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It was hardly fair, Frederick thinks, to be given the weakest skillset in these inane games.
Bitter resentment weighs heavily on his tongue each time he sits at the table, staring down at the soup that seems to be mocking him. Looking at his other survivors, it was almost laughable how much more utility they were given, versus the poor composer. The composer who hears the decoding in his head, coming in the form of beautiful music that exists only to him, and also, very important: being able to run a little faster for a short moment.
“Haha…” Frederick puts his face in his gloved hands, laughing quietly to himself and shaking his head where he sits at the table. The others barely acknowledge him, intently focused on their food— even their favorite dishes cannot distract them from the distress looming on the horizon. Frederick considers telling the Baron this fact in his next letter, the one where he desperately asks for a different ability.
A sidelong glance at the end of the table, Frederick could not help but notice the mercenary staring at him. How charming.
“Something on your mind, Mr. Subedar?” His accent echoed into the walls of the dining hall, cutting through their mutual, unspoken silence.
“Just wishing we had Balsa.”
That surprised Frederick to hear, and it also caught the attention of Melly and Vera, both of them sitting up a little straighter in their chairs, sparing glances at each other.
“You do not even like Balsa.”
“Do you think something as petty as my personal feelings has a place during these games?” Naib scoffed and leaned back in his chair, grabbing a piece of meat and shoving it in his mouth. “He just is a lot better at these things than you.” A swallow, and Naib could see the sour look on Frederick’s face. Tutting, he shook his head. “Don’t get all emotional.”
“I simply find that rather rude to say.”
“Like I said: personal feelings? No place.”
Vera cleared her throat and put down her drink. “I have to agree with Subedar.”
“You do not have to…”
The woman turned closer to him, resting her head in her hand, shrugging uncaringly. “Personally, I prefer Evelyn. Or Tracy. Tracy is wonderful. You are…”
“Don’t.” Frederick held up a hand and stared straight ahead, eyes unfocusing. “I don’t need you to say anything more.” The fork dropped to his plate with a clatter, and he could see Melly flinch slightly out of the corner of his eye. It was a terrible time for them to make eye contact, and the fact that she opted not to say anything in his defense spoke volumes. “It is not as though I chose this.”
Naib pushed his plate out in front of him, and silently, Vera spooned the rest of her dish onto his flatware. “No, it just makes you the weakest person on the team.”
There was nothing he could say to that. It was reminiscent of the Kreiburg family: survival of the fittest goes on, despite those left behind. It was cruel that, even here, he could not measure up. Perhaps that is part of the torture of it all.
✩✩✩
This is how Frederick ends up alone in Eversleeping. Attempting to cipher rush as fast as possible was difficult with a hyper-aggressive hunter like the Nightmare. Crows constantly fly around his cipher machine, not only leaving him unfocused, but with a great sense of unease, for more reasons than one.
Nightmare does this thing in the games that he does not do with anyone else, in which he refuses to chair the composer until the last possible moment. Frederick cannot even tell if it is a coincidence that this happens, and he is sure that no one else has bothered to track this kind of thing— these games have been going on so long, many of the survivors hardly have the wherewithal to watch them anymore. But each time he has gone against the hunter (the five, now six times), the bird leaves him to be the last survivor on the map, letting him get up once, and eventually catches up to chair him.
It was a strategy, surely. Frederick's short boost of adrenaline is not faster than the rush the hunter gets towards the end of the game; being able to dash twice in a row renders the musician useless. Just like everyone already thought he was.
With Melly and Naib eliminated, and Vera making her escape through the gate, it was up to the composer now. Approaching the open gate, he knew exactly what would happen. Frederick did not even bother to go for the gate; the bird teleported right to him, staring him down with those bloodthirsty eyes.
Frederick’s blood roared in his ears as he sprinted from the hunter, the fear almost intoxicating. Being preyed upon by these beasts is not his idea of fun, but he can’t help being drawn to the rush. It’s a pure feeling he finds nowhere else, heightened under Nightmare’s gaze.
Yet, that fear always comes with pain in the end, and Frederick accepts his fate as he rounds the corner to see that his lifeline, the dungeon, is not where he thought. Desperately, he looked to his left: a pallet broken; his right: a wall; behind him: the terrifying beast. He lost. Frederick made them lose this game. And he was alone. He let his teammates down, and he made them lose.
Dead weight gets left behind.
Collapsing to his knees, his head found his hands again, hiding his hurt and shame. What a pathetic man he was. His heart was still beating in his ears as he waited for Nightmare to deliver his killing blow. His body tensed as he heard those heavy footsteps. Yes, his pain tolerance has increased greatly, yet getting hurt doesn’t get easier. Those seconds were as agonizing as the laceration would be. That is, if the laceration came, of course.
Frederick was confused now. Slowly, he lifted his face from hiding and stared up at the Hunter. His intimidating presence towered over him, and just looking at him triggered that fear response— that familiar rush. Yet, here the hunter stood. They stared at one another for a moment, before— in a very bird-like fashion— Nightmare tilted his head, looking down at the composer.
“What… is this?” His voice was powerful, but not loud, and it hardly ever occurred to Frederick that the hunter would speak to him or even could, as many of them do not. It took a moment to realize that this was the beginning of a conversation. He desperately willed his brain to slow down as he rose to his feet.
“I—” Before Frederick could say more, the Nightmare shoved him to the ground once again, the composer hitting the pavement as the wind was knocked out of him. It was not a hunter hit, though; it was just a shove, like he was being bullied on the playground. “What was that?”
Another head tilt, and a sound escaped the bird that seemed akin to a laugh— what was so funny about this was lost on Frederick, but Nightmare seemed to be having a good time. He speaks again, just as slow as before. “You stay on your knees when you talk to me, Kreiburg.”
Oh.
Frederick does as he is told, shifting his weight to his knees. A small chirp escaped the Hunter, and he could tell that he was pleased with this. Whatever this is. The gravel was digging into the material of his trousers, and he arched his neck to look right up at Nightmare. The distraction almost made him forget what the bird originally wanted. “I am giving up.”
“Why… Why give up, Kreiburg?” He took a step forward, the tip of his finger now poking at Frederick’s chest. “You’re supposed to be trying to escape.”
He surely was supposed to be. Yet, he was also supposed to have a team that believed in him. He was supposed to be successful. He was supposed to be loved. There is a lot he was supposed to do, and that has all slipped through his fingers. Instead of saying all of this, he simply gave a defeated huff in the hunter's direction.
“If I kill you right now, I will win.” Nightmare got extremely in his face at this, the finger that had the needlepoint pen dragged up his clothes, notching the top button, and snuffing the life out of it as it tumbled to the ground to be lost forever.
“What is stopping you?” Frederick asked, genuinely.
Frederick could hear the tram passing by somewhere in the area, but other than that, the pair had dead silence between them for several uneasy moments. In all honesty, the composer had never been in a Hunter’s presence for this long. The company that the survivors keep is not exactly friendly with the other faction, even if there was nothing stopping either of the sides from intermingling. The hurt that the hunters cause and the subsequent resentment that the survivors have towards them do not create an environment conducive to companionship. So, kneeling in front of Nightmare, vulnerable for so long, and only a button had fallen victim to harm was odd, to say the least.
“The Baron is going to wonder what is taking you so long, you know?” Another genuine concern that, the moment it left Frederick’s lips, caused a cold uproar of laughter for something that was not a joke once again. It was a swift motion, from being on the ground to being carried in Nightmare’s arms. The bird held him like he weighed nothing, cradling him close to his chest, beginning to walk away from where Frederick was previously keeping himself on the ground, but Nightmare gave no indication of where they were going. The composer was limp in his arms, tired from running, his ears ringing from the decoding and his tinnitus. Pale eyes slithered up to Nightmare, dragging over his grand form. He never thought he would say this, but the Hunter… smells good? Almost familiar.
Across the map and up a set of stairs, Nightmare did not let go, even as he sat down on one of the old beds in the many abandoned rooms. Again, without his permission, Nightmare lifted Frederick by the waist so that he was sitting on his legs, his back to Nightmare. Then, most unexpectedly of all, slender fingers pulled on the ribbon holding up Frederick’s hair, letting the silvery curls cascade down his shoulders like a gentle rain. There came another noise from Nightmare— birdlike, and happy at the display.
Frederick was completely disarmed, rendered flustered and speechless by the soft actions of Nightmare. Luckily, he did not have to think of anything clever to say; the other filled the silence. “Why did everyone abandon you?” Kreiburg froze, looking down at the one hand keeping him in place in Nightmare’s lap: large and imposing. The other, he finds, begins to run through the ends of his hair delicately. “Why were you the one left behind?
The weight of all these questions began to choke Frederick, a pretty blue locket tightening around his neck, not unlike the rope Aunt Mary used to hang herself. The muscle in his jaw tightened so much, it hurt the nerves running down his neck— a taut bow string ready to snap. A deep breath was sucked in; this was all easier since the bird could not see his face. “I ran out of use, it seems.”
He regarded this comment for what it was, and perhaps the Nightmare did not mean to twist his own words to shank Frederick, leaving him to bleed out another way, or more likely, this was his own different kind of torture. A kind silence reached them both, the bird brushing Frederick’s waves with keen interest, and the panic and depression that was rising in the composer’s chest began to subside. A low voice mutters in his ear, quiet enough that if the tram were passing, he would have missed it. “I could use you, Kreiburg…”
“Use… me?” Frederick finally turned around to look at the hunter, and, without his body’s permission, his gloves touched the side of Nightmare’s mask. It was warm. “For what?”
Another stretch of silence, except the blood roaring in his ears was loud, as that needlepoint finger nicked away two more buttons on Frederick’s shirt. The cut felt like a razor blade drawing across his skin, and the blood beaded from his pale chest just as easily. He avoided looking down, as the red patterns swirling throughout his body were not something he really needed a reminder of. Yet, that did not seem to bother Nightmare, and happy nudges and nips were given to Frederick’s sensitive ears. The composer sighed quietly, his head beginning to spin.
“You are exactly what I have been looking for… Kreiburg…” The weapon fell to the ground with a clatter— an unceremonious removal— and a barrier broken. His hand continued to make its journey lower. “Perfect, pretty Kreiburg.”
“I… don’t find myself to be any of that…” It was upsettingly honest, but Nightmare seemed unfazed by his self-deprecation, massaging the insides of his thighs.
“I know you do not…. You are much more than that…” A hand smeared blood further across Frederick's chest, a pinch appeared in his brow from the pain, yet that feeling was eclipsed quickly as Nightmare’s palm began to move in slow motion over his crotch. “You are a… a novel having fallen open in my lap… on the page that I had been searching for.” Frederick could feel himself getting hard, and Nightmare could too, pressing down his hand more. As if this was Nightmare’s goal the entire time, a soft moan was emitted from the composer, with a low, accomplished chuckle coming from Nightmare. “Very good… I should keep you for myself…”
He was hardly sure what was going on, especially as Nightmare’s intentions became clearer to him. Frederick was hardly sure what was going on with himself. Sitting in his lap, Frederick started to feel that exact same rush. The blood he could feel coursing through his body, his heart rate higher, shallow breath, combined with feelings he cannot get anywhere else. What he did know was that his instincts were deciding for him what to do, his hips moving on their own into the touch of Nightmare. Despite only one of them being a man, the composer felt like a desperate animal, rutting against the hand of the hunter as he accepted the situation he was in now.
The pathetic display seemed to have pleased Nightmare, as an approving whistle was made in the composer’s ear, and the button of his pants was easily nicked off as well. In an attempt to make this easier, Frederick moved to remove his clothes— this offended the bird, as his wrists were easily wrapped up in the hunter’s hand and pinned to his chest as he removed the items of clothing with his free hand.
“You sit and relax… Kreiburg…” The command was a low gravel in Frederick’s ear, his mask nudging at his ears, then his neck. “I won’t say it again.”
“Ah… I apologize…”
“Shhh…” Trousers and underwear were quickly discarded, and there was hardly time to think before the large hand wrapped around his cock, the formerly broken hand moved in slow motions, much slower than Frederick wanted. This was made obvious by the way he was squirming against the hunter; heavy gasps came out of his mouth rather than outright moans. Nightmare’s calloused hand was an entirely different sensation than he had ever gotten from another’s hand, or his own— and it would be remiss to ignore the way that the hunter’s large hand easily engulfed Frederick’s dick.
The teasing meant that his tip was already leaking. One of Nightmare’s large fingers pressed down on it, causing Frederick to whine, thrusting against the touch even more. Another laugh, and fuck, why was everything to Nightmare so damn amusing? A snide comment was leaving Frederick’s lips, but Nightmare’s own words eclipsed his insults. “So wet already… Just for me?”
What an odd thing to ask, but Frederick could hardly interrogate the meaning behind it all: the way the hunter was still teasing him, yet asking for reassurance in the same breath, as well as acting possessive over his new toy— no, the composer moaned even louder as it seems that observation fueled Nightmare to bend Frederick further and further. His theory was proven correct, as the attention given to the head of his cock increased, whimpering moans bubbling out of him as he could not take his eyes off of Nightmare’s hands. Frederick’s own hands flexed under the hold of the hunter, helpless, as he jerked him off faster and faster.
“Oh… God…” Frederick’s own mouth could no longer be controlled; what were once soft gasps turned into staccato moans with every movement made from Nightmare’s hand. He could hardly think straight; only the hands and touch and smell of the Hunter were in Frederick’s mind now. He completely forgot that they were still in a game, as well. His pants were bunched around his ankles, and he pressed further against Nightmare. Frederick is entirely unsure what is under the hunter’s clothes, but if Nightmare has a dick, Frederick wants to grind on it immediately.
Evidently, he does, and Frederick tries his best to press against it before a large hand is wrapped around his waist, spinning him face-to-face with Nightmare. That same expression held by the mask never changes, but the gravelly tone of voice indicates something else entirely.
“Kreiburg…”
“I can do that for you, too.”
“No.” Nightmare said that too quickly, and Frederick could hear the conflict in his voice. “Not today… Today you are my doll. Pretty doll… I will fix you.”
“Fix me…?”
The hand began moving, and it felt so much more intimate facing Nightmare now, his waist being held like a lover, Frederick’s hands pressed against Nightmare’s chest. “You are always wanted… by me…” With that, he tightens his hand, seemingly tired of the teasing. Loud moans are what the hunter gets in return. Frederick is unable to stop moaning out Nightmare’s name in tandem with the way he is fucking his hand, desperate for more friction between them. This was that bloodpumping, headrush that left him feeling like he belonged somewhere for the first time in a long time. Or forever.
Frederick’s hands curled tightly into Nightmare’s shirt, which was the only warning that he got to let him know he was close. The noises that Frederick made were hardly masculine or dignified; instead, they were high-pitched whines that left him feeling like he was in heat. Desperate moans came out in babbles, and he begged for Nightmare in a way he would never do for any mortal man, as he completely lost himself in the pleasure of his touch. “Nightmare… ah— fuck, please, please—”
A happy noise came from the hunter as he nodded. “Yes, Kreiburg, be good and finish in my hand.” That was all the further permission that he needed, as Frederick finally snapped. The cry of pleasure echoed across the walls of the dilapidated room as he did exactly as he was told, for once, being a good listener. It was overwhelming in the best way, as his hand fucked Frederick through his orgasm. The kindness, though, had its limits, as Nightmare did not seem quite finished with him. The hand only moved faster and faster, even after Frederick came.
“W— I— too much, please—”
A soft tutting as Frederick’s tears began to spill from the overstimulation, his hands grabbed the Hunter in a way that he knew should have been painful, but it did not deter Nightmare. “Hush… I know you can take it.”
If Frederick truly wanted him to stop, he could have put his hand out to stop him. Instead, he began grinding into his hand even harder. Overstimulation was that same pain that he secretly craved from these games, and he did not quite mind being at the mercy of the Hunter even now. Frederick could hardly think straight, being in Nightmare’s lap, and it was then that he knew that he would let him do anything.
“I want you to finish for me again…” A quiet demand, and the slick from Frederick's previous orgasm made it all the easier for those rough hands to run smoothly up and down his cock.
“Don’t stop… please… God…” Hands moved to the Hunter’s shoulders as Frederick stabilized himself to use Nightmare’s hand to fuck into even faster: the large digits now served as nothing more than a hole designed for the composer's pleasure, as after his first orgasm, everything felt far more intense: dancing on a live wire of lustfulness at the hands of the hunter.
As Frederick’s noises increased, the hand on his waist tightened, and he just knew his pale skin was going to get bruises in the shapes of Nightmare’s fingertips by the end of this: a reminder of who he belongs to.
He did not clue Nightmare in on this toxic train of thought, but it was enough for Frederick’s orgasm to reach him without warning. Choking out another sob as he came even harder this time, his load even larger, and he could almost see Nightmare’s eyes glimmer as he observed the display.
Watching his release stain the hunter’s hand, and Frederick suddenly felt possessive over Nightmare, too.
“I—”
“You are perfect…” Nightmare soothed him through the comedown, once again running his hand through the waves in his hair. “You should come see me again… Kreiburg. The other hunters… are fond of you too.”
That comment took Frederick by surprise, a frown gracing his features. “Other… hunters?”
It seemed like his question fell on deaf ears, as after a small nip to Frederick’s neck, Nightmare lifted him off his lap. “Go get to the dungeon, Kreiburg… I will see you soon.”
Without another word, Nightmare left him.
✩✩✩
“We tied?” Vera’s voice cut through the common room as the match results finally came through; Frederick had just left the infirmary. She turned, looking at him. “You look like hell, composer.”
Something incomprehensible was muttered out, and Frederick shrugged. “Did none of you watch?” He asked, staring at his other survivors. The girls avoided eye contact, but Naib unflinchingly told him he didn’t bother. “I got dungeon.”
With that, Frederick left for his own quarters. Perhaps Nightmare is right: he doesn’t belong there with them.