Archive of Our Own ^beta

Seong Gi-hun is a good kisser. Jun-ho knows this as sure as he knows his own name. 

Jun-ho may have surrendered his badge, may have given up the official title of detective, but his particularly well-honed skillset— observing, collecting evidence, drawing conclusions— never required a badge or a title.

He has been observing. For weeks now, he’s been collecting little snapshots of evidence to add to the ever growing case file in his mind. There’s a section dedicated to cigarettes-- the way the man cradles them between his lips and applies the precise amount of pressure to hold it steady without even the slightest compression of the perfectly rounded filter. There are gigabytes of  mental video files documenting the way the man drinks from a bottle of water, the way he wraps his mouth around the plastic rim and sucks, like he hasn’t the time or patience to rely on gravity alone. There are folders and sub-folders dedicated to how the man speaks, especially when he’s riled up, especially when he’s had a few drinks, rosy pink tongue darting out, lips slick and puffy and vibrating around each word.

He’s certain of his conclusion: Seong Gi-hun is a good kisser, and Jun-ho wants more than anything to experience it first hand. 

September had come and gone outside the Pink Motel, and October’s already half gone when Jun-ho summons the correct balance of courage and recklessness to throw caution to the chilly autumn wind.

The day had been nothing if not ordinary, the two of them taking weapons inventory, drawing up contingency plan after contingency plan, watching over target practice in the makeshift shooting range. All unnecessary in Jun-ho’s mind. The inventory never changed. The redundancies built into their plan for the thirty-first were plentiful. Their hired guns were more than accurate enough for the type of weapons they’d be wielding, if it comes to that. Jun-ho keeps that opinion to himself, though. Partly because it’s clear that Gi-hun needs the repetition and routine to keep his mind occupied as the date draws nearer; mostly because a day spent doing anything with Gi-hun by his side is ultimately a day well spent.

Dinner is ordinary as well, chicken from the convenience store a few blocks over, sweet wedges of mandarin orange, bitter citrus soju to wash it all down. They eat at the small table in room 410, as they often do when Jun-ho is the only visiter still lingering at the motel come evening. He’s only half listening as Gi-hun goes over various details of their plan again, the other half of his mind focuses on more important things, like the soft oval of Gi-hun’s mouth each time the pale green bottle touches his lips, and the sticky drip of orange pulp that clings, unnoticed, to his chin. 

When the food is done, Jun-ho bags up the trash, as he always does, to toss in the dumpster on his way out. Gi-hun accompanies him to the door, as he always does, and Jun-ho knows he does this so he can secure each lock as soon as the door closes behind him, but part of him imagines that maybe it’s not the only reason.

Gi-hun reaches up to unlock the deadbolt and without thinking, Jun-ho reaches up as well, wraps his fingers around Gi-hun’s wrist and holds it steady.

“Wait.” 

Gi-hun flinches from the sudden contact but doesn’t jerk his hand away. He lowers his arm, taking Jun-ho’s along as well, and turns to face him— eyes curious and brows raised.

Jun-ho reaches up with his other hand, brushes the side of his index finger along the prickly skin just below Gi-hun’s chin and swipes his thumb over the bit of orange that clings there. Gi-hun’s brows lift even higher, but he doesn’t back away from the touch. Not exactly an invitation, but definitely not rejection.

So Jun-ho kisses him.

His lips are softer than Jun-ho expected, stark in contrast to the rough stubble that surrounds them, slippery and pliant against his own as he licks between them for a taste. The brightness of the orange is still sweet at the tip of  his tongue; the crispness of soju lingers further back. Gi-hun’s tongue moves tentatively against his own, swirling, tasting back. As the kiss deepens, a hint of stale cigarette smoke washes across his taste buds, slick and hot and more delicious than Jun-ho would have thought possible, and he has to fight hard against the whine that rises in his chest. 

It’s over quickly, a few seconds of bliss, of direct evidence, that yes, Seong Gi-hun is a good kisser. A great kisser, even.

The look Gi-hun gives him in the aftermath is dazed and unreadable, brows still raised in surprise, lips slightly parted, cheeks flushed the same rose petal pink as his mouth. For a moment Gi-hun’s eyes fall shut, and Jun-ho wonders with all his strength what thoughts are forming behind them. When they open again, narrow and focused, mouth quirked up just shy of a smirk, Gi-hun pulls his wrist from Jun-ho’s grasp, takes his head firmly in both hands, and kisses him again. 

The gulf between the first kiss and the second is as wide as the whole world. If the first one was great, the second one defies categorization entirely. He must’ve been too caught off guard the first time, Jun-ho thinks, his last coherent thought before a wave of euphoria takes him.

Gi-hun’s fingertips brush featherlight along his scalp as they kiss, tickling through the short strands of hair; his thumbs swipe in tender arcs over his cheeks. Jun-ho’s entire universe collapses into the sucking wet heat of Gi-hun’s mouth, to the gentle— at first, and then not gentle— push of Gi-hun’s tongue as it traces patterns along his own. When Gi-hun tilts his head back and deepens the kiss, Jun-ho is  defenseless against the whine he’d fought off earlier, and it tumbles out of him, breathy and pained. 

He doesn’t know how long it goes on, only that his lips begin to tingle from the scrape of stubble and his jaw aches with overuse. His head spins, dizzy from the way desperate way Gi-hun kisses him, like he wants to devour him, swallow him whole. Jun-ho tries to give back as much as he gets, but it’s hard to keep up when the wall behind his back and Gi-hun’s hands on his head are the only things holding him upright. Eventually he gives in, sags beneath the onslaught of sensation and opens himself up for whatever Gi-hun wants to take. 

When it’s over, when Gi-hun leans back and lets his hands drop back to his sides, Jun-ho’s overloaded circuits gradually switch back online. The rush of blood in his ears calms after a minute or two, his blurred vision slowly comes into focus as he concentrates on the satisfied full smirk that Gi-hun wears. His head still spins. His lips and cheeks still flush and throb. And other parts of him as well.

“Satisfied?” Gi-hun asks at last, smug, like he’s known all along about Jun-ho’s secret investigation, like he’s been planning all along to teach Jun-ho a lesson— that being kissed be Seong Gi-hun isn’t an experience that can be analyzed or predicted. 

Jun-ho can only nod, the language center of his brain still trying to unscramble itself. 

Gi-hun chuckles, a rumbling laugh that lives and dies in the back of his throat, but a laugh all the same. He unlocks the deadbolt and the remaining locks in quick succession and swings open the door. Jun-ho looks out into the hall, then back to Gi-hun, a silent plea written across his face, ask me to stay.

“Good night, Jun-ho,” is his response, and Jun-ho swallows the sharp sting of rejection and walks past him through the doorway. Halfway down the hall he pauses, realizing he hadn’t yet heard the familiar creak of the door closing, the immediate click of the locks that follows. He glances back just long enough to see Gi-hun still standing in the doorway, watching him go. Still not necessarily an invitation, but not a rejection, either.