The rooftop felt smaller now, the wind stilled around them as if the city itself had receded. Jiwon's hands weren't content to linger at Yul's jaw or shoulder—they roamed, tracing the curve of his back beneath the coat, pressing lightly, memorizing warmth and form.
Yul's breath hitched, a soft, almost inaudible sound, and Jiwon's lips followed the tremor, brushing the sensitive line of his neck. "Jiwon…" Yul murmured, the gold of his eyes darkening, deeper, more urgent.
"I know," Jiwon whispered back, voice roughened with restrained need. He leaned in further, lips ghosting across Yul's collarbone, trailing over the edge of the coat, teasing the bare skin beneath. Yul's hand found Jiwon's wrist, holding him close, grounding him, pulling him into the moment with silent insistence.
Their movements were deliberate, almost torturous in their slowness. A brush of fingers over the small of Yul's back, a flick of lips against sensitive skin, and each shiver, each gasp, drew them closer, tethered by desire and centuries of hidden instinct.
"You feel like fire," Yul whispered, voice low, edged with something unspoken. "But you're… dangerous."
"And you," Jiwon replied, pressing a hand against Yul's chest, feeling the rapid thrum of heartbeat beneath his palm, "you're worth every risk."
Their lips met again, this time with more claim, more pressure—longer, hungrier, a slow burn that edged into need without crossing into the complete loss of control. Jiwon's hands slid up to frame Yul's face, thumbs brushing over ears, along jaw, memorizing every line. Yul responded with gentle insistence, letting fingers trace the plane of Jiwon's back, daring him to pull closer, to claim more.
For a moment, the cold of the night, the distant hum of the city, the weight of their hidden worlds—all of it vanished. There was only the heat between them, the sharp, stolen intimacy of touch and breath.
Jiwon's lips traced the curve of Yul's ear, then down to the neck, teasing, lingering, while Yul's soft moan of acknowledgment broke the silence. He pressed closer, letting the warmth of their bodies bridge the space between desire and restraint.
"I shouldn't," Yul murmured, voice thick. "But I don't want to stop."
Jiwon's grip tightened slightly, pulling him closer. "Then don't," he whispered back, letting the promise hang in the air, unspoken but unmistakable.
They stayed that way—close, breath mingling, hands exploring, lips brushing, savoring the dangerous intimacy—until the night deepened around them, and the weight of their lives, of the world they were bound to, reminded them that this was only a stolen moment.
Even so, as they finally pulled slightly apart, foreheads resting together, eyes locked, the promise lingered: they would come back to each other. Again and again, despite the danger, despite everything.
The rooftop wind did nothing to cool the fire between them. Jiwon's hands were everywhere—gripping, sliding, kneading. Every touch ignited a gasp from Yul, a low moan that vibrated against Jiwon's chest. Their bodies pressed tight, hips brushing deliberately, sliding against one another, each movement testing the limits of control.
Yul's hands roamed Jiwon's back, over his shoulders, along the planes of his sides, tracing the muscle under the skin with a possessive insistence. His fingers found the waistband of Jiwon's pants, teasing, brushing, tracing the outline beneath the fabric, eliciting a sharp intake of breath.
Jiwon's lips didn't leave Yul's neck, jaw, or lips long enough to let the other recover. He kissed, nipped, licked—soft and punishing in turns—trailing fire across every exposed inch. Yul arched into him, fingers gripping the back of his hair, tugging, tilting, pulling closer, hungry and demanding.
Their bodies moved together with a rhythm born of desperation and desire. Hips pressed, thighs brushed, every frictional touch igniting sparks. Yul's hands slid further, cupping Jiwon's thick penis, pressing firmly, exploring, teasing, eliciting another low groan that rippled through the air. Jiwon's hands followed, mapping Yul's chest, lower back, the subtle dips and curves, memorizing every shiver, every moan, every tremor of need.
"Do you feel this?" Yul whispered, lips barely grazing Jiwon's ear, teeth nipping lightly, tongue tracing.
"I do," Jiwon growled, voice low, thick. His hands gripped Yul tighter, fingers digging, dragging along sensitive skin, teasing, claiming.
They moved together as one—skin to skin, breath mingling, teeth grazing, lips parting and capturing, teeth occasionally nipping, tongues sliding. Every brush of a hand, every press of body against body, every sigh, every moan was a promise of surrender and possession.
Yul pressed forward suddenly, grinding, hips pressing against Jiwon's, teeth grazing his shoulder. Jiwon's hands trailed down, sliding beneath fabric, cupping, pressing, eliciting sharp, ragged gasps. Their bodies rocked together in sync, pressing, teasing, exploring, claiming.
A hand slid to the nape of the neck, the other along the spine, fingers dipping and stroking, teasing, provoking, coaxing more gasps and shivers. They were fire and friction, heat and tension, pushing every boundary, claiming every inch of the other.
"You're mine," Jiwon murmured, lips brushing Yul's, teeth grazing, tongue teasing, hands exploring.
"And you're mine," Yul whispered back, pressing fully against him, lips, teeth, tongue, body—all of it demanding, claiming, needing.
Every movement escalated, every touch sharper, every gasp deeper. The air around them was thick with heat, tension, and desire, a storm of flesh and fire, a dance of teeth and tongue, hands and skin. Nothing existed beyond the press of body to body, the fire of touch, the ache and hunger between them.
They clung, pressed, kissed, teased, and claimed—over and over, each motion drawing them closer to something beyond breath or reason, something raw, urgent, and consuming.