recently i've become obsessed with actor hong kyung and i've been making my way through his filmography in my (limited) freetime and i jsut think he looks like he could be wonu's brother 🚬
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While people don't work for engagement, it certainly doesn't do any harm..
sorry the update is taking longer than expected, things got really busy at work this week and now we are in the midst of a terrible heat wave, it's sooo hot i can't even think rn 😭 i promise i will get the update out as soon as i can. (the goal rn is for my birthday july 1st and wonwoo's birthday at the latest.)
content warning(s): fast driving, smutty smut smut. pet names, reader shoves mingyu (out of love), breast play, oral (f! receiving), please lmk if i forgot anything!
🏁 author’s note!
loved f1 mingyu so much i decided to continue. this story takes places two years after pole position . this’ll probably be the end of this story so i wanted to give yall an even more happier ending for mingyu and reader. i hope you enjoy this as much as you all enjoyed the first one! and if you haven’t read it, please check it out <3 happy reading.
The Proposal wasn't subtle.
Not with Mingyu. Never with Mingyu.
He rented out the entire rooftop of the Park Hyatt Tokyo.
I thought we were there for a sponsor dinner. I'd slipped into a navy silk dress, hair swept into a low bun, heels echoing against polished floors as he led me through the hotel like he didn't already have a diamond ring burning a hole in his pocket.
When the elevator doors opened on the 52nd floor, I knew something was off.
No guests. No tables. Just a private pathway of soft lanterns and white roses, a string quartet tucked into the corner playing the instrumental version of my favorite song, and Mingyu grinning, nervous, stunning in a black velvet tux, reaching for my hand like he'd waited his whole life for this moment.
"Is this...?" I asked, voice already trembling.
He nodded. "Yeah."
I stepped onto the rooftop with him, the Tokyo skyline glittering behind us like a million stars had fallen just for us. There were candles everywhere. Soft light. A breeze that caught the hem of my dress.
"I thought about doing this where we first met," he said, slipping his hands into mine. "But we've been through too much. And you deserve the best."
He knelt then.
Right there, on imported Italian tile, with the city holding its breath around us.
"I want every version of you. The brave one. The scared one. The one who holds the world together even when she's breaking," he said, voice shaking. "And if you'll have me, I'll spend the rest of my life proving that forever doesn't have to be terrifying."
The ring was custom. Pear cut. Set in platinum with two tiny stones on either side, one for him, one for me.
I didn't cry. I sobbed.
And when I said yes, the sky lit up behind us, yes, actual fireworks and he kissed me like a man who had something to lose and wasn't willing to risk it.
⸻
The Wedding was in Florence.
Because nothing else would do.
We flew in two weeks early. Took over an entire vineyard estate. Thirty five rooms. Custom menus. A wedding planner who had previously done work for literal royalty. White glove everything.
My dress had a twenty foot train. A cathedral veil. Hand sewn crystals. I walked down the aisle to a string version of Debussy's Clair de Lune, escorted by my mother and the memory of my father.
Mingyu looked like sin in a cream tuxedo with black satin lapels. Hair slicked back. Jaw set.
He cried the second he saw me.
Hell, everyone did. Dokyeom handed Mingyu a tissue. Minghao lost it entirely. Jihoon pretended not to.
Our vows? We had to pause halfway through because I couldn't breathe.
"I've seen every version of you," he said. "The broken one. The furious one. The one too afraid to say she loved me. And I still chose you. I will always choose you."
We kissed under a rain of ivory petals. Doves were released. Champagne poured like waterfalls.
Our reception was candlelit under a grand tent in the olive groves. Seven courses. A live jazz band. Late night espresso martinis served with hand painted macarons that had our initials on them in gold.
And when we had our first dance, it wasn't practiced. It was messy. Clingy. He kept kissing me between spins, and I kept laughing into his shoulder, thinking
This. This is everything.
⸻
The Honeymoon we went straight from Italy to the Maldives.
Private villa. Overwater. Glass floors. Champagne on ice when we landed and a butler who knew not to disturb us unless it was an emergency, or breakfast.
He booked fourteen days. Two were spent outside the villa. The rest?
Let's just say the Do Not Disturb sign didn't come off the door.
The moment we stepped inside, he let go of my hand, only to wrap both arms around my waist from behind.
"Look," he whispered against my neck, chin resting on my shoulder. His voice was low. "The floor."
Glass beneath our feet. Blue water beneath the glass. And beyond that, miles and miles of nothing but ocean and sky, fading into molten gold as the sun began to set.
"It's like we're floating," I murmured.
He kissed the back of my shoulder. "We are."
I stepped forward slowly, hand brushing over the smooth edge of the four poster bed, across the ice bucket on the table with the already sweating champagne, past the sliding doors that opened to our private deck and infinity pool.
God. This was ours.
For two weeks, this little slice of paradise was ours.
Behind me, Mingyu didn't speak. Didn't move.
I turned slowly and found him watching me with that look again. The one he'd worn the moment I stepped out during the ceremony in Florence. The one that made me feel like the center of the universe.
"What?" I asked, soft and a little shy.
His eyes drank me in. He didn't smile. Didn't blink.
"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he said, voice low. "I don't even know what to do with myself."
I walked toward him, my hands resting on his chest as he took me in his arms.
"You already married me," I teased, leaning into him. "You don't have to keep seducing me."
He tilted his head down until his mouth brushed mine. "I'm not trying to seduce you."
"No?"
"No." His hand slid down to the curve of my waist, fingers flexing gently. "I just want you."
The kiss that followed was slow. Warm. Familiar in a way that still felt like falling. His lips parted mine with ease, his tongue brushing softly against mine as he deepened it, hands tightening on my hips like he couldn't get close enough.
I sighed into him, fingers moving up to unbutton his shirt, one by one.
He let me.
"You know what I've been thinking about all day?" he murmured against my mouth, the last button slipping free.
"What?"
"This dress." He kissed down the line of my jaw. "How it clung to you in all the right places."
"Mingyu..."
"How I knew the second you put it on... that I was going to be the one to take it off."
Heat shot straight through me.
"Do it, then," I whispered.
His mouth curved into a smirk. "Say it again."
I swallowed. "Take it off."
He groaned, voice thick and reverent. "Fuck, baby. You don't know what that does to me."
He tugged the dress up slowly, exposing inches of skin with every pass. I helped him, lifting my arms as he slipped it over my head, then gasped when his hands found my bare waist and pulled me into him, skin to skin.
"No underwear?" he asked, eyebrows raised, voice wrecked.
I shook my head, already breathless.
"I'm obsessed with you," he whispered, dipping to press a kiss between my breasts. "I don't even care if we eat tonight. I just want you. Like this. All night."
"Then have me," I breathed, reaching for his belt.
His mouth met mine again, hungrier this time. Desperate.
I made quick work of his pants, and when we finally collapsed onto the bed, bare and flushed, the air was thick with salt and tension.
He hovered above me, dark eyes roaming, like he couldn't decide where to start.
"You okay?" he asked, brushing his knuckles over my cheek.
"Yeah." I nodded. "Just nervous."
"Why?"
"Because it's you. Because this is real now. And because you're looking at me like you're about to ruin me."
He grinned, wicked and beautiful. "Oh, baby."
His voice dipped lower, heat curling around each word.
"I'm not gonna ruin you. I'm gonna worship you."
He kissed down my neck, over the swell of my breasts, pausing to take one in his mouth. I gasped, arching into him, hand tangled in his hair. He took his time, alternating between soft sucks and gentle flicks of his tongue until I was moaning beneath him.
"You always make those sounds for me," he murmured, lips trailing down my stomach. "No one else ever will."
"No one else gets to," I whispered.
His eyes met mine just as he settled between my thighs.
"Good girl," he said.
I gasped when his mouth met me. Hot. Wet. Tender. His tongue moved with slow precision, circling, teasing, licking until I was writhing, my legs thrown over his shoulders and my fingers clutching the sheets.
"You taste so good," he growled, voice muffled against me.
"Mingyu-" I moaned, hips rising, "Please. I need you."
He came back up, kissing my inner thighs, my stomach, my chest, leaving a trail of heat in his wake.
"Say it again."
"I need you."
"Say you're mine."
"I'm yours."
He kissed me hard, aligning himself at my entrance.
And then he was inside me.
All the way. Deep. Slow. Stretching me with a fullness that had me gasping and clinging to his shoulders.
"Shit," he hissed, forehead pressed to mine. "You feel so good. You always feel so fucking good."
He started to move with long, deep thrusts that had me gasping, whining, saying his name like a mantra.
Every time he hit that spot, I shook.
Every time he kissed me, I melted.
"Open your eyes," he said. "Look at me."
I did.
"I want to see your face when I make you fall apart."
I moaned, tightening around him. "You're going to make me come."
"Good," he whispered. "I want to feel it. Let go for me, baby."
And I did.
It hit hard, shattering and full and bright, like every nerve in my body had lit up at once. I cried out his name, trembling beneath him, and he held me through it, hips stuttering until he followed, spilling into me with a loud, broken moan.
"Fuck, I love you," he breathed, kissing my shoulder. "You're everything."
I was still panting when he collapsed beside me, dragging me into his arms.
"Can I say something?" I asked, half dazed, body still tingling.
"Always."
"I want round two after a shower and a snack."
He laughed, loud and shameless. "God, I married the perfect woman."
"You really did."
The next few days, we swam in nothing but skin and salt. I wore silk robes and no makeup. He couldn't keep his hands off me and didn't try to.
Dinners were on the beach. Lobster tails and caviar and fresh coconut water from golden rimmed glasses. Mingyu surprised me with a spa day that included a gold leaf facial and diamond oil scalp massage.
One night, he ordered a stargazing cruise.
Just us. A velvet sky. And the sound of the waves against the hull while he held me in his lap and told me he'd never stop chasing the life we had, no matter what the next season looked like.
We didn't check our phones once.
We didn't need to.
We had everything we needed right there.
Then, we came home.
To racing.
To Monaco.
⸻
I always wake up first on race day.
It's a weird kind of calm. The curtains are drawn back just enough to let in the early light, casting golden streaks across our hotel room walls. The bed's warm, our legs tangled, the weight of his arm heavy around my waist.
Mingyu's breathing is steady, face soft in the quiet. He always looks younger when he sleeps. Less like the man who commands a Formula 1 car at 300 kilometers an hour and more like the boy who held my hand the day my father died.
I brush his hair back gently, thumb grazing his temple.
"Gyu," I whisper. "It's time."
He groans softly and burrows into my side.
"I just got comfortable."
"You've had eight hours to be comfortable."
"Was more like six. You wouldn't stop stealing the blanket."
I roll my eyes and lean in to kiss his forehead. "Get up, Mr. Monaco."
"Don't call me that unless I win it."
"Well then I guess I'll keep calling you fourth place."
That gets him. He huffs and stretches, eyes still closed, but grinning.
"Savage," he mutters. "Didn't think marriage made you meaner."
"It made me honest."
He finally opens one eye. "...Still love me?"
"Stupidly."
"Good," he says, already reaching for me again. "That'll come in handy when I forget to pit and nearly wreck into turn 13."
"You're not funny."
He smirks. "Not yet."
⸻
Monaco is not Monza.
Monza is loud. Brutal. Fast. Pure speed.
Monaco is precise. Surgical. There's no room for mistakes here. One missed apex and you're in the wall. No runoff. No forgiveness. Just concrete and consequences.
I feel it in my chest as we get closer to the paddock, the way the streets narrow, how the yachts rise like silver monoliths in the harbor, how every inch of this place feels tighter than it should.
I hate it. But I respect it.
Mingyu grips my hand as we step out of the car. He always knows when my thoughts are louder than I'm letting on.
"Same track," he says softly. "Different story."
"You always say that."
"And I always come back to you after, don't I?"
I nod.
That's the truth I hold onto.
⸻
He suits up while I meet with Jinho and a couple of the engineers. We go over tire strategy, timing windows, what the simulations are saying. The car's been temperamental this weekend. He qualified fifth yesterday, frustrated, but not shaken.
"He wants to push on the first stint," Jinho says, tapping his tablet. "But if it's a safety car lap ten, we'll box early. Undercut could work here."
"And if it rains?"
Jinho just sighs. "Then God's got a dark sense of humor."
I glance out at the sky. Clear for now.
Back in the garage, Mingyu's climbing into the cockpit. I wait until his helmet's on, until his gloves are secured, until everyone else has backed off.
Then I lean in, one hand on his halo.
"You drive smart," I say through the radio mic. "No hero moves."
"Yes, wife," he mutters.
"I mean it."
He lifts his visor slightly so I can see his eyes. "I'm coming back to you. No matter where I finish."
I nod once. "Good. Because I married you for your ass, not your trophies."
He laughs, shaking his head. "You're such a menace."
"Go win something."
Race Start.
It's clean. Mostly.
Leclerc takes the lead. Norris in second. Mingyu holds fifth through the first corner, staying tucked behind Sainz. The team radio crackles with updates, Jinho murmuring times in my ear.
By lap 10, the gap to the car ahead is shrinking.
"Box now?" Jinho asks me.
"No. One more lap. Tires are hanging in."
"Are you sure?"
"I know him," I say. "He needs one more lap."
And I'm right. He overtakes Sainz coming out of the tunnel, textbook. Clean.
Now he's fourth.
I watch him through the camera feed, every sector. Every turn.
My hand doesn't shake anymore. But I still hold the chain around my neck tighter than I probably should. It's my father's. It's always with me when he races.
Lap 27. A yellow flag. Someone clips the wall at Sainte Devote, but no safety car.
Mingyu keeps pushing.
Lap 30. He pits. Perfect stop. In and out in 2.4 seconds.
Lap 34.
Mingyu is still in fourth.
The entire garage is wired tight, mechanics frozen mid breath, eyes flicking between monitors. Monaco doesn't forgive mistakes. It eats hesitation for breakfast. And right now, we're one bold move away from the podium.
He's faster than Norris ahead. He knows it. We all do. But he hasn't made the move yet.
"Gap is four-tenths," Jinho says in my earpiece. "He's faster in Sector 2. Could take him out of the tunnel."
I swallow hard. "Or end up in the wall."
Jinho glances over. "You want to call it?"
I nod once. Slide the mic closer.
My voice is calm. Clear. Because it has to be.
"Mingyu."
A second of silence. Then his voice crackles in.
"Yeah."
"You're faster."
"I know."
"So what's stopping you?"
I hear him exhale, hard through the comms.
"If I dive... there's no margin. He turns in a half second late and I'm in the barrier."
"Do you trust yourself?"
Beat.
"I trust you more."
My chest tightens.
"Then listen to me."
The tunnel looms on the feed. Lights strobing across the carbon fiber of his front wing.
"Win it."
A pause.
"You sure?"
"No," I whisper. "But I married you anyway."
Another second.
Then his voice comes in low. Focused. Full of everything we've ever been through.
"I'll come back to you."
And then he goes.
Straight into the tunnel. Tires locking. The car dipping left hard, reckless, perfect. Norris doesn't even have time to cover the line. He's through.
He's third.
The garage erupts.
Jinho yells. Hands fly. Someone throws a headset.
I just sit there. Frozen. Breathing.
Lap 45. Hamilton's up next. Mingyu's front wing is practically kissing his rear tire.
"He's holding you up," I say into the mic.
"He knows it," Mingyu replies, voice raspier now. "Can I take him?"
"Only if you want a heart attack waiting in bed tonight."
He chuckles once.
"Yeah. I want the win."
"Then go get it."
And he does.
Lap 49. Mingyu fakes left in the hairpin, then flicks right, inside. It's insane. Monaco doesn't allow that kind of pass.
But he makes it.
He's second.
Leclerc's up front, crowd screaming in red and white.
I press the mic again.
"Do you want Monaco or do you want to come home?"
"I want both."
Lap 66. The move comes at Tabac. Tabac. No one overtakes there. It's suicide.
But he doesn't lift.
I can't speak. Can barely breathe.
No.
No, no, no.
"He's not gonna-" I lean forward, my breath catching. "Gyu-"
"Tabac's too narrow," Jinho mutters, alarmed now. "Tell him not to-"
But I'm already pressing the mic.
"Mingyu, don't you dare-"
"I've got it," he cuts in, voice strained but steady.
"Don't do it!" I yell, louder this time. "It's not worth-"
But he's already committed.
And I see it. I see it.
He brakes late, dances the tires across the edge of traction, and takes the lead in a cloud of disbelief.
"Jesus Christ, Gyu-"
"Still here," he pants. "Still yours."
My knees buckle. I brace a hand on the pit wall.
Jinho exhales behind me like he forgot how.
"He made it," someone says.
I don't move. I can't. My hands are shaking, my eyes wide, locked on the feed like I'm waiting for it to rewind and prove me wrong.
"YN?" His voice crackles in my headset, ragged with effort. "You still there?"
My throat burns. "You weren't supposed to do that."
"I told you I'd come back."
"I thought-" My voice breaks. "I thought you were going t-"
"I didn't."
Silence.
"I'm still here," he says quietly. "For you."
⸻
Lap 70.
He's holding the lead now. My breathing hasn't evened out. I keep my mic off. If I speak, I'll lose it.
Jinho's giving him standard updates, sector times, pressure from behind. But I know Mingyu can still feel me on the line.
Because he keeps saying things like:
"This is for her."
"Tell her I'm okay."
"She's why I brake late and stay alive."
⸻
Final Lap. Lap 78.
He's golden.
Every apex kisses his tires. Every turn flows like a man dancing with death and calling it a partner. He doesn't touch the wall. Not again.
Not once.
⸻
Lap 78. Checkered flag.
Mingyu wins Monaco.
The roar is deafening. Mingyu's name lights up the leaderboard in gold.
P1 – K. Mingyu
The garage explodes in cheers, hugs, and chaos.
I don't move.
I'm still clutching the wall like it's the only thing keeping me upright. My chest is burning, my vision blurry. He won. He won.
And he scared the hell out of me.
The car rolls into parc fermé, still steaming. He rips off his gloves, tears the helmet from his head, and before the mechanics can even swarm him, he's already moving.
Straight for me.
No interviews. No fist pumps. Just tunnel vision.
Me.
"YN!" he shouts over the noise, voice raw. "YN!"
And when he reaches me, I barely have a second to breathe before he's in front of me, sweaty, flushed, shaking with adrenaline and smiling like a man who just rewrote the universe.
"I told you," he pants, grabbing my waist like he's anchoring himself. "I told you I'd come back to you-"
I shove him.
Hard.
Right in the chest.
Not enough to hurt but enough to make him stumble.
"What the hell was that?" I choke, voice trembling. "Are you out of your goddamn mind?!"
He blinks. "What?"
"TABAC, Mingyu? Really? You dive bombed a Ferrari at TABAC?!"
"I-" he grins, sheepish. "You told me to go for the win!"
"I didn't say almost die while trying!"
He laughs, wrapping his arms around me before I can protest, holding me tight even as I half punch his back in a fit of nerves.
"You scared me," I whisper into his shoulder. "So bad."
"I know," he says, voice quieter now. "But I had to. I felt it."
I look up at him, eyes stinging. "You're not allowed to feel anything until I give you CPR first."
He laughs again, this time, softer. "I'm okay. I'm really okay."
"I know," I murmur, resting my forehead against his. "I just needed to say it. Out loud. Because watching you risk it like that... I thought I was gonna lose you."
"You won't," he says instantly. "Not today. Not ever. I came back."
"And next time?"
"Next time," he promises, "I'll scare everyone else first."
I snort, then press a kiss to his jaw. "You better. I'm not going through that again."
"Deal," he whispers, grinning as he leans in. "But admit it. I looked hot doing it."
"You looked like a dumbass in a death trap," I shoot back, already kissing him before he can laugh again.
And when the crowd around us cheers louder, when the champagne starts popping and the reporters call his name, we stay right there.
Wrapped up in each other.
Alive.
I toss my earrings onto the marble counter, watching them spin to a stop. The bathroom light is warm, soft, and everything feels a little surreal in its stillness.
The race ended hours ago. The champagne's dried. The cameras are gone. The whole of Monaco has settled into its golden hum of post party haze.
And Mingyu?
He's in the other room, humming to himself as he unzips his race suit, trailing it off his shoulders and hanging it on the back of a chair. He's shirtless underneath, hair still damp from the podium spray, and smiling like he's got secrets tucked in his dimples.
We're in our comedown phase now.
The real life part.
The part that matters.
I pull the tie from my hair and glance at him through the mirror. He catches my eye and grins.
"What?" I ask.
He walks in behind me, hands slipping around my waist, bare chest pressing into my back. His chin rests on my shoulder.
"You looked good in the garage today," he murmurs. "All bossed up and biting your nails."
"You looked like a lunatic diving at Tabac," I deadpan, reaching for the cleanser.
He chuckles, kissing the curve of my neck. "Still got the win."
"Still shaved a year off my life."
"You married me knowing the risk."
"And yet," I mutter, squeezing product into my palm.
We brush our teeth together. Shoulder to shoulder. Married people things.
I rinse and pat my face dry while he spits and glances sideways at me.
"Back hurting?"
"A little."
He disappears into the room and comes back with the massage oil from his kit. "Turn around."
I do. He starts working into my shoulders with those warm, calloused hands slow, practiced, gentle. I melt instantly.
We don't talk.
Just soft jazz in the background from the TV we left on and the occasional Monaco breeze sneaking through the cracked balcony door.
After, I crawl onto the bed in my robe and he joins me, still in his boxers, hair tousled and eyes sleepy.
We don't need much to feel like home.
He spoons me from behind, pulling the blanket over us with a quiet yawn.
"Did I scare you that bad today?" he asks into my shoulder.
"Yeah," I admit.
"You hit me harder than the G-force."
"You deserved it."
A beat of silence.
"Would it help if I promised never to try that move again?"
"No," I say. "But it would help if you let me pick your overtakes next time, Mr. Monaco."
He snorts. "Deal."
I trace the scar near his rib, the one from last season's crash.
"You're all I have, you know," I whisper.
"I know," he says, voice low. "Same goes for me."
He kisses the back of my shoulder, his hand is in my hair, gently combing through the knots with his fingers. No words. Just the rhythm of his breathing beneath me, chest rising and falling like it has all the time in the world.
We've been quiet for a while.
It's quiet in the way that makes you feel like you're the last two people on earth. No cameras. No headlines. Just us.
Mingyu's legs are tangled with mine under the blanket. My cheek is pressed to his collarbone. His other hand is tracing the top of my spine, fingertips lazy, deliberate.
"Let's disappear," he says suddenly, voice low and scratchy against the hush.
I shift to look up at him. "Disappear?"
He nods, eyes still halflidded. "Just you and me. Somewhere warm. Somewhere no one knows my name and I don't have to put on a suit unless you ask nicely."
I smile, dragging my fingers across his chest. "Are you asking me to run away with you, Mr. Kim?"
He hums. "No. I'm telling you I already booked the flights."
My eyes widen. "You did not."
He smirks. "Villa in Crete. Secluded. Private pool. Outdoor shower. No agenda. Just us, white sheets, and whatever you want for breakfast every morning."
"You're serious."
"Dead serious."
I sit up a little, stunned. "When?"
"Day after tomorrow."
"Mingyu, we just got back from-"
"I cleared it with your calendar, too," he says casually, pulling me back down against him. "Your assistant's a gem. She said you've been needing a break."
"You're ridiculous."
"And you're overworked," he murmurs into my hair. "You always take care of me. Let me take care of you this time."
I'm quiet.
Because how do you even respond to that?
He turns on his side, propping his head up with his hand. "Come on. Picture it. You in a linen dress. Me in too short swim trunks. Sunsets. No emails. No calls. Just you laughing barefoot in the kitchen while I burn eggs."
I bite my lip to hide the smile. "You don't even like eggs."
"I like you. That's enough."
I groan into the pillow. "Stop saying stuff like that unless you want me to cry."
He leans in and kisses the tip of my nose. "We could take a boat out. Swim until sunset. Make love on a patio no one else can see. You can read. I'll sleep. And when you're bored, I'll cook for you."
"You'll cook for me?"
"I'll attempt. You'll laugh. We'll survive."
I shake my head, heart feeling too full. "You really booked Crete?"
"Surprise," he whispers. "I want to be selfish with you for a little while longer.”
I curl into him, kiss the corner of his mouth, and rest my forehead to his.
"Okay," I whisper. "Let's disappear."
His grin is soft. Slow. Married.
"God, I love you," he says, like it's easy.
Like it always has been.
And that night, before the world can knock on our door again, we dream in linen and lemon trees, tangled in each other and the life we're quietly building. A life that's not always loud. But full.
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