Title: Fearless

Rating: M for Language, Violence, Grotesquerie, and General Trippiness

Summary: A girl suffers trauma to her temporal lobe. The result: no fear. ~ Squint and turn the screen sideways for romantic subtext. 1000 words per drabble.

Disclaimer & Important Notes: Don't own Freddy; don't own the rhymes. You know the drill.

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Fidelity

(Night 100)

She was unusually quiet tonight, and it pissed him off even more than her usual chatter did. He put up with it for a little while, watching out of the corner of his eye as she sat on the edge of his workbench and studied her own ankles, flexing them, examining the fine tendons and bones from different angles. In a moment of impatience, he almost flung his workbench over and tumbled her with it, but Freddy was known for nothing if not his deviousness. Instead, he reached out and raked a mental claw brutally across the surface of her brain.

"Ow," she said, and shot him a mild glare.

But he didn't like what he'd snared: the glimpse of some skinny, post-pubescent asswipe grinning at her condescendingly, indulgently. The kid strolled through her thoughts like he owned them.

Freddy stood abruptly, shoving the workbench with his hands instead of his mind because sometimes, it was just more satisfying that way.

Lacking fear, the girl didn't leap away, didn't have time to cognitively process the risk to her safety. Instead, her feet went up as she crashed down painfully amidst the debris, and Freddy thought of pushing her knees back to her temples, fucking her on the floor of the shed. As far as he was concerned, she should probably always be on her back with her feet in the air, preferably beneath him.

"Christ, Freddy," she said, winded, one palm pressed to the small of her back as she tried to sit up. Her knees were thrown over the edge of the mangle bench, and her hair was wild, and it pissed him off to no end. He held it in check with the rationalization that he'd have more fun hurting her if he took it slow-even if she couldn't be afraid, even if it didn't matter once she woke up. Instead, he leaned down slowly, his nose almost touching hers. His eyes burned.

"Is that the same shithead who wanted to fuck you?" he demanded, his voice a low.

She blinked. "What are you talking about?"

"The punk trying to get inside your dreams," he snarled. She frowned and he closed his hands over her shoulders, the blades digging into one scapula. "Don't play with me, bitch!" he snarled, and shook her. She only stared up at him, wide-eyed and baffled and remarkably, for just a second, not cold. She wasn't scared—of course not; he should be so lucky—but there was something close to concern there, alongside the confusion. He slipped one hand around her neck, the leather-clad palm pressing threateningly to the base of her throat, and snapped two fingers on the other hand.

Flickering, formed of ether and demonic fire, a reflection of the boy formed behind him, a reference for her to study.

"Him," he snapped. And then, his voice deep and guttural and usually reserved for the monster-dreams he gave to small children, he bellowed, "Who is he?"

"Oh," she said, and sounded sad—but too calm for his liking, much too calm. "He's—Yes. He's the boy who wants to fuck me."

His fingers tightened on her neck, the heat from his hand radiating through the leather glove. Blood trickled down her back from shallow grooves made by his blades. "And why, bitch," he said, "is he skating through your thoughts?"

And suddenly she was very still beneath his claw, her eyes swinging away from the mirage of the boy. She met his gaze squarely. "You've never hesitated in trying to hurt me before, Freddy."

His fingers twitched, but she didn't even flinch, and he snarled, "Answer the fucking question, cunt." His hot breath rolled over her; he smelled like gunmetal and matches. Her lips were parched, and she licked them. She didn't notice how he watched the movement of her tongue.

Her hands came up on either side of his arms and he leaned backward warily, away from her reach, eyeing her approaching fingers with bared teeth. She thought, distantly, that he might bite them off. They came to rest lightly on either side of his temples, cradling his face. Her fingers traced the whorled patterns there. "I spend more of my time with you than any other person I know," she said. "You killed most of my friends before you even met me, and now I spend most of my waking hours wishing I was asleep. What more do you want?"

"I want to know if you want to fuck him," Freddy said crudely. "If you want his tiny dick ramming your pussy."

She shook her head slowly, mutely, but his ferocious gaze didn't waver. She looked up at him, unafraid. "He's been following me more than usual," she said at last. Her voice was calm and cool, a balm. "It annoys me. He's a problem—and that's all." She eyed him evenly. "A problem that I am trying to figure out the solution to."

He glared down at her, his mind running through her words, assessing. She tilted her head, watching him, and she must have seen something in him that she didn't like—some idea forming, some vicious suggestion. It was a look of murder.

She continued to hold his eyes, fresh ice to his burning gaze. Her voice was infinitely delicate, almost tender, when she spoke. "I have no instinct that tells me to run, Freddy. There's nothing in me that makes me on edge, or wary. I don't feel prickles on my neck when he's watching me. I don't know that he means any harm at all."

His rage receded slowly, creeping away to leave only a kind of sadistic amusement.

"Since when," asked Freddy, entertained, "have I needed a reason to kill?"

There once were two cats from Kilkenney;
Each thought that two cats were too many.
So they scratched and they skritched,
and they fought and they fit,
'til except for their nails,
and the tips of their tails,
instead of two cats there weren't any.

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This drabble is dedicated to Mad Bertha for the prompt, "Fidelity."

It is 959 words long—coming too close for comfort to the 1000 word limit.

This silly boy (I think his name is Marcus Jacobs, or maybe Jake Marcus) has been rearing his foolish head way too many times for Freddy's comfort, I think. I'm not sure if you know this, but Freddy does not Play Well With Others. Nor does he Share His Toys. Don't worry. Sooner or later, Marcus Jacobs will get what's coming to him. :)

I knew I wanted to include this boy in a new drabble. I also loved the "fidelity" prompt and wanted to do a little something-somethin with Freddy feeling like he'd been, well, cheated on, essentially. Of course, Ash is fascinated by Freddy. We know she'd never do such a stupid thing. But Freddy, bless his nonexistent heart, is a little insecure. On account of his scars, you see. And, well, his evil.

Thanks again for the awesome prompt, Mad Bertha. It was a fun ride.