As he pressed his body against her, holding her down as his hands roamed her body, she couldn't help but shudder at how empty his chest sounded against her pounding one.
He hadn't been around for her childhood and Nancy could only shake her head at his use of "father", and could only think "stranger", as he stood in front of her hospital bed.
"Are you Mr. Fweddy's fwend too?" Nancy stared down at her younger self's innocent smile, and could only give a tight smile of her own. "Something... Something like that."
She prayed for the thundering and lightening to never stop so they could keep her awake and away from him for just one night.
It amazed her how someone as cold and dead as him could feel so warm and alive when he sheathed himself inside her.
As his hands, claws and all, roamed her body, Nancy despised her reaction to the enemy's touch over her heroes; over Quentin's
She stared at the necklace as Quentin fastened it around her neck, unable to stop the images of silver claws its place.
He had once said her screams were like music to his ears. So she wouldn't sing for him anymore, no matter how much it hurt.
She lay on the ground of his world covered in blood and cuts, and could only look up at its sky and wish for stars to wish on.
Even in the summer, as she lies on the warm sandy beach next to Quentin, it's his hands she feels rubbing her back as the sun sets.
"I want to go home," she'd told him as he buried his face in her hair. "This is your home now, Little Nancy."
The clicking of his claws echoed through her mind when she was awake, and when she went to bed.
She was use to the decaying, foul, stench of his breath as his melted lips hovered over her trembling ones.
"Don't close your eyes, Nancy!" He snarled, as she cracked her eyes open and stared up into his piercing mismatched eyes of striking blue and brown, and wondered why it always got harder to look at him as he plowed into her.
His dead, decaying, tongue danced across her tongue, the familiar ash and raw meat-like aftertaste burning her throat and dancing in her taste buds, as she fought back the urge to vomit.
Quentin's hands were soft, gentle, and careful; Freddy's were hard, rough, and uncaring on her body.
She stared at the rose's growing up the side of the asylum, and was reminded of once kind hands guiding her own as she shoveled through the dirt and helped plant her own rose bush.
The unyielding heat of the hot July sun, was nothing compared to being slammed against his boilers as he changed their position for a better entrance.
Thanksgiving was a time for giving and family; he was giving every inch of himself to her as he laughed about how much she must miss her mother.
She watched the young children of Elm Street laugh and run through the snow with their mothers and fathers, reminding her of a smiling, pathetic, looking male who was red faced from the snow, as he taught her and the others how to make snow angels, snowmen, and forts.
She was in detention for daydreaming in class. But she wasn't daydreaming. She had no more dreams. Only nightmares.
He ran his gloved hand through her hair, petting her like a dog, as he murmured for her to stop acting like a bitch, to stop fighting him, as his flesh hand slipped between her legs.
Sometimes he liked to use rope or metal chains on her wrist to hold them above her. Tonight he was using the silk tie of the smooth robe he'd dreamed up for her. If it wasn't him tying her up, she'd almost find it romantic.
Quentin's lips were soft and comforting; his were rough and demanding as he grabbed the back of her neck and pulled her to him.
As Quentin held her close and rubbed her back, she allowed a rare smile to come to her face, even knowing that tonight she would be tortured by his jealous rage.