Pairing: Kwon Jiyong x Reader
Summary: After a long day shooting in full military uniform, Jiyong comes home still buzzing with the persona he wore on set. What begins with teasing in the car unravels into something darker — orders, denial, rough fucking, and his voice in your ear commanding you like a soldier under his control. But when the uniform finally loosens and the heat fades, he’s just Jiyong again: soft hands, gentle care, and whispered words as he holds you close through the night.
Warnings: 18+ mdni! roleplay/power dynamics (commander persona, uniform kink), oral sex, fem and male receiving, deepthroating, face-fucking, rough sex, dirty talk, spanking, hair pulling, choking grip, dom/sub dynamics (commands, denial, no touching without permission), semi-public tension, cum play, aftercare (domestic tenderness, soft jiyong)
Note: Was a little idea of my best friend! Hope you enjoy it.🤭
The pan hissed as oil met heat, the sharp scent of garlic and soy curling into the kitchen air. You nudged the wooden spoon through the stir-fry, tapping it against the pan when the vegetables started popping too loud. It was late — later than either of you should’ve been eating, but Jiyong had been in one of his moods, vanishing into the bedroom hours ago with a cryptic, “Don’t come in yet.”
You rolled your eyes at the memory, flipping the flame a little lower. “Do you even know how long I’ve been waiting for you?” you called, voice carrying through the apartment. “I’m not about to burn dinner just because you’re taking forever to—”
The words died on your tongue when you heard the bedroom door creak open. At first it was the shuffle of his slippers on the wood, that familiar lazy gait. But when you turned, spoon still in your hand, you froze.
Jiyong stepped out like he was walking onto a stage. The overhead light cut across him in sharp angles, catching on the fabric of the camouflage uniform clinging to his frame. The beret sat tilted over bleached hair, shadowing his smirk as he tugged at the sleeves he’d rolled up neatly to his elbows.
“Sorry I took so long,” he said lightly, as though nothing about this was strange, his tone casual even as he adjusted the strap across his chest. “Had to get the look right.”
You blinked, once, twice, because for a moment it was ridiculous — your Jiyong, the man who misplaced his socks every other day, standing there in full military attire like he was about to bark orders at you. But then your eyes lingered. The uniform hugged his lean arms, the rolled cuffs showed the veins tracing down his forearms, and the confidence — that natural swagger — suddenly made your chest feel too tight.
“You—” you started, but laughed instead, the sound half-nervous, half-giddy. “What are you even doing?”
He tilted his head, expression playing somewhere between playful and serious. “Photoshoot tomorrow,” he explained, smoothing a hand down his chest like he was already posing. “They wanted me to try everything on tonight. Said it needs to ‘feel natural.’” His eyes glittered when they met yours. “What do you think?” You turned back to the pan a little too quickly, stirring with a force that betrayed your fluster. “I think… you’ve lost your mind.”
“Mm.” He walked further into the kitchen, the sound of his boots surprisingly heavy on the floor. “That’s not what your face said.” You scoffed, keeping your eyes on the sizzling vegetables. “I was just— surprised.”
His laugh was low, throaty, and suddenly he was close, leaning against the counter like he owned the room, one hand braced near your hip. The faint scent of his cologne, mixed with the starch of new fabric, curled around you. “You like it,” he said simply, confident, like he’d already read your thoughts. You tried to roll your eyes, but your voice betrayed you — softer, thinner. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
“Not what I asked.” When you risked a glance, his smirk was sharper now, the beret tipping lower over his eyes, making him look more dangerous than silly. His gaze lingered on you like a command in itself. The pan hissed again, the food threatening to burn, but you couldn’t bring yourself to turn back to it. Not when he was standing there like that.
You tried to focus on the food, but he wouldn’t give you peace.
Jiyong wandered from the counter to the hallway mirror, adjusting his beret with the kind of intensity he usually reserved for stage outfits. He tugged the brim lower, tilted his head one way, then the other, running his palm down the line of his sleeve like he was checking himself for dust.
You bit your lip, spoon abandoned on the stove, and reached for your phone. The shutter sound was louder than you expected. His head snapped toward you immediately, one brow arching high. “Yah,” he said, pointing at you with mock offense. “Did you just—” Another snap. This time with flash, just to make him squint.
You grinned, holding the phone up like a shield. “What? You look—” you hesitated, heat prickling your cheeks, then settled on a safer word, “—official.” He stalked toward you, boots heavy on the floor, but the smirk tugging at his mouth betrayed him. “Delete it.”
“Never,” you shot back, snapping another one as he got closer, catching the angle of his jaw under the shadow of the beret. He groaned, exasperated, before turning sharply and dropping into one of the dining chairs. His legs spread, elbows resting on his knees, and suddenly he looked less like Jiyong-your-boyfriend and more like some hardened officer waiting to issue orders.
“Fine,” he muttered, motioning with two fingers. “If you’re going to take them, at least do it properly.”
“Angles,” he said, completely serious, leaning back now and running a hand along his thigh. “Lighting. You’re wasting my efforts if you don’t.” Your laugh cracked out, sharp and disbelieving. “Oh my god, you’re actually posing.”
But you couldn’t help yourself — you lifted the phone again. The camera clicked as he tilted his chin, gaze sliding sideways at you like he was staring down a barrel. The picture came out sharp, too sharp, and you swallowed, pulse skipping.
Another photo — him adjusting the beret again, eyes half-lidded with concentration. Another — his fingers tapping absently against the table, veins visible against tanned skin.
“Send them to me later,” he said casually, as if the command was obvious. You rolled your eyes but kept snapping, unable to stop grinning. “You’re insufferable.” He leaned back further, spreading his arms against the back of the chair like a king on his throne, the camouflage stretching across his shoulders. His smirk was lazy now, smug.
“And yet,” he murmured, voice low, “you can’t stop looking.”
The pan hissed again behind you, food nearly forgotten. And he knew it — the glint in his eyes said as much.
The smell of garlic finally bullied you back to the stove. With a sigh, you set your phone down and stirred the pan, though your eyes kept darting to him — sprawled in that chair like some general about to issue orders. You shook your head, biting back a smile. “Alright, enough. Take it off before you get it dirty.”
He blinked, thrown. “What?”
“The uniform,” you said, motioning with your spoon. “I slaved over this dinner, and I am not about to explain to some stylist why there’s soy sauce on your camo.” For a second, his smirk held. But then — like a switch — his mouth twitched, the mask cracking. “You’re unbelievable,” he muttered, rolling his eyes as he tugged at the velcro straps on his chest. The beret came off first, tossed lazily onto the table, followed by the jacket, which he peeled off with a little grunt. Beneath, the black shirt clung to his frame, damp from the heat of the fabric he’d been wearing.
You leaned against the counter, spoon still in hand, lips quirking. “There. Much better. Now you look like a person again.”
He scoffed. “I was never not a person.”
“Mm,” you hummed, plating the food with a grin. “You looked like a man possessed. Do you realize how seriously you were posing?”
“That was for you,” he shot back, leaning his cheek against his hand. His platinum blonde hair was mussed now, sticking up where the beret had pressed it flat. His smirk softened into something crooked, boyish. “You think I enjoy looking like a wannabe action hero?”
You set the plates down, laughing as you slid one in front of him. “You looked like you enjoyed it plenty.”
He reached for his chopsticks, but his gaze lingered on you, sharp even now. “You’re the one who couldn’t stop taking pictures.”
Your cheeks warmed, but you shoved his shoulder lightly as you sat. “Shut up and eat.”
And just like that, the roleplay dissolved — the “commander” slipping away, leaving only Jiyong in his black shirt, hair messy, lips twitching as he tried not to laugh at how flustered you still looked. The scrape of chopsticks against the plate filled the quiet for a moment, but his foot nudged yours under the table, a silent reminder. He wasn’t finished with this little game. Not by a long shot.
Dinner ended the way it always did with him — too much laughter, not enough food left for leftovers. Jiyong leaned back in his chair, groaning dramatically as he patted his stomach.
“I think I need to enlist after all,” he said, voice pitched with mock seriousness. “Boot camp might be the only way to burn this off.” You snorted, stacking plates. “Please. You’d last half a day before begging them to let you nap.”
“Hey,” he protested, standing to collect the chopsticks you’d forgotten, “I’d last at least a full day. Out of pure stubbornness.” You shot him a look over your shoulder, amused. “You’d cry the second they cut off your coffee.”
That earned you a sharp gasp as he followed you into the kitchen. “Cruel. Absolutely cruel. Who even are you to say such things?”
You rolled your eyes, turning the faucet on and rinsing a plate. “Go sit down. I’ve got this.”
But of course, he didn’t listen. He never listened. Within seconds he was beside you, sleeves pushed up, already dunking a dish into the soapy water like he’d been trained to do it. “Jiyong—”
“What? I’m helping.” His grin was mischievous, boyish, the same one that always got him out of trouble. “We’re a team, remember?” You swatted at his arm with the dishtowel, water droplets splashing both of you. “You don’t even know how to wash properly. You’re just making more mess.”
He laughed, flicking water from his fingers onto your cheek. “There. Now we match.”
You gasped, wide-eyed, and retaliated by snapping the towel at him. He yelped — far too dramatic for the tiny sting — and clutched his side as if mortally wounded. “Unbelievable,” he groaned, staggering back a step. “First you insult my stamina, and now you assault me. Some girlfriend you are.”
“You’re ridiculous,” you said, but your laughter broke through the words, bubbling up uncontrollably. He joined in, the sound warm and easy, filling the small kitchen until even the hum of the refrigerator seemed to soften.
By the time the dishes were stacked, your hands were pruned, and Jiyong had somehow gotten soap suds in his hair, the two of you were breathless with laughter. He leaned against the counter, watching you dry the last bowl, his expression calmer now, softened by the glow of the under-cabinet light.
“You know,” he said, voice lower now, almost thoughtful, “this is my favorite part of the day.”
You glanced up, surprised. “Doing dishes?” He shook his head, lips twitching. “No. Just… this. You. Home.”
Your chest tightened, warmth spreading like the steam still fogging the sink. You tossed the towel at him to break the moment, and he caught it easily, grinning again. “Alright,” you said, stretching your arms overhead. “Bedtime before you get any more sentimental.”
He followed you down the hallway, still chuckling, his steps light. The uniform jacket was slung over his arm now, the beret dangling from his fingers, his hair messy and damp where the suds had stuck. It was just Jiyong again — silly, stubborn, endlessly distracting. And yet, when you glanced back at him, the way the fabric still clung to his frame reminded you that the soldier act wasn’t gone. Not really.
The bedroom was warm, faint city light spilling through the blinds. You pulled your hair up with a sigh, already tugging your hoodie over your head when Jiyong all but flopped onto the bed. The mattress dipped hard beneath his weight, his uniform jacket tossed carelessly over the chair. He kicked off his boots in the least graceful way possible, one landing with a thud against the dresser. You shot him a look. “Real soldierly.”
He smirked from where he sprawled across your side of the bed, hands folded behind his head like a king. “I’m conserving energy. That’s strategy.”
“Strategy is brushing your teeth before collapsing,” you countered, tugging at the blanket. But he only rolled, stealing more of it with him. “Mm. No, strategy is making sure you don’t hog all the covers.”
You gaped. “Excuse me? You’re literally wrapped in the whole thing right now.”
He chuckled, eyes closing, clearly enjoying himself. “Because I anticipated your moves.”
“Jiyong,” you warned, climbing onto the mattress. He cracked one eye open, grin lazy. “What? You gonna fight me for it?”
You lunged for the blanket. He yelped, laughing, but didn’t let go. The two of you wrestled like kids, tugging and rolling, until he had you pinned under him, his arms braced to either side of your head. Your breaths were loud now, chests pressed together, laughter fading into something heavier.
His hair fell into his eyes as he leaned closer, grin still tugging at his mouth. “You know…” His voice lowered, gravel slipping through the syllables. “…you didn’t stop staring earlier.”
Heat flared at your cheeks, and you shoved lightly at his chest. “Shut up.” But his smirk only widened, his nose brushing against yours as he hovered above you. “You liked it. The uniform. The attitude. Don’t lie.”
Your throat tightened, words caught somewhere between denial and truth. He tilted his head, studying you like a predator who already knew the answer. The playfulness was still there — but beneath it, something else stirred. A flicker of that sharp, commanding edge you’d seen when he first walked out in full attire. His voice dipped lower, steady. “Say it.”
The blanket slipped further, baring more of his black shirt, the fabric still clinging to his frame. His eyes, hooded now, glinted under the thin light cutting across the room. The silliness hadn’t gone — but it was twisting, shifting, turning into something that made your pulse quicken in a different way.
You swallowed, your fingers curling into the sheets. “You’re ridiculous.” He tilted his head, closing the distance just enough for his nose to graze yours. “Maybe. But you still looked at me like you wanted me to ruin you.”
Your lips parted, breath catching. The grin on his mouth faltered — and then, with a sudden, sharp movement, he kissed you. It wasn’t playful. It was hungry.
His mouth claimed yours, hot and insistent, teeth clashing as his hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you steady. The taste of him was all heat and control, the kiss messy, consuming, like he’d been waiting all night for this.
You gasped, and his tongue slid against yours, slow but deliberate, coaxing, demanding. A low sound rumbled in his throat, vibrating against your lips, making your body arch up into his. Your hands found his shoulders, clutching at the fabric of his shirt, the muscles beneath tense and solid. He pressed closer, his chest flattening yours, the blanket twisted around you both in forgotten tangles. “Fuck,” he muttered against your mouth, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes burned, darker than before. “You like this. Don’t you?”
Your answer caught in your throat, but he didn’t wait. He kissed you again, harder, his tongue sweeping your mouth, swallowing your moan. His hand dragged down your side, firm and steady, sliding under your shirt to palm the heat of your skin. His thumb pressed into your hipbone as his mouth devoured yours, your pulse racing under his touch.
You broke the kiss, gasping for air, lips wet and swollen. He smirked faintly, thumb brushing across your lower lip as though admiring his own work. “Say it,” he whispered, voice gravel, eyes locked onto yours. “Say you liked me in that uniform.”
Your body shivered, pinned beneath him, the tension between play and command tightening until it was about to snap.
Your breath still trembled when you broke the kiss, lips swollen, his weight heavy against you. For a heartbeat you just stared at him — his hair messy, his grin smug, his eyes glittering with that dangerous edge.
Then you smirked, and before he could press in again, your hand slid down to swat his ass. The sharp sound made him jolt. “Yah!”
You wriggled out from beneath him, laughing, tugging your shirt back down as you rolled off the bed. “Go brush your teeth, soldier,” you teased, already padding barefoot toward the bathroom. “You reek of soju.”
Behind you, he sat up, stunned, then barked a laugh. “Did you just— slap my ass?” You glanced over your shoulder with the most innocent expression you could muster. “What? You deserved it.”
He scrambled to his feet, mock outrage dripping from his tone as he followed you down the hall. “Unbelievable. You attack your commander and then insult his breath?”
“Commander?” you shot back, ducking into the bathroom and flicking on the light. “You can’t even command your own toothbrush.”
That earned you another laugh — low, genuine, the kind that warmed the air between you. He leaned against the doorway as you reached for both of your toothbrushes, his black shirt hanging loose now, hair sticking out where your hands had tugged at it. You pressed his toothbrush into his hand with mock authority. “Here. Show me your best discipline.”
He raised an eyebrow, but the smirk broke through. “You’re going to regret this when I outrank you later.”
You ignored him, humming as you loaded your own brush with paste. Side by side in the mirror, you both bent over the sink, shoulders bumping. He foamed up instantly, mouth puffed out like a chipmunk as he tried not to laugh, bubbles threatening to spill from his lips. You snorted into your own brush, covering your mouth as he gave you the most exaggerated glare, toothpaste dripping onto his chin. “Oh my god,” you managed around your bristles, choking on laughter.
He spat into the sink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, still laughing. “This is war,” he muttered, leaning close enough to smear a dab of toothpaste foam onto your cheek with his thumb. You squealed, swatting at him with your brush. “You’re disgusting!”
But your grin betrayed you, wide and warm, reflected in the mirror beside his. The commander act had melted away for now, leaving only Jiyong — silly, ridiculous, messy Jiyong — brushing his teeth beside you, his laughter turning the bathroom into a softer battlefield.
By the time you rinsed and wiped the last foam from your lips, your cheeks ached from laughing. Jiyong was still leaning on the counter like he’d just won a fight, lips twitching smugly as he tapped his toothbrush back into the holder. “That’s what you call discipline,” he muttered, shoulders squared like he’d just proven a point. You flicked water at him, droplets spotting his black shirt. “That’s what I call a mess.”
He caught your wrist when you tried to brush past him, tugging you close. The grin on his mouth softened as he pressed a quick kiss to your damp cheek — mint clinging to his breath, laughter still caught between your lips. “Cute mess,” he corrected. Your stomach flipped, but you rolled your eyes and wriggled free, padding down the hall to change into your sleep shirt. Behind you, he lingered a second longer in the bathroom, running a hand through his hair, pushing it back in that half-careless, half-deliberate way he always did before bed.
When he finally joined you, the uniform had been folded neatly on the chair, his shirt hanging loose over joggers. He dove into bed with too much energy for someone who’d been groaning about exhaustion twenty minutes ago, bouncing the mattress until you yelped. “Jiyong!”
He grinned, pulling the blankets up to his chin, eyes sparkling with mischief. “What? Gotta keep morale high.” You slid under the covers, shaking your head, but warmth crept up your neck as his leg immediately found yours beneath the blanket, his toes hooking around your ankle. He always did that — little anchor points, as if he needed to tether you close even when half-asleep. “Morale?” you teased, curling onto your side. “Pretty sure you’re just annoying.”
His arm slipped around your waist in answer, tugging you back against his chest. His breath tickled the back of your neck, warm and steady now. For a moment, it was quiet. Just his heartbeat against your spine, the weight of his arm, the hum of the city muted through the window. Then his voice — lower this time, calmer, but edged.
“You know…” His lips brushed your hair, the words slow, deliberate. “…you really did stare at me earlier.”
You stiffened slightly, pulse skipping. “I told you, you looked—”
“Hot?” he cut in, smirk audible in his tone. You huffed, shoving his arm lightly, but he didn’t budge. If anything, his grip tightened, his breath pressing closer. “You don’t get it,” he murmured. His voice had lost the silliness now, dipping into something firmer, heavier. “When I put that uniform on… you’re not supposed to tease me. You’re supposed to follow orders.”
Your stomach dropped, heat coiling low as his hand flexed against your waist. The laughter from earlier still lingered, but it was being swallowed now — replaced by something sharper, commanding, the edge of the “commander” sliding back into his tone, curling around the air between you.
Your body tensed, heat sparking down your spine, but instead of answering, you shifted in his hold. Then, quick as lightning, your hand darted up and gave a sharp twist to his nipple through the thin cotton of his shirt. “Ah—!” He jerked back with a startled groan, eyes flying open. “What the hell—”
You rolled onto your back just long enough to smirk at him in the dim light. “Shut up, commander.” And before he could recover, you turned over fully, presenting him with your back and yanking the blanket high over your shoulder.
The silence that followed was delicious. You could feel his stare burning into the back of your neck, his body gone stiff beside you. His hand hovered where it had been resting on your waist, fingers flexing like he didn’t know whether to grab you or laugh.
Finally, his voice, low and incredulous: “Did you just…” A pause. “Twist my nipple?”
You bit back a laugh, eyes closed, feigning sleep.
Another beat of silence — and then, the faintest sound of his laugh breaking through, helpless and disbelieving. “You’re insane,” he muttered, shifting onto his back. The mattress dipped as he adjusted, tugging at the blanket until you both had an even share again. But even as his breathing slowed, even as the room filled with the quiet rhythm of night, you could feel it — the weight of his gaze still lingering, the way his body remained a little too tense, like a wire pulled tight.
You knew him too well. He wasn’t going to let that go. Not tonight. Not after you’d dared to turn his game back on him.
And the thought made your smile curl, even as you pretended to drift off.
The apartment was already warm with the smell of toast and eggs by the time you padded back down the hallway. The morning light bled soft gold through the blinds, catching on the stray mugs you’d rinsed and the neat folds of the blanket you’d thrown over the couch. Your hair was tied back, clothes fresh, sleeves rolled up from cooking. It had been hours since you’d gotten out of bed.
Jiyong, of course, was still in it.
You leaned against the doorframe, hands on your hips, watching the lump of blankets that was your boyfriend. His head was buried in the pillow, both arms tucked underneath like a kid hiding from responsibility. His hair stuck up in every direction, messy blond tufts that made him look younger than he had any right to.
Nothing. Just the faint rise and fall of his back. You stepped inside, voice sharper. “Wake. Up.” A muffled groan rose from the pillow. His foot kicked lazily against the mattress, and he pulled the blanket higher over his head. “Five more minutes,” he whined, his voice thick with sleep, petulant like a child.
You crossed the room and yanked at the corner of the blanket. “It’s already been five more minutes. Twice.” He clung tighter, curling onto his side with a groan. “You’re evil.”
“Evil is letting breakfast get cold because you can’t get your ass out of bed.”
That got a small laugh from under the covers, though he didn’t budge. His messy hair peeked out from the edge, strands falling over his closed eyes. You crouched beside the bed, poking his shoulder through the blanket. “You’re supposed to be the big, scary commander, remember? Some soldier you are. Can’t even face the morning.”
His eyes cracked open, bleary and narrow, lips twitching. “Commanders don’t wake up before nine.”
You scoffed, standing again. “Oh, really?”
“Mhm.” He rolled onto his back finally, blinking up at you with all the tragic dignity of a man ripped from a dream. His arms stretched wide, a soft yawn spilling from his mouth before he tugged the pillow back over his face. “Jiyong.”
“Dead,” he mumbled, voice muffled under the fabric. “Tell the world their commander is dead.” You laughed despite yourself, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”
But your chest warmed as you looked down at him — rumpled and messy, his morning pout the polar opposite of last night’s sharp grin and commanding tone. The same man, two versions you knew equally well. And you knew, sooner or later, he’d find a way to flip the switch again.
It took another five minutes, a tug at the blanket, and the promise of coffee before he finally shuffled out of the bedroom.
His joggers hung low on his hips, the hem of his black shirt twisted from sleep, collar stretched from the way he’d yanked it over his head last night. His hair was a complete disaster — sticking up at the back, falling into his eyes at the front.
“You look like you fought a war in there,” you said, sipping your coffee at the table. “I did.” His voice was hoarse, petulant, as he collapsed into the chair across from you. “The war of you dragging me out of heaven.”
You slid a plate toward him. “Eat before it gets cold.”
He poked at the toast like it had offended him. “Mmm. What if I want to sleep on the table instead?”
You raised a brow. “Then you’ll starve.” He looked up, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. “You’d let your commander starve?”
You laughed, shaking your head as you bit into your toast. “Commander, my ass. You can’t even butter your own bread in the morning.”
That earned you a crooked grin, one that softened his whole face despite the mess of his hair. He picked up a piece of toast finally, biting into it with exaggerated effort, chewing slow as if to prove a point. “See? Self-sufficient.” Crumbs clung to his lip.
You leaned across the table, swiping your thumb over his mouth. “Pathetic.” He caught your wrist before you could pull back, his thumb brushing your pulse, his smirk sharpening just slightly. “Careful.”
Your stomach tightened, the tiniest reminder of last night sparking between you. But then he yawned loudly, letting your wrist go as he flopped back in his chair. “You’re lucky I love you,” he mumbled, reaching for his coffee.
You hid your smile behind your cup. “Lucky is me not throwing you out the window for being this dramatic.”
He sipped, eyes closing like the taste itself had revived him. “Mm. Dramatic, maybe. But still irresistible.”
Your laugh cracked, warm and helpless, as you reached across the table to steal a bite of his toast. He gasped in mock horror, swatting at your hand. “Betrayal!”
“Breakfast tax,” you said simply. He groaned, dropping his head into his hand, but his grin betrayed him. And as the two of you sat there, sunlight warming the table, toast crumbs between you, and coffee steam curling into the air, it felt almost too easy — the calm before whatever storm he was quietly planning in that clever head of his.
Breakfast wound down the way it always did with him — more laughter than actual eating. By the time you were rinsing the last of the plates, Jiyong had slumped over the table like a child, cheek pressed to his arm, spoon balanced precariously in his other hand.
“You’re hopeless,” you muttered, plucking the spoon away.
“Efficient,” he mumbled, eyes half-lidded. “Minimal energy expenditure. Maximum comfort.”
You flicked water from your hands onto his hair. He groaned, batting at the drops, then straightened with a stretch, his shirt riding up to reveal a slice of pale skin. “Alright,” he sighed, dragging himself to his feet. “Playtime’s over.”
You blinked, turning from the sink. “What does that mean?”
He smirked faintly, already padding down the hallway. “I’ve got a photoshoot, remember? And you’ve got a front-row seat.”
Before you could reply, he disappeared into the bedroom, door clicking shut behind him. For a few minutes, you busied yourself with wiping the counters, humming to fill the silence. But then the faint sound of hangers shifting reached your ears, the thump of boots against the floor, the telltale rustle of fabric being tugged into place.
Curiosity tugged at you, pulling you closer.
When the door finally opened, you almost forgot to breathe.
Jiyong stepped out with the kind of presence that made the air tilt. The camouflage jacket hugged his frame perfectly this time, sleeves buttoned neat at the wrist. His boots thudded with every step, precise, deliberate. The beret sat low over his blond hair, and the black glasses perched on his nose cast his face into sharp, unreadable angles.
It wasn’t Jiyong who had groaned over toast fifteen minutes ago. It was someone else entirely. He adjusted the strap across his chest, his reflection catching in the hallway mirror as he tugged the brim of the beret lower. He didn’t glance at you right away — he didn’t need to. The weight of his presence filled the room before his eyes finally slid your way.
“Ready?” His voice was calm, even. Too calm.
Your throat tightened, caught between laughter and something hotter that curled low in your stomach. You tried to scoff, to roll your eyes, but the words tangled in your mouth. He smirked, reading it instantly. “Thought so.”
And with that, he stepped fully into the room, boots heavy on the floor, the sharp scent of starch and cologne cutting through the air. It was just a photoshoot. Just clothes.
But the way he wore them…
The game was starting again.
The apartment door shut with a muted click behind you, the weight of the morning still hanging in the warm air. Jiyong walked ahead, hands tucked in the pockets of his camo jacket, boots heavy on the stairwell. The beret sat low. He didn’t speak — not yet. Outside, the late morning sun flared across the hood of his car, the black paint gleaming. The driver was already waiting, engine humming faintly.
Jiyong slowed, tugging his phone from his pocket. You knew the shift the moment it happened — the subtle tilt of his shoulders, the sharper angle of his chin, the way his silence turned into something calculated. “Hold on,” he muttered, voice slipping lower. He tapped the screen, flicking it to camera mode. You sighed, already recognizing the ritual.
He turned the phone, arm raised, catching himself in the lens: sunglasses, beret, jacket crisp against the bright sky. A short clip, but the weight of it was immediate. He watched it once, head tilting, before hitting post. You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt. “Unbelievable.”
He finally glanced at you, grin tugging wide. “What?”
“You,” you said, stepping past him toward the open car door. “You were just whining about brushing your teeth half an hour ago, and now suddenly you’re G-Dragon.”
He chuckled, slipping into the seat beside you, his phone already buzzing with notifications. “Different contexts.”
“Different personalities,” you muttered under your breath, tugging your seatbelt on. He leaned back, stretching his legs wide, tapping his phone with easy confidence. “You love both.”
You scoffed, staring out the window as the car pulled from the curb. But your lips betrayed you, twitching against a smile.
He noticed — of course he did — and smirked wider, turning the camera back on himself for another clip. This time, he angled it so the corner of your annoyed face caught in the frame. “Don’t,” you warned. But he only laughed, hitting record anyway. “Look at her. Already mad at me, and it’s not even noon.”
You shoved his shoulder, muttering, “You’re insufferable,” but he only leaned closer, voice dropping just for you, soft enough that the phone didn’t catch it:
“And you can’t stop staring.”
The city blurred past the tinted windows, buildings stacked high and gray against the pale sky. The low hum of the engine filled the silence between you, broken only by the faint tap-tap of Jiyong’s thumb scrolling through his phone. You shifted, settling into the seat, the seatbelt tugging against your shoulder. “So,” you started casually, “what exactly is this photoshoot?”
“PUBG,” he said without looking up. You blinked. “The video game?”
That finally made him glance at you, sunglasses sliding low enough to reveal the sparkle of his eyes. His grin tugged slow. “Mm. Battlegrounds. Guns. Strategy. Perfect fit, don’t you think?”
You snorted. “Perfect fit for someone who can’t even wake up before noon.”
“Yah,” he protested, slipping his glasses off completely now, tucking them onto the collar of his jacket. “I could survive. I’ve got tactics.”
“Uh-huh,” you teased, turning in your seat. “Step one: complain until your enemies give up.” His laugh broke out, warm and sharp in the quiet car. “Step one: distract them with charm. Step two: shoot them when they’re staring.”
“Romantic,” you muttered, but your smile betrayed you. He leaned back, stretching, the fabric of his jacket pulling taut across his shoulders. “You’d watch my back though, right?”
You rolled your eyes. “Not if you’re crawling around with no coffee.” He smirked, and his hand dropped casually to your thigh. Warm, steady. The weight of it lingered, heavy enough to make you shift. Your breath caught, but you tried to keep your voice even. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” His thumb stroked absently over the inside seam of your jeans, slow, deliberate. “Making sure my partner’s paying attention.” You narrowed your eyes at him. “This is not a strategy meeting.” He tilted his head, expression wicked. “Feels like it.”
Despite yourself, your fingers found his, twining absently over his knuckles. His smirk softened, eyes dipping down to where your hands met. For a moment, he didn’t say anything — just traced lazy circles against your thigh with his thumb, the city rolling endlessly outside. “You know,” he murmured finally, quieter now, “you’d look good in uniform too.”
You barked a laugh, squeezing his hand. “Dream on.”
But his grin stayed, smug and knowing, as he squeezed back.
The hum of the engine lulled the car into a rhythm, steady and quiet. Jiyong still hadn’t moved his hand, thumb stroking lazy circles into your thigh, but now his gaze lingered on you more than the window. You felt it, the weight of his eyes, and tried to ignore the heat rising in your chest. “What?” you muttered, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve.
“Nothing,” he said, lips twitching. Then softer: “You’re cute when you try to look annoyed.” You scoffed, looking away. “I am annoyed.”
“Mm.” He shifted, leaning in closer, his shoulder brushing yours. His hand tightened on your thigh, firm now, anchoring you. “So annoyed you’re holding my hand.” Your cheeks warmed, but you didn’t let go. Instead, you squeezed his fingers, glaring at him sideways. “Shut up.”
His grin widened, sharp and boyish at once. Then, with that unhurried confidence that always made your stomach flip, he leaned in. The kiss started light — just a brush of his mouth against yours, tasting of coffee and mint. But when you sighed, his lips pressed harder, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow, claiming stroke. Your hand flew to his chest, clutching the fabric of his jacket, pulling him closer even as your head tipped back. The weight of his hand on your thigh shifted higher, fingers pressing into the muscle, spreading heat through your body.
A low hum rumbled in his throat, vibrating against your lips. He kissed you like he had time to waste, savoring every drag, every nip, every parting breath. When he finally pulled back, his mouth was swollen, his grin lazy. He brushed his nose against yours, still close enough that his breath warmed your lips.
“You see?” he murmured. “Strategy.” Before you could roll your eyes, the driver cleared his throat from the front. “Sir… we’ve arrived.”
You jerked back, startled, cheeks burning. Jiyong only chuckled, slipping his black glasses back on in one smooth motion. The soldier persona clicked back into place like armor.
He patted your thigh once, sharp and possessive, before reaching for the door. “Showtime,” he said.
The studio was colder than you expected — the kind of chill that clung to concrete floors and steel beams. Bright lights had been rigged on every side, casting sharp pools of white across the set. Military crates, sandbags, and rust-colored barrels were stacked strategically, an artificial battlefield in the middle of Seoul. You stood just off to the side, hands tucked into your sleeves, watching.
Jiyong was already in position.
It was dizzying, how fast the shift happened. Minutes ago he’d been tugging you into a kiss in the backseat, his hair messy, his grin boyish, his hand warm on your thigh. Now—
The uniform clung to him perfectly, every seam crisp, every fold sharp. The beret tilted at that deliberate angle, his sunglasses glinting beneath the studio lights. His posture had changed entirely: no slump, no lazy sprawl — his shoulders squared, his stance wide, one hand gripping the strap of the rifle prop slung across his chest like it was second nature. The photographer barked directions, but Jiyong didn’t need them. He moved like he already knew the script, adjusting his jaw, tilting his chin, shifting the rifle higher until the lines of his body cut perfect angles in the frame. The camera shutters clicked in rapid bursts.
You tried not to stare too hard. Tried.
But your eyes betrayed you, drinking him in: the way the camouflage hugged his forearms, veins taut where his hands flexed around the grip; the curve of his mouth when he smirked at the lens, sharp and dangerous; the sheer presence he radiated, filling every inch of the set with ease.
This was supposed to be silly. Just a job, a costume. You had laughed at him last night, teasing him for posing in the mirror, snapping pictures of him being dramatic. But now—
Now it didn’t feel like a costume.
The rifle swung low across his body as he crouched behind a sandbag, his expression deadly calm. The angle of his jaw cut sharp beneath the light, sweat glistening faintly at his temple. The staff murmured among themselves, impressed, cameras flashing faster.
And you— you could only watch, your fingers tightening around the sleeves of your hoodie, the heat in your chest rising. Your mind betrayed you, slipping back to the car. His lips bruising yours, his tongue against yours, his hand on your thigh. The weight of his grip, the way he whispered “Strategy” with that lazy confidence.
The uniform made it worse. Or better. You couldn’t decide.
All you knew was that he looked devastating. And the worst part? He knew you were watching.
Between poses, he adjusted his beret, his head tilting just slightly in your direction. The corner of his mouth curved — not for the camera, but for you. You inhaled sharply, cheeks burning, tearing your gaze away as though the act itself hadn’t already been caught. When you dared to look back, he was smirking at the lens again. Your heart thudded, and you pressed your lips together, trying to steady yourself.
You were supposed to be invisible here, just a shadow in the background. But with every click of the camera, every shift of his body, every sharp tilt of his smirk, you felt like you were the only person in the room he was performing for.
The shoot unfolded like a carefully choreographed battle.
Assistants darted in and out of the set — one crouching low to fix the way his beret tilted, another tugging at the hem of his jacket so it sat clean against his waist. A stylist fussed with the strap of the rifle, checking the way it caught in the light. Jiyong stood in the middle of it all, patient, unbothered. A king on the battlefield, letting his soldiers prepare him.
Then, when the lens lifted again, he switched on instantly.
He dropped low behind a crate, one knee bent, the rifle slung high across his chest. The smirk vanished, replaced with something colder, sharper. His lips pressed into a line, jaw taut, gaze locked on the lens like he was aiming down the barrel.
The camera shutters went wild. “Perfect,” the photographer barked. “Hold that. Don’t move.”
You hugged your arms tighter around yourself, shifting on your feet as you tried to breathe evenly. The studio lights threw heat against your skin, but it wasn’t the lamps making you sweat. It was him. The curve of his forearms beneath the rolled sleeves, the way his fingers flexed on the grip — even the smallest movement looked purposeful, dangerous. His whole body spoke in commands, and you couldn’t tear your eyes away.
He rose from the crouch, the rifle lowering to his side. The smirk returned — slow, deliberate, curling only one corner of his mouth. And this time, you knew it wasn’t for the camera. Your breath caught, heat prickling your cheeks. You looked away quickly, pretending to check your phone, pretending you weren’t caught staring again. “Next set-up!” someone called, rushing forward with a headset. The scene changed: sandbags swapped for a dented metal barrel, a smoke machine whirring softly until the air filled with a hazy fog. The rifle was propped against the crate for now, leaving his hands free.
He stepped into the smoke, lifting a hand to adjust his beret again. The light cut across him, haloing the haze, making the sharp edges of his jaw glow. He tipped his head, lips curling, and your stomach twisted violently. Because all you could see was the car again. His mouth on yours. His voice rasping “Say it” when he pinned you down last night. The same sharp glint in his eyes now, mirrored through the smoke. You exhaled slowly, hugging yourself tighter, praying no one else could hear the rush of your pulse. He shifted poses, slipping one hand into his pocket, angling his body toward the light. The camera clicked furiously, the staff buzzing around him with praise.
You could feel it in the way his chin tipped just slightly in your direction, the way his mouth twitched as if he could read your mind. He was playing to the camera, yes. But he was playing to you more. And you hated — loved — how transparent you must have looked, rooted there in the corner, unable to look away.
The shoot dragged on, scene after scene shifting with military precision — smoke machines hissing, crates moved, lights tilted. The staff bustled like a small army around him, barking directions, adjusting angles, tugging at his jacket.
You lingered in the corner, hugging your arms tighter across your chest, trying to be invisible. But there was no ignoring him. Jiyong looked… unreal.
One minute he was crouched low, weapon drawn, his whole body coiled like a spring. The next, he stood with his arms folded across his chest, chin tilted, beret shadowing his eyes as if he had just won some war only he understood. Every pose was sharp, deliberate. And every time the camera clicked, you felt your throat dry out a little more.
You shifted your weight from foot to foot, pressing your thighs together under your jeans. Heat spread slow and steady through your body, and you hated yourself for it. You were supposed to be laughing at this, teasing him later for playing soldier.
But your body betrayed you.
Your pulse throbbed low, insistent, each shutter of the camera like a match against your skin. You crossed your arms tighter, hiding the way your hands fidgeted against your sleeves “Perfect. Hold that,” the photographer barked.
He adjusted his beret again, tilting his head just enough that his gaze slid toward you. Not the camera. Not the staff. You.
The smirk that tugged at his mouth was dangerous — not wide, not playful. Subtle. Sharp. The kind of smirk that said he’d already figured you out. Your breath caught, heat prickling up your neck. You looked away too fast, pretending to scroll through your phone, pretending you weren’t trembling inside your own skin.
Your thighs pressed tighter, your lips parted against the sudden dryness in your mouth. You could still taste him from the car, still feel his hand on your thigh, still hear his low voice murmuring “Strategy.”
And now, watching him command the entire set like it was his battlefield, your body hummed with restless, hungry energy you couldn’t disguise. “Take five,” someone finally called. The staff dispersed, lights dimming slightly, chatter filling the room. His eyes scanned the room once — twice — before locking on you.
The corner of his mouth curved, slow and deliberate. Then, without a word, he started walking your way.
The break was short — just enough time for someone to press a water bottle into his hand and another to blot the shine from his forehead. He waved them off after a minute, rolling his shoulders, stretching his neck. You lingered nearby, pretending to sip from your own bottle, though your eyes betrayed you every time they slid back to him.
“Ready in five!” the photographer called.
Jiyong glanced at you then, sweat-darkened hair clinging slightly to his temple, beret tucked under his arm for the moment. Without his glasses, his gaze was unfiltered — sharp, direct, dark in a way that made your chest tighten.
He smirked faintly, tilting his head as he walked closer to you. You drifted closer, pretending to check something on your phone, until you were standing just beside him. “Tired already?” you teased, nodding at the way he leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. He huffed, the corner of his mouth curling. “This jacket is like wearing an oven. You try holding a rifle under lights for an hour.”
You smirked. “Poor baby. All that soldiering wearing you down?” That earned you a low chuckle. He tilted his head toward you, his blond hair sticking slightly to his temple from sweat. “You like seeing me like this, don’t you?”
You shrugged, casual. “Depends. Am I supposed to salute you now?”
“Wouldn’t hurt,” he murmured, grin widening. You rolled your eyes, about to retort — but the moment held. His gaze lingered on you, longer than it should have, his tongue pressing against his cheek as if he wanted to say something more but bit it back.
And that was when you leaned closer. Close enough that the staff’s chatter became a dull buzz. Close enough that your breath brushed the shell of his ear. “I keep imagining you in this outfit…” you whispered, voice low, deliberate. “Bossing me around. Making me do everything you say. Fucking me until I can’t walk.”
For a beat, he went utterly still.
The smirk faltered. His lips parted, sucking in a quiet breath as his grip on the water bottle tightened until the plastic crinkled. You pulled back slowly, expression feigning innocence, as though you’d said nothing at all. But his eyes told the truth — dark, sharp, flicking down your face like he needed to re-anchor himself. He dragged his tongue across his lower lip, biting it once, hard. Frustration carved across his features in a flash — because he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. Not here. Not now. “Back on set!” the photographer called.
Jiyong stood quickly, beret tugged back onto his head, posture snapping sharp. Too sharp.
And when he walked back under the lights, his jaw was tight, his expression darker, hungrier than anything the staff had seen all day. They praised him instantly — “Perfect! That’s it, hold it there!” — while he leveled the camera with a gaze that could cut glass.
Every click of the shutter was another reminder of what you’d just whispered into his ear.
The call of “Back on set!” rang through the studio, and Jiyong was already moving, shoulders squared, steps clipped, as if discipline alone could smother the fire you’d lit in his chest.
You stayed in the background, arms crossed, watching. The staff swarmed him with quick touches: tugging his jacket straighter, adjusting the rifle strap across his torso, dabbing sweat from his temple. He endured it all in silence, jaw locked, eyes fixed on the floor until the space cleared again.
And the shift was immediate. Jiyong raised the rifle, cradling it across his forearm as though it was real, his posture razor-sharp. He tilted his chin, gaze dark, lips pressing into a grim line. “Perfect,” the photographer shouted. “Hold that!”
The shutters clicked in rapid bursts, the flashes popping across his face.
But you saw it — the tension running too tight.
His grip on the rifle was firmer than it should’ve been, knuckles pale where they wrapped the handle. His chest rose too fast beneath the camo, breath shallow. He shifted his weight, adjusting his stance — not for the camera, but for himself.
Your words were still in his ear. Bossing me around. Fucking me until I can’t walk. And every snap of the shutter was another reminder he couldn’t forget. “Good! Now crouch—yes, exactly like that!” He dropped low behind a crate, jaw clenching harder, a bead of sweat running down his temple. The pose was perfect — soldier at rest, waiting for the next strike — but his thighs tensed, his hips shifting subtly, betraying the discomfort of holding himself back.
The staff ate it up. “That’s incredible, GD! That look—amazing, hold it!”
Only you knew the truth. You pressed your lips together, your pulse quickening as you hugged your arms tighter across your chest. Watching him unravel while everyone else applauded was dizzying, the heat curling low in your stomach. When he rose again, the beret cast half his face in shadow. His eyes burned, sharp and unblinking. He smirked — but it wasn’t for the camera. It was for you.
The camera shutters went wild at the expression.
“Beautiful! That’s the shot! Stay with me!”
He licked his lips once, slowly, the way he always did when frustration chewed at him. His jaw flexed, and his tongue darted against his teeth like he wanted to speak — to snap — but bit it back. Instead, he leveled the lens with a stare that could have carved stone, all while his thoughts — his body — burned with the filth you’d whispered into his ear minutes ago.
And the longer you watched, the harder it became to breathe, because you knew the second this shoot ended, the commander act would stop being just for the cameras.
“Alright, that’s a wrap!” the photographer shouted, clapping his hands together. The staff erupted in scattered applause, chatter buzzing as the lights dimmed and props were shuffled aside. Jiyong tugged the beret from his head, running a hand through damp blond hair. He gave a polite nod to the crew, murmured a few thanks, but his eyes—
His eyes were already searching for you. You pretended to scroll through your phone, but when he crossed the room, boots heavy, sweat still shining at his temple, your breath caught anyway. “Let’s go,” he muttered, low enough for only you to hear. The ride back was quiet at first.
The driver kept his eyes on the road, city lights streaking across the tinted windows. You leaned against the cool leather seat, trying to calm the restless heat coiled inside you.
But Jiyong didn’t give you the chance.
His hand found your thigh again, heavier this time, sliding higher, fingers pressing with intent. His head dipped, blond hair brushing your cheek as his mouth pressed against your neck.
The first kiss was soft, deliberate. The second, harder — teeth grazing just enough to make you jolt. “Jiyong—” you whispered, glancing toward the driver. “Shh,” he murmured, lips dragging down to the hollow of your throat. His hand squeezed your thigh, thumb stroking slow circles that had your pulse racing. You shifted in the seat, torn between pulling away and leaning closer. His mouth found the sensitive spot beneath your jaw, sucking lightly until heat shot through your veins.
“You think you can just whisper that shit to me,” he growled against your skin, “and I’ll sit still?”
Your breath hitched, your fingers gripping the edge of the seat. “It worked, didn’t it?”
He pulled back just enough for you to see the smirk tugging at his mouth, sharp and dangerous. His eyes glinted in the dim car light, hunger written plain across his face. The driver cleared his throat softly, and Jiyong chuckled, low and unbothered, before pressing one last kiss to your neck.
“Wait until we get home,” he whispered, hand sliding slowly back down your thigh. “Then you’ll see what happens when you tempt a commander.”
Your stomach dropped, heat pooling low, as the city blurred past outside. By the time the car pulled up to your building, your skin was already buzzing, your pulse uneven. And when Jiyong stepped out, jacket slung over one shoulder, glasses dangling from his fingers, you knew the playful, bratty boyfriend from this morning was gone.
The soldier was coming home with you.
The car door clicked shut behind you, the echo swallowed by the quiet of your building’s private garage. Jiyong adjusted the jacket on his shoulder, his steps deliberate, boots heavy as he guided you toward the elevator. The ride up was silent — too silent. He didn’t touch you this time, didn’t even look at you. But you felt the weight of him, the simmering heat still radiating off his body, the unspoken promise in the sharp set of his jaw. By the time the elevator dinged, your chest was tight with anticipation.
The apartment was dark when you stepped inside. You toed your shoes off automatically, dropping your bag by the door. Jiyong followed, shrugging his jacket onto the back of a chair, the soft thunk of his boots landing in the entryway. For a moment, it was almost normal. The quiet hum of the fridge. The soft glow of the city bleeding through the curtains.
But when you turned to head toward the kitchen, his voice cut the silence. “Stop.”
It wasn’t Jiyong’s playful drawl. It was lower. Firmer. A command. Slowly, you glanced over your shoulder. He stood by the door still, sunglasses dangling from his fingers, his gaze fixed on you with razor focus. The uniform clung to him, the sharp lines making him look taller, broader. The air around him had shifted — no longer your boyfriend, no longer the man who whined about brushing his teeth this morning.
“Come here.” His tone left no room for argument. Your pulse hammered. You hesitated only a beat before crossing the room, your feet soft against the wood. When you stopped in front of him, his hand shot out, gripping your jaw firmly, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. “You think it’s funny?” His thumb brushed across your lower lip, rough, possessive. “Whispering that in my ear, making me hard in front of the entire set?”
Your breath hitched, your hands curling into fists at your sides. “I—”
“Quiet.” The word cut sharp. He leaned down, his mouth grazing your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “You wanted this, didn’t you? Me in this uniform. Bossing you around. Owning you.”
Your body shivered, heat flooding your veins. His grip shifted, sliding from your jaw down to your throat, not squeezing — just holding, steady, his thumb stroking the hollow there. His eyes burned into yours, daring you to look away. “Good,” he whispered. His smirk tugged slow, dangerous. “Because I’m not letting you sleep tonight.”
The lights of Seoul bled against the glass windows behind him, and for a dizzying moment, you couldn’t tell if this was still a game — or if the man standing in front of you had become exactly what you’d begged for.
His mouth was on you before you could breathe. The kiss was rough, consuming — teeth dragging your lip, tongue sliding past yours like he wanted to claim every inch. His hand slid down, gripping your ass hard enough to make you gasp, while the other climbed up to your chest. He palmed your breast through the thin fabric of your shirt, thumb rubbing across your nipple until it stiffened, a low groan spilling against your lips when you arched into his touch.
“Fuck,” he muttered, breaking the kiss only to latch onto your neck, biting just hard enough to sting. His free hand shoved your shirt up, his palm warm and heavy against bare skin. “You’re mine like this. You know that, right?”
Your breath hitched, your hands clutching at his shoulders — and then, without thinking, you let one trail lower, pressing against the hard bulge straining beneath his uniform pants.
Not because he didn’t want it — no, the twitch beneath your palm betrayed him. But his hand caught your wrist instantly, iron-tight, pinning it away from him. His eyes burned into yours, lips still wet from the kiss. “No.”
Your stomach dropped at the single word, your thighs clenching. “But—”
“Did I give you permission?” His voice was low, gravel and fire, his grip on your wrist tightening just enough to remind you who was in charge. Heat rushed through you, and you shook your head. “Good girl,” he murmured, releasing your hand only to curl his fingers under your chin again, tilting your face up. He kissed you once more, slower this time, dragging it out until your body trembled against his. Then he pulled back, smirking faintly. “On your knees.”
The words dropped like lead between you.
Your chest heaved, your lips parting, but his stare didn’t waver. He tilted his head slightly, commanding without raising his voice, like the uniform had fused with his skin. “Kneel,” he said again, sharper now. The city lights spilled in through the window, the glint of his beret still casting shadow across his eyes, and for a dizzying moment you realized — this wasn’t Jiyong playing.
And you were about to obey.
Your knees hit the hardwood with a muted thud, the uniformed figure of Jiyong towering above you. The sight of him — beret tilted low, chest rising hard beneath the camo, jaw clenched tight — made your breath catch.
He looked down at you like you were already conquered “Good,” he muttered, brushing his thumb across your lower lip, smearing the faint shine of spit from the kiss. “That’s where you belong.”
Heat coiled in your stomach, your hands instinctively lifting to his belt. But before your fingers could reach, his hand shot out, gripping your chin hard enough to hold you still. “Not until I tell you,” he warned, his eyes narrowing. His smirk tugged sharp at the edge of his mouth. “Patience.”
You swallowed, pulse hammering. “Yes, sir.”
That earned you a low chuckle — dark, dangerous, vibrating in his chest. “Open.” Your lips parted instantly, and he slid his thumb inside, pressing down on your tongue, holding it there as he stared down at you. The weight of his presence made your body tremble, every nerve screaming with the need to please him. “Look at you,” he drawled, his voice dripping with command. “So desperate. Already dripping just from kneeling.”
You whimpered around his thumb, and he finally pulled it free, dragging the wet pad across your cheek before his hand fell to his belt. The buckle clinked sharply in the quiet, the sound like a gun cocking before battle. When he freed himself, his cock sprang heavy into his hand, flushed and thick, already aching. He stroked once, slowly, eyes fixed on yours.
“Hands behind your back,” he ordered.
You obeyed instantly, lacing your fingers together, spine straight. His smirk deepened. “Atta girl.”
He guided the head of his cock to your lips, smearing precum across them like paint. “Taste.”
Your tongue darted out, licking him tentatively, and his groan cracked through the silence, sharp and guttural. “Wider.”
You opened fully this time, and he slid into your mouth, the heat of him filling you, the weight pressing heavy on your tongue. His hand tangled into your hair, not yanking — not yet — just holding you steady as he pushed deeper.
“Fuck,” he hissed, jaw tight. “That’s it. Take it.”
You hummed around him, the vibration making his hips jerk. His grip tightened, finally dragging you closer until your nose brushed the camo at his waist. Tears pricked your eyes, saliva spilling down your chin, but the sound of his low, ragged groan made it worth every second. He pulled back suddenly, making you gasp for breath, spit stringing between your lips and the swollen head of his cock. His thumb swept across your mouth again, smearing the mess across your cheek.
“You want more?” His voice was cold, sharp, the smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “Yes,” you breathed, your voice breaking. He chuckled darkly, pushing your head back toward him. “Then earn it. Show me how good you can choke on your commander’s cock.”
Your lips closed around him again, your throat opening as he thrust shallowly, groaning as he watched tears stream down your cheeks, his cock glistening with your spit. “Look at me,” he snapped. Your eyes flew open, locking on his. The heat in his gaze was devastating, raw hunger fused with total control.
And you realized — you weren’t just giving him head.
And he wasn’t letting you up until he was finished.
Jiyong’s grip tightened in your hair, twisting just enough to hold you still. His cock pressed heavy and hot on your tongue, the taste of him thick at the back of your throat. “Good girl,” he muttered, his voice low, rasping. “Keep it open. Don’t you dare close your throat on me.”
And then he thrust. Slow at first, letting the weight of his cock sink past your tongue, stretching your mouth until your lips strained around him. You gagged softly, tears brimming in your eyes, but he didn’t ease up. “Breathe through it,” he snapped, hips rolling forward, pushing deeper. “You wanted this. You begged for this.”
You whimpered, saliva spilling from the corners of your mouth, dripping down your chin. His free hand caught your jaw, thumb digging into the hinge to hold you steady as he drove himself deeper. “Fuck—” he hissed through clenched teeth, his head tipping back briefly before his gaze snapped down to you again. “Look at you. Tears running, throat stretching around me. My perfect little soldier.”
Your chest heaved, lungs burning, but your eyes stayed locked on his, wide and glassy. The command in his stare kept you there, held you captive. He groaned, the sound guttural, his hips snapping harder now. Your gagging noises echoed in the room, wet and obscene, mingling with his ragged breath.
“Take it,” he growled, thrusting harder, deeper, until your nose pressed against the camo at his waist. Your throat convulsed around him, squeezing tight, and he nearly lost it right there. “Shit—fuck—”
He pulled back suddenly, his cock dragging out of your throat with a slick pop. You gasped for air, saliva stringing from your lips, your chest heaving. But he didn’t give you long.
Your lips parted instantly, tongue lolling, spit glistening down your chin. “Good,” he rasped, stroking his cock once, slow, smearing precum across your tongue. “Messy little thing. You love being used like this.”
You nodded, desperate, and he shoved himself back into your mouth. This time there was no patience — just raw, brutal rhythm as he fucked your face, his groans breaking through with every snap of his hips. “Fuck, yes—” His voice cracked, his grip yanking your head into every thrust. “That’s it. Take it all. My cock down your throat, my mess dripping off your chin. You’re mine.”
Tears blurred your vision, spit soaking your chest, but you moaned around him, the sound vibrating through his cock.
He choked out a laugh, sharp and wrecked. “You’re fucking insane. Loving this. Look at you—ruined already, and I haven’t even fucked your pussy yet.”
His thrusts grew erratic, deeper, harder, his breath ragged, chest heaving beneath the camo. He held you down one last time, his cock buried to the hilt in your throat, your nose pressed flush to him as you gagged around the fullness.
“Don’t move,” he snarled, his voice breaking on a groan. “Stay right fucking there.” And you obeyed, throat stretched, lungs burning, your body trembling as he pulsed deep inside your mouth, holding himself back by sheer force of will.
Jiyong’s grip was brutal now, fingers tangled in your hair, holding your head flush against him. His cock throbbed deep in your throat, every inch stretching you open, every pulse felt in your chest. Your lungs burned, your eyes streamed, spit dripping from your chin to your collarbone. But you didn’t pull away. Couldn’t. “Fuck—fuck, stay there,” he snarled, voice cracking on a groan. His hips ground forward, deeper still, his thighs tensing against your shoulders. “That’s it. Take it. Don’t you dare pull back.” Your throat spasmed around him, the convulsions milking him, and his entire body shuddered.
“Shit—” His head tipped back, jaw clenched, a low, guttural groan tearing from his chest. “Swallow it. Every drop.”
The first hot spurt hit the back of your throat, thick and overwhelming. You gagged but forced yourself still, letting him pour into you. “Good girl,” he rasped, voice breaking as he pulsed again, and again, cock twitching deep inside you. His hand held you tight, keeping you pressed flush, making sure you took everything he gave you. You swallowed convulsively, throat working around him, and he groaned louder, hips jerking at the sensation.
When the last shudder left his body, he pulled back just enough for you to breathe, his cock dragging wetly from your lips. A string of cum and spit clung between your mouth and his swollen head before snapping, dripping down your chin.
You gasped for air, chest heaving, tears streaking your flushed cheeks. He looked down at you — hair tangled in his grip, face ruined with spit and cum — and smirked, dark and satisfied.
“Messy little soldier,” he murmured, brushing his thumb across your swollen lips, smearing the white that leaked down your chin. “You did good.” You whimpered, tongue darting out to catch his thumb, sucking it clean. His groan was immediate, sharp, his jaw tightening as his eyes darkened all over again.
“Fuck,” he muttered, releasing your hair at last, but his hand slid down to your jaw, tilting your face up. He bent low, kissing you hard — swallowing the taste of himself from your lips, his tongue licking into your mouth like he couldn’t get enough.
When he finally pulled back, his breath ragged, he smirked again. “And now,” he rasped, brushing his thumb over your damp cheek, “I’m going to fuck you until you can’t stand.”
He pulled you up from your knees in one sharp tug, your body stumbling against his chest. His mouth crashed onto yours again — deep, hot, messy — tongue sliding past your lips, tasting the lingering salt of himself on your tongue.
Then, without a word, he turned you, pressing you down on the couch. His hands moved fast, tugging your shirt up, dragging it over your head until you laid bare from the waist up. The cool air hit your skin, nipples already peaked, and his smirk cut across his face like a blade. “Pretty,” he murmured, palming your breast roughly, his thumb flicking across the sensitive bud. You gasped, arching into him, but he caught your chin, forcing your gaze back up to his. “But you’re not touching me.”
Before you could answer, he dropped to his knees.
your chest heaving, your thighs trembling from the way he’d bent you against the wall. But Jiyong wasn’t done — not even close. Your body obeyed before your mind caught up, sprawling against the couch cushions, shirt bunched high over your breasts, jeans and underwear shoved down to your knees. The cool fabric pressed against your bare skin, raising goosebumps.
He smirked at the sight, tugging the beret lower before climbing onto the couch with you, his knees sinking into the cushions at either side of your hips. “Hands above your head,” he muttered, dragging his fingers down your ribcage, pausing to flick your nipple, making you gasp. “Don’t move them unless I say.” You stretched your arms over the cushion, heart hammering, your chest rising high as he lowered himself.
And then his mouth was on you again. This time, slower. More deliberate. His tongue traced lazy circles around your clit, barely brushing the swollen bud, just enough to make your body jerk. “Fuck—Jiyong,” you gasped, hips twitching up.
His hand shot out, pressing you flat against the couch. “Stay still,” he growled against your folds, the vibration sending sparks through you. “Or I’ll stop.”
Your back arched, but you obeyed, whimpering, your nails digging crescents into the cushion above your head. He hummed in approval, then flattened his tongue against your clit, licking up and down, slow, dragging it until your thighs trembled. His other hand gripped your thigh tight, spreading you wider, holding you open for him. Saliva mixed with your slick, dripping down his chin as he devoured you, sucking your clit into his mouth with sharp, rhythmic pulls that made your breath break into ragged sobs. “God, you taste so fucking good,” he rasped, pulling back only to dive in again. “Messy little slut—so wet for me already.”
You whimpered, toes curling, your stomach tightening as his tongue circled you relentlessly, never easing up, never giving you more than you could handle. Your thighs closed instinctively around his head, but he only growled into your cunt, the sound vibrating against your clit as he shoved your legs wider apart. “I said stay open,” he snapped, pulling his mouth away just long enough to smack your thigh, the sting making you gasp. “You want me to eat you? You keep still and let me.”
Your entire body shivered. “Yes—yes, sir.” He smirked, dark and satisfied, before lowering his mouth again. This time, he didn’t tease. His tongue flicked fast over your clit, then thrust deep into your cunt, curling against your walls, fucking you with each wet stroke. His nose pressed against your clit, his groans reverberating through you as his tongue worked you ruthlessly. You cried out, hips jerking, but his grip on your thighs was iron, keeping you spread wide for him. Tears pricked at your eyes, your orgasm clawing higher with every relentless flick of his tongue. “You gonna come for me?” he muttered between licks, his voice muffled, dripping with hunger. “Come on, baby. Make a mess on my face. Give it to me.”
Your back arched, your scream muffled in your arm as the release hit you, shattering through your body, your cunt clenching around his tongue as slick spilled down his chin. He groaned like he’d been waiting for it, devouring you harder, licking you through the spasms, drinking in every drop until you were trembling and raw against the cushions. When he finally pulled back, his mouth glistened, his chin dripping with your slick. He wiped it with the back of his hand, smirking down at you, his chest heaving, eyes dark. “Messy,” he muttered, licking his bottom lip. “Just how I like you.”
And as you lay ruined beneath him, gasping, trembling, he shifted — tugging his zipper down, uniform still clinging tight to his body. “Now,” he rasped, pressing the swollen head of his cock against your soaked entrance, “it’s my turn.”
Your body was still trembling from his mouth, chest heaving, thighs sticky with your own release, when his hand gripped your chin hard enough to force your eyes up to him. “You think we’re done?” His voice was low, dangerous, cutting through the heavy silence of the apartment. His beret had slipped slightly, sweat shining at his temple, but it only made him look sharper — harder. “Get on your hands and knees.”
You blinked, dazed, your voice cracking. “Jiyong—”
His grip tightened, his thumb pressing into the hinge of your jaw. “Now.” The command hit like lightning. Your body obeyed instantly, crawling onto the couch cushions and lowering yourself down, palms pressing flat into the fabric, your ass arched high. The cool air swept over your bare skin, your shirt still bunched at your ribs, leaving you half-dressed, trembling under his gaze. You felt him move behind you — the creak of the couch, the heavy breath through his nose, the sharp rasp of his zipper dragging down. Then the blunt head of his cock pressed against your swollen entrance, teasing, smearing your slick around your folds. “Look at you,” he muttered, his hand gripping your hip, fingers digging bruises into your flesh. “Already dripping, begging for me.”
You whimpered, pushing back just slightly, but he pulled away.
“Did I say move?” His palm cracked against your ass, the sting making you cry out, heat blooming across your skin. “Stay still until I give you what I want.” Your body burned, your breath catching as you nodded frantically. “Yes, sir.”
And then he slammed into you. The force knocked a choked scream from your throat, your body jolting forward as his cock drove deep in one brutal stroke. He groaned low, his grip on your hip iron-tight as he bottomed out, buried to the hilt inside you. “Fuck,” he rasped, his chest heaving behind you. “Tight. So fucking tight for me.”
He pulled back slow, almost teasing, before snapping his hips forward again, the sound of skin on skin cracking through the room. Your arms buckled, your cheek pressing against the cushion as he fucked into you, hard and unrelenting. Each thrust was sharp, commanding, his hips slamming against your ass with bruising force. His hand slid up your spine, curling into your hair, yanking your head back so your moans spilled louder into the air. “You’re mine,” he growled into your ear, his teeth grazing your jaw. “Say it.”
“Y-yours,” you sobbed, tears brimming as your cunt clenched desperately around him. He snarled, his pace quickening, every thrust angled deep, hitting the spot that made you see stars. “Louder.” “YOURS!” The word ripped from your throat, your body trembling violently as the pleasure built higher, hotter, threatening to consume you. “That’s it,” he muttered, his breath ragged, his hips pistoning into you with brutal rhythm. “My little soldier. My slut. Taking my cock like you were made for it.”
The sound of your slick echoed obscenely with every thrust, wet and messy, dripping down your thighs. The couch creaked beneath you, the fabric bunching under your fingers as you clung to it, your body stretched and broken on him. “Don’t you dare come until I tell you,” he snapped, teeth gritted, his grip on your hip bruising.
You whimpered, your body betraying you, every nerve begging to unravel, but you forced yourself to hold back, trembling violently as he fucked you harder, deeper, rawer. His groans broke through the air, sharp and guttural, the sound of a man on the edge. “Fuck—fuck, I could come just from this—your tight little cunt milking me.”
You screamed, your body shattering as the orgasm ripped through you anyway, clenching so hard around him that his rhythm faltered. Slick gushed down your thighs, soaking his uniform pants, your entire body trembling with the force of it.
His snarl was immediate. “I didn’t give you permission—” but his words broke into a groan, his thrusts erratic now, punishing. “Fuck, you’re squeezing me—shit—”
His cock pulsed deep inside you as he came, grinding into you hard, filling you with heat until it spilled out around him, dripping onto the couch beneath. He stayed there, buried to the hilt, his chest pressed against your back, his mouth at your ear. “You’re in so much trouble,” he whispered, voice wrecked, his breath hot against your skin. But the smirk in his tone told you exactly what that meant.
The room smelled of sex and sweat, the air heavy and damp. Your body sagged against the couch, forehead pressed into the cushion, your chest heaving as tremors rippled through you.
Jiyong stayed pressed against you for a moment longer, his cock still buried inside, his chest pressed hot against your back. His breath rasped in your ear, ragged and uneven, his body trembling with the aftershocks of release.
Then slowly, carefully, he pulled out. You whimpered at the loss, your cunt clenching around nothing, the heat of him spilling down your thighs. “Shhh.” His voice was softer now, hoarse but stripped of command. He placed one last kiss at the back of your neck before straightening. “Don’t move.”
The sharp edge of his tone was gone, replaced with something gentler. You heard the shuffle of fabric, the click of his belt as he zipped himself back up, but he didn’t take the uniform off. Not yet. Instead, he disappeared for a moment. When he came back, the soft press of a warm towel met your thighs.
You flinched at first, but then melted into the touch as he wiped you clean, slow and careful, his rings clinking softly against the towel. “Messy girl,” he murmured, but his tone was fond, almost indulgent. “Always ruining my uniform.”
You managed a weak laugh, your cheek still pressed to the cushion. He worked patiently, wiping away the slick and cum that dripped down your skin, making sure you were clean before tossing the towel aside. Then he bent, sliding an arm under your knees, the other beneath your back, and lifted you effortlessly. You groaned, your head falling against his shoulder. “Jiyong…”
“Shhh,” he soothed, pressing his lips to your hairline. “I’ve got you.” He carried you to the bedroom, the uniform jacket still clinging to him, his boots heavy against the floorboards. The bed dipped as he laid you down, pulling the blanket up over your bare skin. Then, finally, he shrugged out of the uniform, putting on his pyjamas before climbing in beside you. His arm hooked around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest, his nose burying into your hair.
For a long moment, there was only silence — his steady breathing, the faint thrum of the city outside.
“You okay?” he whispered at last, his thumb stroking lazy circles against your hip. You nodded weakly, eyes fluttering shut. “Yeah.” He kissed your temple, lingering there. “Good.”
The commander was gone. It was just Jiyong now — soft, warm, grounding you in his arms as sleep pulled you under.
And before you drifted off, you heard him murmur against your skin, almost too quiet to catch: “You always come back to me.”