Work Text:
The last things Gi-hun remembers before waking up are a gunshot and screaming.
So much screaming.
Fragmented memories play in his mind when he tries to recall the moments leading up to the disastrous end of the rebellion.
Disorienting hallways.
Bright pink jumpsuits stained red.
Young-il's voice—his last words—garbled by the static of the radio.
Sharp edges of a dark mask.
And then, that gunshot followed by a scream.
His scream, he realizes.
Because Jung-bae had been—
His eyes shoot open, blinking against the bright overhead lights, but his body remains still. Against all odds, he's back in the dorms, the bed frame of a bunk digging into his back through the thin mattress.
There are whispers around him until he hears a gasp when they notice he's awake.
The old woman's face comes into view first before three others follow. Their shadows effectively shield him from being blinded further, and he sees Jun-hee, Yong-sik, and Hyun-ju's concerned faces staring back at him.
Gi-hun isn't sure who speaks first. Their mouths are moving, but he can’t make out the words in his daze. His ears are still ringing with the memory of deafening ammunition. Their frowns deepen, and their eyebrows draw closer together the longer Gi-hun doesn't respond.
Slowly, he begins to sit upright while a hand on his arm supports him. Players across the room stare back, the majority of them wearing blue patches. A sudden feeling of dread makes his blood run cold.
“What about the others?” Gi-hun looks at Hyun-ju, and immediately, he knows.
Every single one—killed. Killed because of him. And he, alone, was kept alive.
Why? Why am I allowed to live? It's my fault—
“And Jung-bae?” Hyun-ju doesn't let herself sound hopeful.
Gi-hun locks eyes with her, and he knows she understands without needing him to say a word.
Jung-bae and Young-il's final words echo through his mind. The blaring sound of a buzzer and the doors sliding open are the only things that keep him from spiraling further.
The guard speaks, and the giant piggy bank lowers, but Gi-hun hardly takes in any of it.
Before his brain can catch up with his body, he stalks over to the guards. “Why did you keep me alive? Why didn't you kill me?” His voice bounces around the room, demanding answers.
Why did he get to live? Young-il… Jung-bae… Everyone who had joined the rebellion… They were all just following his orders. If anyone should've been killed, it should have been him.
A guard aims their gun at him, but he doesn’t think they’ll shoot—not after already sparing his life. For whatever reason, he was to be kept alive. Taking matters into his own hands, Gi-hun grabs the gun and pulls the trigger while holding it against his forehead. The safety is on, shattering any hope he had of ending his suffering.
He's still screaming as the guards restrain him, but Gi-hun struggles against them. Tears run down his face, and his throat is raw. Eventually, the fight leaves him, and he goes limp in their grip.
The handcuff digs into Gi-hun's wrist, but the pain doesn't register. His gaze is unfocused, and whatever words that are being spoken go unheard. Players stand in their respective groups as the guards roll out the podium.
Gi-hun faintly hears his player number being called, but he sits unmoving. His body feels weak, all energy gone, leaving him to slump against the bunk.
He had failed and had gotten innocent people killed. Now, they were outnumbered, and even more lives would be lost.
“Player 456, please cast your vote.”
Gi-hun still doesn't react.
“If you don't show an intent to vote—”
The clang of the doors opening, and the heavy footsteps that follow, cuts the guard off.
Within seconds, sleek, black boots stop in front of Gi-hun. He refuses to look up at the familiar mask he knows is above him. The same mask that was hovering over him hours before as the man wearing it killed Jung-bae.
The Front Man crouches down, and a leather-clad finger traces Gi-hun's jawline. He grips his chin, forcing Gi-hun's head upward.
He's met with the blank stare of the mask. Gi-hun thinks he can see a flicker of something there, but the mesh obscures his view. Gi-hun grits his teeth, fighting the bile that threatens to rise up.
“Player 456, you have to vote.” Gi-hun scoffs and jerks his head, trying to loosen the grip on his face. Fingers tighten and hold his head in place. “We have to keep the games fair.”
Gi-hun can't do much more than glare before he hears the click of the handcuff unlocking, and he's being pulled roughly to his feet. He stumbles as he's dragged forward, the bruising grasp around his bicep keeping him from falling.
The podium is pressing into his hips before he even has a chance to try to escape. His hands lay flat against the surface, and the Front Man is crowding behind him, his chest pressed against Gi-hun's back effectively pinning him in place. Through the fabric of his jacket, Gi-hun can feel the hand on his bicep trail down the length of his arm until it reaches his own. The touch is warm without the leather between them, but Gi-hun can’t suppress the shiver that ripples through him. The man continues his path over the back of his hand, taking his time to map the patterns of Gi-hun’s veins and run his fingers over every knuckle. Each gentle caress sends sparks up his spine and heat low in his abdomen.
Gi-hun’s nerves are on fire, heart racing, by the time the Front Man is done memorizing the velvety feel of his skin and sets his palm firmly over Gi-hun’s hand. With the Front Man so close to him, Gi-hun is made acutely aware of their difference in size. He's shorter than Gi-hun, but his shoulders and chest are broad, and his large hand easily engulfs Gi-hun’s slender one.
“Press the button, Player 456.”
“No,” Gi-hun spits out. The Front Man pushes forward, and the edge of the podium digs further into Gi-hun’s skin. His voice is deep and low, and his breath is warm where it brushes against his ear.
“Don’t be difficult, Gi-hun.”
Gi-hun's body goes rigid.
That voice… He knows that voice, no longer changed through the modulator of the mask. Blindfolded in the back of the limo, it had spoken to him. But there's a part in the back of his brain that is nagging at him to remember where else he has heard it.
A hand cards through his hair, clutches a fistful of the short strands, and shoves his head forward. It's rough and firm, meant to keep him from looking back. Gi-hun is bent further over the podium, and the hand on top of his pushes down harder as the Front Man shifts closer. The heat radiating between them is almost unbearable, and Gi-hun tries to wiggle free. It's no use with the other man's larger body bearing down on his smaller frame.
“Must you always be so stubborn?” The words are muttered into his neck. Then he feels a soft press of lips against his skin and a slight roll of the Front Man's hips behind him.
Mortification pulses through him. “What— You can't— People are watching.”
An amused exhale tickles his neck before the Front Man speaks in a low tone. “It’s only us here.”
His eyes snap up, and for the first time since he's been forced up to the podium, Gi-hun realizes the guards are no longer there. In fact, he hasn't heard any noise from the players either. He tries to turn his head to confirm they are also gone, but the hand in his hair holds him in place.
“Where did everyone—?”
“Shh.” Another roll of his hips, and Gi-hun's breath catches in his throat. “Don’t worry. Just be good, and keep looking forward.”
Gi-hun hesitates, but nods against his better judgment, and the Front Man releases his hair and trails his hand down his spine before letting it rest on Gi-hun's waist. His muscles feel taut under the touch, tense with uncertainty, but anticipation starts to cloud any doubts. On their own accord, his hips push back and meet the other man’s growing arousal. Gi-hun feels a sigh against his neck and can feel his own erection trapped between himself and the podium as the Front Man presses further against Gi-hun’s ass.
He thinks he should be horrified, but his body is thrumming with want, pulse quickening. Instead of stopping this from going any further, Gi-hun finds himself matching the pace of the Front Man’s rutting. Quiet, almost breathless moaning and the rustle of fabric against fabric are the only sounds in the room. Then, the hand on his waist is suddenly in front of his mouth, fingers tracing his lips.
“Open.” Gi-hun doesn’t know why he listens—maybe because some part of him finds that voice familiar and trustworthy—but his mouth parts, and he can feel the weight of two fingers on his tongue. There’s a faint earthy, almost bitter taste that lingers on the Front Man’s hands from the leather of his gloves. He pushes deeper into his mouth, and Gi-hun almost chokes.
“Keep going. You’re doing so good.” His voice is rough in Gi-hun’s ear, and he can’t help but groan around the fingers working their way into his mouth. He swirls his tongue around the digits, and the Front Man continues to shove them further, prodding at the back of Gi-hun’s throat, close to gagging him. He can feel spit start to run down his chin, and a spark of arousal shoots through him. Shame doesn’t enter Gi-hun’s mind as he lets the Front Man have his way with him; instead, all he feels is desire and a morbid curiosity to see how far this will go.
Lips wrapped around long fingers, Gi-hun hollows his cheeks and sucks. The man behind him grinds against Gi-hun while he runs his fingers over his molars. He finds the space where the tracker once was, and the tip of his finger digs into the hole left behind. Gi-hun makes a pained noise, but he ignores it in favor of continuing to work his tongue around his fingers.
Once they are sufficiently coated in saliva, Gi-hun feels the pads of his fingers drag across his tongue before leaving his mouth empty. He’s panting, still trying to catch his breath, when he feels a thumb hook into his waistband and pull his pants down around his thighs. A startled gasp escapes him when, in the next second, there’s a slick pressure against his hole. His free hand grips the edge of the podium as he prepares for the ache of the intrusion.
“Relax, Gi-hun.”
He can’t when there’s hot breath ghosting over the shell of his ear, and every touch leaves him feeling exposed, nerves frayed with the suspense of what would come next.
The hand that still rests on top of his squeezes once, and a calloused thumb rubs circles into the back of his hand in what Gi-hun thinks is meant to be reassurance. It would be sweet if it was anyone else, but Gi-hun doesn’t have time to dwell on it as he feels one finger start to open him up. There is no pain like he had expected; there’s just a dull ache and a feeling of being filled. It’s not enough, though, and soon, Gi-hun is craving more. Even the stretch of a second and third finger isn’t satisfying, and he doesn’t realize he’s begging until the words are already out of his mouth.
“More. I need more.” It comes out as a whimper as he rocks back onto thick fingers. Lips trail down the column of Gi-hun’s neck, each kiss searing into his skin despite the light touch.
A low chuckle is muffled into his collar. “Is that how you ask?”
Gi-hun scoffs, though it comes out strangled through the desperation he’s feeling. “Fuck you.”
Vibrations rumble against his neck, the Front Man’s deep voice almost taunting when he speaks. “Next time. Now, try again.”
His fingers continue to work Gi-hun open, pumping in and out in short, harsh movements. Gi-hun can feel pre-cum beading at his tip, soaking through the front of his shirt where it lays. He shouldn’t beg for this, but the fire coiling in his stomach burns away any rational thought.
“Please.” The word is a strained whisper, but that seems to be enough to satisfy the other man. Gi-hun suddenly feels empty, but no time is wasted before he feels the unmistakable hardness of the other’s cock nudging at his entrance, and his hand back on Gi-hun’s waist, holding him steady as he guides himself in.
The Front Man isn't gentle as the tight ring of muscle stretches around his cock, and a deep groan tears from his throat. Gi-hun’s breath comes out sharp when the other man jerks forward, hips slamming against his ass, setting a steady pace. Gi-hun’s fingers twitch where they lay on the surface of the podium, and the broad palm still covering his own slim hand grips tighter, lacing their fingers together. The veins on the back of his hand are prominent, and Gi-hun watches the tendons flex with the strong grasp he has around him.
Instead of soft kisses, this time Gi-hun feels the scrape of teeth on the sensitive flesh above his collar. “Such a perfect ass.” The words are mumbled against him, and then he feels another bite below his ear. “So tight for me.” A flush creeps up Gi-hun’s chest and neck at the praise, and sweat trickles down his face.
Each thrust pushes Gi-hun forward, his leaking cock grinding against the smooth surface in front of him. The Front Man drives himself further into Gi-hun, and the sensation of being stretched open and filled while bent over the podium draws out breathy moans.
“F-fuck, harder.” Gi-hun lets out a shuddering breath as the other man fucks into him with increasing urgency. The sound of skin against skin fills the dorm, echoing in the otherwise silent room. Gi-hun sees stars and drops his head forward when a particularly hard thrust hits that sensitive spot inside him.
Every point of contact between them burns, setting Gi-hun's body alight. His legs start to tremble as pleasure washes over him. The rhythm the Front Man has set picks up, every thrust well-placed to make Gi-hun’s head swim and his vision go white. His mouth parts with voiceless gasps, and Gi-hun can feel, more than hear, the groans muffled into his neck.
Muscles wound tight, Gi-hun can feel he is getting close, and the way the Front Man's fingers are digging into his waist, clutching hard enough to leave marks, Gi-hun can tell he's not far behind.
Words won't form through the lust-filled haze of his mind, and all Gi-hun can manage is a low, drawn-out moan before he cums, spilling over the podium and soaking into the front of his shirt. His hips rut forward looking for friction to help him through the aftershocks of his orgasm, and he clenches tighter around the Front Man’s cock. Behind him, the Front Man bites down onto his shoulder, and his pace falters as he’s pushed over the edge. Burying himself deep in Gi-hun's ass, he rides out his own orgasm, and Gi-hun shudders as he feels the warmth of the other’s release fill him.
Neither make an effort to move. The weight of the man against his back is grounding as Gi-hun feels the fog surrounding his brain start to clear. He hasn't fully come back to himself yet, so when he feels the hand around his lift and guide their entwined hands over, he doesn't react. It isn’t until Gi-hun hears a shrill buzz and a cool glow of light illuminates his face that he looks over to where their hands lay, pushing down on the blue button.
His eyes widen, and any traces of the pleasant buzz that threatens to warm his body instantly vanishes, replaced by an icy chill. The Front Man brings their hands up, and the blue light casting over their figures goes dark. Gi-hun’s hand is trembling in the hold of the other's, and his insides are in knots, stomach acid burning his throat. Swallowing thickly, he lifts his head up.
29 : 30
When did everyone—?
It didn’t matter. What matters is it had been a tie. But now…
Now the Os…
“What the fuck?”
“You didn't think I'd let you leave that easily, did you?” Gi-hun doesn't know when he managed to put his mask back on, but the voice is no longer the smooth, familiar one he had grown accustomed to. Whipping around, he comes face to face with the Front Man, almost eye level with the way he’s still crowded back against the podium. “You bastard.”
Something hard presses into his stomach, and he looks down to see the sleek, black gun that had killed Jung-bae. The man leans closer—close enough that Gi-hun can almost make out his eyes behind the mask, but his expression remains unreadable. The muzzle digs harder into his abdomen. “Think about your next move carefully.”
Chest rising rapidly with harsh, panting breaths, Gi-hun doesn’t even consider the consequences before he makes a sudden move to grab the barrel of the gun and attempts to twist it out of the other man’s grasp. His attempt is in vain though. The Front Man is stronger, and his hold on the gun remains firm. Gi-hun only briefly gains control before the gun is pointed back at him as they wrestle for dominance. Gi-hun has no time to react before he notices the Front Man’s finger slip and—
Gi-hun’s eyes open, heart pounding in his chest and sweat sticking to his skin. Dim lights cast shadows over the unfamiliar room, and it’s a few moments until Gi-hun’s eyes adjust. Warily, he sits up and feels the soft mattress give under his weight. It’s much more plush than the mattresses in the dorms, but it’s no comfort. In the dorms, though the amenities were lacking, it was familiar there; he knew what to expect. Here, well… He didn’t know what to expect here. Gi-hun isn’t even sure where here is, except it isn’t anywhere good.
Memories come flooding back, some vivid, causing his stomach to churn. Gi-hun tries to parse through them, separating dream from reality.
The rebellion? Real.
Restrained by guards as he begged to be killed? Dream.
Bent over the podium with the Front Man’s chest firmly against his back? Dream. But a lingering heat simmers under his skin.
Jung-bae being shot in front of him? …real.
He sighs and remembers minutes before Jung-bae’s death. If Jung-bae really died then that must mean Young-il had also…
In his periphery, Gi-hun sees movement. Turning his head, he sees a figure sitting on a chair, watching him. Through the low light of the room, details are hard to make out, but Gi-hun recognizes the curve of that jaw.
“Young-il?” Gi-hun didn’t understand. He had heard Young-il’s dying breath. He couldn’t be sitting here in front of Gi-hun alive.
“You’re finally awake.”
Gi-hun freezes, any feeling of relief dissipating instantly.
That voice.
The same voice from his dream.
The voice from the limo, but also the voice that, over the past three days, has become a comfort—reassuring him when others mocked him, challenging his opinions but ultimately supporting him in his decisions.
No.
Eyes wide, he looks over the figure sitting there casually, one leg crossed over the other. Young-il’s face is staring back at him, but something is different. His eyes, usually warm and open as they look at Gi-hun, are cold and distant. The kind smile that adorned his face the last few days is replaced with a smirk. And then, Gi-hun notices. Young-il is no longer wearing the green tracksuit. In its place is the grey jacket of the Front Man’s uniform, and placed next to him on the desk is that nauseating mask.
They lock eyes, and Gi-hun thinks he’s stopped breathing. He opens his mouth to speak, but only a choked sound comes out. He tries again, and this time his voice is hardly above a whisper as he speaks around the lump in his throat.
“Who are you?”
The man across from him—Young-il? The Front Man? Gi-hun isn’t sure what to call him anymore—speaks in an unnervingly even tone. “Get comfortable. This could take a while.”