When it belongs to us
— Min Yoongi | Bridgerton AU —
~ Recklessness under Moonlight ~
pairing: Yoongi x reader(f)
rating/genre: pg; regency, slow burn.
summary: To protect your family and his rising empire, the Duke Min must navigate a minefield of blackmail and high-society scandal. It is a game of risks and unspoken desires, where he must decide if he will follow the rules of the ton or burn them down to claim the woman he loves.
warnings: yoongi is a menace, high-society courtship politics, reputation stakes.
note: This is part 3 of a series, I highly recommend reading part 1 and 2 first to understand the story. Thank you so much reading this story, it’s been so fun writing it but a little challenging because I want to skip to the spicy parts already :s but Yoongi is such a gentleman I swear. Once again, I hope you like where the plot is going. Taglist is open and if you have any suggestions, feedback or questions drop it on my asks or comments. Happy reading!!
word count: 3.6k
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Epilogue
—
If the ton wished to scrutinize Min Yoongi, then Min Yoongi would give them something impeccable to examine. His ball was announced with precision and perhaps a hint of quiet ostentation, it was simply, him. A way of letting the ton know his position and the power he holds. Selective invitations, strategic guest list and, most importantly — Your family received theirs first.
The townhouse on Grosvenor Square glowed that evening, music spilled into the street, carriages lined in glittering procession. Inside, every candle had been placed deliberately, he had done this before. Hosted. Negotiated. Positioned. Yet he had never hosted for one person.
Until tonight.
You arrived in ivory silk and silver details — luminous, understated, devastating. He saw you the moment you stepped through the doors, he was drawn to you, and for the briefest second — the briefest — his composure slipped. It wasn’t enough for the ton to notice but enough for you and you couldn’t hold the slight smile that caused you. All eyes were now on him; his whole aura wasn’t just expensive—it was an exercise in intimidating elegance in favor of a palette that feels like moonlight and midnight.
He crossed the floor.
“Miss,” he said, bowing slightly lower than necessary.
“My lord. Your home is impressive.”
“It is efficient,” he corrected.
“And tonight?”
His eyes held yours as he smiled devastatingly. “Tonight, it is intentional.”
Your breath fluttered. He danced with others first, and you knew exactly why. He never did anything without cause, he was being proper but most importantly, he chose his dance partners strategically. To the misfortune of the girls who were swoon by his dashing eyes, and gentlemanly manners, information was all he cared about. That was until the orchestra shifted to a slower waltz — deeper, more intimate — that’s when he approached you again.
“This one,” he said quietly extending his hand for you.
You did not pretend to hesitate. His hand settled at your waist, familiar now, the feeling on your skin of multiple understated silver rings on his fingers, breaking traditional etiquette just enough to show he makes his own rules. Yours rested over his shoulder, only this dance was different, this was in his house, his domain and you were in it.
“You are very calm for a man under scrutiny,” you murmured.
“I find scrutiny clarifies matters.”
“And what has it clarified, my lord?”
He guided you through a slow turn, drawing you closer than before — still proper, but only just.
“That I do not wish to court half-heartedly.”
Your pulse quickened, eyes fixed on his.
“You are aware that your guests are observing us with alarming intensity.”
“Yes.”
“And you persist.”
“Yes.”
The music softened in the background; your faces were closer now, you could see the expression in his face turning into amusement.
“You are enjoying this,” you accused gently with a soft smile but his expression changed, there was a frown that made your heart sink for a moment. He exhaled softly.
“No.”
That makes you falter in your steps, the seriousness and shift of emotion.
“I am enduring it.”
“Enduring?”
“Because if I allow myself to enjoy this,” he said quietly, “I may not behave as wisely as I should.”
The honesty made your heart skip a beat, your cheeks turning pink and suddenly, you couldn’t look at him in the eye, and oh did he enjoy making you flustered, that deadly smirk was back on his face. The dance ended too soon after that but he did not release your hand immediately.
“Walk with me,” he murmured.
It was improper, quite dangerous in your current situation… and you went anyway.
—
He led you to the conservatory that was connected to the grand hall so it wasn’t completely improper but the atmosphere had shifted now. Glass walls all around you, the moonlight shining through the panels illuminating the room that made the atmosphere feel softer and definitely more inviting to break certain rules, although it was still visible from the ballroom, it was distant enough for privacy without scandal. He was careful. Always careful with you.
“You should not be alone with me,” you said softly.
“I know.”
“And yet…?”
“I wished to speak without an audience.”
He stepped closer, the music and chatter drifted faintly through the glass.
“You should know,” he said quietly, “that Ashford has begun pressuring certain investors.”
You frown at that.
“He believes tightening financial channels will unsettle me.”
“Will it?”
“No.” His gaze softened slightly. “But what unsettles me is this.”
His hand lifted hovering at your waist again.
“I am not accustomed to wanting something beyond reason.”
Your voice lowered. “And do you?”
“Yes.”
The word was immediate and unfiltered making you breathless. The distance between you had narrowed, his fingers finally settled at your waist allowing you to feel the warmth through your dress. He leaned closer, slowly. You knew he was giving you time to refuse but you didn’t, your hand slid to his lapel as his breath brushed your lips. This was not ballroom proximity. This was highly improper. His mouth hovered a breath away as your heart pounded on your chest.
“Yoongi—”
Your name in his voice was almost a confession, a sweet, guilty desire, and then— He stopped. His forehead rested briefly against yours as he exhaled sharply.
“No.”
The word sounded like it cost him everything, you could feel his hand tensing, his eyes closed for a moment and then he looked at you with so much restraint and something close to pain.
“No?”
“I will not compromise you,” he said, voice low and strained. “Not here. Not when all of Mayfair and half of London waits for a misstep.”
“You are the one who brought me here.”
“To speak,” he corrected softly with a small smile.
Your cheeks flushed but it wasn’t from embarrassment, it was want. When he pulled back slowly his control reassembled with visible effort.
“When I press my lips upon yours,” he murmured, “it will not be because gossip cornered us.”
The promise in that made your pulse riot, his hand lifted — hesitated — then gently brushed a stray curl near your temple, barely touching but it was reverent, it would have been so easy to step away, it would’ve been wise, but instead, you leaned slightly into it.
“And when will that be?” you whispered with closed eyes as you felt the warmth of his touch on your skin, making you miss the moment his eyes darkened slightly at your actions.
“When it belongs to us.”
Footsteps and laughter approached beyond the glass and he immediately stepped back just enough, he was composed again.
“Return before they begin imagining worse,” he said gently.
You looked at him — truly looked… he had stopped himself and it made your heart nearly come out of your chest because you knew, you knew he stopped not because he did not want to but because he did… and that fact left you reeling. You returned to the ballroom breathless, spiraling about what just happened.
Wanting more.
—
It came three nights later. A charity musicale at Lady Pembroke’s, very respectable, very crowded, and perfect for spectacle. Ashford waited until the performance concluded and conversation swelled, then, with calculated ease, he approached Yoongi who was holding a conversation with a cluster of influential gentlemen.
“You must forgive my curiosity,” Ashford said lightly, loud enough to gather attention. “But I am intrigued by your sudden fervor for preservation of reputation.”
There was a subtle shift in the room but Yoongi remained composed.
“I find integrity efficient,” he replied calmly.
Ashford smiled thinly. “Indeed. Particularly for men who have spent years persuading society to forget… humble beginnings.”
There it was. He didn’t need a scandal, it was a simple reminder of origins and his ascent, it was a reminder of difference.
Murmurs stirred and eyes flicked but Yoongi did not flinch, glass in hand, observing the ton with a cat-like gaze. His clothes didn’t scream for attention; they commanded it by being the darkest, most sophisticated point in a room full of neon silks, just as his entire aura.
“My beginnings are the reason I value what I build.”
Ashford stepped closer wanting to intimidate. “And do you believe those who marry into old families are so generous in their memory?” The implication was clear, he looked as you stood several feet away, a knot in your throat as the ton observed.
Yoongi’s gaze flicked to you only briefly, then back to the man in front of him. “I do not intend to marry into a memory,” he said evenly. “I intend to build a future.”
Ashford’s attempt to shame him into defensiveness failed because yongi did not rise, he did not lash out… he stood unmoved.
The power dynamic shifted subtly because composure under insult is far more intimidating than outrage. Ashford withdrew for the night, frustrated.
—
The next morning, London awoke to something unexpected. A formal announcement delivered through none other than Lady Whistledown. Expensive and gorgeous… sweet scent filled your drawing room by the flower arrangement sent very publicly to your residence witnessed by neighbors and curious passersby.
It wasn’t cliché roses, he sent white camellias because they meant devotion, discretion and admiration; attached to them there was a note:
I choose you, too. — M.Y.
That afternoon, he called properly with your mother present. He did not ask permission, he stated his intentions so there was no doubt.
“I wish to continue courting your daughter, no matter the circumstances or threats” he said with a charming smile.
Your mother studied him, looking for any intention of wavering. “You understand the resistance, your grace.”
“I do.”
“And you still wish to continue courting my daughter?”
“Yes.”
Your heart pounded as you hid your smile under the cup of tea, your mother exhaled slowly.
“Then you will do so correctly.”
He inclined his head.
“Always. I only intend to put end to… certain affairs that threaten your peace first.”
When he rose to leave, his fingers brushed yours to lift them to his lips, his touch soft and delicate, he meant to reassure you. You met his gaze and this time, there was no hesitation in it, you were certain he would keep his word.
⸻
The social event today was a garden party, a bright afternoon and harmless setting, or so you thought… only polite society gathered, but that is just exactly where the worst kinds of threats are delivered. You had stepped away from the crowd, not foolishly secluded of course, it was merely far enough as you required a moment alone, but he was watching you, always keeping you in sight, that’s when his shadow fell across the gravel path.
“Miss.”
You did not startle, you refused to give him that satisfaction. “Viscount.”
He did not bow but you weren’t expecting it. “I believe we require clarity.”
“We require nothing.”
His jaw tightened at your reply. “You mistake Mr. Min’s composure for invincibility.” He stepped closer crowding your space, imposing pressure. “He is not as untouchable as he appears.”
You met his gaze steadily, you did not want to fall into his games. “Is this another warning my lord?”
“No,” he said with a devilish smile. “This is a proposal.”
Your stomach dropped, eyes widened as the words landed like iron.
“I intend to offer for you.”
“You cannot be serious.”
“I am entirely serious.”
“You have made your position on my family quite clear.”
“And marriage would settle that,” he replied smoothly. “Your reputation restored. Your mother secure.”
“And in exchange?”
“His grace stops meddling in my affairs, he goes back to being secluded in his own world. He never bothers us again.”
The audacity stunned you.
“And if I refuse?”
His expression shifted, you could see the fake charm thinning, he turned for a moment to examine the surroundings, then lower. “Then… I remind the ton precisely how Mr. Min acquired his fortune.”
Your pulse faltered. “That is not scandal.”
“No,” Ashford agreed quietly. “But implication is powerful, investors grow nervous when reminded that a man rose quickly. That he once held debts. That certain early partnerships were… aggressive.”
You almost wanted to slap him for insulting the Duke. “He built everything honestly.”
“I did not say otherwise.”
The cruelty was in the insinuation.
“You would damage him because I declined you?”
“I would damage him because he forgets his place.”
Rage flared inside you, hot and bright. So much so you could punch him, but you knew better, you knew this had to be dealt carefully. “You are afraid of him,” you realized softly, and for the first time, something dangerous flickered in his eyes.
“I am offering you protection,” he said sharply. “Accept my proposal and this ends.”
“And if I do not?”
His voice lowered. “Then I ensure Mr. Min’s ascent becomes the subject of every drawing room. I squeeze every contract, test every alliance, and I do not stop until his reputation is in shambles… just like your mother’s.”
Your hands trembled in anger and frustration but your voice did not. “You overestimate your power.”
“And you underestimate my persistence.”He stepped back then, composure returning. “I will call tomorrow,” he said smoothly. “I will properly ask your mother and then you may provide your answer, but be careful Miss, consider the situation you find yourself in and question if this reckless behavior is worth ruining your precious Duke.”
And then he left you standing in the sunlight, the world suddenly colder.
⸻
You do not tell Yoongi; not that evening, not the next morning. You cannot decide which terrifies you more: that Ashford could wound him or that Yoongi would refuse to bend and destroy himself defending you because that is the type of gentleman he is.
When Ashford’s carriage appears outside your home the following afternoon, your mother stiffens visibly, clearly preoccupied and considering every possible outcome after you told her everything.
“He cannot be serious,” she whispers.
“He is mother.”
Your mother lets out a long, defeated exhale. “I am sorry my girl, I’m afraid, this is all my fault.”
He enters with polished confidence, a bow to your mother, she politely offers tea and cake, anything to prolong his torturous and malicious plan. You try to think about anything that could make him withdraw, any sort of hope that you can cling onto to at least make him withhold his proposal but before you can prevent it — He formally requests permission to propose. The room spins, you almost fall on the chair while your mother hesitates, and you know it’s not because she favors him or any other gentleman in particular, at least not one that she would openly admit is hers and your only ray of hope in this dark moment, but because refusal invites retaliation, and nothing scares her more than that. She would never forgive herself if anything happened to you because of her actions or past misunderstandings.
You feel the walls closing.
“Lady Esphelt?” he prompts softly.
And that is when the door opens quite dramatically and loudly.
“Forgive the interruption.”
Yoongi.
He goes against his instincts and does not look at you first, this time he looks at Ashford. “I was not aware proposals were conducted under coercion.”
The silence is suffocating and Ashford smiles thinly. “You presume much.”
“I rarely presume,” Yoongi replies calmly. “I confirm.”
Your mother rises. “Gentlemen—”
Ashford’s composure cracks just slightly. “This is a private matter Min.”
“No,” Yoongi says evenly. “It ceased to be private when you attached my name to it.”
Ashford steps closer. “She deserves stability.”
“And you offer it?” Yoongi asks with a scoff. “Or leverage?”
The air hums. You look at Yoongi and, in that moment, he sees it, fear flickering despite your control. His fists tighten and something in him hardens.
“If you threaten my affairs,” Yoongi says quietly, “be certain yours can withstand scrutiny.”
Ashford’s smile falters. “Be very careful, Min.”
“I am.”
“I suggest you withdraw your proposal,” Yoongi continues. “Before you are forced to.”
Ashford studies him for a moment and then laughs lightly. “You think you have something on me?”
Yoongi’s gaze does not waver. “I know I do.”
The shift in his attitude is subtle but real, and for the first time, Ashford looks uncertain, almost… afraid, he turns to you one last time. “This is not concluded.”And he leaves.
The moment the door shuts, silence crashes down and you turn to Yoongi.
“How did you know?”
“I did not,” he admits quietly “I suspected.”
—
Later that night, in his study, Yoongi reviews ledgers brought discreetly by a banking associate. Patterns, transfers, delayed payments.
Anything that could reveal… — And then, he finds it. A signature. It wasn’t Ashford’s, but tied to one of the duke’s supposed “investments” years ago. The money that saved Ashford’s estate had not come from the duke, it had been rerouted through a shell holding. One Yoongi now partially owns, which means Ashford’s estate survived because of funds connected indirectly to Yoongi’s own early partnerships.
If exposed, it would reveal Ashford’s desperation. His dependency and hypocrisy, and most importantly, the fact that the scandal surrounding your mother conveniently erupted just days after those transfers. Yoongi leans back slowly, a realization forming. Ashford did not merely benefit from rumor, he orchestrated it for survival. And now— Yoongi has proof. It may not be enough to destroy him outright, but it’s enough to destabilize, to level the board in his wicked game.
⸻
Ashford does not waste a second but he does not challenge Yoongi directly like the coward he is, he attacks the ground beneath him and within days, whispers begin. It’s all very subtle, poisonous words and all carefully planted.
At White’s, a gentleman remarks that Mr. Min’s earliest ventures were “aggressively timed.”At a musicale, lady Berbrook murmurs that rapid ascents often conceal inconvenient alliances. At a luncheon, someone questions whether certain debts from years ago were entirely resolved. It wasn’t concrete, nothing was really actionable, but it was enough to get a blow. Investors hesitate, invitations to social events begin to slow, eyes linger longer during promenades, and then— the worst of it, whispers speculating whether “new money seeks legitimacy through strategic marriage.” Your name is not mentioned but the implication is unmistakable. You are were not chosen, you were merely useful.
At the next public event — a soirée at the Harrington estate — the air feels different, it is curious and judgmental but still polite. You enter with your mother and conversation dips, the eyes of the ton on you waiting to see how you react and how the Duke will respond. Across the room, Yoongi stands among a cluster of men, composed as always, if he was aware of the scrutiny he was under, he did not show it. Ashford approaches him openly this time.
“I do hope you are not troubled by idle chatter,” Ashford says with fake pleasantry.
Yoongi’s expression does not change. “I am rarely troubled by fiction.”
Ashford’s smile thins. “Be careful it does not become narrative.” And then he does something bolder, he raises his glass getting the attention of everyone surrounding them. “To industrious ambition,” he mocks, making several men chuckle. “May it always remain… transparent.”
The insult lands and all eyes shift to Yoongi, the ton is waiting, testing him, and all you can do is stand there with a knot in your stomach. If he reacts defensively, he loses and if he says nothing, he appears diminished. Yoongi sets down his glass and steps forward.
“Indeed,” he says with poise and silence spreads.
“Transparency,” he continues with his voice measured, “is precisely why I have commissioned a full public audit of my early ventures.”
Ashford’s smirk falters and you can see everyone staring to whisper, curious eyes shift from him to you and back.
“I find,” Yoongi adds, “that clarity is the simplest cure for rumor.”
There’s a ripple of surprise and a couple chuckles from the audacity of his words. He turns slightly — not to the men, to you, and holds your gaze unshaken and confident sending you a message, hoping you trust him still.
I will not bend.
Ashford’s upper hand begins to slip because a man who invites scrutiny is rarely afraid of it, and the ton loves boldness almost as much as blood.
⸻
The following afternoon, without announcement, Yoongi openly arrives at your home and your mother receives him with controlled apprehension.
“You are aware,” she says carefully, “that the air grows volatile your grace.”
“I am, and I will persist. Your troubles will not last long, I can assure you.” he replies.
He turns to you then and his face turns softer.
“Walk with me.”
Your mother hesitates but allows it in the garden, visible from the windows and with your lady’s maid walking behind. Proper.
You walk the gravel path in strained silence until you can no longer bear it. “You should distance yourself,” your eyes suddenly very interested in your shoes. “For now.”
“No.”
“They are questioning your integrity.”
“They are questioning my independence.”
“And that does not concern you?”
He stops walking and turns to you fully.
“It concerns me only if you believe them.”
Your heart quickens as you feel the intensity of his eyes on you. “I do not.”
“Then nothing else matters.”
You shake your head. “It is not so simple.”
“It is precisely that simple.”His voice lowers — more raw than before. “I did not build my life to surrender it to gossip.”
“And if your audit reveals something inconvenient?” you challenge softly.
He steps closer. “Then I will address it.”
“And if they turn on you?”
His eyes search yours. “Will you?”
The vulnerability in that question nearly undoes you. “Never,” you whisper.
The atmosphere shifts as you understand that this wasn’t a strategy or about pride, there was emotion behind his words and you see his composure faltering.
“I will not allow him to intimidate you into marriage,” he says quietly. “Nor will I permit him to suggest you are leverage.”
Your stomach flutters. “You risk much.”
“I risk nothing that I cannot rebuild.”
But you see it. The fatigue beneath his calm, the weight he refuses to show anyone else. You stop in your tracks in front of the small water fountain in the garden and without thinking, you reach for him. Your fingers curl lightly into the front of his coat, you can feel when he goes very still.
“You are not alone in this,” you say softly.
The words crack something open, he exhales — sharp, almost unsteady. His hand rises to your waist and you look over his shoulder, your lady’s maid has “conveniently” fallen behind, far enough that you cannot see her in this little path of the garden covered with flowers. It’s only you two, and you realize what he requested of her moments before you came down to the garden. He bribed her.
His touch wasn’t cautious this time. “You should not comfort me,” he murmurs.
“Why?”
“Because it makes me forget restraint.”
The air thickens yet you do not step away.
“Perhaps,” you whisper, “restraint is overrated.”
That does it. He pulls you closer firmly but not rough, your bodies align and you feel the heat of him through layers of pink fabric, his hand slides to the small of your back, and you breath stills.
“You test me,” he says, voice low.
“And you endure it.”
He leans down slowly with Intent very evident. His lips hover at your temple first, then your cheek, a whisper of warmth, your pulse races, when his mouth finally brushes the corner of yours— it’s soft and barely there but charged. You inhale sharply as he deepens it by a fraction, just enough to make your knees weaken, then he pulls back abruptly, control slamming into place.
“Not yet,” he breathes.
You look wrecked.
He looks worse.
“When I kiss you properly,” he says quietly, thumb brushing your jaw, “it will not be in defiance of another man.” He looks at you with tenderness and desire, his hand raises to brush your hair with great delicacy. “It will be because I cannot wait any longer.”
The unspoken hangs between you. Inside the house, a curtain shifts and he steps back, composed once more but his eyes burn.
“I will end this,” he says softly. “And then I will court you without shadow.”
You believe him and that might be the most dangerous thing of all, because you are not certain either of you can wait much longer.
tbc :)
⸻
Beautiful people ✨: @yoongiiuu93 @kalamity-cherry-blossom
