Chapter Text
It's hard to say you fit in with the normal demographic of the Fazbear PizzaPlex, even when you're wearing the more acceptable of your casual clothes. It’s not that you necessarily stand out in your jeans, red hoodie and black boots, nor that you’d dyed your hair purple, green and blue just a day ago (the color gradient is something you're especially proud of). The clothes were common and plenty of people dye their hair, though most don't have the skill the skill you do. No, it's the fact that you're neither a ten-year-old on a permanent sugar high, nor one of their incredibly tired parents.
It also doesn't help that you're currently sitting at a table beneath a, to be fair, very convincing fake tree in the corner of Monty Golf, far away from anyone actually using the room for its intended purpose. No, your focus is currently honed in on the page of your notebook, zoned out as the area music played, waiting for inspiration to hit you. Or a stray golf ball. Anything to get your brain working again.
In your defense, you hadn’t been interested in coming to this 80’s themed nightmare of a business in the first place, but you’d been successfully guilted into it by your mother, since it had been three months and you hadn’t used the full year pass that your grandmother had given you for Christmas.
Poor Gramma. She really meant well, and you can kind of understand her logic; you’d loved the Freddy Fazbear brand as a little kid, you’d just never gotten a chance to go to any of their restaurants because they kept shutting down for weird and/or terrible reasons. You hadn’t even tried to go to the last place, absolutely convinced the franchise was cursed to fail. (And the place had burned to the fucking ground almost instantly, so you’d felt pretty damn vindicated at the time)
However, now that the pizzaplex was a thing, and a very successful thing at that, Gramma truly believed you could finally have the Fazbear adventure of your dreams. A lovely thought, really. The only problem? You're in college now. You're in your own band now. You really didn’t see the appeal of coming here to watch some glammed-up robots play uninspired 80’s music to a crowd of munchkins and nostalgia-blind parents. But mother dearest claimed you should at least TRY to have fun, so you begrudgingly made the trip here. At least admission was free.
And that was how you ended up in a bayou-themed side-attraction, rubbing your temples in the hopes of squeezing the lyrics to your newest song out of your head like musical toothpaste. At least you have a fresh notebook to work with. Bought from the gift shop, the gator-patterned spiral notebook is the only thing you have to show for the last hour and a half of time spent in this pulsating headache of a theme park.
Well perhaps “fresh” isn’t the right word for it anymore. You glare down at the unreadable scribbles that take up the first ten or so pages, as well as the angry scrawling you’d covered the last page with after you failed to find a good rhyme for “cantankerous whore.”
You don't even know why you wrote that. Nobody even speaks like that. You've probably read too many of Alex's attempts at lyrics.
Sighing heavily, you lean back and stretch, glancing around the minigolf area. Maybe you just need to take a walk. After all, there has to be something to get your brain going, even if you have to… to…
You freeze, your eyes locking on to the hulking form of an eight-foot alligator with a one-foot, crimson mohawk. Montgomery Gator, rockstar and minigolf extraordinaire, has just walked through the entrance of the golf course, a coolly confident smirk on his muzzle. Snout? What DO you call a gator's snoot anyway?
Despite the distance, the in-person difference is remarkable. You’ve only really seen the animatronic in advertisements, and apparently they weren’t the most honest. You don't even see any separation plates; you could swear the thing was fully organic. He's tall, he's scaly, and he is ripped. He's also being swarmed by delighted, screaming children. And as it turns out, he's just what you needed, as inspiration, taking the form of a massive gator man, crashes through the wall of your writer’s block, cool-aid man style.
So as the animatronic musician greets his fans, you turn back to your notebook with renewed vigor. The words havn’t come this easily in weeks.
It's the hand cramp, not the lack of ideas, that finally force you to put down your pencil and take a break from your writing. Flexing your fingers with a slight grimace, you begin to flip through your work, satisfaction easing the tension in your shoulders.
“Yeah, this is good.” You muttered, tapping your bottom lip. “Well, most of it. All I need is to get Alex and Sheena to get started on the tuning for these, and we’ve got half an album ready in two weeks.”
“Ya been sittin’ there and writin’ for an hour.”
You jump in your seat at the sudden interjection, the notebook slipping from your fingers in your moment of shock. You don't recognize the smooth, deeply accented voice, and you definitely hadn’t heard anybody come up behind you, but you definitely don't appreciate the surprise.
“And you’ll notice,” you begin with a deep breath, “That I didn’t have a heart attack until now. So thanks for that.”
The voice’s owner chuckles, sending a shiver down your spine. Jesus Christ, that voice was nice. If they're not a singer then they're a tragic waste of potential.
“My apologies, cher. Just wanted to know what had ya so spellbound that ya couldn’t find the time to play a game of golf.”
You refuse to turn around and give… whoever this smug asshole is the satisfaction of getting a rise out of you. “While it’s really none of your business, I was writing something important. So you’ll have to forgive me fo- HEY!” You yelp in shurpise as, in a blur of movement, your notebook is snatched from the table and pulled out of reach.
That does it.
Your chair tumbles to the floor as you leap up to face the thief. “Alright asshole, I don’t know WHO you fucking think you are, but if you don’t give me back my notebook I will shove my boot down your…”
You freeze, blood draining from your face. A massive, scaly chest, clad only in an artfully torn purple vest fills your field of vision.
Are his nipples pierced? Why do they need to pierce his nipples?
“…Your…” The threat trails off as you track your gaze up, tracing the green, muscular form of the gator man from earlier. He is definitely bigger in person. And surprisingly handsome.
Monty, for his part, doesn't seem to notice your reaction. Holding your notebook in one hand, he strokes his chin in contemplation as he reads your very new, very not ready to be shared song lyrics.
If you weren't in shock you'd be demonstrating where your boot was going to go, and how far. And also if it weren't for that other thing...
“Not bad, not bad.” He hums quietly as he read your work. After a full minute of… appreciating? He grins and looked down at you. “Poetry?”
“Hot.” You breathe. This close, you can see the piercings on his lower lip, as well as his left eyebrow and his septum. You can’t help it, you're a sucker for a properly placed piercing or nine.
“Ya say somethin', darlin'?”
Face burning and fueled by embarrassed panic, you leap into the air, snatching your treasure from his scaly, half-gloved mitts and clutch it against your chest.
Unfortunately, you were so set on reclaiming your prize, you hadn’t considered where you might be landing. You come down, heel first, onto the leg of the overturned chair, which immediately slides to the side.
Oh. Oh shit. That's all that goes through your mind as the ground falls out from under you and you begin to tumble backwards.
I died as I lived. Embarrassing myself in front of hot people.
“Whoa there cowboy!” You suddenly jerk to a mid-air stop as Monty’s tail wraps around your waist, hoisting you back to safety. “Be careful, don’t wanna mess up that cute face.”
You hang in the air for a moment as your brain requires time to process what the fuck just happened before sighing and rubbing your face.
“Can you put me down, please?”
Monty chuckles, but he obliges you, gently setting you on the floor. “Well well, looks like I saved ya life.
“Looks like.” You wonder if anyone has ever actually died from embarrassment. Maybe you’ll be famous when you’re the first one.
“I think that means ya owe me, doncha think?”
“I guess.” You sigh. “What do you want.”
“Lemme read ya notebook.”
“No.” You deadpan. Out of the question, the fact he saw anything at all made you want to die.
“Aw, not even for ya handsome hero?”
“No.”
Monty snorts, gently pushing your bangs with the exhale of air. “Can’t blame a gator for tryin’. One round of golf, gimme that at least.”
“Fine, sure.” At this point, you just want to be done with this. “Let’s do this I guess.”
“Excellent.” Monty chuckles, clapping a hand on your shoulder and nearly knocking you to the floor. “What’s ya name, sugar? Gotta know who I’m beatin’ don’t I?”
You just shake your head. “It’s (Y/N).” You reply, already regretting your agreement. “But my friends call me Mix.”