Melody of Obsession | MYG
➝ Request by anon. I tried my best (◍•ᴗ•◍)
(Yandere! Yoongi x Female Reader)
Warnings: Yandere behavior, possessiveness, jealousy, emotional manipulation, obsessive love, mild violence (firm grip, intense confrontations), and unhealthy relationship dynamics.
Summary: Trapped between love and obsession, you fall for Yoongi—a gifted pianist whose quiet devotion hides a dangerous possessiveness, making escape impossible… even if you never truly wanted one.
Soft melodies drifted through the dimly lit apartment, the gentle hum of piano keys filling the space with an eerie kind of comfort. Min Yoongi sat at his grand piano, fingers dancing effortlessly over the keys, eyes half-lidded in deep concentration. But his focus wasn’t entirely on the music. It was on you.
You, curled up on the couch, unaware of the way his gaze flickered toward you between every few notes. You, blissfully lost in your phone, completely unaware that he had been watching you for minutes now.
It started small—his obsession.
At first, it was just a fascination. The way your laughter filled the silence when you listened to his compositions. The way your fingers brushed against his whenever you handed him a cup of coffee. The way your voice sounded when you said his name—like a song only meant for him.
And then, it became something more.
Yoongi pressed down on a deep, low note, letting it linger in the air before turning to face you. "Who are you texting?"
You blinked, looking up from your phone. "Just a friend. Why?"
His expression didn’t change. Yoongi was always hard to read, but you noticed the way his jaw tensed, the way his fingers flexed against his thighs. "A guy?"
You sighed, not liking where this was going. "Yoongi—"
There was no sharpness in his voice, no anger, and yet something about the way he spoke made your stomach tighten with unease.
You hesitated. "Yeah. But it's just—"
Yoongi stood up slowly, his movements unhurried, deliberate. The room suddenly felt smaller as he approached, the scent of his cologne—woody and warm—clouding your senses. He took the phone from your hands with ease, his touch surprisingly gentle as he scrolled through your messages.
His grip on the device tightened. Then, he looked at you. And that’s when you saw it.
"You don’t need him," he murmured, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered against your skin, cold and firm. "You have me."
Your heartbeat quickened. "I—Yoongi, I have friends. I can’t just—"
"Yes, you can." His thumb brushed over your lips, silencing you. "I’m all you need, baby."
You swallowed hard, the intensity of his gaze making it difficult to breathe. This wasn’t the Yoongi you had first fallen for—the quiet, sarcastic, charming musician who made you feel safe. No, this was something else. Something dangerous.
You tried to take your phone back, but he pulled it out of reach, slipping it into his pocket effortlessly. "You spend too much time on this anyway. You should be spending it with me."
You stared at him, disbelief creeping into your voice. "You can’t just take my phone, Yoongi."
He hummed, tilting his head. "I think I just did."
A small, mocking smile tugged at his lips, but his eyes—his dark, unreadable eyes—held something much more sinister.
You took a step back, your heart pounding. "I think I should go home."
Yoongi sighed, almost disappointed. "Home?" He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Baby, this is your home. You belong with me."
His fingers gripped your wrist before you could move further away, his touch still deceptively gentle, but firm enough that you knew you wouldn’t be able to pull away.
"Shh," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "Don’t fight it. You know I love you, right?"
The words sent a chill down your spine.
This wasn’t love. This was something far more twisted.
"Yoongi, this isn’t normal," you whispered, your voice barely above a breath. "You’re scaring me."
His smile remained, but something in his gaze flickered—an emotion too deep, too dark to name. "Good," he murmured, pulling you closer. His lips brushed against your temple, his breath warm against your skin. "Then you’ll finally understand that you can’t leave me. Ever."
Your pulse hammered against your ribs.
He had never been planning to let you go in the first place.
The first time you met Min Yoongi, it was in a quiet, dimly lit jazz café tucked away in a less crowded part of the city. You hadn’t planned to be there that night—your friends had bailed on your dinner plans, leaving you wandering alone until the soothing hum of a piano lured you inside.
Yoongi was at the grand piano near the corner, his head slightly bowed, fingers gliding effortlessly over the keys. His expression was unreadable, yet there was something intoxicating about the way he played, as if he was pouring his entire soul into each note.
You found yourself drawn to him, sliding into a seat at the bar and watching in quiet fascination. He didn’t glance up, didn’t acknowledge the audience. He was lost in his world, his music whispering secrets only he could understand. And yet, you felt them too—each note sinking into your skin, wrapping around your heart.
When the song ended, the small crowd murmured their quiet appreciation, but he barely reacted. He simply exhaled and reached for his drink. It was only when he turned his head slightly that your eyes met.
Yoongi held your gaze for a second too long before setting his drink down and rising from the bench. You had expected him to leave, but instead, he walked straight to you.
“You keep staring.” His voice was deep, smooth, carrying an edge of amusement.
You blinked, embarrassed. “Sorry. You’re… really good.”
Something flickered in his dark eyes. He tilted his head, studying you in a way that made your stomach twist—not in fear, but in something close to intrigue.
“I know,” he said simply, and for some reason, that made you smile.
Yoongi was not an easy man to know. He was reserved, quiet, often lost in his music. But when he wanted something, he pursued it relentlessly. And he had decided he wanted you.
A text at midnight: What are you doing?
An unexpected visit to your workplace with your favorite coffee, despite never asking what you liked.
The way he would disappear from conversations the moment another man showed too much interest in you.
You should have noticed the possessiveness from the start, but you had been too blinded by the way he made you feel.
Yoongi made you feel wanted.
One night, a few months into knowing him, you were walking home alone after a late shift. The streets were empty, the city quiet, but there was a strange sensation prickling at the back of your neck—as if someone was watching.
You hurried your steps, clutching your bag tightly, only to hear the low, familiar voice behind you.
“You shouldn’t be walking home this late.”
You gasped, spinning around, only to find Yoongi leaning casually against a lamppost a few feet away. He looked unbothered, hands tucked into his pockets, as if he had been waiting for you.
“Yoongi?” You exhaled in relief. “You scared me.”
His lips curled into a small smirk, but there was no amusement in his eyes. “I told you to text me when you get off work. I would’ve picked you up.”
“I didn’t want to bother you,” you admitted, still trying to calm your racing heart.
He pushed off the lamppost, closing the distance between you in slow, measured steps. “You’re never a bother.” His voice softened, but there was something almost dangerous in the way he said it. “But you are reckless.”
You frowned. “Yoongi, I can take care of myself.”
He hummed, but his gaze darkened. “No. That’s my job now.”
His fingers brushed against yours, cool against your skin. You shivered—not from the cold, but from the way his presence consumed you entirely.
That night, he walked you home, silent yet watchful, as if daring anyone to come close. And when you reached your apartment, he didn’t leave.
He lingered at your doorstep, eyes locked onto yours, as if debating something. Then, in a move so gentle it contradicted the intensity in his gaze, he cupped your cheek.
“Next time,” he murmured, “call me. Don’t make me come find you.”
You should have questioned it.
Should have wondered why he had been waiting.
But instead, you found yourself nodding, your breath hitching as he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.
And just like that, Min Yoongi had you wrapped around his finger.
Yoongi wasn’t the typical romantic. He didn’t shower you with extravagant gifts or sweet words laced with honey. Instead, his love was quiet but suffocating, like a song played on repeat—haunting, possessive, and inescapable.
He learned your schedule by heart before you even told him. He knew what foods you liked, what scents calmed you, what words made you melt. He wasn’t a man of many words, but his actions screamed of devotion.
"Eat," he would command when you forgot meals, setting a plate in front of you without room for argument.
"Sleep," he would murmur when you stayed up too late, dragging you into bed, wrapping himself around you so tight it was impossible to move away.
"Where were you?" he would ask, his voice deceptively soft, his fingers tracing circles on your wrist, holding just tight enough to make you uneasy.
Yoongi was obsessive in a way that should have scared you more. But it didn’t.
Because when the world felt too much, when the weight of life crushed you, he was always there—waiting, watching, protecting. And despite everything, you found yourself sinking into him like he was the only thing that made sense.
---•••------•••------•••------•••------
It had started with something small—a harmless conversation with a colleague at a café. The man had been friendly, nothing more. But when you turned your head, Yoongi was already there, watching from a few tables away.
His gaze was unreadable, but his fingers were drumming against his coffee cup in slow, controlled taps. You knew that look. It was the calm before the storm.
That night, when you returned home, he was already waiting inside.
"Why were you talking to him?" His voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking the edge beneath it.
You sighed, tossing your bag on the couch. "Yoongi, I work with him. It was just coffee."
He exhaled slowly, setting his glass down with a clink. Then, in a movement too fast for you to react, he was in front of you, tilting your chin up so you had no choice but to meet his gaze.
"That’s mine," he murmured. "That smile. Your attention. Your time." His fingers curled around your wrist, not painful, but firm. "I don’t like sharing."
Something in you snapped. "Yoongi, this isn’t normal! You can’t control every single person I talk to!"
His expression darkened, his grip tightening. "Why not?"
"Because I’m a person, not something you own!"
For the first time in months, you saw something flicker across his face—hurt. But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by something colder.
"You don’t get it," he murmured.
"Then help me understand!" You shoved at his chest, and for once, he let you. "Because right now, all I see is a man who doesn’t trust me!"
Silence stretched between you.
Then, so quietly you almost didn’t hear it, he whispered, "I don’t trust them."
Yoongi wasn’t jealous because he thought you’d leave. He was jealous because he thought the world would take you from him.
His fingers loosened, and for a moment, you saw the cracks in his walls. The fear. The obsession.
You should have run. You should have told him that love wasn’t supposed to feel like this.
But instead, you took his face in your hands.
"Yoongi," you whispered, your anger ebbing away, replaced by something deeper. "I’m not going anywhere."
His shoulders slumped, as if those words were the only thing keeping him alive. And when you leaned up and kissed him, he crushed you against him, his hands gripping you like you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart.
By the end of the night, you weren’t sure if you had won the fight or if you had lost completely.
Yoongi had never been one for grand gestures, and his proposal was no different. It wasn’t in a fancy restaurant, nor with a big speech. It was in the quiet, in the space between moments, where his love had always existed.
It was a stormy night, rain pattering against the windows as you sat curled up on the couch, his head resting in your lap while you played with his hair.
"Marry me," he murmured, barely above a whisper.
Your fingers froze. "What?"
He tilted his head slightly to look up at you. His eyes were unreadable, dark pools that you had long since fallen into.
"Be mine," he said simply.
Your heart clenched. "I already am."
He sat up then, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small, unassuming black box. He didn’t open it right away. Instead, he took your hand, his thumb tracing the delicate lines of your palm.
"You don’t have to say yes," he murmured. "But if you do… you’ll be mine completely."
There was something in the way he said it that sent a shiver down your spine. Not a warning, not a plea—just a fact.
You stared at the box, at the man before you, at the invisible chains he had wrapped around your soul.
And you realized something.
You had already chosen him long ago.
Yoongi wasn’t just a man you loved. He was the air you breathed, the storm you had willingly walked into. He terrified you. He consumed you.
But deep down, you wanted to be consumed.
So, you took the box, opened it, and slid the ring onto your finger.
Yoongi exhaled slowly, as if he had been holding his breath for years. Then, he pulled you onto his lap, burying his face into your neck.
"Mine," he whispered, pressing a kiss against your skin.
And you knew then—there was no escape.
But maybe, just maybe, you never really wanted one.
