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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Fuck

(Night 121)

"Have you ever heard," Ash Kindwall asked, "of excitation transfer theory?"

The tips of Freddy's blades were dancing over the bared triangle of flesh above her breasts. He'd meant to rip out her sternum this time, but he'd stopped short for some reason, pinning her against the piped wall on one side of the catwalk.

Instead, he gritted his teeth and tasted enamel. "No," he said with exaggerated patience. "Why don't you tell me what that is?"

She wrinkled her nose. "Don't be a jackass," she said, but she was pressing closer. The tips of his blades scratched her skin, drew blood. "The idea," she said, "is that if you are with someone during or shortly after some sort of life-threatening circumstance, you displace fear-arousal onto them. Racing heart, sweaty palms, adrenaline…the relief and excitement of being alive is mistaken for sexual attraction. They've done experiments, with women giving men their phone numbers after getting off either stable or shaky bridges." She smiled faintly, and her gaze dropped from his eyes to his scarred, molten mouth. "There are probably a hundred girls who would love to share a nightmare with you, Freddy," she said mildly.

He slammed her back abruptly, the leather-clad palm pressed flat to her bloody sternum. "You think so?" he growled, and with a flicker, he'd gone from an arm's-length away to pressed tightly against her. Strong hands—one twisted and mangled, the other hidden by leather and metal—hooked behind her knees and hoisted upward. The sides of his blades teased the vulnerable flesh there as he pinned her to the wall, hips to hips. "You think there are sweet little piggies out there waiting for me, quivering and sweating in their bed sheets with their tiny pink fingers pressed between their thighs?" He grinned nastily and leaned in, smearing his tongue from her jaw to her temple. "Are you one of them, bitch?" His voice was low and threatening. Bare fingers stroked the back of one knee while his blades prickled along the other. It was meant to be a punishment, of sorts: his wet tongue on her, his knives just a hair's-breadth from cutting her open—again.

So when she twisted her hips against his in response, he nearly jumped out of his scars.

"No," she said. Her voice was low and sweet. "You know I'm not. I don't do fear."

And then her hands fisted in the ragged collar of his sweater, and she hauled her face up to his, balanced precariously against the pipes with her crotch pressing intimately against him.

Huskily, she continued, "What I have for you is absolutely and one-hundred-percent authentic." Her lips ghosted against him and her tongue flicked across his scarred mouth, a teasing echo of the way he'd lecherously licked her cheek. "It's the good stuff, Freddy," she whispered. He looked down at her and couldn't entirely place the expression on her face, but he didn't think he minded it.

It was that thought, like a splash of cold water on his burns, that jerked him back to reality—or whatever passed for it in Freddy Krueger's world. The good stuff was blood, and pain, and screaming. And while he wouldn't have put it past her to give him these too—he kind of expected she had some kink in her—there was something else in her face and he just knew he wasn't supposed to like it.

"Get off," he snarled, and if the words were waiting to be made into a leering pun, he didn't show it. She dropped her legs obediently, not looking distressed in the slightest, and he remembered her saying that she was incapable of fearing rejection.

"Maybe next time," she said mildly, and turned away. "Maybe when you're not so afraid."

They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong-tree grows,
And there in a wood
A Piggy-wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose, his nose, his nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.

"Dear Pig, are you willing
To sell for one shilling
Your ring?"
Said the Piggy, "I will."
So they took it away,
And were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.

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I tease, I tease. ;)
This prompt is dedicated to EVERYONE, because they and their grandmothers suggested the prompt, "Fuck."
It's 603 words long and meant as a huge THANK YOU to all who have reviewed and left prompts.
Not quite what most of you were expecting, I'm sure—but still fun, I hope! I had considered doing something smuttier, but after much debate, this was as close as I was willing to get. :)

Will Freddy figure out his feeeeelings? Or Ash's? Probably not during the course of this fic, for better or for worse. I am planning on leaving lots of open ends and letting your imagination take it from there. Just consider that this scene will be reoccurring post-fiction, possibly many times and with much more satisfying results. ;)

I love the end of this, where Ash implies that Freddy's being a scaredy-cat. Please imagine your own version of Freddy's reaction to that comment. It makes me giggle. Also: excitation transfer is an authentic psychological theory. The experiments are legit too. Contact me if you're interested in more info.

There are only six more segments to this fiction, and they will go quickly from here (action-wise, not necessarily posting-wise). I hope you enjoy them all, mes petits chous!