Hello fellow dreamer! Welcome to my new little abode~
You may recognize me from my old Pebblerage blog, but sadly it fell to hackers so I had to start anewđĽ˛
Here you will mainly find stuff of all kinds related to A Nightmare on Elm Street - Original, New Nightmare and Remake (I WANT IT ALL!) This series is probably the closest to a religion I'll ever have so it's very dear to me. I'm mainly a reblogger right now due to work, but you may come across personal posts from me periodically.
28 years old, so nsfw stuff may appear.
If you like the series too then don't feel afraid to give me a wordđ¤
how to write monsters that actually scare and not sparkle
⌠first rule: donât over-explain. once you give me the monsterâs exact height, weight, claw count, and dental record, itâs not scary anymore. itâs a pokĂŠmon. mystery is the muscle. a shadow that almost looks human will always hit harder than a full description of a swamp beast. leave gaps. let the readerâs brain fill them in with their own worst fear.
⌠physics should not apply. horror monsters are terrifying when they break the rules of the world we think we understand. a body folding in ways it shouldnât. joints bending the wrong direction. silence in a place that should echo. footsteps that sound like theyâre coming from the ceiling instead of the floor. once you warp reality, the reader doesnât feel safe in their own.
⌠chasing is fine. but waiting is worse. scarier than claws, scarier than snarlingâtry a monster that just stands in the corner and watches. even scarier? it smiles. because predators donât smile unless they know something you donât.
⌠let it act like it knows you. a growl is scary, sure, but a whisper of your name in the dark is worse. a hiss of your birthday. a laugh in your motherâs voice. monsters are no longer âotherâ once they feel personal. theyâre invasive. theyâre inside your head.
⌠bonus tip: give them wrong appetites. a monster that eats flesh is clichĂŠ. a monster that eats wallpaper? horrifying. one that eats memories, so a character wakes up without knowing their own name? disgusting. one that eats reflections from mirrors so you donât see yourself anymore? revolting.
â ď¸Warning: Sexual content. Dubious consent (because it's Freddy we are talking about); Graphic gore. Hospital setting.
Summary: Freddy is curious about Aria Blake's job as an specialized nurse of a burn unit. He plays the role of a burn victim, perfect for him, before playing with the nurse herself.
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The IV bag swayed slightly, casting watery reflections on the ceiling tiles above, as she reached for the clipboard at the foot of the bed.
Frederick Charles Krueger, 26. Found outside a boiler room at the power plant. The chart didnât say how heâd gotten there. Aria didnât need to know. Procedure was procedure. She snapped on fresh gloves and turned her attention to her patient.
The man on the bed had his face ruined into melted flesh, the skin taut where it wasnât split open, lips peeled back from yellowed teeth in what mightâve been a smirk or a sneer. His eyes, green, oddly vivid amidst the damage, tracked her as she worked. Aria wasn't bothered by it, as most burn victims stared often.
"I'm going to check your airway first," she explained as she often does, tilting his head back gently. Soot coated the inside of his nostrils, the faint scent of charred meat and smoke clinging to him. He remained still as she pressed her hand against his chin, opening his mouth before leaning in to peer down his throat, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. Odd, there should be some traces of soot. Still, she prepped the intubation tray just in case.
As she did so, she watched for a moment how his chest rose and fell evenly. She couldnât tell if the man was in pain or not, or if he merely was in a state of shock. "Now I'm going to listen to your lungs," she said, pressing the stethoscope against his chest. The heartbeat beneath was slow, perhaps too slow. She frowned, moving her hands towards his chest and putting her thumbs on his ribs. "I'm sorry if this hurts, I have to check your breathing."
The exposed muscle twitched beneath her touch before she pulled back slightly, adjusting her gloves before reaching for the IV kit. His skin was brittle beneath her fingers as she turned his wrist, seeking unburned flesh. No such luck. But the veins were distended, easy targets, and she slid the needle in without hesitation. His fingers twitched, a reflexive motion, perhaps, but his expression remained eerily blank. Blood trickled sluggishly into the catheter. Too slow again. The color... looked off, too. She glanced at his face, noticing his eyes, that unsettling green, tracking her every movement.
"Okay, I need to remove your clothes now," she murmured, scissors poised above the ruined fabric of his sweater. The blades snipped through the wool with slight difficulty, revealing more of that melted, puckered flesh beneath. She peeled the fabric away carefully, avoiding where it stuck to weeping wounds. She then moved to his boots and his pants with the same carefulness.
The catheter went in next. She worked swiftly, murmuring reassurances as she parted his legs to access the necessary anatomy, but her cheeks flushed when she threw a quick glance at her patient, noticing what could be considered a smile stretched across ruined lips. It was probably just muscle contraction from the burns, she told herself, but the way those eyes gleamed made her fingers hesitate for half a second. Still, she pushed forward, sliding the tube into place.
His silence unnerved her as she reached for the silver-impregnated dressings, peeling back the sterile packaging with a different pair of scissors. The scent of antiseptic filled the air as she smoothed the gauze over his torso, avoiding the deepest wounds, those would need surgical debridement first.
Freddy watched, fascinated, as her small hands darted over his body, the way her brow furrowed when she calculated his TBSA, the way she bit her lower lip while adjusting the IV drip. Her fingers brushed a particularly deep wound near his collarbone, and he couldn't help the way his chest hitched. Her head snapped up instantly, brown eyes meeting green. "Did that hurt?" she asked, voice softer than before, as her gloved thumb swept lightly over the wound's edge in something almost like apology. "I'm sorry. I'm almost finished."
Aria focused then to the Glasgow Coma Scale assessment next. His eyes had been open since her arrival, so 4 points. "Can you tell me your name?"
"Frederick Krueger," he rasped. His voice was functional, she noted. Which is good.
"Do you know where you are and what year it is?"
"Springwood Hospital." A pause. "Year? Mmm, no idea." Confused orientation, 5-4 points verbal.
Aria frowned, not the worst response, but something prickled at the base of her skull. She reached for his left hand. "Squeeze my fingers." His grip clamped down instantly, stronger than any burn victim had right to be. Obeying commands, 6 points. "Y-you can let go now."
He didn't. His thumb traced a slow circle on her palm through the glove, and she jerked back. She cleared her throat before moving on. "Now I'm going to examine your whole body to see how much has been burnt. I won't remove any of the dressings I've already put, and I'll try to be as fast and careful as I can so you don't feel much pain, okay?" She didn't wait for an answer, already turning her attention to his body, turning it from one side to the other. Next, she lifted his arms and legs, making mental notes of every burnt part she could see and those she saw before. At least ninety percent coverage, most of it full-thickness burns, yet he was conscious, breathing, answering. Impossible. Yet here he was.
She worked meticulously, applying Biobrane to the partial-thickness burns on his forearms, smoothing the silicone film with her gloved fingers. The deepest burns, his face, his shoulders, ribs, and thighs, needed cadaver grafts.
When she pressed the cold allograft to his exposed pectoral muscle, his breath hitched again, and she caught the barest flicker of his tongue over his teeth. "Cold?" she asked. He blinked slowly, which she assumed was a yes. She warmed the next graft between her palms before applying it, and his eyelids fluttered shut.
Hours passed in a blur of saline irrigation and wound packing. For the worst areas, she set up the wound vac, sealing the foam dressing with transparent film before activating suction. The machine hummed to life, pulling fluid from his wounds. He watched her through half-lidded eyes as she worked, the unit silent except for the rhythmic hiss of the vacuum pump. She adjusted the pressure settings, her hands trembling slightly from exhaustion.
Finally, she stepped back, surveying her work. Dressings covered nearly every inch of him, silver and biosynthetic patches glinting under the unit lights. Freddy's eyes had closed completely now, whether sleeping or pretending, she couldn't tell. Aria sank into the chair beside his bed, the adrenaline fading. Her eyelids drooped. Just a moment's rest, then she'd chart everything. The last thing she registered before slipping under was the faintest scrape of something sharp against the mattress.
When she opened her eyes again, she was facing the wall of her bedroom, her hands grabbing the blanket tightly against herself. Already? She rubbed her face, noticing the lack of gloves and scrubs. She must have clocked out without remembering. The exhaustion clung to her bones as she dragged herself to the shower, scalding water doing little to ease the ache in her body.
At the hospital, she moved through her rounds mechanically until the dissonance struck. Frederick's bed stood empty, stripped clean. No transfer notes, no discharge papers. "Hey," she caught a colleague's sleeve, "where's Krueger? The full-thickness burns in bay three?"
The nurse frowned, confused. "No one by that name's been admitted this week." Aria's stomach dropped.
She checked the logs herself later, flipping through pages that showed no record of anyone with the name of Frederick Krueger or about the fire in the power plant. Her hands shook. She'd touched him. She'd treated him. How could this be?
Night shift came. As the ward emptied, Aria lingered near bay three, exhaustion dragging at her limbs until she slumped into the chair beside the vacant bed. Just for a moment, she told herself. All her other patients where in good enough condition. Her eyes fluttered shut. When they opened, the bed wasn't empty anymore. Frederick lay precisely as she'd left him, dressings intact, chest rising too evenly beneath the Biobrane. His eyes were fixed on her.
"You," She stood, gripping the bed rail. "You weren't here earlier." She knew she sounded like she was accusing him, but she was so damn confused and relieved at the same time.
Her gloved hands moved automatically, checking his IV line first. "Let's see those dressings." The wound vac hissed as she peeled back the film. Beneath, the foam dressing clung to charred muscle fibers with only a small amount of pus, which she quickly cleaned. Frederick's lips peeled back from yellowed teeth in something almost like approval.
Her fingers trembled as she smoothed fresh Biobrane over his ribs. "This isn't..." She bit her tongue. Professionals didn't voice doubts, they were calm and reassuring. But when she took a quick look at the catheter bag, she saw it was... Empty. Impossible after twelve hours. She reached for it, then froze. The tubing led nowhere, it simply vanished into his thigh like it had been sewn inside. "Did they... did someone mess with your lines?"
Frederick let out a breathy sound, almost like laughter.
"Is that a yes?" She paused, unsure. She hoped that wasn't the reason her coworkers got rid of his record. She wouldn't let them just abandon this man to die.
The IV line was tangled in the bed rail, forcing her to lean close enough to smell the charred meat beneath the sterile dressings. His breath stirred her hair as she worked, steady, controlled puffs of air against her sweaty skin. She ignored it, focusing on untangling the tubing with slow careful tugs.
The catheter situation required intervention. "Alright, let's... fix this." Her voice wavered only slightly as she prepped a new kit. She made a small incision on his thigh with the blade of her trauma shears, greenish blood welling up around the burnt tissue. She retrieved the phantom tubing, its end glistening with something viscous and dark. "There we go," she murmured, threading the new catheter. "Better?"
His fingers twitched against the mattress, and she caught herself smiling.
At 3 AM, she changed his Biobrane again. It felt like no time had passed, but the clock on the wall was clear of the passage of time. Frederick watched, his eyes tracking each motion as she peeled away the old silicone with gentleness. The new layer went on warm from her palms this time, before she smoothed the dressing down. "All done."
As dawn approached, her reflection in the glass door showed dark circles under her eyes, blonde curls pressed against the sweaty skin of her neck and forehead. Behind her, Frederickâs silhouette sat up abruptly, dressings rustling. She turned just in time to see him settle back down, motionless as before. Hallucinations. Fatigue. She grabbed her forearm hard enough to bruise before letting go and putting on a smile.
She turned back towards her patient. "I'm going to get a book to read for you, alright? It'll only take me a minute or two." She hesitated at the door, glancing back. Frederick remained still, his burnt lips slightly parted. The door clicked shut behind her.
The hallway stretched longer than she remembered, flickering fluorescents casting shadows that seemed to move when she wasnât looking. Was it always this creepy? She could barely remember the previous nights, too exhausted and sleep deprived. She always stays during the night shift.
Aria paused mid-step, squinting at the empty nursing station. No one. She swallowed, fingers tightening around the hem of her scrubs. The pharmacy door stood aja, inside vials of morphine gleaming under emergency lighting. She reached for them, then froze. The morphine wasnât stocked here. This was the pediatric wing. Wrong floor. Shit. How-? She turned, nearly colliding with Frederickâs chest.
Aria stumbled back, hitting the counter. "What-?" She paused, nervously swallowing saliva. "You shouldn't be up. You shouldn't even be moving. Come on," she carefully took his arm. "Let's get you back to bed." She led him back, glancing at the empty hall, and helped him settle onto the bed, checking his IV.
"Okay. Okay," she repeated. "Right. I'm going to stay. No book for you. Someone has to watch you closely so you don't go wandering around again, huh?" Frederick remained silent. She huffed, putting a nasogastric tube into his nose, guiding it down his throat when she felt his teeth gnawing against her fingers. She swallowed thickly, pulling back as soon as it was secured. "Behave," she scolded him softly, adjusting his dressings carefully.
Freddy watched her intently, his charred lips curling slightly as she weighed him. The numbers flickered nonsensically, negative values, impossibly low, before settling into something plausible. "Hmm," she murmured, adjusting his IV flow rate based on the false data. She then focused on checking his urine output bag, frowning at the thick, greenish fluid collecting there. "That's...not right," she whispered, then shook her head again. "Must be the lighting." She emptied the bag mechanically despite the growing unease coiling in her stomach.
When she turned to prepare his high-calorie feeding solution, her back to him as she worked, Frederickâs fingers twitched against the sheets with the need to slash. He's been patient, playing his role, but he was tiring of waiting. He settled down when she returned with the syringe, connecting it to his nasogastric tube. "Thisâll help," she murmured, unaware of how his eyes darkened with amusement at her words. His tongue dragged over cracked lips as she pressed the plunger, following the pass her eyes made over his exposed chest, checking for anything she needed to do. He wondered if she realized she was humming under her breath, some absentminded tune to soothe herself as much as him. His tune.
She adjusted the drip of his IV tubing yet again, her brow furrowing at the inconsistent flow rate. Frederick watched, fascinated, as she cursed under her breath and tapped the bag. The fluid inside swirled sluggishly, clinging to the plastic. "Damn thing," she muttered, fingers tightening around the tubing to clear the obstruction. He could have told her blood doesn't flow right in the dead, but where's the fun in that? Instead, he let out a sigh when she flushed the line, enjoying the way her fingers jumped at the sound. "Sorry," she whispered automatically, her thumb brushing over his wrist in apology. The contact lasted half a second before she removed it. He wanted more.
His fingers curled in anticipation towards her when she leaned over to check his catheter, her hip brushing his thigh. His nasogastric tube tugged when she turned away again, the sudden resistance making her pause. She turned back to find him staring, his head tilted in silent question.
"What?" she asked, then flushed when his gaze dropped pointedly to her hands. "Oh. Uh..." She wet her lips unconsciously. "When youâre better," she said softly, adjusting his blankets to hide her fluster. "If you behave... I... I'll give you anything you want. A book, a toy, a sweet. Anything." The heart monitor beeped once, loud and clear, before calming back into it's usual rhythm. She didn't notice the way his pupils dilated at the promise.
After what seemed like an hour, Aria stood up from her seat to fetch the stress ulcer prophylaxis medications. She felt watched, but chalked it up to paranoia as she returned with the syringe. "This will help," she murmured, pressing the needle to his IV port.
The hydrotherapy unit hummed to life as Aria prepared for mechanical debridement, her movements careful despite the way her pulse jumped when she peeled back his dressings. His burns were worse than she remembered, deeper, angrier, but he didnât even flinch when she touched them. She focused on the task, scrubbing gently at the slough, trying not to dwell on how his skin felt under her fingers, rough in some places, strangely smooth in others. Then she reached his hips and froze. His penis was half-hard against his thigh, the burned skin stretched taut but fragile looking. She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. "Itâs... normal," she managed, her voice higher than she intended. "Nerve stimulation. Doesnât mean anything." She didnât look at his face as she quickly cleaned the area, but she felt his gaze burning into her.
Freddy could feel her warmth through the gloves, he could see the way her shoulders tensed. She was so careful, so clinical, even as her cheeks flushed pink. He wanted to peel her out of those scrubs layer by layer, see how far that professionalism would stretch. But he let her believe it was just reflexes, nerves misfiring. The lie was worth the wait.
Aria adjusted the IV drip, her fingers lingering on the tubing longer than necessary, grounding herself. The fluid was thick again, sluggish, but she ignored it, focusing on the numbers, 30 mL/hr, that was the target. She checked his catheter next, her stomach twisting at the greenish fluid in the bag. Again? Could it be infection? Impossible. Sheâd been meticulous. She glanced at him, but he just stared back, his lips curled in that faint, permanent and knowing smirk. She looked away first, busying herself with the nasogastric tube, trying to ignore the heat crawling up her neck.
The heart monitor beeped erratically as she leaned over him to adjust the feeding line yet again, her hip brushing his thigh. She felt it then, the deliberate press of his leg against her, the way his fingers twitched toward her wrist. "Stop that," she whispered. She should pull away, be professional. Taking advantage of patients was not... The room felt smaller suddenly, the walls pressing in, the air too warm. She could hear her own heartbeat in her ears, loud and fast, drowning out the steady drip of the IV, the hum of the machines, everything but the sound of his breath, ragged and eager, matching hers. "I-I need to breathe, I need to-" She couldn't finish her sentence before rushing out of the room.
Freddy let her go, listening her footsteps echoing down the hall. The chase was always better when they ran. His burns ached deliciously with every movement, the pain a familiar friend as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The IV tore free with a wet sound, the catheter next, the tubing slick with that strange, greenish fluid. The blood welled up slowly and thickly from the wounds, dripping down his chest, his thighs, pooling on the floor. He stood, savoring the stretch of charred muscle, the pull of skin barely holding together. She'd left the door open in her panic. How thoughtful.
Aria pressed her back against the cold wall of the supply closet, gulping air. This wasn't happening. She was exhausted, hallucinating, that was all. That was her patient, no, no, no. She squeezed her eyes shut, counting backwards from ten. When she opened them, he was there, filling the doorway, the light behind him. He grinned at her horrified gasp. "You left me all alone, nurse," he crooned, stepping closer. The scent of burnt flesh, antiseptic, and blood filled the tiny space as his half-bandaged hand came up to cup her cheek. "You owe me," he murmured, pressing her into the wall. Her pulse jumped under his fingers. "You said you'd take care of me. So take care of me."
His erection pressed insistently against her thigh, hot even through the fabric of her scrubs. Her mouth opened and closed, words failing. His other hand trailed down her side, gripping her hip. "I've been a good boy, haven't I?"
She swallowed hard, shaking her head. "You... you're supposed to be in bed!" Her voice cracked.
"And you're supposed to be taking care of me." His fingers tightened on her hip, pulling her against him. "You promised." He shifted, guiding her trembling hand to his cock, his burned flesh twitching under her fingers. "You can stop anytime," he lied, pressing her fingers tighter around him. "Just say the word." But his grip didn't loosen, he didn't let her pull away. His hips jerked into her hesitant touch. "Come on, Aria," he whispered. "Do it for your patient."
She squeezed her eyes shut, focusing on the rhythm, the way he groaned when her thumb brushed the head, the way his breath hitched when she tightened her grip. "Good girl," he praised, leaning over her, his breath hitting her ear. "So good." She swallowed, forcing herself to keep going, her fingers slick with precum and the faintest traces of his blood. "Just a little more," he urged, pressing her hand tighter. "Come on, don't stop now."
She whimpered, shaking her head. "I can't."
"Yes, you can," he growled, his hips stuttering. His fingers tangled in hers, guiding her movements faster, rougher, shuddering against her grip.
"Promise me you'll stay in bed," she begged.
He was breathless, his hips jerking erratically. "Promise," he gasped, shuddering against her. "I promise." He came with a groan, sticky warmth covering her fingers. He slumped against her, panting, his forehead resting against hers. "I'm ready to go back to bed, my little helper," he murmured, smirking lazily at her shocked face.
"R-right," she stammered, wiping her hands furiously on her scrubs before helping him limp back to the bed, her face burning. Once there, she cleaned him thoroughly, her hands shaking as she replaced the IV heâd ripped out, her stomach twisting at the sight of his torn flesh.
"Stop looking so guilty," he teased, watching her dab at the blood. "You didn't do anything I didn't want."
She swallowed hard, focusing on the task. "You shouldn't have-" she muttered. "You're bleeding."
He snorted. "Oh, honey, I've bled worse."
She hesitated, then adjusted his IV drip, her fingers tapping the bag to clear the air bubbles. "Fluid balance," she muttered, more to herself than him. "You need this." He watched her with rapt attention, fascinated by the way her brow furrowed in concentration. Stubborn little piggy, he mused.
Once she was done, she went to an adjacent bathroom, leaving the door open. Her hands still smelled like him. She scrubbed them raw in the sink, her reflection pale in the fluorescent light. Behind her, the heart monitor beeped steadily. What has she done?
She turned, half expecting him to be gone again. But there he was, watching her. "Still here," he assured her, lacing his fingers behind his head. "Just like you asked."
She sighed slowly, gripping the edge of the sink behind her. "Good," she whispered. "Stay."
He winked. "Wouldn't dream of leaving."
"And put your arms down," she scolded instead of reacting to his teasing. "You'll pull your IV again." She walked back to him, her hands still damp, and resumed her duties.
"You're cute when you're worried."
She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah."
Then, without warning, he reached up and grabbed her wrist, startling her. She should pull away, call for someone to help, she knew she should. But instead, she just stood there, frozen, her wrist trapped in his grip. "Your temperature is elevated," she said weakly.
He chuckled. "Yeah, nurse. I noticed."
She closed her eyes, breathing shakily. "You're impossible."
"And yet," he murmured, tugging her closer, "here you are." She didn't resist when he pulled her down onto the bed, her knees hitting the mattress as she stumbled forward. His hands slid up her arms, leaving streaks of drying blood on her scrubs.
"You're getting me dirty," she protested half-heartedly.
He grinned, unrepentant. "You'll live." And then his mouth was on hers, hot and insistent, his teeth tugging her lower lip. She gasped, her hands flying up to his shoulders, to push him away or pull him closer, she wasn't sure. His tongue slid against hers, tasting like copper and something sickly sweet, making her shudder. Her fingers tightened in his shoulders, making him groan against her mouth, his hands sliding down to her hips and pulling her flush against him. She could feel him hardening again, pressing against her thigh.
"Freddy, " she gasped, breaking the kiss.
"Shh," he murmured, nuzzling her throat. "Just relax." Her pulse pounded in her ears. This was wrong. So wrong. But his hands were everywhere, burning her through the thin fabric of her scrubs, and she couldn't think. She couldn't stop.
