The Count's pet cat—Fatatita—has had her name spelt and pronounced a variety of different ways throughout her time appearing on Sesame Street and other related media.
In her first appearance, Count von Count calls her "Fatatita." In The Sesame Street Dictionary, the Count's 1998 Sesame Street profile, and Ernie's Finish the Picture, her name is spelt "Fatatatita," with an extra syllable. Additionally, in The Sesame Street Sun, she is called "Ftatateeta."
Sources:
Cooke, Tom. Ernie's Finish the Picture. Western Publishing, 1985.
CTW. "Meet The Count." CTW.org, 1998. (Archived). https://web.archive.org/web/19981205032656/http://www.ctw.org/sesame/ggawards/count/.
Sesame Street. Episode 0545. November 30, 1973.
Hayward, Linda. The Sesame Street Dictionary. Random House, 1980.
Hayward, Linda. The Sesame Street Sun. Western Publishing, 1981.
It took me a minute to post these on here because I’ve been waiting for the frames to arrive but GUYS. Look at the unbelievably stunning gifts @mandarinaart sent me 🥹💜
I have no words, the art is just stunning. For the moment they will live in front of my TV until I can get them up on the wall behind it sometime in the next couple of weeks, but maaaaan. I can’t stop looking at them, thank you so much!
Here are some drawings about the first CTW dialogues, well to start, I had decided in November 2023 to pass the CTW book to fan comics, I was too excited to start that I began to it in a notebook to have a guide of how I was going to do them, but I decided not to finish it in my notebook but to pass it to digital, when I started in digital it was already in March 2024, but at that time I fell seriously ill, and after that, there was a discouragement to continue, and I decided to stop for a moment, but I think that in all that time some matters came up in my personal life and then I started to work, and currently I doubt I will finish what I started, but it was an interesting experience, I love this book among the fazbear frights, and today I decided to publish what I had saved, it is not much, and I think that at putting balloons in comics I am bad, sorry for that, I have some sketch ideas but only time will tell if I will publish it or not
The Art Of Obsession (Yandere!CTW!Funtime Freddy x Fem!Reader)
Hello and hey, everybunny! I thought of this fanfiction idea while listening to Simon Curtis' 'Super Psycho Love', and a thought came up to me... What if I made a fanfic with a yandere character? But not just any character, oh no. My muse is Funtime Freddy, my favorite! I decided to take some inspiration from the book Count The Ways for this, too! So sit back, relax, and enjoy the fanfic!
Synopsis: You were a lonely woman, to say the least. The internet was your oyster, and you were dearly in love with the concept of yanderes: obsessed boyfriends who would take you away from your strife of family and dull, daily life. However, when you enter the basement of the house you were staying at for a quick excursion, something rather disastrous happens...
AO3 Link: Click Me! <3
Wuh-oh! This warning is here for the following: Yandere Behavior, Bugs, D34d D0v3, Obsessive + Possessive Behavior, D34th, 8L00d, \/10L3nc3, Kidnapping, Swearing, Mental Breakdowns, and Stalking! Reader discretion is HEAVILY advised!
(Psst! The animatronic in this fanfic is NOT possessed!)
June 11th, 2010. Dear diary,
I'm spending my college break at the old Fitzsimmons's house. Same one where that girl used to live in. What was her name? Rhymed with 'silly', and she was the friend of my younger brother (God, the prick...). Whatever, I'll remember it. Point is, I'm spending my college break here because my parents said that taking my summer break somewhere 'local' would ''fix me right up''. I don't need to be ''fixed''! What I need is for someone to spirit me away from this moronic, hellish place! What especially blows is the old man that I'm stuck with, Geoffrey Fitzsimmons. Christ alive, has this man bothered me! He won't shut up, he keeps attempting to get me to 'come out of my shell' whenever I'm reading my fanfiction or watching Dream Notebook. He's always mopey, rambling about family and whatnot. I tell you what? I don't like my family, at all! They keep insisting that I need help! What I really need is an obsessive partner, like Juno Amora! Whatever... I'm stuck here until August anyway.
You close your diary with a tender thud, a sigh grazing past your lips as you look out to the overcast sky, the tinges of grey and blue dancing amongst one another as sunlight floats down among the crevasses and cracks within the clouds. Another cloudy day. Rising from your feet, you take a look around the room you were handed, the guest room. It was an aesthetic amalgam, at least in your eyes. There was a certain mix, of both Victorian coquette and gothic mystery in the room, that touched you deeply. The candle wax on the dresser that had dried out with age, the cream-colored wallpaper that had peeled away slightly, and the countless plethora of posters that plagued the walls.
Of course, you added your own touches. Not permanent ones. But ones that had made the room feel more like your essence, your own, rather than just something that was there. Figurines based on the 'Dream Notebook' show you obsessed over, notebooks brimming with stories of obsessive love interests who would kill for their lover, a red lava-lamp decorated with fake blood and glitter glue... Things of the such. You would want to hang up your own posters, but the last thing you want is for old man Fitzsimmons to scold you for tearing wallpaper off when you attempt to remove the posters, so you decided against it. Still, the idea festered in the back of your mind!
You open up your laptop, scrolling on an archival site for writing fanfiction. A few new notifications had spawned within the confines of your inbox, so you click to investigate. Low and behold, a new chapter of that fanfic you adored had dropped! Oh, the blessings of heaven themselves could not compare to the embedded euphoria that was vibrating within your veins at this! After all, the fanfiction in question had contained a yandere main character, along with a reader-insert POV! Restraint had been tossed out the window for you, as you sat down, reading without a care in the world. This was far more important than 'going outside to get some sunlight' or whatever Mr. Fitzsimmons said.
Oh, how you love your yanderes. They were passionate, loving, and far less annoying than your family! While your folks bemoaned and complained about you day in and out, a yandere would love you regardless of whatever happened, and that was what you yearned for deep inside. You would ramble about it to your friends, both in person and online, but there was someone, or something else, you would strike up conversation with. For in the basement, there was an animatronic bear, old and decrepit, but for the most part dysfunctional, seeming to have been deactivated ages ago. Perfect to ramble and rave to, an inattentive audience that wouldn't judge, wouldn't stare at you with judgement or disdain, but would just listen while staring off into the abyss nearby.
But yet, like always, something had to ruin your moment. Or rather, someone. Mr. Fitzsimmons. He calls your name, his raspy yet energetic voice ringing out through the halls, a shrill alarm to your idle ears, infecting your brain with an ire so infernal, so deeply engrafted within your mind, that you slam your laptop shut harshly. Seems like your indulgence shall have to wait. The old man needs you. Dammit... Sometimes you wished that old man would keel over already! Not the nicest thing, you know, but there have been a few instances you brought it up with the bear in the big, dark basement area. Not like it could do anything. But still, venting your coagulating feelings was healthier than yelling at an old man in a manner so abrasive that it could kill him.
The sound of your feet falling against the hallway carpet echoes, the click of your stomps on the plywood stairs rhythmically tapping, as you trot against the tile of the living room, and stopping just in front of Mr. Fitzsimmons. Your eyebrows were knit into a deep, disdainful scorn, the air escaping out of your nose before it could singe into smoke as steam was already leaving your ears. Seeing red, you attempted to speak without frightening the geezer. Although, your annoyance wasn't entirely lost on him, as he looks partially worried at the fact that you would blow a gasket any second.
"Mr. Fitzsimmons-"
"Oh, please! Mr. Fitzsimmons was my father. Eh, do call me Geoffrey, kiddo," his smile goes from ear to ear, his face looking like a squished raisin with how many lines and wrinkles plagued his face.
An audible sigh rushes out of your lungs as you attempt to hold the final thread of your composure together. Your [eye color] eyes stare at the elderly man, disinterested in whatever offer of leisurely time he would toss your way. Sure, he was lonely. But so were you, and you didn't constantly bother people just for attention in such an irritable, vexatious manner, where every day you would inquire if someone would enjoy a walk outside or go fishing. If anything, you didn't understand why he bothered you if he were lonely. There were plenty of old fish in the sea for him if he needed companionship or friends, so why was he on your case?
"... Geoffrey," the name feels like arsenic on your tongue. No. No, that's not it. It tasted like a bitter lemon, sour, not something you are inclined to enjoy at all. "What is it that you want from me?" Your eyebrow raises, a scorn haunting the base of your features, your fists baling at your sides as you ask what the man requires from you.
"I was wondering if you'd like to go fishing-"
"No, Geoffrey! I don't want to go fishing. I appreciate the offer though," A lie you told, bittersweet saccharine worded as a simple 'no'. You wanted to punch him in the face right in that moment for asking such a pitiful question. Fishing? Really? He was rather desperate! Nobody ever wants to go fishing unironically unless they were an old, decrepit geezer like he was.
Silence falls upon the room, a blanket that was rather thick. So thick you could slice through it with a sword. Geoffrey's smile droops slightly, but it doesn't dissipate entirely, rather it lingers there, albeit a sad sparkle singes in his eye, as something akin to disappointment or loneliness can be seen behind his emerald green eyes. You didn't care. He was old and he would be sure to kick the bucket sooner than later. What does he have to mope around for, anyway? You had not a clue, and caring was not within your current bounds.
He glances away, just a bit before his eyes dart back to you, their somber gaze still gentle yet kind. "Oh. Al- Alright then, dearie. Well, if you ever change your mind, I'll be down at the pond near the woods," he informs you, not long before he grabs a fishing pole that had been leaning against the wall, and his hat that rested on the coatrack. And just as soon as he called you, Geoffrey was gone. Finally.
Enraged, you let out a growling yell, your hands coming up to your face and clasping around your mouth, entrapping the scream within your own flesh. You swore, you saw red for seemingly split seconds, serenity slipping past you each passing tick of the old grandfather clock. But then, you take a breath. Deep, in, and out. You're only now just miffed, your previous ire subsiding, but not fully evaporating. The sound of your stomps echoed throughout the house, but then... You cease. Stopping right in your tracks, you look at the opening to the basement, a scoff leaving your lips.
Now would be a better time than ever to slip down there and fustian your frustrations to the inanimate animatronic. After all, it would be better than thrashing the place. You redirect your path, the sound of your shoes hitting against the hardwood floor was not lost on the automaton, but no reaction comes out of it, either. The animatronic sits on the workbench. It's outer casing rusted away with chips of paint having been fallen off what looks like ages ago, mold and mildew eating away from it as it has that natural odor of decay to it, along with something more dark and potent. It's pristine white paint turned a dingy gray from neglect, it's rosy pink now faded to a pastel burgundy from lack of maintenance. But it's blue eyes stayed the same.
It takes a while, but you finally articulate your words, coagulating them into something comprehensible. "I don't... Like Geoffrey. At all. Sometimes I wish I could wake up to him dead. Well, him and my family. But that's besides the point, Freddy-Bear," you start. Freddy-bear. That was the nickname you gave the robot. Further discretion to the blueprints on your nosy snoops about the house, you learned that the animatronic was called Funtime Freddy, but Freddy-Bear sounded more fitting. You didn't know why, you just pulled the name out of your ass and it stuck. "He's too eager. Too needy! He always wants me to do things with him. I hate everything! I just wish you can do something about my shitty life, or that you and I can be together longer."
Once you had gotten done circumventing your crappy scenario, you started to trudge up the stairs. Although, something odd catches your ears. Something anomalous. A chuckle. You didn't know from who or from where, but it was a masculine, high-pitched chuckle that sounded metallic, menacing, like whoever let out that chuckle was plotting something dastardly against your wellbeing. Worst of it all, it had came from behind you, proximately from where the Funtime Freddy animatronic had been stationed at.
Whatever. You shake it off. Maybe it was your mind messing with you from how much fanfiction you had been up reading at night and binging on your show. At least, you chalk it up to that. After all, it's the most reasonable explanation! There wasn't a way in hell or heaven that the animatronic within the basement was actually listening to you this whole time. However, your mind lingers. What if it did? What if Funtime Freddy had been overhearing your conversations? His idle staring just intent attention? Every creak and groan an attempt to move and scoop you into his arms? Nah. No way! After all, if the animatronic were moving, wouldn't have Geoffrey report it by now? But then again, he was a hoarder. Mayhaps his greed enticed him to keep the animatronic bear all for himself. Reasonable. He always hoarded random trinkets and knick-knacks.
You go back into your guest room reading as you wait for Geoffrey to come back from his fishing trip. And wait. And wait... Eventually, night falls, and you seem to have fallen asleep, but some loud thuds in the house snap you back into reality, causing you to awake. What the hell was that?! You sigh, shaking your head. Maybe Geoffrey just had a bad day? Yeah. Even an old, miserably happy man like him can be having a shitty day. The feeling of your eyelids drooping lapses you into a solid slumber, despite the consistent crescendo of thuds that thunder and thrum within the house.
Morning awakes, the calming caw of birds outside singing tarries within the air as you feel your eyes flutter open. Stirring awake, you get a sudden sting of shock. There was no smell of breakfast. No hum of the radio playing old opera music or jazz. The lack of Geoffrey's voice calling you out for breakfast was also rather daunting. The deafening silence was suffocating you the longer that you had gone without a singular sound that wasn't the birds or your thoughts echoing within the walls of your mind.
A search was in order, at least to you. You didn't want the other Fitzsimmons to freak out about you being alone in the house that their grandfather was in, so you quickly got up on your feet, and dart about the house. From the living room, to the kitchen, to even the bathroom, there was no sign of Geoffrey's tangibility. Rather, the only thing of him was his bedroom keys. His bedroom... If he were asleep, then he would have taken the keys with him. You made an inference that he was possibly still out, either blowing steam from your insufferable mannerisms or relaying his problems to somebody else, finally. Thus, you end your search there, and continue on about your day.
June 13th, 2010. Dear diary,
Geoffrey's been gone for three days. I don't know where he's at or whatever the hell he has been up to, but it's direful to be alone. Tiresome, even! Sure, he was insufferable, but he kept me good company so that I wasn't just talking to myself and that animatronic in the basement. Being alone is eeire, the dead silence creeping up on me when I least expect it, as small sounds in the house cause me to jolt and yelp. A thud from a distant room here, a caw of a crow there. I feel as if I'm being watched sometimes. Ugh. If there's one thing I hate more than people who bother me, it's being alone. :(
Three. Days. It's been three days since the old coot had abandoned ship and went into a boat to go fishing. You were able to manage taking care of yourself just fine, making your own food and putting on either a TV or the radio in the background, showering, and occasionally texting other people in your circle that you were doing just swell. But you weren't. You were deeply unsettled, your blood having ran colder than the freezer itself, a little voice in the back of your mind telling you that you were not alone, that someone else was there with you. Those thuds? Not just the house. Sure, it was old, but houses don't thud on their own.
The whole thing took a bit of a toll on you, really. From your sleep fluctuating irregularly, to breaking out in the sweats that were unusually frequent now, your stomach flipping about at random, hands breaking out in trembles... Why, you'd just start sobbing at random! Your thoughts would just start racing without rhyme or reason to do so! Yet there was something far worse, far darker. That feeling. Of eyes lingering on you, of a presence you can never quite catch at the right time. Of being stalked.
Your phone dings, a message sent from a number you couldn't recall for the life of you. You take a quick peek at it. Nothing about the text could clue in on who might be the unknown sender. An unwanted guest. Maybe it was spam? You couldn't tell for the life of you if the messenger was a spam bot, a scammer, or a genuine human. So, you decide to respond, curious about who this puzzling person could most likely be.
[Unknown]: HIYA, CUPCAKE!! :)
[name]: hi? uhm, who is this??
[Unknown]: NOBODY YOU NEED TO WORRY ABOUT... (:
Wow. Okay, totally not creepy at all. Not to mention that they just called you 'cupcake' on the first meeting. Disgusting. Your better judgement blasts the red alert, going full, blaring alarm mode. Maybe you should block this person before shit really hits the fan. But maybe not. Oh, definitely not. You were gonna worry about it unless you got your answers. So, you double down, your hands wrapping against your phone like a vice.
[name]: well, i would LIKE to know.
[Unknown]: TOO BAD!!! >:( YOU GOTTA BE PATIENT ANYWAYS, CUPCAKE!!!
[name]: listen here, you pervert. i don't take kindly to people who speak in riddles and avoid questions.
[name]: and right now, you're dodging a whole lot of my questions. answer me. NOW.
No response. You won that argument, at least in your mind you had taken the throne. Within your lungs, you release a breath you were unaware that you had withheld. Truly, a victory shouldn't be as simple as this one, right? Well, it wasn't. You were lured into a false sense of triumph, your victory being but a mere illusion by whoever was beneath the unknown number. Your phone pings again, and the next message chills you right down to the bones.
[Unknown]: WANNA SEE SOMETHING INTERESTING, [NAME]? :)
Christ. Alive. That was your name. This person knew your name. The text was followed with an image of you, from behind, the person behind the number in the backyard as seen from the reflection on the glass door. You felt your skin grow cold and clammy, your heart stuttering within the confinement of your ribs as the nerves in your hands, so high-strung, shake and tremble about freely. What is wrong with this person?! Genuinely?! Without thinking much else, you block the number, and throw your phone at the wall, leaving it slightly shattered, but still functional.
Sobs and weeps escape you, as you slump down to the floor. Limp. Mortified. With how you've felt for the past few days, this was a sour, decrepit cherry on the top of the sundae that was how awful things would escalate. Eventually, the hiccuping sobs and wandering wails ceased, your body grew tirelessly exhausted, your whole being light as you establish rest onto the floor. Your head meets the plywood, tears welling up within your eyes as the crystalline water falls from your face and on the floor. Tomorrow is another day. Maybe it'll all get better, maybe Geoffrey will come back. Maybe not. Only one way to find out, and that was to be patient.
June 17th, 2010. Dear diary.
I can't take it! I miss Geoffrey! My family! None of them had been responding to my texts, and I am beginning to experience some form of phenomena that I'd like to call ''going insane as all hell''! I keep hearing giggles and thuds, there's some sort of stench in the house that's coming from one of the rooms, and it's all just too much! I want someone to hold me, to tell me everything's gonna be alright. I want someone, anyone!
Tired. That was the best way to describe this feeling. You were tired of all of it: the constant fear and paranoia eating away at you like a parasite, the confound giggling and thuds that would ring out through the night like cursed sounds on loop, and the lingering feeling that you were not alone. Not to mention the stench. For some reason beyond your understanding, there was a stench that came from within the house, presumably within the room Geoffrey used to sleep in. Metallic, sweet, but enough of an odor to not be concisely pleasant.
Curiosity had been scathing away at you, tearing into your mind and festering in your thoughts, rabid and ready to throw itself in the way of any other activity you plotted out prior. You could only helplessly trail you way towards Geoffrey's room, his bedroom key equipped within your hand as you approach. A deep breath gets held in your lungs, your heart thundering as you take hollow, echoing steps towards the room, the keys jingling from how horribly your hand had been quaking. As you put the key in the lock, your turn it over, the click reverberating in the house. You push the door open to reveal...
Geoffrey. Dead. He's strewn on his bed in a messy position, with blood and some unidentified white foam surrounding his mouth, his eyes now hazed and glassy, lacking the life they once held. His general abdominal area had been bloated, both chest and stomach light with expansion, his hands and skin pruned far worse than average. A soapy material that looked like it had the consistency of wax covered his skin, although there are a few signs of decay and fester visible on him, with maggots feasting away at him and whatnot. His clothing soaked the bed, drenched in what smelled like the water from the lake he mentioned prior.
"OH MY GOD, WHAT THE FUCK?!"
Terror laces each and every word that escapes your lips, your eyes widening at the sight of the only person who kept you company in this place deceased. And in such a manner, too. This wasn't a mere accident, but rather a meticulous craft of an individual, who's mind was twisted beyond repair and must have overheard you. Such a sadistic gesture from someone who you didn't even know. But why? Who?
You step back, your stomach twisting as you attempt not to vomit, knowing that would only cause the smell to worsen. Your eyes flit around the room, consistently landing back on Geoffrey, your breathing grown ragged with panic. But you end up hitting something as you attempt to retreat. Not the wall. Something far more frigid, metallic feeling. Rusted. It felt all too familiar, like you already knew what, or who, it was merely by the titular texture alone.
It was Funtime Freddy.
He lurches over you, his hand wrapping around your throat in a manner so violent, so sudden, that you could only react by kicking your legs and scratching at his forearm. No reaction. He's metal, and you're merely flesh and bone. No matter how much you kick, scratch, scream, or cry, it was all futile. You wouldn't be saved. Freddy's blue eyes look at you, crazed and loving as his vice-like grip on your neck grows tighter, almost enough force to crush down your windpipe like it was nothing but a soda can. But he doesn't. He waits for you to stop moving, but to the point where your pulse still weakly thrumbles within you.
In rapid succession, your vision fades to black. Everything starts shutting down and going into a forced mode of unconsciousness, your breathing grew shallow as your flesh had grown gelid and damp with sweat. Your vision tunnels, darkness taking you before you make way to reality in a slow, monotonous manner. It wasn't long before darkness had finally decided to swallow your mind whole, the last thing your body felt was being crammed into a cramped space next to something limp and rancid, the last thing your ears picking up was the chuckle from what you assumed was Funtime Freddy himself.
When you awake, you look around to attempt to get a glimpse at your immediate surroundings, your vision slowly returning to you throughout your haze. A pungent stench hits your nose, something metallic, far too familiar for you to brush it off because you already know what that horrid, terrifying stench was. The room looked rather makeshift, built of metal scrap parts, with some other forgotten junk strewn about the room. A small opening, made to look like a barred window but with lacking glass, catches your immediate attention. You analyze the outside... 'Cynthia's Scrapyard'. Oh, you were far from the Fitzsimmons' house. An attempt of yours to stand up fails, some for of concealed constraint keeping you in one place. Without warning, a loud, scratching voice, that of a high-pitched male's voice, echoes in the room, almost frightening you with how sudden it speaks.
"Good morning, cupcake! How'd you sleep? I hope you slept well, because you're not leaving me EVER!"
You turn to the source of the voice, your breathing shaky with each and every second that it takes to swivel your head. The source was none other than Funtime Freddy himself. That unsettling smile stretching across his metallic face, his glassy blue eyes roving over you with much appreciation, more so in how he kept you well-tied down, but admiring your form as well. To say you were scared was far to little of an understatement. Horrified. Oh, how that was the perfect word for it. You were horrified. Within your chest, you can feel the pitter-patter of your heart against your chest, growing dizzy once more from the sudden sentience of that decrepit animatronic.
"W-What are you talking about?! I-I have a family to go home to!" A few tears well up in your eyes as you come to that retort, but you knew that defense was good. Sure, you didn't always get along with your family, but you loved them just as they had loved you. From your 11th birthday where they took you to that pizzeria, to helping you out during college, all of your mother's home-cooked meals... Nothing could replace that. But you only come to that realization when the train had already left its station.
Funtime Freddy practically cackles, the speaker in his body having a bit of a stutter to it in a manner that feels oddly natural. "Not anymore you don't, [name]! I killed them. I've made them all suffer slow, debilitating demises! Only the best of the best for my little cupcake," he pushes a strand of stray hair out of your face, his finger lingering on the [hair color] lock of hair. He shows little to no regard in his tone, no remorse audible in his words as he brings for the faulty news. That. That could not have been the case, right?
Low and behold, life keeps reverting your expectations. The giant bear lets out a low chuckle, as he walks behind you and grabs hold of something. Something meaty. Organic. Tossing it in front of you, your eyes analyze the corpse in front of you, as your final defenses fall, tears streaking down your face at the sight of who lain in front of you. It was your mother. Deceased. Her throat had been sliced open, the blood having dried and coagulated as her skin had grown pale. Oh, how restful her expression was, frozen in time. A gut wrenching cry is ripped from within your lungs, your throat aching from how badly you were sobbing, the feeling of stinging singes your eyes as they grow red and puffy.
A hand lands on your shoulder, giving you a demanding squeeze, far too tight to be anything sorrowful. No, the touch was excited. Like he was enjoying this. Funtime Freddy leans in close to you, his shivering cold breath wafting against your face as the fans within his system furl with speeds unknown. "Do you recognize her, [name]? The woman who made your life dearly miserable? Oh, you don't have to worry about her anymore, cupcake. Or any of them, actually! Why... They're all dead! And I did it all for you, too. Consider me your knight in shining armor!" Funtime Freddy brags, his tone far too triumphant to be for the situation.
His hand yanks your chin roughly, his metallic fingers sending a shock of frigid cold within your flesh. Pure. Terror. That was all that was within your mind at the sight of the carcasses that lay strewn about within the room: most of them you recognize. Family members. Your father having been asphyxiated with his face a somber azure. Following that, your brother has his lower jaw torn clean off, his eyes lolled into the back of his head. You knew he was a chatterbox, but knowing that you could never hear his voice again chilled you down to your core. But then, there was one. An outlier. A face you knew, but weren't related to exactly. Millie. Her head was missing, but you could recognize it was her on account of the bracelets that adorned her wrists.
The air in your lungs grows uneven, as ragged pants of pure, petrified panic palpitate in and out of your body. Tears blind your eyes. You're weak. Tied down to a chair that you're unable to escape. You cannot leave. Only bear witness to the masterful handiwork of the psychopath before you, the sight of the bodies festering away making you feel as if this was your fault. You could have been nice. You could have been thankful for the time your family had gave you, that they shown concern that would have elsewise went unnoticed. But you didn't. The anger feasted away at you, and you made your bed. But you didn't want to lie in it. You wanted out.
However, you cannot escape what had already caught you. The mouse had finally gotten hold of a meager little rat, with you being betwixt the massive claws of Funtime Freddy, who had acted like an endearing partner, simultaneous with a frenetic serial killer. He steps in front of you, his silhouette now masking a few of the remains of the people who he snuffed the light out of. His smile was unrelenting, plastered on without any a frown, let alone a grimace. The blue eyes of the beast are aimed directly at you, glowing within the deep dark of the room you both were in. Hungry. Endearing. Yet all the more terrifying.
"What the fuck is your problem?! I-I didn't want this!"
"Oh, but you did! Silly [name], forgetful [name]. You would constantly come down and ramble on endlessly about how you wanted everybody dead! Not to mention you wanted a boyfriend who'd kill for you, and who'd never let you go! How romantic," Funtime Freddy leans down to caress the side of your face, his tone a gentle croon, a vivid contrast to his coarse, rather exuberant voice. "I was alive the whole time you were talking to me, cupcake! But obsession doesn't start overnight, now, does it? No. I took my sweet, sweet time! Listening to your rants, stalking you in the house, and picking off everyone who got in our way! And now, you're all mine, mine, MINE!"
A sinister laugh rips from Funtime Freddy's voice box, his pupils dilating at the visible sight of mortified terror that rested on your face. How delicious you looked. Panicked. In fear. He loved it dearly, but not as much as he loved you. No, his adoration with you, an everlasting infatuation, had feasted on his circuits and festered in his motherboard. He was made to kill, but he wasn't heartless. If he were going to kill, then it would be for you.
Without warning, he encased his arms around you, a vice that wouldn't let you go, restraining your movement further as his face leans down, his unfeeling, obsessive gaze meeting your frightened one that had brimmed with tears. His touch makes you shrink, your body tensing up as you felt frightened by whatever he had plotted for you. You wanted to scream, but the audio got caught within your throat as Funtime Freddy presses his cold, metal mouth against yours. A chaste yet intense kiss, one that was rough, with little care, commandeering, as if letting you go was an option that hadn't existed. You sob subsequentially, thrashing about and wanting to get this maniacal machine off you, preferably as soon as now.
Freddy's hand maps your body, while his other arm (lacking a hand) kept its place firmly around your shoulders, making it certain that you couldn't pull away no matter how desperate your attempts were. His hand stops at your hip, just shy of the rope behind your back. Pulling away, Funtime Freddy's gaze is more serene, more calmed. That kiss? A balm to his insanity, a remedy to the madness that brewed within, because your fright within that entire kiss, the struggle and fight you put up, and those sweet, delectable tears you cried all were a picture of true perfection to Freddy.
But then, his other arm snakes away from your shoulders. It slithers to stop right in front of you, the cold metal barely ghosting your neck. Freddy's gaze grows volatile again, a lunatic smile haunting his metallic faceplates as his pupils shrink back to their regular size. Mechanical whirring was audible from the arm that he held to your neck, as the graze of something sharp tingles against your neck. Your eyes mull downwards: in the empty hole of his arm socket now sits a circular saw-blade, pressed up against your throat. Funtime Freddy looks at you, his head tilting as he speaks up in his average, booming tone.
"Say that you love me, sweetheart. Vow to me that we'll be together forever, [name]! Because I, Funtime Freddy, and whole-heartedly devoted to you, cupcake! And nobody will change that. Tick-tock, [name]!~"
The sawblade suddenly roves to life, the sound of it tearing through the first layer of your flesh ripples through your ears, as you yelp out in pain. The blade presses in further, not enough to hit a major artery, but enough pressure for the red ichor of life to splurge out of the newly opened orifice within your neck. Oh, you didn't want to die. But being stuck with Freddy wasn't optimal either. With how insistent the sawblade had been digging itself into your neck, the anxiety gets your goat, causing you to break down, and do as Freddy asked of you.
"I-I love you! I love you, okay? I love you, I love you, I love you! I, [name] [last name] will be only in love with you, devoted to you! I'll never leave your side, Freddy, please! I'm all yours to love, and nothing will change that!" Once that gets out of your chest, you sob. Pathetic. Broken. The pain in your neck is searing into you, not helping with the situation at all. Suddenly, the sawblade is ripped out the same way it came in, crimson gold oozing out from your wound.
Funtime Freddy's saw-hand slashes at the ropes, freeing you from the chair. You don't move, you don't run. But you do stand up. Nothing more. The sawblade retracts, as more whirring and clicks fill the makeshift room. His gaze doesn't leave yours. Sooner than you expected, he pulls you into another kiss. One you wish hadn't happened. His hand squeezes your shoulder, hard enough to bruise, his arm was so tight around your waist that you became breathless at the drop of a pin, and his robotic maw kept nipping at your lower lip. He was glad, glad that you were grateful that he was yours. At least, he registered it as him being grateful. You only acted on instinct.
"Oh, [name], you make me the happiest bear in the world!" Funtime Freddy cheers once he pulls away from the kiss, his grasp on you strong, refusing to release you. Your gazes lock, his cold blue eyes staring into your [eye color] eyes one more time. "I can't WAIT for our wedding! Which will be very soon. Ah, how romantic! The fact we'll be forever a couple, that I can kill for you freely... You fulfil me, cupcake, just as I had fulfilled you. We complete one another. Which means that if you leave, I'll have to kill you, and I'd be empty again." With one more chilling giggle, Freddy leans down to bite your cheek, hard enough to break the skin, and for blood to ooze out.
"I love you, cupcake. And I'll never leave.~"
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