Title: Fearless
Rating: M for Language, Violence, Grotesquerie, and General Trippiness
Summary: A girl suffers trauma to her temporal lobe. The result: no fear. ~ Uh, I guess you don't have to squint for romance anymore. 1000 words per drabble.
Disclaimer & Important Notes: Don't own Freddy; don't own the rhymes. You know the drill.
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Flesh
(Night 111)
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her legs swing. Smooth calves, sleek thighs.
They'd be easy to peel apart. They'd proven so in the past, in fact, and if Freddy concentrated, he could still feel what it was like to slice through with his blades: the give of skin, the slight resistance right before he broke through. And then nothing but slippery, yielding tissue…
He grunted, watching her legs as though they were pendulums, following them up to the soft fabric of her sleep-shorts. The trick of it was that these thoughts of slicing and dicing were secondary now, when once they had been his initial and uncontrollable instinct. Now he was fighting the urge to do some other things to her skin, and they had little to do with bloodshed.
Well, mostly.
"What's wrong?" she asked, and he only scowled at her. She hesitated, then shut up, apparently reading him well enough now to understand when he didn't want to answer her questions. He bent over his tools, but his eyes continued to take her in, moving from her bare thighs to the curve of her waist. He reminded himself that he could claw out her insides until her gently-rounded stomach was nothing more than a soft, hollow canoe full of blood.
It would be a shame, though, he rationalized, to ruin those breasts. They were pushed gently against the thin fabric of her tanktop. There was some flesh that would be easy to destroy, but he thought it would be kind of a waste to damage them permanently. Of course, none of the wounds he'd ever inflicted on Ash had done more than bruise out in the real world—usually she was whole again in a matter of seconds.
Still, with breasts like those—was it worth the risk?
"You're staring," she said, and he looked up just in time to see her try to hide a smirk.
Fuck. He glowered. "What did you expect, bitch? I can't concentrate with you fucking here all the time," he snapped, and glared.
She leaned down, stretching to touch her toes, testing her flexibility. When she dipped her head, her hair parted over the back of her neck, and he could see each uneven pearl of her spine. He imagined what other shapes he could bend her into. Then he imagined tearing her backbone out of her mouth, but he liked the shapes it made under her skin.
"Do you want me to go?" she asked, still bent-double. She didn't really know how to leave, but she could try. She was fearless, after all.
He flexed his fingers in the glove and tapped them impatiently on the tabletop. Did he want her to go? The question was impossible to answer.
He let his eyes move over her intentionally this time: lewd, suggestive. "There's a price for staying," he leered, and then waggled his tongue at her.
She wrinkled her nose, and turned her face away. Success. There'd be no more comments about his staring.
Freddy grinned to himself and turned back to his work.
What are little boys made of?
Snakes and snails, and puppy dogs tails:
That's what little boys are made of.
What are little girls made of?
Sugar and spice and all things nice:
That's what little girls are made of.
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This drabble is dedicated to Elf-Warrior-13 for the prompt, "Flesh."
It is 516 words long.
Originally, I wrote Night 111 based on a self-given prompt, "feminine." I thought it was pretty tantalizing and fun. However, Elf-Warrior-13 then gave me the prompt "flesh," and suddenly I was compelled—I kid you not—to rewrite it with the new prompt. It's a lot more, erm, fleshy this time around, with just a tad more gore, a complete change in tone, and over twice as many words. The next installment is one of my favorites, and you can count on it being out tonight or tomorrow.
Thanks, Elf-warrior-13, for another great prompt!