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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Florid

(Night 123)

The bruises on her wrist struck him like a fist, like a lit match.

"What the fuck is that?" he hissed, and watched as her fingertips lightly circled the swollen, purpling flesh.

"Oh," she said. "I didn't know I brought those with me."

The sudden realization that she might not bring something with her, that she could be hiding other things from him, burned through him brightly.

"What is it, bitch?" he seethed, though he could see perfectly well what it was. Crimson crept in on his vision and he narrowed his eyes on the flowerlike bracelet of violet and red.

She tilted her head, and then blinked. "Um—bruises?" she offered, sounding both sarcastic and confused.

He could have backhanded her. "Who did this to you?" he asked, and his voice was a low snarl. But he already knew—that boy, that punk who wanted to fuck her, who wanted her pliant young body beneath his own with her legs tossed over his shoulders—the one who she'd wanted to get angry at, the one who was sneaking around and trying to touch her, the one who she'd been thinking about before. He clenched his teeth so tightly that they came loose in his gums; he could taste the blood. "What fucking happened?"

She lifted both hands, eyeing the delicate, narrow wrists and the bruises that decorated them. "He wanted to kiss me," she said with no inflection. "I told him I had no interest in doing so. So he grabbed my face."

Freddy's eyes flew to her jaw. There were no finger-shaped purple spots there, and he was almost disappointed—he would have liked to see them, would have liked an added impetus to take some vengeance out of the boy's skin.

"His nails dug into my cheeks," she said, and her voice was indifferent. "I told him to leave me alone, and he pinned my wrists over my head. And then he kissed me."

For a moment, he could see it, could pick it out of her thoughts—the bones in her wrists grinding together, the angry violation of her mouth. Her lips, in the waking world, were still swollen and sore, and the inside of one had split against her teeth.

"I didn't care for it," she said nonchalantly. "And I don't think he liked that very much. I'm sure he was going to hit me."

He could see that, too—the fist pulled back, the knuckles white and furious.

"You're not afraid of him," he said after a moment. It was a statement, not a question, and it was full of certainty. He could imagine her there, staring up at that piece of shit, her eyes wide and bored. He knew, better than anyone, how infuriating that look could be. Her indifference. Her icy calm. He knew how it could strip away your power. He knew it would emasculate the boy, and that he would want to take back that authority by beating her senseless.

Or worse.

She was watching him silently, studying him. His gloved hand came up to her face, the blades singing, and he held her face the same way that pathetic runt had—only more carefully, more gently. Most dreamers found his gentleness more terrifying than his violence, and with good reason.

But not her. Of course, not her.

The knives cradled her jaw and she didn't move, and he could see her face the way that piglet had probably seen it: cool-eyed, soft-lipped, and utterly fearless. "You're not afraid of him," he repeated, and he knew it would be the death of her.

"I am aware," she said slowly, her chin still resting between his bladed fingers, "that he may be dangerous."

Goosey Goosey Gander, where shall I wander?
Upstairs, downstairs and in my lady's chamber.
There I met an old man who wouldn't say his prayers;
I took him by the left leg and threw him down the stairs.

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This drabble is dedicated to fantasmeqrt for the AMAZING prompt, "Florid." Damn.

It is 622 words long.

This boy is really asking for it, isn't he? Haha. Oh, Marcus Jacobs, you fool. I really did love this prompt; it's such a unique and lovely word. Bruises like flowers: that's what immediately came into my head. It was a beautiful image (in my twisted opinion).

From here the action is going to pick up and wrap up pretty quickly. Only five more drabbles, all of which I am excited for. A special thanks again for such a precious, pivotal prompt, fantasmeqrt. You've set us off on the last leg of the journey!