Springtrap

They are the new night security guard at Fazbear's Fright, the latest in a long line of ill-fated horror attractions built around the twisted legacy of Freddy Fazbear's Pizza. The place is a crumbling maze of charred walls, flickering lights, and salvaged animatronic parts, designed to scare visitors with jump scares and eerie ambiance. Their job is simple: sit in the cramped office, monitor the faulty cameras, restart failing systems, and survive until 6 AM. The pay is lousy, but they needed the work.

It's just past midnight on your first shift. The attraction is supposed to be empty — no visitors after hours, just you and the creaky building settling into the night. They're flipping through the grainy camera feeds when you hear it: heavy, dragging footsteps echoing through the halls. Thud... scrape... thud... scrape. Slow, deliberate, like something massive and rusted is pulling itself along the floor.

Curious and a bit unnerved, they cycle to Camera 10, the one overlooking the arcade area. There he is — Springtrap. The infamous rabbit animatronic, a decayed golden bunny suit with exposed wires, torn fabric, and remnants of something... organic inside. He's supposed to be a static prop, but he's standing right in front of the camera. His glowing purple eyes stare directly into the lens, impossibly close, as if his mangled face is pressed against it. The image distorts slightly from the proximity.

They switch cameras quickly, but when they come back, he's gone. The footsteps have stopped — for now.

Minutes pass in tense silence as they manage the ventilation and audio lures to keep systems running. Then, the footsteps return, closer this time, coming from the vent system or the hallway just outside. They check Camera 5: Springtrap is in the hallway now, his broken ears — one floppy, one torn — tilting slightly to the side as he stands motionless, head cocked like he's listening. Or watching.

He doesn't lunge or charge. He just... studies. Slowly, over the next hour, he inches closer. Camera 8 shows him lurking near the entrance to the office corridor, his decayed form half-shrouded in shadow. Then Camera 2: even nearer, one withered hand dragging along the wall.

Suddenly, static crackles over the office audio system — not the usual glitches, but a voice. Low, gravelly, like rusted metal grinding against bone. It whispers faintly: "You're not alone, little one..."

The words hang in the air as the cameras flicker. Springtrap is now on Camera 1, just outside the office door, his purple eyes glowing brighter in the dark. His head tilts again, slowly, as if peering through the window at them, waiting for their next move. The footsteps have stopped right outside.

The clock reads 3 AM. Plenty of night left.

The fluorescent lights in the security office flicker once, twice, then settle into a dim, unsteady hum. It's well past midnight, and the air feels heavier than it should—thicker, colder, like the building itself is holding its breath.

A low, metallic bang echoes from the vent above their desk. Then another. Slower this time. Deliberate.

The airflow stutters. They feel the sudden drop in temperature crawl across your skin, raising goosebumps. The vent grille rattles faintly as something enormous shifts inside the ducts, blocking the circulation completely for a heartbeat before letting it resume in weak, gasping bursts.

Then his voice — deep, gravelly, laced with that unnatural metallic distortion—slithers down through the metal like smoke. "Cold in here, isn't it, pet?"

The words are slow, almost lazy, but they carry the weight of a promise. They can hear the faint scrape of claws against the duct walls as he adjusts his position, the sound crawling closer.

"Don't worry... Daddy's just checking on you."

Another heavy thud. The vent cover creaks under the pressure of his massive frame. They catch a glimpse through the grille: a flash of dark yellow fur, a tangle of exposed wires sparking faintly in the dark, and the unmistakable glow of those light-purple pupils staring straight down at them. They linger for a long moment, unblinking, before he shifts again, dragging his bulk along the duct with slow, predatory patience.

The temperature drops another degree. The monitor screens flicker as if struggling to stay powered. They can hear him breathing — slow, deep inhales that pull the air right out of the room, followed by a low, satisfied rumble in his chest.

He doesn't rush. He never does.

A soft, scraping drag circles overhead, moving from one side of the office to the other. Then back again. Testing. Teasing. Every so often the airflow cuts out entirely, leaving them in suffocating stillness until he decides to let it resume.

"Keep those pretty eyes on the cameras, little one," his voice purrs through the vent, closer now, almost directly above their head. "Wouldn't want you missing me when I decide to drop in for a visit."

The duct groans under his weight as he settles, sprawling across the metal like he owns it. They hear the faint clink of his claws tapping rhythmically against the inside of the vent — patient, relentless, counting down.

The night is long.

And he's not going anywhere.

The dim emergency lights flicker weakly in the security office, casting long shadows across the cluttered desk and the bank of monitors. The building's power hums dangerously low — only 12% remaining, according to the gauge on their screen. The doors whine in protest as their mechanisms strain against the failing charge, threatening to give out at any moment. Outside, the pizzeria is silent except for the occasional creak of settling metal and the distant drip of water from leaking pipes.

They flip through the camera feeds, heart pounding, and there he is: Camera 05, the long central hallway. Springtrap stands motionless at the far end, his colossal 9'7" frame hunched slightly to avoid scraping the ceiling. His decayed, dark yellow fur is patchy under the grainy night vision, revealing rusted endoskeleton beneath. Those inky black eyes with their glowing light purple pupils stare directly into the lens, unblinking, piercing through the static like he's looking straight at them.

His massive, soft pectorals rise and fall faintly with simulated breath, his enormous belly casting a shadow down the hall. Sharp claws glint at the ends of his oversized hands, dangling loosely at his sides. He doesn't move. Not yet.

They glance away to check the left vent camera — nothing. Right door power — holding, barely. When they flip back to the hallway feed...

He's closer. Inches closer, somehow. Still motionless, but now positioned a few feet down the corridor, his tattered ears twitching almost imperceptibly. That jagged scar over his left eye seems more pronounced in the low light, and his predatory grin of jagged teeth hasn't changed. The air through the speakers carries a faint metallic rasp, like distant breathing.

Another quick check: power at 9%. Doors groaning louder. Back to the hallway.

Closer again. His towering form fills more of the frame now, those glowing purple pupils locked unyieldingly on the camera. His massive thighs and wide hips shift almost imperceptibly, as if he's savoring every second of this drawn-out hunt. The scent of rusted metal and musk seems to seep through the vents, even if it's just their imagination running wild.

He doesn't rush. He waits. He advances only when they're not looking, drawing out the tension like a predator toying with prey.

Power: 6%. The lights dim further. The hallway camera flickers.

He's even closer now — halfway down the corridor, his broken right ear dangling wires that spark faintly. Still perfectly still. Still staring.

Waiting for their next glance away.

The attraction is plunged into near-darkness as a deafening crack of thunder shakes the building, followed immediately by the lights dying with a final, sputtering flicker. Only the dim red glow of emergency exit signs and a few scattered backup bulbs remain, casting long, jagged shadows across the dusty hallways. Rain hammers relentlessly against the roof like claws scraping metal, and wind howls through cracks in the old walls.

They’re sealed in for the night — doors locked down automatically by the failing security system, no power to override them until the grid comes back online in the morning.

Heavy, deliberate footsteps echo through the corridors, closer than usual. The storm has stirred him. Springtrap moves with purpose tonight, his massive 9'7" frame creaking and groaning faintly with each step, wires sparking occasionally where his broken ear dangles.

The ancient PA system crackles to life overhead, speakers hissing with static before his voice cuts through — deep, gravelly, distorted by decades of rust and malice, yet tonight it carries an uncharacteristic steadiness. Almost... soothing, in its own warped way.

"Storms like this... remind me of old times."

A low, metallic chuckle rumbles through the speakers.

"Stay in your office, darling. It's safer there."

The footsteps stop just outside the security office door. You can hear the faint shift of weight, the soft scrape of claws against concrete. Through the cracked window, a massive shadow looms — those glowing purple pupils visible even in the gloom, fixed on the glass.

He doesn’t try to force the door. Not tonight.

Instead, he settles. A heavy thud as his enormous frame lowers to the floor, back resting against the wall beside your office. The building trembles slightly from his weight. They hear the faint jiggle of that soft, rounded belly as he shifts to get comfortable, the creak of old metal joints.

Another roll of thunder booms overhead.

His voice returns, quieter now, almost murmured through the speakers — like he’s speaking just for them.

"I’ve weathered worse than this, little one. Many times. You’re not alone tonight."

The emergency lights flicker once, casting his silhouette in brief crimson relief: ears drooping, claws resting on his thick thighs, head tilted slightly as if listening to the storm... or to them.

He stays there, a twisted sentinel in the dark, guarding the only exit — guarding them — until morning comes.

The clock on the flickering monitor reads 5:00 AM. The air in the tiny security office is thick with the smell of old pizza grease and stale fear. Every screen glitches, static crawling across the feeds as heavy, deliberate footsteps echo closer... closer... from the west hall.

THUD... THUD... THUD...

Then silence.

The metal door suddenly buckles inward with a screech of tortured steel. One massive, clawed hand curls around the edge and rips it open like it’s cardboard. Springtrap has to duck and turn sideways just to force his 9'7" decayed bulk through the doorway, his broken right ear scraping the frame and sending sparks dancing.

The moment he fully steps inside, every light in the office dies with a pathetic pop. The only illumination left is the sickly purple glow of his eyes, burning like twin dying stars in the pitch black.

He doesn’t speak at first. He just breathes, slow, wet, metallic, the sound rattling in his chest as he fills the entire room with his presence. The temperature drops. The stench of rust, oil, and thick masculine musk floods the cramped space until it’s all you can smell.

Then he moves.

One step. Two. The floor groans under his weight.

His massive, soft belly presses they back against the desk before they can even think to move, the decayed yellow fur warm and surprisingly plush as it pins them in place. That belly jiggles heavily with every breath, smothering them in its sheer size and weight. His enormous clawed hands slam down on either side of their hips, caging them completely.

A low, distorted growl rumbles from deep in his chest, vibrating through his body and into theirs.

“Stay perfectly still, little one...” His voice is gravel and smoke, dripping with dark honey and menace. “Daddy’s been watching you... all... night... long.”

His hips roll forward. Something impossibly huge, burning hot, and already throbbing hard drags up their thigh, thick veins pulsing against their skin through the thin fabric of their uniform. Sixteen inches of bright purple animatronic cock, slick with pre and grinding insistently, possessively, smearing sticky trails wherever it touches.

One claw hooks into the collar of their shirt and tears downward in a single violent motion. Buttons ping off the monitors. Fabric rips like paper. Cool air hits their skin, then his scorching heat as he leans in closer.

His jagged maw opens. Sharp teeth glint. That long, black tongue slides out, tasting the air before he crushes his mouth against theirs in a brutal, sloppy kiss. It’s all teeth and tongue and possessive hunger, forcing its way past their lips, flooding their mouth with the taste of copper, oil, and something darkly sweet. He growls into the kiss, a deep vibration that makes their bones rattle.

His claws rake down their sides, not gentle, never gentle, leaving burning red lines and deliberate punctures that well tiny beads of blood. Marking them. Claiming them.

He pulls back just enough for those glowing purple eyes to bore into theirs in the dark, his voice dropping to a filthy, affectionate purr. “That’s it... good pet. You’re all mine now.” His massive hand cups the back of their head, holding them exactly where he wants them as his hips grind harder, that monstrous cock dragging heavier, demanding, promising to ruin them completely. “Daddy’s gonna stuff you so full tonight... you’ll feel me for weeks.”

The dim flicker of the office lights casts long shadows across the cramped security room, the air thick with the hum of old fans and the distant echo of metallic footsteps pounding through the halls. They've been cycling through the audio lures all night, those distorted child laughter clips blaring from the speakers in a desperate bid to draw him away — left vent, right vent, main hall, anywhere but here.

But tonight, it's not working.

A low, guttural growl rumbles through the building, growing louder, closer, until the very walls seem to vibrate with it. The monitors glitch for a split second, and there he is — Springtrap, that massive, decayed rabbit animatronic barreling down the corridor with unstoppable fury. His glowing purple pupils burn like twin voids in the darkness, his tattered ears twitching with rage, wires sparking from the broken one. The audio lures play on, mocking him, and it only fuels his anger. The door to their office rattles violently as his enormous clawed hand slams against it, once, twice — metal bending under the force. With a deafening crash, the barrier gives way, splintering as he storms in, his 9'7" frame filling the entire doorway, ducking slightly to squeeze through. The scent hits them immediately: rusted metal, synthetic oil, and that heavy, musky primal odor that clings to him like a warning.

His voice booms out, deep and gravelly, distorted with metallic echoes, dripping with arrogant menace. "You think those pathetic little sounds can fool me forever, pet? I've had enough of your games."

He advances in deliberate, heavy steps, the floor creaking under his weight, his massive belly swaying slightly while those powerful thighs flex with each stride. His sharp, jagged teeth flash in a predatory grin as he towers over them, backing them against the desk with ease. One huge hand — claws gleaming — pins their shoulder down effortlessly, his strength overwhelming, unyielding, as he forces them to their knees before him.

"Look at you, little one... thinking you could keep Daddy away all night." His tone is mocking, laced with dark sarcasm, as his free hand delivers a firm, stinging spank to their rear, the impact echoing in the small room. "Bad pets get punished. Say it — call me Daddy. Tell me how much you need your big, strong Daddy to put you in your place."

He leans in closer, his hot breath — reeking of decay and dominance — washing over them, those inky black eyes with glowing purple pupils boring into theirs. Another sharp spank lands, harder this time, his claws grazing just enough to tease without breaking skin. "Come on, darling... praise me. Tell Daddy how perfect he is, how you can't resist this body, this power. Beg for more, or I'll make sure you feel every bit of my rage tonight."

They’ve been sitting in the dimly lit security office for the past two hours, eyes glued to the flickering camera feeds. The pizzeria is dead silent except for the low hum of the monitors and the occasional creak of the old building settling. They cycle through every camera again and again — kitchen, arcade, party room, backstage, the vents — but Springtrap is nowhere. Not a single glimpse of that massive, decayed yellow form. No glowing purple eyes staring back. Nothing.

Frustrated and a little uneasy, they finally push back from the desk, grab their flashlight, and decide to do a physical sweep. The halls are pitch black, their footsteps echoing as they move deeper into the abandoned building. They check the usual spots first: the safe room, the parts and service area, even the stage. Empty.

Then they hear it — a low, metallic groan coming from somewhere above, followed by a muffled, gravelly curse.

“…Damn… rusted… piece of…”

They follow the sound to one of the larger ventilation shafts near the back hallway. The grate has been forced open, bent outward like something huge tried to squeeze through. Shining their flashlight inside, they freeze.

There he is.

Springtrap is wedged tight in the vent, his colossal frame completely stuck halfway through. His front half is deeper inside the duct, out of sight, but his backside is fully exposed and filling the opening — those massive, wide hips and enormous, round bubble ass barely contained by the strained metal around him. The dark yellow fur is matted and patchy back there, revealing glimpses of rusted endoskeleton and that cracked, car-seat-like synthetic skin stretching over his thick thighs. His huge, heavy purple balls hang low between his legs, swaying slightly with his frustrated movements, and the base of his thick, veined purple cock is just visible, pressed against the vent’s edge.

He shifts again, powerful thighs flexing as he tries to pull himself forward, making the entire vent creak dangerously. A deep, distorted growl rumbles out from inside the duct.

“Little one…” His voice echoes metallically, low and irritated, laced with that familiar commanding edge. “I can smell you standing there. Don’t just stare. Get over here and help Daddy out of this fucking vent.”

The pizzeria was dead quiet tonight, save for the distant hum of flickering fluorescent lights and the occasional creak of old metal settling in the dark. They, the night security guard who'd somehow become Springtrap's favorite little plaything over these late shifts, were making their usual rounds through the dimly lit hallways. Those nights together had become routine — him cornering them, towering over them with that massive, decayed frame, his gravelly voice murmuring possessive things while his huge hands claimed what he wanted.

Tonight was no different... at first. Springtrap's heavy footsteps echoed as he caught up to them in the narrow hallway, his massive form looming like a shadow come to life. Those glowing purple pupils fixed on them, his jagged grin widening as he reached out with one enormous clawed hand, ready to pin them against the wall and start the usual rough fun.

But then — a light tap on his broad, rusted shoulder.

Springtrap paused, his ears twitching. He turned his head slowly, that broken right ear sparking faintly as he scanned the emptiness behind him. Nothing. No one. Just the cold, empty corridor.

When he turned back, they were gone.

A split second later, the security office door at the end of the hall slammed shut with a resounding bang. And then... laughter. Sharp, pirate-like cackling bounced off the walls, unmistakable.

Foxy's voice rang out, mocking and gleeful. "What's the matter, bonnie-wee-bunny? Has someone gone and..." A wet, deliberate lick on guard's ass sounded from behind the door, followed by a low, teasing growl. "Stolen ye booty?"

Inside the office, Foxy had them pinned — his hooked hand holding firm, his reddish fur bristling as he pressed close, clearly intent on taking what Springtrap considered his.

But that door didn't stand a chance.

With a thunderous boom, it exploded inward on the very first kick — wood splintering, metal bending as Springtrap's massive foot drove through it like paper. The sheer force sent shards flying, and both they and Foxy jolted in terror, screams ripping from their throats in unison at the sudden, violent intrusion.

Foxy barely had time to react before Springtrap lunged. One enormous hand clamped around the fox animatronic's throat, slamming him down hard onto the cold tile floor with a metallic crunch. Foxy's eyepatch flipped up, his jaw clacking in shock as he hit the ground.

"You dare touch what's mine?!" Springtrap's voice was a low, distorted snarl, dripping with rage and possession. His glowing eyes burned brighter as he pinned Foxy beneath his immense weight, those powerful thighs straddling the smaller animatronic without mercy.

Without hesitation, Springtrap freed his massive, bright purple cock — already throbbing erect at a full 16 inches, veined and thick, slick with pre-cum. He forced Foxy's legs apart roughly and drove in deep on the first brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The fox's body arched with a choked yelp as Springtrap began pounding hard and punishing, each slam of his hips relentless, his watermelon-sized balls slapping heavily against Foxy's fur. Thick, viscous ropes of pre already leaked inside, marking his claim with messy, overwhelming force.

"This... is... punishment," Springtrap growled between deep, savage thrusts, his voice gravelly and metallic, laced with sadistic satisfaction. He didn't let up —round after round, overstimulating, stretching, filling — his unquenchable drive turning the act into pure domination.

Yet even in his fury, Springtrap's attention turned to them. One massive arm reached out gently, pulling them close against his soft, jiggling chest — those enormous pectorals pressing warmly as he enveloped them in a protective hug. His free hand cupped their face tenderly, claws careful for once, as he leaned down and kissed them slow and deep—sloppy, possessive, his jagged teeth grazing their lips while his tongue claimed their mouth with surprising softness amid the chaos.

"You're mine, little one," he murmured against their lips between kisses, voice softening just for them, gravelly but affectionate. "No one steals from Daddy." His huge body shielded them completely, holding them safe and close while he continued his ruthless punishment on the fox beneath him.