your name? ─── c.yj
SUMMARY ⭒ you, a lethal assassin, are sent to kill a high profile target. you’re staying on task, until you find yourself tangled in a dance with yeonjun—a rival from another assassin agency. same mark, same mission, but it turns into a game of who breaks first.
PAIRING ⭒ yeonjun x f!reader, dom!yeonjun, assassin!au
WARNINGS ⭒ weapons, guns, knives, blood, smut, fingering, unprotected sex, dry humping, hand job, edging, praise, begging, biting, teasing, pet names, hand in hair
WORD COUNT ⭒ 3.9k
THE CHANDELIERS DRIP gold onto a room full of liars. It dimly lit the dance floor, and the room glimmered with couples twirling in elegant attire. The air crackles with intrigue. Masked figures engage in hushed conversations, yet the ballroom booms with noise. You adjust your mask—which was both silky and knife-sharp at the edges. You were at this masked gala event for a charity event, but you were really there to kill Kim Seojoon. He was in his early 40s as a CEO of a company, and your agency assigned you to kill him. The only reason being was that he was a hard target—already surviving two attempted assassinations. It was clear your agency wanted him gone but he wouldn’t budge.
The air reeked of champagne. As you glide through the crowd, your eyes stay fixed on Kim Seojoon—your kill. The CEO laughs a little too loud at his own joke, clueless that tonight’s entertainment includes a silent bullet with his name on it. You adjust your gloves that blend way too well with your dress. You were calculating the best angle to—
“Mind if we dance?”
A voice purrs in your ear. Way too close. You turn—and there he is: sharp jawline half-hidden behind a black mask, lips curled in amusement as he watches Seojoon. Not you, at least not yet. His stance was relaxed. A slow smirk tugs at your lips. You two were way too far to Seojoon, and it was the perfect disguise to inch closer to him. You find yourself murmuring, “I don’t normally dance,” even as you let him lead you towards the dance floor. Closer to Seojoon. The lights dim and the music changes to a sultry, almost languid tune. One of your hands was held in his, the other resting just above your holster.
This was way too casual for you. “What’s your name?” The question rolls off your tongue and you receive a little smile from the man. His grip on your hip never falters once, and the mask of his makes it impossible to get a clear read on his expression. His eyes glint in the chandelier light. “Does it matter?” he counters, pulling you smoothly into a dance. Your steps sync almost effortlessly. You take your chance as he whirls you closer. “Maybe not,” you reply, your voice low.
His grip tightens as he pulls you closer—close enough to whisper: “Names are for people who plan to stay alive.” A threat, or a challenge? Your pulse spikes anyway. The music swells as he dips you low, mask-to-mask, and your thigh brushes his. Your hidden gun presses cold between his ribs through fabric. “Just a joke,” he pulls you back up. The hard muscles of his frame were hard not to stare at, the way they looked through the material of his suit. “You haven’t told me yours either, sweetheart,” his breath ghosted against your ear.
A shiver runs up your spine, but you can’t tell if it’s from the way he called you sweetheart or the feeling that this man—whoever he is—knows more than he lets on. Your voice comes out cool, measured. “I don’t give out my name to every handsome stranger I meet. Especially to ones who sweep me off my feet without notice.” He chuckles at your response, low and smooth as he spins you out before reeling you back in. His hand on your waist tightens slightly.
”Swept off your feet, huh?” He repeats, a hint of amusement in his voice. His fingers skim the bare skin of your back, sending a jolt of heat through your body. “I like to think of it as.. being thorough.” You tilt your head, studying his half-hidden face, wondering just how much thoroughness he’s capable of. The way he moves, the confidence in his every gesture. All of it screams “predator.”
“Thorough, is it?” You move with him in a graceful step, bodies brushing against each other with an electrifying mixture of tension and restraint. He nods, his grip on you tightening as he draws you closer. You can feel the heat radiating from his body, almost see the tension coiled beneath his flawless mask and tailored suit. “Thorough enough to know a few things.”
You raise an eyebrow, feigning nonchalance despite the adrenaline that began to hum in your veins. “Like what?”
”Like the fact that you’re not some pretty, hidden face who came here for the free champagne,” he leaned in, his voice was a rough whisper against your ear, his hand skimming up your back. You gulp something back down your throat. “You’re here for something more.”
As you swallow, the music and the crowd fade away to a distant hum. All you can focus on is the press of his body against yours—and you were losing focus of your mission. Yet, the dangerous gleam in his eyes behind the mask was so addicting. “And what makes you so sure of that?” You manage.
His mouth curves into another half-smile, sharp and lethal. “The way you hold yourself..how your eyes search the room.” He spins you out again, the dance was starting to become more of a game than a rhythmic motion. “Tell me, what are you here for, darling?”
You let out a soft, practiced laugh—light and airy, the perfect illusion of someone who belongs at this party for nothing more than champagne and flirtation. “Don’t I make it obvious?” You trail a finger down his tie with deliberate slowness. “A girl can multitask, you know. So, answer this, and I’ll answer you. What made you come up to me for a dance?”
His grip tightens almost imperceptibly on the hem of your dress, but his smirk doesn’t change at the slightest. “Well, well. A woman who not only knows how to dance, but also knows how to play the game,” he whispers, his eyes holding something that looked similar to arousal. “As for why I chose you?” The music shifts once more. He adjusted his grip on you, and you could feel the slightest movement through the thin silk of your dress. “Curiosity killed the cat, I can admit.”
You’re able to feel the press of his concealed blade against your chest as he leans in—close enough that his breath trails over your lips when he speaks. “And I hate unanswered questions.”
The threat is velvet-wrapped but sharp as a razor’s edge. The hand on your hip drifts lower, fingertips brushing where your own gun rests—hidden beneath layers of delicate fabric. A silent, but dangerous acknowledgement washes over him: he knows.
You had the chance to twist away. Maybe the chance to shoot him mid-step. But instead—you laugh, soft and mocking, as if this is all some delightful game. It was life or death. “Careful,” you hush back, “Or I’ll start thinking you’re here for more than just dancing.”
He chuckles faintly, the sound sending a shiver down your whole body. “Oh, I can guarantee that dancing is the furthest thing from my mind, now that you’re in front of me.”
Each word is a challenge wrapped up in a mocking croon. Your heart thuds in your chest, and you can barely hear the music over the blood rushing in your ears. Every nerve and instinct is yelling for you to pull away, but you don’t. A part of you is tempted to let him win this game, just to see where this dance leads. You felt like a rabbit caught in a hunter’s snare—and you’re not sure whether you want to fight or to let yourself surrender to his soft touch.
In the middle of your anticipation, the dance ends—too soon—and before you can react, his fingers are laced through yours in a mockingly gentle hold. “Let’s discuss what’s hidden underneath your dress,” he murmured, brushing his hand against the handle of the small gun. His voice is all polite against his suggestion, but his grip on your hand is sharp. Did he mean your gun, or something more?
You let him lead you away from the glittering crowd, past servers with trays of untouched champagne—until suddenly he pivots sharply into a shadowed corridor lined with unmarked doors. Your instincts scream to grab your gun, but then—
“Trust me,” he breathes against your ear as one door clicks open beneath his palm. The low light inside reveals an office. Leather sofa and chairs, discarded files, and a heavy desk that would bruise beautifully if shoved against it.
His smirk is wicked as he pulls you inside and kicks the door shut behind you both—trapping predator and prey in equal measure when your gun presses to his ribs at the same moment the blade of his knife grazes your throat. If you gulp, or even let a sharp exhale out, it’d cut you. The noise from the main ballroom disappears—sealing out the rest of the world and leaving you two isolated in the office with nothing in between you but the harsh thrum in your veins.
He pulls you with him as he leans back against the desk, shifting so that it presses against your hips—not quite pinning you in place, but enough to make the adrenaline spike in your whole body. You both were playing fire here, and the room suddenly feels far too small for the tension crackling in the air like fire.
”No clever comments, this time?” he muses, his eyes dancing with amusement as he toys with the edge of the sleeve of your pretty dress. His fingers trace the blade at your throat at a slow and deliberate pace, before he suddenly flips it closed with a click and tosses it onto the desk behind him. “Your move.”
You shove your gun into his stomach hard enough to make him grunt.. it aroused you. Then his hand snakes around your wrist, yanking you flush against him so fast that your breath hitches. the desk digs into your thighs as he leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Do you want me to disarm you first, pretty woman?”
The heat between you builds a fever-pitch as he crowds into your space—all hard lines and lean muscle pressed against your own slim body, it’s intoxicating. The way your body responds to him without your permission. Your skin craves more of his feel, then way his breathing stutters when your hands tighten on his wrists. His eyes darken as he stares down at you. “Tell me you don’t want this,” he growls, “and I’ll let you go.”
”Maybe I don’t want you to let go.” Your own words startle you, a low strangled rasp that sounds like you’re confessing a sin. He freezes, eyes widening in some nameless emotion before they narrow in a mix of amusement and something else—it looks an awful lot of desire. “Did you just admit that? Interesting.”
You throw the gun you were trembling with seconds ago onto the desk behind you. He watches as the gun skitters across the top of the desk, exactly where he wanted it. His hand drifts up to your hair, then your jaw. His fingers tilting your chin up until your eyes meet his. You two were so close that you could smell the sharp, masculine edge of his cologne.
You don’t have time to react as he grips your hips—rough, almost brutal with need—and slams you onto the desk. Wood creaks in protest as his body cages yours. His thighs were pressing between yours almost on instinct. Your gasp is swallowed by his mouth as he leans in to claim a kiss you hadn’t even known you were desperate for. He tastes like sin and danger, and your body arches up against him, wanting more of it.
His fingers tighten in your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss as if he’s starving for the taste of you. His free hand takes your mask off, “What a beautiful woman,” he releases his lips from your mouth for just a second to whisper. You bite his lip in retaliation, hard enough to draw blood, and he groans against your mouth. His hand slides under your thigh to hike it around his waist, carrying you over to the couch.
He places you on top of his lap, the back of the leather sofa digging into his back as you press closer, grinding against the bulge in his lap with fiction that makes heat pool low in both of your stomachs. His breath hitches when you rake nails down his back through fabric.
”Tell me,” he murmurs against your bruised lips, voice wrecked already— “your name?”
Your fingers tangle in his hair, yanking his head back to expose the line of his throat. He groans as you tell him your name and took his mask off for him, wondering if the word went through one ear and out the other. “Now you tell me yours,” you breathe against his pulse, feeling it jump under your lips.”
He laughs—dark, ragged—before crushing his mouth back to yours with force. The sofa creaked beneath you both as he pins your wrist down towards his lap, nipping at the sensitive skin below your ear. “It’s Yeonjun,” he admits against your jaw like a confession.
His hand slides up your thigh, unhurried and pausing just shy of where you need him the most. He felt the way you were soaked up against your underwear. “Say the word,” he says against your collar once, teeth grazing the frantic pulse there. “I’ll stop.”
You arch into his touch, moaning a small “Yeonjun,” already, with your nails biting crescents into his shoulders as his smirk burns against your skin.
”Fuck..” Yeonjun’s breath stutters against your skin when you say his name, the name that no one at this gala should know. His pupils dilate, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. “Say it again, sweetheart.” His voice was rough with something wilder than desire.
You whisper his name like a prayer against his lips before biting down on his lower lip until he groans. The hand between your thighs finally gives you what you want, sliding beneath the soft and wet fabric with devastating precision as he growls. Yeonjun almost moans at how tight you are against his fingers, wondering how you felt around him hard. “You’re so wet..” he scoffed, “We barely had any foreplay.”
“Sh— shut up..” You could barely make out those words. His answering grin is blasphemous as you bite back a moan when his teeth tug at your lips, refusing to reward him for his arrogance. He adds a third finger that has you gasping in spite of yourself, curling all three that hits your spot perfectly. “Yeonjun!” You yell, having to throw your own hand against your mouth. “Ngh— harder..” You buried your head in his neck, as if you knew him longer than this moment.
”That’s it baby..” he growls, sucking at your neck. “I want to hear that. How else will I know if I’m doing it right?” Yeonjun’s words are a dark purr against your skin as he marks you, but you swear you can feel the shiver that ran down his spine as you shouted his name in pleasure. He knew he was pushing you—teasing the line between pain and pleasure until neither of you were sure where it lay. “You can take more, can’t you?” he asks, knowing the answer. “I know you can.”
Yeonjun swirls his fingers around your soft, wet pussy. You’re already at the edge. “Oh my.. god—” You whimpered. He realized how teasing he was already. “Okay, that’s enough,” he lifted your head with his free hand, making eye contact with you. “Let me reward that pretty face of yours, baby.”
Yeonjun’s praise is rough, edged with worship as he pulls his fingers free, just to watch your needy little gasp, eyes almost tearing up at the feeling of him pulling away from you. “Don’t cry, you’re being such a good girl.” The world tilts as he manhandles both your hands to his belt, signaling for you to unbuckle it for him.
Your fingers tremble against the leather of his belt, the weight of his gaze burning through you as you fumble with the buckle—too slow for his liking—but you were still out of it from the effect he had on you seconds ago.
”Hurry, pretty lady,” his thumb swipes at your lower lip in a mockery of tenderness. “Or do I need to show you how it’s done?”
The belt finally gives way, and before you can react, Yeonjun’s hand is back in your hair—tight, commanding. “Prove to me why I shouldn’t regret this.”
You almost—almost—whimper at the command, the sound strangled in your throat as you swallow hard. He’s so dominant, so demanding, that you want to put your hands around his neck to refuse to be controlled.
There’s a tension in the air that makes the air sliceable as he stares up at you—a single question in the heated look in his eyes: “Are you going to refuse?”
Your sharp gaze seems to cut something in him. He wants you to refuse, he craves to see exactly how far he can push you—to see if you’ll push back, or if you’ll submit.
”You’re the one on top of me,” Yeonjun admits. Your breath catches in your chest as another beat passes, neither of you blinking. You wonder if he can feel the way you shiver. How your throat goes dry at the thought of his control.
Either way, you pull down both his boxers and pants in one go. His hard dick springs up against his stomach and you take a glance, long enough to memorize each vein that you craved for to destroy your insides. Yeonjun let out a low gasp that only lasted for a fraction of a second. He lets out a low, dark laugh. “Eager, are we?”
”I am,” You nod, taking off your gloves and putting one of your hands barely around half his neck, then your dominant hand around his dick. You could barely hold it, the girth of him surprising you. He lets out a soft groan of your name. “Mmh..”
Yeonjun’s breathing is ragged now, the sound intensifying as you twist your hand up and down. He’s hard, and just the contact makes the world spin for him. “God.. that’s good.” He exhaled, “Faster… ghh!”
His eyes lock with yours, and you can see the battle raging inside him—the struggle to maintain the upper hand while his own body responds with an intensity he can’t control. You bring his dick to your opening, teasing him. He moans out your name, loud. “Please..!” Yeonjun begs, and you let out an evil scoff under your breath. “I need you.” His control was shattering beneath him.
Then, curses tear from his throat as you take him into you, warm and wet, perfect around him. You both moan as his fingers pull at your hair, your nails digging into his back. You both were clinging onto each other as if you were the only things keeping each other grounded. “Shit— shit.. Mm! So good, so warm..” Yeonjun pulls you into several pecks of kisses, feeling way more intimate than it should.
His hips jerk instinctively, but he stops himself last second with a shuddering exhale. “Don’t stop.” The order is more of a plea than a demand now—voice wrecked beyond recognition as his free hand grips the material of the sofa beneath him until his knuckles turn white. As you bounce on him, the sound of your wetness against him, the slapping of your delicate skin against his, and both of your whimpers echo against the room. The couch sounded as if it was going to collapse between the both of you.
The world around you narrows down to this moment. The desperate need that burns through your veins like molten fire. You’re both teetering on the edge now, so close it hurts—and Yeonjun hates that he can’t keep control anymore, that you pushed him to the brink. He was never that easy to push. It was something about you.
His eyes are feral now, dark with a hunger that could devour you whole, And when he speaks, it’s low and as wrecked as his grip on you. When you pull him out of you, he lets out a cry, “I—I said don’t stop..”
“I’m not,” you kiss him on the lips. When you reach down to feel his dick, rubbing it softly, then intensifying with speed: he moans louder. “Fuck!” Yeonjun grips your thigh, hoping it’d stop him from releasing. “Stop—”He begged. “Let me..” He groaned, unable to finish his sentence. “Shit.. Let me fill you up, damnit…” Yeonjun says quickly, he was at the edge.
“Do it,” your whisper was rough with desire, laced with something dangerous. His control snaps like a thread when you jerk him faster. A broken groan tears from his throat as he yanks you back down onto him, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. The feeling of you around him meets his senses again and you both let a cry slip.
He was already big enough that just one single slip inside—and your g-spot was already being pleased. Yeonjun grips your ass under your dress, moving you up and down, harsher each time. “Ngh..!” You cry, “You feel— so good, Yeonjun.. Mmm..”
”I’m so close!” Yeonjun throws his head back onto the couch, feeling his senses tingling. “Cum with me, baby.. Fuck,” The words are a desperate gasp, and you swear you see tears in his eyes—this strong, fierce man was unraveling beneath you in a way you never thought possible. You can practically feel him shaking now, the tension winding tighter and tighter like a coiled spring just before it snaps.
“Mmhh!” The world whites out for both of you—Yeonjun’s release hot and deep inside you while your nails rake bloody crescents down his chest. He could feel your release all around him.
You collapse against his chest, both of you breathless and spent. Yeonjun strokes your hair in absentminded motions as he regains his composure, his expression carefully changing to indifference but for the lingering heat in his eyes. The tension is still there as you both release from each other, still wanting more.
For a split second, all the masks are gone. He’s vulnerable, raw, real; he looks so damn beautiful. It’s only when he reaches up to stroke your cheek with the barest brush of his thumb that the air shifts back into acting.
Yeonjun pulls your head down, catching your mouth in a long, deep kiss—his tongue tangling with yours like he’s trying to memorize the feel of your mouth. He pulls away after a moment, a hint of a smirk on his lips.
When the both of you open your mouths to say something, the chime of the clock outside echoes like a gunshot through the room. Both of you freeze—chests still heavy and skin still fever hot. Reality crashes back in with brutal force, and you both put your undergarments and clothes back on.
You roll off Yeonjun, reaching for your discarded weapons with hands that almost don’t tremble. His blade glints coldly in the dim light as he tucks it back into his sleeve, all traces of vulnerability gone like it never existed.
The last thing you feel before slipping out the door is Yeonjun’s soft fingers brushing yours as he passes you back your loaded gun. “Let’s do this again sometime.”
5-53pm © 2025
