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WELCOME TO MY WORLD ✶⋆.˚
"I know what you need."
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j. yunho - me before you
j. yunho - gentle hands, steady blades
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by kiera. ☆ © 2026 by yunistxr | all rights reserved.
I love yungi so much I hit 1 year of friendship with the yunho to my mingi today @yunistxr WEHEHE you my everything
HAPPY ANNIVERSARY TO US OLIPOP
do you guys want a part 2 of the "gentle hands, steady blades" fic?
── POLE POSITION. Y. JEONG
synopsis : A successful entrepreneur partners with the Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula One Team and meets rising Formula One driver Jeong Yunho. What begins as professional curiosity slowly turns into a deep connection as Yunho climbs toward the Formula One World Drivers' Championship. Through intense races, media pressure, and dangerous moments on track, their relationship grows stronger, culminating in Yunho, becoming world champion, and choosing a life with the reader beyond the finish line.
• pairing : formula 1 driver! yunho x entrepreneur! reader
𓈒𓍼𓏸 wc : 7.8k
𓈒𓍼𓏸 genre : romance, drama, slice of life
• author's note : hbd to yuyu ! I wanted to write this for the atiny and f1 fans so enjoy!
ateez's masterlist
The sound of Formula 1 cars was never just noise.
It was electricity.
It vibrated through your bones, your ribs, your lungs—like thunder trapped inside a machine. Every engine scream was power, precision, and millions of dollars burning through fuel in seconds.
You stood at the balcony overlooking the paddock at the Monaco Grand Prix, arms folded as the late afternoon sun painted the harbor gold.
Luxury yachts.
Champagne glasses.
Camera flashes.
The world of Formula One was built on spectacle.
But you weren’t here for the spectacle.
You were here because the company you built from nothing—a tech startup specializing in sustainable racing materials—had just signed a research partnership with Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula One Team.
Meaning today you would meet their drivers.
Including him.
Jeong Yunho.
The rookie sensation.
The fastest rising driver in three seasons.
Pole positions. Podiums. A smile that had fans losing their minds worldwide.
And apparently—according to every paddock rumor—he was impossible to flirt with.
You weren't planning to flirt.
You were planning to close a deal.
But when the door behind you opened and a voice said softly—
“Beautiful view, isn’t it?”
—you realized plans were fragile things.
You turned.
And there he was.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Still in his black Mercedes race suit, unzipped at the collar.
Dark hair messy from removing his helmet.
But it wasn’t his looks that stunned you.
It was his eyes.
Warm.
Curious.
Focused entirely on you.
“You must be the entrepreneur everyone’s talking about,” Yunho said, smiling.
Your brain stalled.
“Depends,” you replied. “Are they saying good things?”
He laughed.
God.
Even his laugh was disarming.
“They say you might change Formula 1 engineering.”
You tilted your head.
“And what do you think?”
He studied you a moment.
Then said quietly,
“I think people who change industries don’t usually look that calm.”
Your lips curved.
“And people who drive 350 km/h shouldn’t look that relaxed.”
He grinned.
“Touché.”
The tension between you sparked instantly.
Not explosive.
But steady.
Like an engine warming before the race.
The next morning you stood in the Mercedes garage watching practice.
The engineers moved like surgeons.
Screens flickered with telemetry data.
Mechanics whispered in coded language.
Then the garage exploded with sound.
Yunho’s car rolled out.
Black and silver.
Number glowing on the nose.
You watched through the monitor as he accelerated down the straight.
300 km/h.
Your chest tightened.
How could someone control something that fast?
“First time seeing him drive?”
You turned to see the team principal standing beside you.
“Yes.”
He smiled knowingly.
“Watch sector three.”
The car flashed through the tight Monaco corners like liquid metal.
Precision.
Aggression.
Grace.
He didn’t drive like a rookie.
He drove like someone born inside speed.
The lap ended.
Pole position time.
The garage erupted.
You looked back at the screen.
Your heart was racing.
Not because of the lap.
Because suddenly—
You understood the addiction.
And the man behind the wheel.
That evening the Mercedes team hosted a private dinner for partners.
You expected business.
Networking.
Technical discussions.
Instead—
You found Yunho sitting beside you.
On purpose.
“Coincidence?” you asked.
He shook his head.
“No.”
Your eyebrow lifted.
“I asked them to seat me here.”
Direct.
Bold.
Dangerous.
“And why would you do that?” you asked.
His eyes sparkled.
“Because earlier you watched my lap like you were solving a puzzle.”
You blinked.
“You noticed that?”
“I notice everything when I drive.”
You leaned closer.
“So tell me, driver—”
Your voice lowered.
“Did I solve the puzzle?”
Yunho’s smile slowed.
“Not yet.”
His voice dropped.
“But I’d like to help you.”
Your pulse skipped.
The night continued with soft conversation.
About racing.
Technology.
Your company.
His childhood.
Karting at age seven.
Moving countries.
Fighting through junior leagues.
“Formula 1 isn’t just driving,” he said.
“It’s survival.”
You studied him.
“And do you like surviving?”
Yunho’s gaze softened.
“No.”
A pause.
“I like winning.”
Race day arrived with storm clouds.
Rain.
Monaco in rain meant chaos.
From the Mercedes garage you watched mechanics fit intermediate tires.
The tension was thick.
Yunho climbed into the cockpit.
Helmet on.
Visor down.
The grid lights appeared.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
Lights out.
The race began.
Rain sprayed behind every car.
Visibility was nearly zero.
Your nails dug into your palms.
Lap after lap.
Crashes.
Safety cars.
Pit strategies.
And Yunho—
He drove like the storm belonged to him.
Late braking.
Perfect lines.
Fearless overtakes.
By lap 67 he was leading.
Final lap.
The Mercedes garage was silent.
Then—
Checkered flag.
Yunho won.
His first Monaco victory.
The entire team exploded.
You didn’t realize you were smiling until someone hugged you.
That night the harbor glittered with celebration.
Music.
Champagne.
Fireworks.
Yunho found you on the yacht balcony.
Still in his race suit.
Hair damp from champagne spray.
“You watched the whole race.”
It wasn't a question.
“Yes.”
He leaned beside you.
“You looked worried.”
You crossed your arms.
“Rain racing is statistically dangerous.”
He laughed softly.
“Entrepreneurs talk like engineers.”
You glanced at him.
“And drivers talk like they’re immortal.”
Yunho’s voice softened.
“I’m not.”
A pause.
“But when I drive…”
He looked toward the sea.
“I feel close.”
“To what?”
He turned back to you.
“Everything.”
The space between you shifted.
Charged.
Magnetic.
And suddenly—
Your logical brain made a terrible decision.
You stepped closer.
Yunho didn’t move away.
Your fingers brushed his race suit collar.
“You risk your life every weekend.”
Your voice was quiet.
“And yet you’re calm.”
His gaze dropped to your lips.
“Only when I’m not thinking about certain things.”
You swallowed.
“Like what?”
His voice lowered.
“Like you.”
The world stopped.
Then he kissed you.
Slow.
Warm.
Electric.
The roar of Formula 1 engines had nothing on the explosion in your chest.
Dating a Formula 1 driver was complicated.
Different continents every week.
Early morning races.
Midnight calls.
Yunho would send you videos from circuits around the world.
Suzuka.
Silverstone.
Monza.
Sometimes you visited.
Sometimes you worked late in your office while watching his races on TV.
Yet somehow—
Distance made it stronger.
Not weaker.
Until the championship battle began.
And everything changed.
By mid-season Yunho was fighting for the Formula One World Drivers' Championship.
Pressure increased.
Media attention exploded.
Fans analyzed everything.
Even his relationship with you.
Headlines appeared.
“Driver Yunho Dating Tech CEO.”
You asked him one night:
“Does this bother you?”
He shook his head.
“Winning matters.”
Then he looked at you.
“But you matter more.”
Your chest tightened.
“Careful,” you teased.
“That’s dangerous talk before a championship fight.”
He smiled softly.
“I’ve always liked dangerous things.”
It happened in Singapore.
Street circuit.
Night race.
Lap 34.
A rival clipped Yunho’s rear wheel.
The Mercedes spun violently into the barrier.
Your heart stopped.
For ten seconds.
Twenty.
Thirty.
Then—
The radio crackled.
“I’m okay.”
You collapsed into your chair in relief.
Later that night you found him in the paddock medical center.
“You scared me.”
He pulled you into his arms.
“I know.”
You buried your face into his chest.
“I hate that this sport could take you away.”
Yunho tilted your chin up.
“Then stay.”
Your brows furrowed.
“With me.”
The words were quiet.
But heavy.
“You mean—”
He nodded.
“Not just paddock visits.”
His hand tightened around yours.
“I want you in my life. Fully.”
The realization hit you.
This wasn't just racing anymore.
This was love.
The championship came down to the final race.
Abu Dhabi.
Yunho needed a win.
You stood in the Mercedes garage again.
Just like Monaco.
But this time your heart was involved.
Lights out.
The race unfolded like destiny.
Perfect strategy.
Perfect overtakes.
Final lap.
Yunho leading.
The checkered flag waved.
He became World Champion.
The garage exploded.
Champagne sprayed.
And before the trophy ceremony—
Yunho ran straight to you.
Cameras flashing.
Crowds screaming.
He pulled you into his arms.
“You were my lucky charm.”
You laughed.
“I prefer business partner.”
He shook his head.
“No.”
Then he reached into his pocket.
Your breath caught.
A ring.
“I’ve driven faster than anyone on earth,” Yunho said softly.
“But the only place I want to stay…”
He slid the ring onto your finger.
“…is with you.”
Your answer came instantly.
“Yes.”
Months later the championship trophy sat in Yunho’s living room.
But it wasn't the most important thing there.
You.
Curled beside him on the couch.
His arm around you.
“Do you ever miss racing already?” you asked.
He smiled.
“The season starts again in three months.”
You laughed.
“Of course.”
Then he kissed your forehead.
“But there’s one race I already won.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“Oh?”
Yunho squeezed your hand.
“Finding you.”
Outside the world still roared with speed.
But inside—
Everything was calm.
Like the moment right after the checkered flag.
Winning the Formula One World Drivers' Championship changed Yunho’s life overnight.
Interviews.
Award ceremonies.
Sponsors.
Magazine covers.
Yet the moment he looked happiest wasn’t on stage.
It was in the quiet kitchen of your apartment in Seoul at 2 AM, wearing loose sweatpants and stealing strawberries from the fridge.
“You’re a world champion,” you said, leaning against the counter.
“And you’re eating fruit like a raccoon.”
Yunho grinned, chewing lazily.
“World champions need vitamins.”
You crossed your arms.
“You’re supposed to be resting.”
“I am resting.”
He walked closer until you were trapped between him and the counter.
“This is my rest.”
His voice dropped slightly.
Being around Yunho off-track was dangerous in a completely different way than race day.
Because when he wasn’t racing—
All his focus went to you.
His fingers brushed your waist.
“You know,” he murmured, “I barely saw you during the final races.”
“That’s because you were busy winning championships.”
His eyes softened.
“Still.”
He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.
“I missed you.”
Your heart did the same annoying flip it always did around him.
For someone who drove 350 km/h regularly, Yunho was unbelievably gentle.
And somehow that made it worse.
Two weeks later, the internet exploded.
Photos of Yunho leaving your office building.
Videos of you sitting in the Mercedes garage.
Articles speculating about the ring on your finger.
One headline read:
“Champion Yunho’s Secret Fiancée?”
You stared at your phone.
“Do we… tell them?” you asked.
Yunho glanced up from his laptop.
“Tell them what?”
“That we’re engaged.”
He leaned back in his chair.
Then smiled.
“Why not?”
“Because Formula 1 fans are intense.”
“Good,” he said casually.
You blinked.
“Good?”
Yunho closed his laptop.
Walked over.
And wrapped his arms around you from behind.
“If they know you’re mine,” he murmured near your ear,
“maybe fewer people will flirt with you.”
You laughed.
“That’s your concern?”
“Yes.”
“Not sponsors? Media pressure?”
“No.”
His voice dropped.
“Just you.”
Your cheeks warmed.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And you love it.”
You sighed.
Unfortunately—
You did.
Three months later the new Formula One season began.
Opening race: Bahrain Grand Prix.
The Mercedes garage buzzed with pressure.
Defending champion.
Everyone wanted to beat Yunho now.
You stood near the engineering screens watching him prepare for qualifying.
Helmet in hand.
Focus sharp.
When he spotted you across the garage, he gave a tiny smile.
Just for you.
Later that night he texted:
Pole position.
You replied instantly.
Dinner if you win.
Three dots appeared.
Then his answer.
Deal.
Race day felt different when your fiancé was the one in danger.
You tried to focus on work emails during the race.
It didn’t work.
Lap 1.
Lap 10.
Lap 32.
Yunho fought aggressively for the lead.
By lap 55 he was ahead.
Final lap.
The tension was unbearable.
Then—
Checkered flag.
Victory.
Again.
The Mercedes garage exploded with celebration.
But Yunho didn’t head for interviews first.
He came straight to you.
Helmet off.
Hair damp with sweat.
Eyes bright with adrenaline.
“You owe me dinner.”
You laughed.
“You’re unbelievable.”
He leaned closer.
“Also…”
His voice dropped slightly.
“You promised a celebration.”
Your pulse skipped.
“Not here.”
He smirked.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
That night the team hosted a private party on a rooftop overlooking the Bahrain skyline.
Music pulsed softly.
Champagne flowed.
Drivers laughed with engineers.
But Yunho barely stayed fifteen minutes.
He leaned close to your ear.
“Let’s go.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“Already?”
His hand slipped into yours.
“I waited three months for this off-season to end.”
“And?”
His gaze darkened slightly.
“I’ve been very patient.”
Your breath caught.
The hotel suite was silent compared to the roaring paddock.
The moment the door closed behind you—
Yunho exhaled deeply.
Like he’d finally released the tension of an entire race weekend.
You slipped off your heels.
“Champion seems tired.”
He shook his head slowly.
“No.”
His eyes moved over you.
Black dress.
Loose hair.
The engagement ring catching the soft lamp light.
“I just prefer celebrating privately.”
You leaned against the table.
“Do you celebrate every win like this?”
“No.”
He walked closer.
Only inches between you now.
“Just the important ones.”
Your voice softened.
“And this one is important?”
Yunho’s fingers gently caught your hand.
“Every win is important.”
His thumb brushed the ring.
“But this…”
His gaze lifted to yours.
“…is the best thing I’ve ever won.”
Your chest tightened.
“You didn’t win me.”
His lips curved.
“No.”
He pulled you closer.
“You chose me.”
The kiss that followed was slow.
Warm.
The kind that made time disappear.
Yunho’s arms wrapped around you like you were the only solid thing in his fast, chaotic world.
And maybe—
For him—
You were.
He rested his forehead against yours.
“Tomorrow I fly to the simulator in England.”
“Already?”
“Championship defense.”
Your hand slid up his shoulder.
“Then tonight we celebrate properly.”
His smile returned.
Dangerous.
“Careful,” he murmured.
“You’re challenging a Formula 1 driver.”
You laughed softly.
“And you’re challenging an entrepreneur.”
He lifted you effortlessly onto the couch.
“Oh?”
Your voice lowered.
“I don’t lose negotiations.”
Yunho chuckled.
“Good.”
His lips brushed your forehead again.
“Because neither do I.”
Outside the city lights glowed.
Inside the room—
The celebration lasted long into the night.
Not loud.
Not wild.
Just warmth.
Laughter.
And the quiet certainty that the fastest man on earth had finally found a place where he didn’t need to run.
Six months later.
Monaco again.
The same balcony where you first met.
Yunho stood beside you watching the harbor.
“Full circle,” you said.
He nodded.
“You remember our first conversation here?”
“Yes.”
“What did you say?”
You smirked.
“That drivers shouldn’t look so relaxed.”
“And I said entrepreneurs shouldn’t look so calm.”
You turned toward him.
“So what changed?”
Yunho wrapped an arm around your waist.
“Nothing.”
He kissed your temple.
“We just got faster together.”
by kiera. ☆ © 2026 by yunistxr | all rights reserved.
── GENTLE HANDS, STEADY BLADES.ㅤ ㅤY. JEONG
synopsis : a figure skater meets a gentle dentist after a toothache, and their soft, supportive love grows alongside her skating career. With his constant encouragement, she wins Olympic gold, and then he proposes on the ice, proving he’s been her greatest victory all along.
• pairing : dentist! yunho x figure skater! reader
𓈒𓍼𓏸 wc : 7.4k
𓈒𓍼𓏸 genre : fluff, romance, slice of life, light erotica (just a little)
𓈒𓍼𓏸 warnings : 16+
♡ author's note : hey babies ! so i wrote this inspired by yunho's first dream and my first dream, and honestly, this trope has a unique dynamic that you may love ! hope u enjoy lovies and pls lmk if it's good ! <3
☆ masterlist
You first met Yunho because of a toothache.
Which, in your opinion, was one of the most unfair meet-cutes ever.
Not in a café. Not at a rink. Not in a bookstore. No. A dental clinic.
Your day off was supposed to be sacred.
No training. No drills. No coach yelling “again.” No early alarms. Just sleep, coffee, and maybe stretching if guilt won.
Instead, you woke up with a dull throb in your jaw.
You ignored it.
Figure skaters ignored pain like it was part of the job description.
By noon, it pulsed.
By two, it stabbed.
By four, you were clutching your cheek and googling emergency dentist near me like your life depended on it.
That’s how you ended up standing in front of a clean glass building with soft pastel signage and a neat little logo shaped like a smiling tooth.
You groaned.
“Of course it’s cute,” you muttered. “My suffering must be aesthetic.”
Inside, the clinic smelled faintly of mint and citrus. Calm instrumental music played, the kind that felt like it was trying to convince your body you weren’t about to be stabbed with tiny metal tools.
The receptionist smiled. “Appointment?”
You pressed your cheek. “Pain. Sudden. Urgent. I will cry if not helped.”
She nodded sympathetically. “We can fit you in. Please sit.”
You sat.
You regretted everything.
You hated dentists.
You hated the sound of drills. The sterile lighting. The way you couldn’t talk while someone examined your mouth like you were a science project.
A door opened.
“Next patient?”
The voice was warm.
Low.
Gentle.
You looked up.
And forgot about your tooth.
He was tall.
Not just tall—tall tall. The kind of tall that made doorframes look slightly concerned. Soft brown hair framed his forehead, and his eyes—
You blinked.
Kind.
That was the word.
Kind eyes.
He smiled politely. “You must be our emergency patient?”
You stared.
He tilted his head slightly, amused but patient.
You snapped back to reality. “Yes. That’s me. Emergency disaster.”
“I’m Yunho,” he said. “I’ll take care of you.”
Oh.
Oh no.
He had the voice of someone who read bedtime stories to children and made them believe monsters didn’t exist.
You followed him into the treatment room in a daze.
You sat in the chair.
He adjusted the light.
“You said it started today?”
You nodded.
“Sharp pain or dull ache?”
“Both,” you mumbled. “It upgraded.”
He chuckled softly.
Why was that comforting.
“Open for me?”
You opened your mouth.
Dignity left the chat.
He leaned closer, gloved fingers gentle as he tilted your chin. His touch was careful, almost apologetic, like he didn’t want to inconvenience you by examining your own teeth.
Professional, you reminded yourself. He’s professional. Stop noticing things.
His brows furrowed slightly as he checked.
“Hm.”
You froze.
Was that a bad hm.
“That’s a worried hm,” you tried to say, which came out as “Tha ah wah-ee hm.”
He laughed quietly. “Not worried. Thinking.”
He leaned back. “Looks like a small cavity that finally decided to protest. We can fix it today.”
Relief flooded you.
“No root canal?”
“No root canal.”
You nearly cried from joy.
While preparing tools, he asked casually, “So what do you do?”
You swallowed. “I’m a figure skater.”
He paused mid-motion.
Turned.
Eyes bright.
“Really?”
You nodded cautiously.
“That’s amazing.”
Not fake-polite amazing.
Real amazing.
You felt heat creep into your cheeks. “It’s… just a job.”
“It’s not just anything,” he said gently. “That takes discipline. Balance. Years of training.”
You stared.
Most people either said Wow you must be flexible or Do you know how to do backflips?
No one ever said discipline.
“…Yeah,” you said quietly. “It does.”
He smiled softly, like he understood something about you that most people missed.
“Alright,” he said, adjusting his mask. “I’ll numb the area first.”
You stiffened.
He noticed immediately.
“Hey,” he said softly. “You okay?”
You hesitated. “…I don’t like needles.”
His eyes softened.
“I’ll be quick,” he promised. “And I’ll tell you before I do anything. Nothing sudden. Okay?”
You nodded.
He raised the syringe slowly so you could see it. “This is the anesthetic. Small pinch. That’s all.”
You gripped the armrests.
He waited.
Actually waited.
Not rushing.
Not dismissing.
Just… there.
“You ready?” he asked.
“…Okay.”
Gentle fingers rested against your cheek, steadying you.
“Little pinch.”
It stung.
You flinched—
—and then his thumb lightly tapped your wrist.
Distraction.
Comfort.
Grounding.
It was over in seconds.
“…That wasn’t bad,” you admitted.
He grinned behind his mask. “I have a reputation to maintain.”
The procedure was quick.
You expected tension, pain, panic.
Instead—
You felt calm.
Because every movement he made was deliberate. Every tool introduction came with a soft explanation. Every adjustment came with “You okay?”
At one point he paused.
“You’re doing great,” he said.
Your heart did something embarrassing.
Why did praise from a dentist feel like winning a championship medal.
When he finished, he leaned back. “All done.”
You blinked.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“That was…” you searched for the word. “…pleasant.”
He laughed. “I’ll put that on our reviews.”
You sat up slowly, still numb.
He removed his gloves.
“You should avoid chewing on that side for a few hours,” he said. “And no cold drinks until sensation returns.”
You nodded.
Neither of you moved.
The air shifted.
You didn’t know why your chest felt tight.
Maybe it was the way he looked at you—not as a patient, not as a stranger, but as someone interesting. Someone worth paying attention to.
“So,” he said lightly, “when’s your next competition?”
You blinked. “Next month.”
“I hope you win.”
It was simple.
Sincere.
No teasing. No exaggeration. Just belief.
Your throat felt weirdly tight. “…Thanks.”
You told yourself you didn’t go back because of him.
You told yourself it was responsible dental care.
Routine checkups.
Preventative maintenance.
Totally normal.
Totally professional.
Totally not because your dentist had the warmest smile you’d ever seen.
But somehow—
Your appointments kept landing on his shift.
Coincidence.
Sure.
Every time you walked in, his face lit up slightly.
“Hey, skater.”
Every time, your heart betrayed you.
Three months after your first visit, you were practicing a program when your coach clapped.
“Break.”
You glided to the barrier, breath visible in the cold air.
That’s when you saw him.
Standing near the entrance.
Tall.
Scarf around his neck.
Looking wildly out of place in a skating rink.
You blinked.
“…Yunho?”
He waved awkwardly. “Hi.”
Your brain malfunctioned.
“You… you’re here.”
“Yeah.”
“Why are you here?”
He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “You said your practice was today. I was curious.”
Your coach smirked from behind you.
You ignored her.
“You came… to watch me?”
He nodded.
Heat spread across your face that had nothing to do with exercise.
You stepped back onto the ice.
Your heartbeat felt different now.
Not nerves.
Not pressure.
Something lighter.
You skated.
Spun.
Jumped.
And every time you passed the boards, you saw him watching—eyes wide, completely captivated, like you were performing in an arena instead of an empty practice rink.
When you finished, you glided back, breathing hard.
“Well?” you asked.
He looked like he’d just witnessed magic.
“That,” he said softly, “was incredible.”
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
After practice, you sat across from him in a small café.
He stirred his drink. “I didn’t realize how intense skating is.”
You laughed. “People think it’s just sparkles and music.”
“You make it look easy.”
“It’s not.”
“I know,” he said. “That’s why it’s impressive.”
You studied him.
“You really pay attention, don’t you?”
He tilted his head. “To things that matter? Yeah.”
Your chest fluttered.
It happened quietly.
Naturally.
Like it had always been heading there.
You were walking outside the café, evening air cool against your skin.
“I’m glad my tooth hurt that day,” you said suddenly.
He blinked. “Most patients don’t say that.”
You laughed softly. “If it didn’t… I wouldn’t have met you.”
He stopped walking.
Looked at you.
Really looked.
“…I was hoping you’d say something like that.”
Your breath caught.
“I wanted an excuse to see you outside the clinic,” he admitted. “But I didn’t want to cross a line.”
“You didn’t,” you said gently.
Silence.
Soft.
Warm.
Then—
“Can I take you out sometime?” he asked.
Your answer came instantly.
“Yes.”
Dating Yunho was like living inside a soft song.
He remembered things.
Your competition dates. Your favorite tea. Which ankle got sore first during winter training.
He showed up with snacks after practice.
He learned skating terminology just to understand your stories.
And when you got nervous before competitions, he held your hands and said—
“You’ve already won, you know.”
“How?”
“You love what you do. That’s the rarest victory.”
The night before your biggest event of the season, you sat beside him on a quiet bench outside the arena.
“I’m scared,” you admitted.
He squeezed your fingers. “Of what?”
“Messing up. Falling. Disappointing people.”
He turned toward you.
“You could fall ten times,” he said softly, “and I’d still think you were amazing.”
Your eyes stung.
“You’re biased.”
“Absolutely,” he said. “I’m your biggest fan.”
You didn’t win first.
You placed second.
But when you stepped off the ice, breathless and shaking, he was there with a small bouquet of white flowers.
“You were beautiful,” he said.
Not your skating was.
You were.
And somehow that meant more than any medal.
Months later, you lay on his couch, head resting on his shoulder as a movie played you weren’t watching.
His fingers traced lazy circles on your wrist.
“Hey,” he murmured.
“Mm?”
“Your checkup is next week.”
You laughed. “You’re dating me. Isn’t that cheating?”
“Nope,” he said. “It’s dedication to oral health.”
You snorted. “Romantic.”
“I can be more romantic,” he said.
“Oh?”
He tilted your chin gently.
Smiled.
“You still have the nicest smile I’ve ever seen.”
Your heart melted.
If someone had told you that the love of your life would be a dentist—
You would have laughed.
But love didn’t arrive dramatically.
It didn’t crash in like a storm.
It came quietly.
With gentle hands.
Kind eyes.
Soft reassurances.
And a voice that always said—
“You’re doing great.”
And somehow, with him beside you—
You always believed it.
You didn’t expect the call to come on a Tuesday.
Tuesdays were boring. Tuesdays were conditioning drills and protein bars and your coach yelling about posture.
Tuesdays were not supposed to change your life.
Your phone buzzed during your water break.
Unknown number.
You almost ignored it.
Almost.
“Hello?”
“Hi, is this Y/N?”
“Yes?”
“This is the national federation.”
Your stomach dropped.
Your coach froze mid-lecture across the rink.
You swallowed. “Yes?”
“We’re calling to inform you that you’ve officially qualified for the 2026 Winter Olympics.”
Silence.
Not dramatic silence.
Not cinematic silence.
Real silence — the kind where your brain shuts off because reality suddenly becomes too big to process.
“…I what?”
“You qualified.”
Your knees went weak.
Your coach was already running toward you.
“You qualified,” the voice repeated gently. “Congratulations.”
Your lips trembled.
“…Thank you.”
You hung up.
Stared at your phone.
Your coach grabbed your shoulders. “Well??”
You whispered, “I made it.”
She screamed.
You burst into tears.
Your hands shook as you dialed him.
He picked up on the second ring.
“Hey, skater.”
Your voice broke. “Yunho.”
He sat up instantly. “What happened? Are you okay? Did you get hurt?”
“I—”
You couldn’t say it.
Not because you didn’t want to.
Because you couldn’t breathe.
“I qualified,” you whispered.
Silence.
“…For what?” he asked softly, like he already knew but didn’t want to assume.
“The Olympics.”
Another silence.
Then—
“You qualified,” he repeated.
Not loud.
Not shocked.
Just… full.
Proud.
You heard him exhale slowly.
“I knew it.”
Your chest tightened. “You did not.”
“I did,” he said. “I told you before, remember?”
You remembered.
You’ve already won.
Your eyes filled again.
“I’m proud of you,” he said quietly. “So proud.”
You cried harder.
That night he showed up at your apartment with takeout, flowers, and a cake that said:
GO GOLD OR GO HOME
You laughed so hard you nearly dropped it.
“That’s aggressive,” you said.
“I panicked at the bakery,” he admitted. “There were too many options.”
You set the cake down. “You could’ve gotten something classy.”
“I did,” he said, pointing at himself.
You snorted.
He pulled you into a hug before you could reply.
And that was when it hit you.
Not the Olympics.
Not the pressure.
Not the expectations.
Just—
Him.
His arms around you.
His steady heartbeat against your cheek.
“I’m really going,” you whispered.
He nodded against your hair. “Yeah. You are.”
Olympic preparation was different.
Harder. Longer. Sharper.
Everything mattered now.
Your jump height. Your spin speed. Your landing edges. Your breathing. Your stamina. Your sleep.
Your stress.
Especially your stress.
Which is why Yunho became your unofficial emotional support human.
He brought meals when you forgot to eat.
He taped your ankles when they ached.
He sat quietly during late-night stretch sessions, reading while you worked.
Sometimes you’d glance up mid-stretch and find him already looking at you.
Softly.
Fondly.
Like you were something precious.
“What?” you’d ask.
“Nothing,” he’d say.
But his smile always answered.
Every athlete has one.
The day nothing works.
You fell three times.
Missed two combinations.
Under-rotated a jump you’d landed perfectly for months.
Your coach called break.
You skated off, chest tight, throat burning.
You didn’t cry at the rink.
You never cried at the rink.
But the second you got outside—
The tears came.
You didn’t even realize you’d called him until he answered.
“Hey love—”
“I’m bad,” you choked.
Pause.
Then calm.
Gentle.
“No, you’re not.”
“I couldn’t land anything today.”
“That happens.”
“I’m going to embarrass everyone.”
“You won’t.”
Your voice cracked. “You didn’t see me.”
“I don’t need to.”
Silence.
Then softly—
“I’ve seen you enough to know one bad day doesn’t define you.”
Your breathing slowed.
He continued, voice warm as sunlight:
“You’re allowed to struggle. Champions struggle. That’s how they become champions.”
You wiped your eyes.
“…Can you come over?”
“I’m already grabbing my keys.”
He didn’t ask you to talk when he arrived.
He didn’t ask what went wrong.
He didn’t analyze.
He just sat beside you on the couch and opened his arms.
You went into them immediately.
No hesitation.
No pride.
Just need.
He held you quietly, one hand rubbing slow circles on your back.
“You’re safe,” he murmured.
And somehow—
You believed him more than you believed your own doubts.
The airport was loud.
Too loud.
Too bright.
Too everything.
Athletes milled around with luggage and gear bags and headphones and game faces.
You stood beside him near security.
Your fingers were laced together tightly.
“You’ll text me when you land?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“And after practice?”
“Yes.”
“And after meals?”
You laughed softly. “Okay, mom.”
He smiled sheepishly. “I just want to know you’re okay.”
Your expression softened.
“I will be.”
He hesitated.
Then leaned down and pressed his forehead gently to yours.
“I wish I could be there.”
“You will be,” you said. “Just… not physically.”
He nodded.
Then quietly—
“Bring me back a gold medal, okay?”
You grinned. “Bossy.”
“Motivational,” he corrected.
It felt unreal.
Flags everywhere.
Languages everywhere.
Energy everywhere.
You should’ve felt intimidated.
Instead—
You felt focused.
Because every time nerves tried to creep in, you remembered Yunho’s voice.
You’re doing great.
Your room was dim.
Your skates rested beside your bed like loyal companions.
Your phone buzzed.
Yunho.
You answered instantly. “Hi.”
“How’s my Olympian?”
“Nervous.”
“Good.”
You blinked. “Good?”
“Nerves mean you care.”
You smiled faintly. “You always know what to say.”
“I practice speeches in the mirror,” he said seriously.
You giggled.
Silence settled.
Comfortable.
Warm.
“Y/N?” he said softly.
“Yeah?”
“No matter what happens tomorrow… I’m proud of you.”
Your throat tightened.
“…Thank you.”
“And,” he added, “I’ll be watching live. So don’t fall.”
You gasped. “YUNHO.”
He laughed.
Your tension melted.
The arena lights were blinding.
The crowd was thunder.
Your name echoed.
You stepped onto the ice.
Cold air kissed your skin.
Blades touched the surface.
And suddenly—
Everything went quiet.
Not literally.
Just inside you.
Because you heard it.
That voice.
Warm. Steady. Certain.
You’re doing great.
Music began. You moved. One step. One glide. One jump. Landed. Spin. Transition. Combination. Landed. Applause swelled.
You didn’t think. Didn’t doubt. Didn’t hesitate.
You just skated. Flew. Lived. Felt. Every hour of training. Every fall. Every bruise. Every early morning. Every whispered encouragement. Every soft “I believe in you.”
It all carried you.
Final pose.
Music ended.
Silence—
Then the arena exploded.
Scoreboards were cruel.
You sat in the kiss-and-cry area gripping your coach’s hand.
Breathing shallow.
Screen flashed.
Numbers appeared.
You blinked.
Your coach screamed.
You stared.
1
First.
First place.
You didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
Didn’t process.
“…I won?” you whispered.
Your coach was crying. “YOU WON.”
You covered your mouth.
The world blurred.
Back home, Yunho was standing in front of his TV.
Still.
Silent.
Eyes shining.
When your score appeared—
He laughed.
Not loudly.
Not wildly.
Just softly.
Proudly.
“That’s my girl,” he whispered.
The medal was heavier than you expected.
It rested against your chest, cool metal warming against your skin.
Cameras flashed.
Crowds cheered.
Anthem played.
But all you could think was—
I want to show him.
You didn’t even take off your skates before calling.
He answered instantly.
“Hi, champion.”
You burst into tears.
“I did it.”
“I know.”
“I did it, Yunho.”
“I know.”
You laughed through tears. “You sound calmer than me!”
“I’m trying not to scream and scare my neighbors.”
You sniffled. “You watched?”
“Every second.”
Silence.
Then softly—
“You were breathtaking.”
Your heart fluttered.
“…Come see me when I get back?”
He smiled through the phone. “Try and stop me.”
When you landed, the terminal was crowded.
Fans. Media. Officials.
You barely saw any of them.
Because you saw him.
Standing behind the barrier.
Tall.
Bright-eyed.
Holding a sign that read:
WORLD’S BEST SKATER (AND MY FAVORITE PERSON)
You laughed.
Ran to him.
He caught you easily, lifting you slightly off the ground.
“You did it,” he murmured into your hair.
“You believed I would.”
“Of course I did.”
You pulled back and placed the medal around his neck.
“For you.”
His eyes widened. “Y/N—”
“You’re part of this,” you said softly. “Every step.”
He swallowed.
Then gently took it off and put it back on you.
“No,” he said. “It belongs here.”
His fingers brushed your collarbone as he adjusted it.
“And I belong right beside you.”
That night you lay beside him, medal resting on the bedside table.
Your fingers traced his hand lazily.
“Yunho?”
“Mm?”
“If my tooth never hurt that day…”
He smiled sleepily. “Yeah?”
“I wouldn’t have met you.”
He squeezed your hand.
“Then I guess,” he murmured, “that cavity was fate.”
You laughed softly.
And as sleep pulled you under, his thumb brushed gentle circles against your skin—
Just like it always had.
Steady.
Warm.
Certain.
Just like him.
You noticed it three weeks after the Olympics.
Yunho was acting strange.
Not bad strange.
Not distant strange.
Just… secretly glowing strange.
He smiled at his phone more.
Whispered with your coach once.
Closed tabs when you walked past.
At first you thought nothing of it.
Then he started asking questions.
Weirdly specific questions.
“What kind of rings do skaters prefer?”
“Does hand size change after training?”
“Do you like silver or gold more?”
You narrowed your eyes.
“…Why.”
He blinked innocently. “Just curious.”
Suspicious.
Very suspicious.
He told you to dress warm.
That was the only instruction.
“No training clothes,” he added. “Something pretty.”
You stared. “I always look pretty.”
He smiled. “True. But today I want breathtaking.”
Your stomach fluttered.
When you arrived—
Your breath stopped.
The rink was empty.
Lights dimmed.
Soft golden lamps lined the boards.
Fairy lights twinkled along the railing like fallen stars.
In the center of the ice—
One single spotlight.
You turned slowly.
“…Yunho.”
He stood behind you, hands tucked nervously into his coat pockets.
“I rented it,” he admitted.
Your chest tightened. “Why?”
He stepped closer.
Because he was tall, when he looked at you, his gaze always dipped slightly, soft and fond like sunlight filtering through leaves.
“Because,” he said gently, “this is where you shine the most.”
Your throat burned.
He held out your skates.
“You didn’t think I’d make you dress up just to stand still, did you?”
You laughed softly through the emotion rising in your chest.
You changed.
Stepped onto the ice.
Glided.
It felt different today.
Not like training.
Not like competition.
Like floating.
Music began playing softly through the speakers — your Olympic program song.
You looked at him.
He nodded once.
You skated.
Slow. Graceful. Effortless.
No jumps. No pressure. Just movement.
Just feeling.
Just you.
When you finished, you turned toward him—
—and found him already stepping onto the ice.
Carefully.
Cautiously.
Holding something behind his back.
Your heart stuttered.
“Yunho…”
He stopped in front of you.
Close enough that you could see the tiny crease that appeared beside his eye when he was nervous.
“I practiced walking on ice for two weeks,” he confessed. “For this exact moment.”
Your lips parted.
He took a breath.
Then—
He knelt.
Your hands flew to your mouth.
He revealed the small velvet box.
Opened it.
Inside rested a delicate ring that caught the light like a captured star.
His voice was soft.
Steady.
But trembling at the edges.
“I’ve watched you fall,” he said quietly.
“I’ve watched you get back up.”
“I’ve watched you doubt yourself… and prove yourself wrong every time.”
Your vision blurred.
“I’ve watched you become the strongest person I know.”
His eyes lifted to yours.
“And somewhere along the way… you became my home.”
Tears slipped down your cheeks.
“I don’t just want to watch you shine,” he whispered.
“I want to stand beside you for every performance life gives us.”
His thumb brushed your hand gently.
“Will you marry me?”
The world went silent.
Not rink silent.
Not night silent.
Heart silent.
“Yes,” you breathed.
His shoulders dropped in relief, a laugh escaping him as he slid the ring onto your finger.
It fit perfectly.
Of course it did.
He knew you.
You didn’t even realize you were crying until he stood and wiped your cheek with his thumb.
“You’re crying,” he murmured.
“You proposed on ice,” you sniffled. “What did you expect?”
He smiled.
Then you grabbed his coat and pulled him down into a kiss.
Soft.
Warm.
Certain.
His hands settled instinctively at your waist, grounding you, holding you like you were something precious he never wanted to drop.
When you pulled back, your foreheads rested together.
“You’re stuck with me now,” he whispered.
You smiled. “Good.”
The apartment was quiet.
Snow tapped gently against the windows.
You sat on the couch facing him, still staring at your ring like it might vanish if you blinked.
“I can’t believe you planned all that,” you murmured.
He shrugged shyly. “I wanted it to be perfect.”
“It was,” you said. “You’re perfect.”
He laughed softly. “I’m really not.”
“You are to me.”
Something shifted in his expression.
Warmer.
Deeper.
The kind of look that always made your stomach flutter.
He reached out slowly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
“You know,” he said quietly, “I’ve wanted to kiss you all day.”
Your breath caught. “Then why didn’t you?”
“I wanted to wait until you were mine forever.”
Your voice dropped to a whisper. “I was already yours.”
His eyes darkened slightly — not intense, not overwhelming.
Just full.
Full of affection.
Full of love.
Full of you.
His fingers slid gently along your jaw, tilting your face toward him.
This kiss was different.
Slower.
Softer.
Lingering.
His lips moved against yours like he was savoring the moment rather than rushing it. One hand cradled your cheek while the other rested at your waist, thumb brushing slow circles through the fabric of your sweater.
You melted into him.
The world outside faded.
All you could feel was warmth.
His warmth.
Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt, holding him closer.
He pulled back just enough to murmur—
“You okay?”
You nodded softly.
Always checking.
Always gentle.
“Yunho,” you whispered.
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
His smile was quiet.
Certain.
“I love you too.”
He kissed you again — softer this time, like sealing a promise rather than starting a fire.
And somehow that made your heart race even more.
Later, you lay curled against his chest, his arm wrapped around you protectively.
Your ring glinted faintly in the lamplight.
His fingers traced lazy patterns along your arm.
Comforting.
Steady.
Safe.
“You know,” you murmured sleepily, “all this happened because of a cavity.”
He chuckled quietly. “Best dental diagnosis of my career.”
You smiled against his shoulder.
Outside, snow kept falling.
Inside, his heartbeat thumped slow and sure beneath your ear.
And you realized—
Gold medals were nice.
Olympics were dreams.
But this?
This quiet moment, wrapped in his arms, wearing his promise on your finger—
This was your greatest win.
by kiera. ☆ © 2026 by yunistxr | all rights reserved.
I never realized your theme before. Can I just say that it’s one of the prettiest I’ve seen?
omg I'm literally gonna kiss u TYSM FOR NOTICING I'm going thru a lil identity crisis so I'm changing some themes and stuff but seriously tysm for loving it means a lot ♡♡♡♡
──── BEHIND LOCKED BARS. Y. JEONG
synopsis : arrested for a week, you pass the time by teasing the dangerously handsome Officer Jeong Yunho only for playful seduction to turn into real feelings. As his professional restraint slowly cracks, what starts as a game becomes something deeper. When you’re finally free, there are no bars left between you, only a choice to turn forbidden tension into something real.
• pairing : police guard! yunho x prisoner! reader
⋮ ⌗ ┆wc : 3k
⋮ ⌗ ┆genre : romance, slow burn, forbidden love, fluff & angst, light erotica
⋮ ⌗ ┆WARNING : MINORS DNI. ik it has light erotica but still dni.
☆ masterlist ♡ taglist
When they slammed the cell door shut, you honestly thought the worst part would be the silence.
You were wrong.
The worst part was him.
Officer Jeong Yunho.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Calm in a way that made the fluorescent lights look softer around him. He had this unfairly gentle face for someone who wore a badge and carried keys that could decide whether you stepped outside or not.
You and your friends had been arrested after a stupid late-night stunt—nothing violent, nothing dangerous, just reckless and loud enough to irritate the wrong people. One week in holding. “A lesson,” the judge had called it.
You called it boring.
Until Yunho walked into your line of sight.
He wasn’t like the other guards. Some were stern. Some were indifferent. Yunho was… attentive. Observant. He didn’t bark orders. He didn’t smirk either. He just watched—quietly, thoughtfully.
The first time he approached your cell, you were sitting cross-legged on the lower bunk.
“You need anything?” he asked, voice low and steady.
You looked up slowly, letting your gaze linger just a second too long.
“Freedom?” you replied sweetly.
His lips twitched. Just barely. “That’s not on today’s menu.”
“Then maybe water,” you said. “And… conversation?”
That time he didn’t smile. But you saw it—the flicker of amusement in his eyes.
And that was when you decided.
If you were stuck here for a week, you were going to have fun.
Day Two
You learned his patrol schedule quickly.
Morning rounds at eight. Lunch supervision at twelve. Night shift check around ten.
You also learned he avoided unnecessary interaction. He was professional. Careful.
Which meant breaking through that composure would be a challenge.
And you loved challenges.
When he passed your cell that afternoon, you were leaning casually against the bars.
“Officer Jeong,” you called softly.
He stopped. Slowly turned.
“Yes?”
“Do you ever smile? Or is that against regulation?”
He crossed his arms. “Are you always this troublesome?”
“Only when I’m bored.”
A beat of silence.
“You shouldn’t try to make this week harder than it already is,” he said.
“I’m not,” you replied, lowering your voice slightly. “I’m trying to make it interesting.”
He held your gaze longer than necessary.
That was the first crack.
Day Three
You discovered Yunho liked quiet.
So you gave him something softer.
When he stopped by in the evening, you were sitting on your bunk, humming a tune under your breath.
He paused mid-step.
“You sing?” he asked.
“Sometimes.”
“It’s… nice.”
You looked up, surprised. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”
He cleared his throat. “Lights out in twenty.”
But he didn’t walk away immediately.
“Why’d you become a police officer?” you asked gently.
“That’s not relevant.”
“It’s relevant to me.”
“Why?”
“Because,” you said, standing and walking closer to the bars, “I like knowing things about people who guard me.”
His jaw tightened—not in anger. In restraint.
“Go to sleep,” he said quietly.
But that night, when the hallway lights dimmed, you noticed he lingered longer outside your cell than any of the others.
Day Four
You decided to push.
Not recklessly. Just enough.
When breakfast was handed out, you deliberately brushed your fingers against his when he passed you the tray.
The contact lasted barely a second.
But it was warm.
His reaction was subtle—a slight inhale. A shift in posture.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he murmured.
“Am I?” you tilted your head. “Or are you?”
His eyes darkened—not with lust, not something crude. Something conflicted.
“I’m on duty,” he said.
“And I’m in a cell,” you replied. “We’re both stuck in roles.”
Silence stretched between you.
You stepped closer to the bars.
“Tell me something real,” you whispered.
He looked at you like he was trying to see past the flirtation.
“You’re not as careless as you pretend to be,” he said finally.
That caught you off guard.
“And you’re not as cold as you act,” you shot back.
A slow exhale left him.
Then he walked away.
But not before you saw the faintest smile tug at his lips.
Day Five
It wasn’t just flirting anymore.
It was conversations.
About music. About family. About dreams you had before you landed in a holding cell for a week.
You learned he liked late-night drives.
He learned you hated feeling underestimated.
He told you he joined the force because he believed in second chances.
You laughed at that.
“Do I look like I deserve one?” you asked.
He didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
Something in your chest shifted.
That night, when he did his final round, you were quiet.
“You’re not teasing me today,” he observed.
“Maybe I’m tired.”
He stepped closer.
“Or maybe,” you said softly, “I don’t want you thinking this is just a game.”
His expression changed completely.
“It isn’t for you?” he asked.
“No.”
The word felt heavier than it should have.
You reached through the bars slightly, just enough for your fingers to rest against his wrist.
He could’ve pulled away.
He didn’t.
“Yunho,” you said quietly, using his first name for the first time.
His breath caught.
“That’s not appropriate,” he murmured—but his hand turned slightly under yours, fingers brushing your skin.
Your heart pounded.
“If I wasn’t in here,” you asked, “would you look at me the same way?”
He stared at you like the world had narrowed to just the two of you.
“Yes,” he admitted.
That was your victory.
But it didn’t feel like triumph.
It felt like falling.
Day Six
Rumors travel fast in confined spaces.
One of the other guards made a comment. A joke. Nothing serious—but enough to make Yunho step back.
He became distant that day.
Professional. Polite. Detached.
And you hated it.
When night came, you were waiting.
“Are you avoiding me?” you asked quietly when he approached.
“I shouldn’t have blurred the lines,” he said.
“You didn’t blur them alone.”
“This is my job.”
“And I’m leaving tomorrow,” you whispered. “So what exactly are we protecting?”
His composure cracked then.
“You think this is easy for me?” he asked, voice low and strained. “Watching you smile at me through bars? Knowing I can’t—”
He stopped himself.
“Can’t what?” you pressed gently.
His eyes searched yours.
“Want you,” he finished.
The words hung in the air between you.
You stepped closer.
“Then don’t pretend you don’t.”
Silence.
The hallway was empty.
Carefully—so carefully—he reached forward.
His fingers brushed your cheek through the bars.
It was the softest touch imaginable.
Not rushed. Not hungry.
Just real.
“You deserve better than this,” he said.
“Then give me better,” you replied.
Day Seven
Release day.
Your friends were loud. Excited. Counting down minutes.
You felt… strangely quiet.
When the paperwork was signed and your belongings returned, you looked around for him.
He wasn’t there.
Of course he wasn’t.
Professional to the end.
You stepped outside into sunlight that felt too bright.
And then—
“Hey.”
You turned.
Yunho stood a few steps away.
No uniform jacket. No badge visible.
Just him.
“You’re off duty?” you asked.
“Shift ended,” he said.
A pause.
“I wanted to see you walk out.”
Your heart fluttered.
“You didn’t have to.”
“I know.”
You stepped closer.
There were no bars now.
No rules hovering in the air.
“Does this mean you’re going to arrest me again if I flirt with you?” you teased softly.
A full smile spread across his face this time.
“I might have to if you cause trouble.”
“What if I promise to behave?”
He studied you carefully.
“I don’t want you behaving,” he said quietly. “I just want you choosing better.”
The sincerity in his voice made your chest ache.
“I will,” you said. “But not because you’re a cop.”
“Then why?”
You reached for his hand—openly, freely.
“Because you looked at me like I was more than my mistakes.”
His fingers intertwined with yours without hesitation.
“That’s because you are.”
For a moment, you just stood there—no cells, no uniforms, no pretending.
“Coffee?” he asked.
You smiled.
“Only if you’re not interrogating me.”
“No promises.”
You laughed, stepping closer.
“And Yunho?”
“Yeah?”
“You definitely smile enough.”
He shook his head fondly.
“You’re still trouble.”
“Maybe,” you admitted. “But not the kind that needs locking up.”
This time, when he leaned down, it wasn’t through cold metal bars.
It was warm. Gentle. A soft kiss that carried seven days of tension and something far deeper than seduction.
You had started the week wanting to make him fall.
But somewhere between teasing glances and quiet confessions.
You had fallen first.
And this time, there were no locked doors between you.
It’s different seeing him without the uniform.
Not because he’s any less authoritative.
But because now, when he looks at you, there’s no restraint tied to a badge.
You’re standing in his apartment for the first time—small, tidy, warm. The city lights spill through the windows, painting him in soft gold. He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled up, watching you like he’s still trying to decide something.
“You’re staring again,” you tease.
“I’ve earned the right,” he replies calmly.
You laugh, stepping closer. “Oh? And what exactly did you earn?”
His hand reaches out before you can move away. He pulls you gently toward him, fingers settling at your waist. The touch is firm, grounding.
“You spent a week trying to make me lose control,” he says quietly. “Do you know how hard that was?”
You tilt your head. “You handled it well.”
He lets out a soft breath against your hair. “I didn’t.”
His fingers tighten slightly at your hips.
“I just waited.”
The air shifts.
You look up at him slowly, heart thudding. There are no bars. No cameras. No consequences hovering in fluorescent light.
Just him.
“Waiting for what?” you whisper.
“For you to be free.”
The sincerity in his voice makes your teasing falter for a second. But only a second.
“Then don’t waste it,” you murmur.
That’s all it takes.
He kisses you like he’s been holding it back for days—slow at first, deliberate. His hands slide from your waist to your lower back, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you.
You melt into him easily, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
This kiss isn’t rushed. It’s deep. Heated. The kind that makes your knees weaken and your thoughts blur.
When he pulls back slightly, his forehead rests against yours.
“You’re trouble,” he breathes.
“And you like it.”
His thumb traces along your jaw, then down your neck, sending a shiver through you.
“I like you,” he corrects softly.
The words hit harder than anything else.
You push him gently until his back meets the counter, reversing the dynamic for just a moment. His eyes darken, clearly enjoying it.
“Still think I was playing a dangerous game?” you ask.
He smirks faintly. “I think you knew exactly what you were doing.”
“Maybe.”
Your lips brush his again—lighter this time, teasing. His hands slide under the hem of your shirt, warm palms against bare skin. The touch is slow, exploratory, reverent.
He pauses, searching your face.
You nod.
That’s all the permission he needs.
The kiss deepens again, more urgent now. His hands roam carefully, memorizing the curve of you like he’s afraid you might disappear if he moves too fast.
You feel his restraint—not because he has to hold back anymore, but because he wants this to be real. Not reckless. Not impulsive.
Intentional.
He lifts you effortlessly, setting you on the counter, stepping between your knees. The position makes your breath hitch.
“Yunho…” you whisper.
He kisses along your jaw, down your neck, slow enough to make you impatient.
“You don’t get to rush me now,” he murmurs against your skin. “I waited a whole week.”
You laugh softly, fingers tangling in his hair.
“Worth it?” you ask.
He looks up at you then—eyes warm, steady, certain.
“Yeah,” he says. “More than worth it.”
His lips find yours again, and this time there’s no hesitation left. No uniforms. No locked doors.
Just heat. And hands. And the quiet realization that what started as a game ended as something neither of you are pretending about anymore.
Later, when you’re curled against his chest, skin warm and tangled in soft sheets, you trace lazy circles over his collarbone.
“So,” you murmur sleepily, “am I still under supervision?”
He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
“Yeah.”
You glance up.
“For how long?”
He tightens his arm around you.
“As long as you’ll let me.”
And this time—
You don’t plan on escaping.
by kiera. ☆ © 2026 by yunistxr | all rights reserved.
Yunho as Kim Minhyuk in Cyber Salaryman, Chief Jeong
MY HEART MELTED AT THE SPIDERMAN YUNHO FANFIC IT WAS SO LOVING SO CUTEEE I LOVED ITTT SMM BUT ALSOOO
Idk if yk but in the first Spiderman movie there‘s this upside down kiss where Spiderman hangs off the web and Mj kisses him.
If its not too much too much to ask can I maybeee request another part of this including this typa kiss?
It‘d be so cute😞🫶
For reference btw if my explanation sucked😭🙏
AWWW THIS IS SO CUTE BUT YES I WILL TRY TO MAKE ANOTHER PART FOR YOU SOON
I need more yunho angst
A Thread Between Us ── .✦ J. YUNHO
for @jxerv <3
pairing : jeong yunho x fem! reader
word count : approximately 6k
genre : fluff (yunho is a literal SWEETHEART </3)
synopsis : in modern Seoul, you slowly realize that your sweet, always-late classmate Yunho is secretly the city’s masked hero, Spider-Man. Between university life and nightly patrols, Yunho struggles to balance saving strangers with staying close to you. As you quietly patch up his wounds, tease him about his terrible excuses, and keep his secret safe, the two of you fall for each other in small, gentle moments. Yunho learns that being a hero isn’t just about saving lives it’s about having someone to come home to.
｡𖦹°‧ ateez masterlist !
Seoul’s sunset looked like it had been painted by someone who couldn’t pick a single favorite color. Hazy orange poured into violet skies, the glow bouncing off glass towers. You leaned on the balcony rail of your university dorm, sipping a canned coffee that had long gone cold.
A text blinked on your phone.
yuyu🕷️: Running late again TT wish me luck with traffic!
You laughed under your breath. “Traffic,” huh?
At this point, you knew that meant something completely different. Ever since you caught a red-and-blue blur swinging between buildings one night and heard his unmistakable laugh through the mask, you’d put the pieces together.
Yunho, your gentle, always-smiling classmate, the one who lent you pens and carried your books when your bag was too heavy — was Spider-Man.
And he was terrible at keeping secrets.
He’d show up with small cuts, sometimes a bandaged hand, or a bruise under his sleeve. Every time you asked, he’d grin and say, “You should’ve seen the other guy!” or “Ah, walked into a pole.”
He was always late, always vanishing. But he always came back.
So you waited — for him, for the sound of sneakers on the hallway floor, for his laughter echoing down the dorm corridor.
Tonight was no different.
A gentle knock. Then his voice.
“Hey. Did you miss me?”
You turned to see him leaning against the doorframe, hair messy, eyes bright, a little breathless. His jacket was slightly torn, and his hand clutched a takeout bag.
“Didn’t I tell you not to fight traffic?” you teased.
“Couldn’t help it,” he said, stepping in. “Traffic hit first.”
You rolled your eyes. “You mean a villain.”
He froze, then smiled sheepishly. “Ah… what makes you say that?”
You just raised an eyebrow. “Your sleeve’s ripped, and there’s web residue on your shoes.”
He looked down, then sighed. “I’m… not very good at this secret identity thing, huh?”
“No,” you said, laughing softly. “But you’re good at saving people.”
Something softened in his eyes — the kind of look that made your heart feel like it was glowing.
“Yeah,” he murmured, “you’re one of them.”
Days in Seoul always felt busy, but nights… nights belonged to Spider-Man.
You often saw him on the news — blurry clips of him leaping across rooftops near Hongdae, helping lost kids or catching purse thieves. The reporters called him Seoul’s Red Guardian.
You knew he’d never pick that name himself.
When you asked what he’d call himself, he thought for a long moment, then said, “Just Yunho is fine.”
That was him: humble, soft-spoken, the kind of hero who didn’t realize he already was one.
It wasn’t always easy, though. You’d see the exhaustion in his eyes sometimes, hidden behind his grin. One night, he climbed through your window — literally — and flopped onto your couch like a cat.
“You have a front door, you know,” you said, amused.
“Front doors are for civilians,” he mumbled into a pillow.
You smiled, setting a mug of hot chocolate on the table. “Rough night?”
He didn’t answer, just stared at the ceiling. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m doing enough.”
You sat beside him, quiet for a moment. “Yunho, you can’t fix everything. But you’re trying. And that’s what makes you… you.”
He turned his head toward you. “You always say the right thing.”
“That’s because you always need to hear it,” you replied softly.
He chuckled — that low, comforting sound that always felt like home.
It became your secret routine: he’d come over after patrol, sometimes with street food from Myeongdong, sometimes just for quiet. You’d patch him up with the small first-aid kit he’d bought “for your art projects,” as if anyone believed that.
“Hold still,” you said one night, dabbing antiseptic on a scrape along his arm.
“Ow,” he hissed, even though you barely touched him.
“You face armed robbers but flinch at a cotton ball?” you teased.
He grinned sheepishly. “Different kind of danger.”
You rolled your eyes, then smiled. “Big baby.”
“I like it better when you call me hero.”
You laughed. “Keep dreaming, Spider-Man.”
He pretended to pout, but when you looked up, his gaze was so tender it made your breath catch.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
“For what?”
“For… making me feel normal.”
You didn’t answer — just reached for his hand. His fingers curled around yours, warm and steady.
For a moment, there were no villains, no web-slinging, no danger — just the two of you and the hum of the city outside.
You didn’t mean to fall for him.
You told yourself it was just friendship, that you were just looking out for him, but your heart didn’t listen.
It wasn’t the mask, or the heroics — it was the way he treated everyone with kindness. The way he smiled even when he was tired. The way he looked at you like you were the only steady thing in his world.
And you suspected he felt the same, but neither of you said it — not yet.
Then came the night it all almost fell apart.
You were walking home from your part-time café job when the sirens blared. Somewhere nearby, glass shattered, and the ground trembled.
“Stay back!” someone shouted. You ducked behind a car, heart pounding.
A plume of smoke rose down the street — and through it, you saw a flash of red and blue.
Yunho.
He swung between buildings, webbing up a runaway truck, muscles straining. The masked figure attacking him moved fast — some sort of tech thief with an electric staff. Sparks flew as the weapons clashed.
You couldn’t move. All you could do was watch.
Then, as the thief swung again, Yunho dodged — but not fast enough. The blow sent him crashing into a parked car.
“Yunho!” you screamed before you could stop yourself.
His masked head turned toward you, and in that split second, the villain saw you too.
“Oh no,” Yunho muttered.
The thief lunged your way. You froze — but before he reached you, a web shot out, yanking him backward. Yunho slammed into him with a fierce kick, then webbed him to a lamppost.
(uwu so dramatic😛)
He stumbled toward you, panting. “What are you doing here?”
“Going home! You’re the one fighting near my bus stop!”
He laughed, breathless. “Fair point.”
Then his knees buckled. You caught him just in time.
“Yunho,” you whispered, trembling, “you can’t keep doing this alone.”
He looked up at you — eyes soft behind the cracked mask. “I’m not alone.”
You stayed up all night tending to his bruises.
When dawn came, pale light spilling through the window, Yunho was half-asleep on your couch, wearing one of your oversized hoodies. His mask lay folded neatly beside him.
You sat on the floor nearby, watching the city wake up outside.
He stirred, blinking slowly. “You didn’t sleep?”
You shook your head. “Didn’t want to miss your snoring.”
He chuckled, voice still raspy. “You’re too good to me.”
“Someone has to be.”
He reached out, brushing your fingers lightly. “You’re the reason I keep going, you know.”
Your heart ached at the sincerity in his tone. “Yunho…”
“I mean it,” he said, sitting up. “When everything feels too heavy, I think of you. Of how you always look at me like I’m not just Spider-Man — like I’m still Yunho.”
You met his gaze. “That’s because you are.”
And then, finally, you leaned in — a hesitant, gentle kiss that felt like the first morning sun after a long storm.
When you pulled back, he was smiling that bright, dizzying smile again.
“So,” you said, cheeks warm, “was that your version of saying thank you?”
He laughed softly. “Maybe. Want me to say it again?”
You giggled. “Maybe later.”
Weeks passed, and things slowly returned to normal — or as normal as they could be when your boyfriend was the city’s masked hero.
Sometimes, after his patrols, he’d take you swinging through the skyline. The first time, you screamed so loudly he almost dropped his web line.
“Yunho, if I die—!”
“You won’t!” he called, laughing as the wind whipped past. “I’ve got you!”
And he did — his arm firm around your waist, the city glowing beneath your feet, stars above like scattered diamonds.
For the first time, you saw the world from his view — rooftops, neon lights, endless skies. It was terrifying and beautiful all at once.
When he landed on a tall rooftop overlooking the Han River, you couldn’t stop smiling.
“That,” you gasped, “was insane.”
He beamed. “Told you it’s better than any roller coaster.”
You swatted his chest lightly. “Still… next time, warn me before you jump off a building.”
“Deal.” He leaned closer. “But you have to admit — best view in the city, right?”
You nodded, eyes on the horizon. “Definitely.”
Then you looked at him. “Actually… second best.”
He blinked. “Huh?”
You grinned. “First’s you.”
He went red instantly, covering his face. “You can’t just say that!”
“Why not? You’re cute when you blush.”
He groaned dramatically. “You’re gonna be the end of me.”
You laughed, tugging his hand. “You fight criminals for a living, you can survive one compliment.”
Life moved on — exams, café shifts, rooftop dinners, web fluid stains on your laundry.
Yunho kept saving people. You kept saving him in smaller ways — late-night snacks, quiet hugs, the simple act of being there.
You never told anyone his secret. Some things were sacred.
One evening, you found him on the rooftop again, watching the sun dip behind the skyline.
“Hey,” you said softly, joining him. “Big day?”
He nodded. “Saved a cat. Stopped a runaway bike. Got chased by a kid who wanted an autograph.”
You laughed. “Busy hero.”
He turned toward you. “But now it’s my favorite part.”
“What’s that?”
“Coming home to you.”
You blinked, warmth blooming in your chest. “You’re so cheesy.”
He grinned. “You love it.”
“Maybe,” you said, smiling back.
He stepped closer, taking your hands in his. “You know, sometimes I wonder if the web pulled me toward all of this — not the powers, not the mask… but you.”
You looked up at him, heart full. “Maybe it did.”
He brushed his thumb over your cheek, gentle as ever. “Whatever happens, I’ll always find my way back.”
“I know,” you whispered. “You always do.”
And then he kissed you again — slow, sure, full of promise.
Down below, the city buzzed and shimmered, unaware that its Spider-Man was just a boy in love, tangled in the simplest, strongest web of all.
Weeks later, you spotted a new graffiti tag near Hongdae station.
🕸️ “Even heroes need someone to come home to.”
You smiled, knowing exactly who painted it.
by kiera. ☆ © 2025 by yunistxr | all rights reserved.
ITS SOMEHOW MUCH WORSE THAN IF HE WAS NAKED IM INSANE PT1
(FUCK ME)
I'm not ok
Your blog is so pretty <3
AWWW TYY IT MEANS A LOT TO ME <33 I've been trying to post but can't cuz I don't have time TvT
I WILL BURN EVERY GRAY SWEATPANTS YUNHO HAS ISTGGGGGG I CANT
oh happy birthday!!!!
tysm love!!
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME
Yunho smoking 🚬 scene 😭 I will never move on to this! This is the hottest thing I ever seen 🌹❤️
📹dowajuseyo0801
maybe writing a fic...
