to dig their children out of mud.
People - not organizations, not first responders, not the government - are clearing roads, doing welfare checks, forming groups of riders to take supplies up mountains on horses and mules. Private helicopters are landing in the middle of my town to drop supplies. They are doing this all over, all day, an essential lifeline for our cut off communities. The bigger cities are getting a more organized response, especially Asheville, which was essentially cut off from incoming vehicle traffic for a few days. Thank god the airport was spared.
I lost cell service, then internet, then power, from 7:45-8:20am Friday. I had no communication until Saturday. I was able to get a few texts out. I was able to get into town. Childrenâs toys were in the street. Some of my favorite businesses are gone. I saw a car part way up a house.
Please, send help. I donât know what organizations to donate to. Any time I get online is spent networking relief efforts and getting the word out about missing persons. Keeping my family updated. Applying for FEMA assistance and mortgage relief. I have heard Blue Ridge Public Radio has a list on their website.
The death toll right now stands in the 50s. It is going to end up in the hundreds.
I am so heartbroken.
#I am âluckyâ because I have ptsd and crisis mode is my normal#i know how to cope in these situations#most people do not#I am hurting so much for everyone#please share. please share. I have no idea if this will even post#asheville#hurricane helene#western north carolina#wnc#some of my favorite places in Asheville have been wiped off the map#I am not okay. we are not okay.#this is still so much of a crisis I canât even think about how Iâm going to pay my bills right now#weâre just taking survival one day at a time
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All the DC gotcha4gaza prompts I've completed since my last post! Donations are over now but there's still more art to come, so stay tuned!
#dc comics#dc#damian wayne#jay nakamura#james jesse#hartley rathaway#donna troy#cassie sandsmark#uh. not gonna tag chococat necessarily#OH HOW COULD I FORGET#batman#bruce wayne#superman#clark kent#okay that's everyone#anyway i haven't been able to read much lately. or draw. or just in general do anything#not necessarily for lack of time but bc I've been here there and everywhere over the past few weeks đ#I'm having a brief hotel stay too tomorrow bc of work being done on the house. which I'm happy w don't get me wrong I'm just#extremely tired due to my own machinations#uhh anyway yeah I'm. very tired
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