House of Serpents [6] 

• Pairing: OT7 x reader
• Genre: Mafia AU
• Summary: Straight-A student by day, Kim Namjoon’s personal toy by night, you didn’t live a terrible life. At least not until you met his six equally depraved “friends.”
• Tags: PWP with some plot, shameless smut, sugar daddy, possessive behavior, power imbalance, dub con, oral, overstimulation, moral bankruptcy, 5-way betrayal, kidnapping, yandere jimin, yandere jungkook, dead dove: do not eat
• Warnings: noncon, non-consensual drug-use, mind break. please take care & beware.
• Masterlist

[Part 5] [Part 7]

You wake with a splitting migraine and a throb in your right arm. You want to sit up, but your head feels like a sack of bricks and…

You can’t move.

“Stay still,” Jimin says, somewhere overhead, as you blink your eyes open. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

Something glides down your belly just then, light and tender. 

You peer down. He’s got your bare legs spread around him, cock hanging heavy over the hem of his briefs, half-hard and wet. There’s an empty syringe on the nightstand and a cloth knotted tight around your arm. Combined with that distinctly fucked out look on his face, that dull ache between your legs – you’d have to be an idiot not to know. 

“You drugged me?” you mutter, working your jaw open. Your mouth is sandpaper dry. The words come out ragged. “Why?”

Jimin smiles, pretty and sweet, the light catching on his earring as he leans in. He props himself up with a hand beside your head, looming like a shadow over you, “Because I don’t want to fight.” 

“So you paralyzed me?” you ask, dreading the answer.

“Of course not,” says Jimin, easy. “I just took away your motor control for a bit.” 

“God, Jimin,” you croak, shaking your head, trying to not look at him. “This is ridiculous, are you out of your fucking…”

You can’t finish that thought because you feel something wet around your hand. You glance up with a start to find Jimin taking your index finger into his mouth, sucking it down as far as it will go. The tip of his tongue traces the groove between your fingers. 

When he looks at you, his eyes are glazed over, half-mast, and his throat bobs as he swallows. 

“Stop,” you tell him. You want to jerk your arm away but can’t. You really can’t move a muscle. All you can do is watch Jimin wrap his lips around your knuckles. He hums and dips his head in closer, his mouth hot and tight around you. An alarming shock of arousal runs through the length of your back. 

“I’ll make you feel good,” says Jimin, finally, allowing your fingers to slip out of his mouth. Your hand drops onto your chest. He climbs over you, the heat of his body pressing down onto your hips. His gaze wanders down and meets yours straight on, “I’ll make you mine.”

Your stomach flips. 

“Don’t touch me,” you choke out, trying to squirm away. It’s useless. Your body’s disconnected, heavy.  

“I’ve waited so long for this, you know that?” Jimin says. He spreads your thighs so far apart that it nearly hurts, humiliating in a way that makes you gasp. His cock drags up the cleft of your ass, and as if conditioned to the pleasure, your cunt throbs and aches in response. Then the head of his cock pushes into your slit. 

You whimper, except you can’t escape the intrusion. You can’t even flinch. 

Jimin doesn’t pause. “I think of you all the time,” he says, fucking into you in a smooth, slow stroke, and your whole mind goes blank.

You don’t want this. You don’t, but the drug has made it impossible for your body to reject the pleasure. As Jimin begins fucking you, thrusting in deep, filling the room with the creak of the mattress, you can feel your own slick smeared wet and cold over your thighs. 

You’re not aroused, except you are . There are little noises slipping out of you as Jimin’s cock rubs against your walls. Your cunt betrays you, clenching and gripping down on him as if it’s trying to milk him into a climax. 

Jimin groans at this, impatient, guttural, trying so hard to hold back from fucking you apart. “You make it so hard to concentrate.” 

After a while, you realize Jimin’s still speaking.

“…when I screw those girls,” he pants, sliding slowly in and out of your slick cunt, as if to savour the friction, “all I can do is think about how much better you’d feel around me. I think about bending you over a desk, breaking you in just the way you like it. I’ll stretch you open on my cock at first, then I’ll pu—“

“Fuck you,” you cry out, head slamming back as Jimin’s cock brushes over your spot. 

“But they’re not you,” Jimin talks over you, his thrusts languid and relentless, “and I want you, (Y/N). I want to fuck you hard and then I want to wash you out in the shower, touch you all over until your knees give out and you can’t take anymore and I’ll fuck you again right up against the bathroom wall, until my cock is so sore I’ll have to make you come with my hands.“

The next thing you know, Jimin’s mouth is against yours, swallowing your moans, tongue slithering inside your mouth. He runs his hands down the curve of your waist, pushing his body so close to yours it feels like he’s trying to claim you. "You want that too, baby?“

Before you can think to answer, a thick swell of heat drives into your core. Your body shakes helplessly, and Jimin notices, because of course he would. He puts his hand on your clit, mouth coming to suck at your ear, making sure that your body can’t shy away from the pleasure.

“Doesn’t feel good?” he says, watching you squeeze your eyes shut. He rubs his fingers over your clit in small, tight circles. The way he touches you, it’s as if he knows exactly what would drive you over. 

“Fu…” you start, sobbing, crying out frantically as another orgasm jolts down your spine, “You fucking…” 

Jimin just laughs. He kisses you hard, teeth cutting into your lip, then pulls out and dismounts you, shifting away. 

You feel a weight dropping onto the bed, and from the corner of your eye make out a suitcase. Jimin cracks it open, extracting a neon-blue syringe. He sits back for a second, adjusting the plunger until a bead of liquid has gathered at the tip of the needle.

“Funny how you say the same thing each time,” Jimin says. 

You wonder vaguely what he means. How many times have you been through this?

“Let me go,” you warn him, voice hoarse, “you’ll regret this.” 

“What, are Namjoon and Yoongi going to come for me again? Or Seokjin? Or, oh, I know. That bottom-feeding Kim Taehyung?” A lopsided smirk drags up the corner of Jimin’s mouth. He hums a tune that you’ve heard before, cheerfully flicking away the excess liquid from the needle before loosening and retying the cloth around your arm. He’s efficient, like he’s done it a dozen times before. And he probably has. 

“Let them come,” he says, “I’ll kill them all.”

He sinks the tip into the black, scabbed patch of needle scars on your arm. When he hears you moaning from the pain, Jimin rubs his thumb gently against the wound. He bends down to press his lips over it and murmurs, “I’ll kill anyone for you.”

Whatever he’s injected into you is instant . Your head spins, and an inexplicable warmth floods you from under your skin. When you open your mouth to respond, the only thing that comes out is a protracted groan. 

“What are you doing to me,” You gasp out, moments later, drool pooling in your mouth. Your cunt suddenly feels so sore, throbbing with heat, walls squeezing down as if they needed to be filled. 

“I want you to feel good,” Jimin says, but his voice sounds different. It shoots straight to your core, making you squirm.  

And all you can think about is how much you want to be fucked, how Jimin had made you feel so good, that small curl of pleasuring gnawing into the back of your mind. Your body crams your thoughts with need, begs be fucked senselessly into the bed, to have Jimin bury his fat fucking dick so deep inside of you that you can’t walk for days. 

But no, no no, you don’t want that, it’s not you. It’s– 

“You’ve heard of Yume haven’t you? My finest. Had it flown in special from Nagoya last week,” Jimin explains, “those MIT kids are fucking annoying, but their drugs,” he kisses the tips of his fingers, then winks when he catches you watching, “art.”

Jimin palms at your ass again, and this time his touch feels different. Feels wet. It makes you shudder and tense uncontrollably. You don’t even realize you’re aroused until Jimin swipes his fingers down your slit and comes away slick, but you don’t see that either, because just that touch alone has your vision whiting out. Your back arches into the mattress, and for a few seconds you can’t breathe. All you can do is cry out, fingers locking, “PleasenopleasenopleasepleaseJiminplease.” 

“Coming already?” Jimin grins, playful, cruel. He shoves his hair back with one hand so he can take a better look at the way you’ve gone completely limp for him. “You’re too fucking fun.”

“Park Jimin,” You pant out. It’s not funny, but the drug is making you feel every kind of light. You can hear yourself laughing breathlessly as the ceiling spins and doubles above you. “You’re in… so much… trouble… ”

“Thought you’d beg me to stop,” Jimin says, picking your hand up. He holds your knuckles against his lips, watching you intently as he fucks into you all at once, cock rock hard and slippery on the globs of come already leaking out of you. 

Your mind is too muddled to register a thing, but your body responds instantly. You come so hard this time Jimin has to pry your legs away from clamping around him. He smiles, pleased, “Go on, beg me. I’ll stop if you say please.” 

Jimin continues, voice soft and distant, but you don’t understand it. You don’t understand a word, because you’re coming so fucking abruptly you can’t even breathe. Your hands fist the sheets, your back arching itself impossibly hard into the bed, and all you can do is scream and scream as Jimin snaps his hips into you, at perfect pace with the circles he rubs into your clit, forcing you into one orgasm after another. 

When you come to, you’re lying face-down on your belly and Jimin’s beside you. That suitcase he had is now empty.

Four vials, you count.

You can’t remember a thing that’s happened, but your body does. Your cunt and ass feel raw. Feel used. Come and saliva leak steadily out of your cunt, pooling into a cold puddle between your legs. 

You can move now, it seems, but your body is far too wrecked to obey.  

“Please, Jimin,” you ask weakly. “Please stop.”

Jimin ignores you. He just strokes his cock hard again and shoves your face into the mattress, silver rings digging into your scalp, snapping his hips into your ass with a low grunt. 

“Too late,” he says. 

And like this, Jimin fucks you for hours, hard, unrelenting, filling your ass and pussy and mouth until you start praying for him to just kill you. He doesn’t get any pleasure from this, you know that he doesn’t. He’s doing this to break you, to brand you, you know that too.

You know all this, but it isn’t hours later that you begin to realize that Jimin’s not doing this to hurt you. He’s doing this to teach you that you can’t run away. 

That you belong to him now. 

The next day, when you come to, you’ve been bathed and changed into a new, white linen dress. The drugs have worn off, leaving a thick haze in the back of your mind. The beddings have been changed, the curtains drawn open to unveil a beautiful courtyard garden. Ancient stones, lush greenery, the soft trickle of an ornamental pool. Other than an ankle chain shackling you to the bed, you’re free to roam about the room.

In the quiet, you realize that Jimin’s confined you inside a hanok. It’s fastidiously maintained, each tile of the cheoma glossy and polished. Everywhere you go you can hear the murmur of footsteps from the corridors. House staff, you think, distantly, and contemplate calling for help when you catch one of them pruning the trees.

But you don’t. They wouldn’t help you, besides. Like ghosts in the walls, they’ve heard your screams and cries for hours without a glance backwards. Without so much a question. 

You don’t try to escape, not because you’re exhausted, but because you know that there’s no point. Jimin wouldn’t have left you here if he knew you could run. 

Later, deep into the night, Jimin shows up with a small box of sushi. 

The way your mouth waters at the smell of it, you know you haven’t eaten for days. 

“Hungry?” He asks gently. He breaks apart the single-use chopsticks and brings a piece of nigiri to your lips. “Open up, my love.” 

You frown, balling your hands into fists, staring defiantly at him. “No.” 

Jimin perks up, delighted by the attention. “It’s from your favorite place.” 

“Fuck you,” you snarl, turning away. “Let me go, you disgusting piece of shit.” 

“No one’s coming for you, you know,” Jimin says, tilting his head. “You told them you’d leave, didn’t you? You told them you’d be gone.”

“They need me,” you tell him. “They’ll find me, eventually.” 

“Come on now,” Jimin says, patient, “you’re smarter than this. You’re a dime-a-dozen, (Y/N). They’ll find another cockwarming whore in a heartbeat.” 

You slap his chopsticks out of your face. 

Jimin pauses, blinking at his hand mildly. And then he tosses the entire box to the floor. 

It lands with a splat, the wasabi and soy sauce making an ugly, brown smear over his pristine white carpet. 

As if on cue, the servants enter on their knees, mops in hand, eyes averted, as Jimin peels off his jacket and tugs off his tie. Jimin doesn’t look away for a single second as he rips the dress off of you. 

Once you’re completely naked, he works you onto your knees and elbows, stretching you with three fingers at once, so hard and thorough you’re a mess of drool and tears before he even gives you his cock. 

“You’re so fucking gorgeous like this, you fucking slut,” Jimin says, with a forlorn sigh, “can’t wait to make you mine.” 

The servants scurry to the opposite side of the room, careful not to watch, too scared to leave. So Jimin fucks you in front of them, pounds you until you can’t hold yourself up anymore, until you’ve tumbled loosely into his arms, tears and spittle a mess on his shoulders. 

And then after all that, he makes you finger yourself in front of him. He strokes his cock absently, eyes black as the night when he fucks into you alongside your fingers. 

It’s six vials before he lets you go again, sometime after the sun has broken over the sky.  

“Still want to go?” He checks when he returns the next night. There’s blood on his face, on his cufflinks, on the tip of his shoes. It reminds you of Namjoon. 

Of Yoongi. 

You scoff. “Fuck your mother.” 

This time, Jimin presses your legs over your head and eats you out. You’re too weak, too faint, too exhausted to fight him, and the way he’s impatient tonight, you know he wouldn’t tolerate it anyways. He puts a needle in you and fucks you until you learn to say his name.

In the back of your mind, you wonder how long it would take for Yoongi or Namjoon to think of you. If they ever would. 

This goes on for days. Maybe for weeks. 

Every night, Jimin comes with food.

Every night, you tell him no.

Every night, he fucks the fight out of you.

The nights start to blend together sometime after the fifth. Jimin takes you off of Yume one day out of the blue, but by then, you can’t remember why you needed it to begin with. You’re already conditioned to his cock, to salivate at the sight of him. 

Because the truth is, Jimin’s right. He makes you feel good, makes you feel like never before. And he’s right about the rest of them, too. Maybe no one will come for you, after all. 

Days later, he stops fucking you. Sometimes he grabs you by the hair and fucks your mouth, his cock so hard, rammed so deep down your throat you gag and choke on it. Sometimes, weekday mornings, he pushes a dildo into you and puts it on the highest setting, listening to you moan as he types up his assignments. It’s a sight you’ve seen a million times before, Jimin in his casual tee and his cargo shorts, dressed like a normal student as he nurses an iced americano. 

But never like this. 

The first hour is fine, feels good, even. The second hour is painful. The third hour, your walls start jamming around the dildo, bruised and tender and raw, and you scream each time you come. You scream until your voice wears out, until you’re just pleading softly for him to fuck you instead, until Jimin finds you quiet enough to take off his headphones. 

“Even Professor Kang’s been missing you,” He says, off-handedly, glasses hanging low on his nose. He walks up to you, and for a moment you quiet in anticipation, thinking he’d finally take the dildo out.

Instead he shoves a vibrator against your clit. It hurts but you can’t help coming anyways. You scream for him to stop, so of course he leaves it there, watching you squirm uselessly as he continues, voice a bit strained. “You know, I’m a little offended for you. Where the hell is Yoongi?”

There are tears running down your face and Jimin wipes at them with his thumb. “Don’t cry, baby. Do you want me to go beat that asshole up for you? Break his legs? His arms?”

“I’ll kill you,” you tell him, delirious, words slurring, as he pulls the dildo out of you. 

Jimin just tuts and stuffs his limp cock in your mouth. He thrusts into you shallowly, waiting for it to become erect enough for you to gag on it, and then he rams you a little fuller, so that you’re mute for hours after. 

“But if you kill me,” he says, applying ointment to everywhere he’s broken or torn, “who’s going to take care of you?”

And the truth is, you don’t know. 

On the weekend, Jimin spends his days and nights fucking you apart, no food and no sleep, carefully bringing you to the edge, so very close, over and over and over. But he never allows you to come, no matter how you beg. This way, thirty hours later, when he finally pulls out of you, he can watch you touch yourself, watch you sob as you come on your own fingers.

“You want my cock?” He asks, as you lay there gasping for air.

You nod, and he grabs you by the chin and forces him to look at him when he demands, “Say it.”

“I want your cock, please,” You mumble, barely conscious anymore, “Please, I want to come on your cock, Jimin.”

So he gives it to you, and you pass out the moment he fills you out. 

You realize, a few days later, when Jimin starts carrying you into the tub with one arm, that you must have lost weight.

He says, scraping the washcloth over your collarbone, “I told you, didn’t I, that you’re all mine?”

“You’re always right,” You say, voice muffled against his arm, sounding so pathetic.

Jimin just laughs and plays with your hair. 

Maybe one, one and a half weeks later, he brings nothing but plain rice. 

And this time, you crawl to him on all fours, a fresh hunger growling in the back of your head. 

“Please, I’m hungry,” You admit, peering up at him. You sound so small, so invisible. Have you always sounded like this? 

Relief melts over Jimin’s face. 

“Of course you are,” He says, ruffling your hair, and unzips his pants. He keeps a hand pressed over your mouth as he strokes himself with the other, shuddering as he comes in ribbons over the rice. “My love, of course you’re hungry.” 

“Eat,” He says, grin crooked, and hands the bowl to you. There are no utensils. Just his come and the rice. He probably expects you to just put your face into it. 

Like an animal, like a street dog, you wolf it down. Because that’s what you are. You’re just an animal. Just a plaything. You’re good for fucking, and that’s it. Jimin’s come tastes like battery acid, tastes salty and bitter but it doesn’t matter. You’re long used to that taste and it’s–it’s not bad.

While watching you, Jimin pushes the hair away from your cheek and says, “You can’t pass out without permission tonight, OK?”

You nod, obedient, so good. You swallow the last of the rice, lick the bowl clean, and then ask, as a second thought, “How long have I been here?”

“Eighteen days,” Jimin says. 

Eighteen days. 

You’re missing something, you think. But you can’t remember what. And maybe it doesn’t matter. Someone else is taking care of you now, after all. 

They’ve got all the shrubs pruned three times by the time Park Jimin climbs out of the back of his Rolls Royce. He’s fifteen minutes late from his layover in Nagoya, and from the corner of his eye, he can catch the Chief of Staff making a beeline for him from the crowd of senior leadership. 

Jimin can hardly remember his name, mainly because he doesn’t care. 

“Good morning, Chairman Park,” the man says. 

“Morning,” Jimin says, distractedly scraping the mud off his cap toe oxford against the side of an Italian marble front step. 

“There are a few items for your sign-off,” the man continues, falling in line behind Jimin as he strides down the winding walk-up, half-sprinting while he reads Jimin’s agenda aloud. 

“Then after the lunch with the Chairman of the DP Emergency Office, Lee Jaejoong is lined–”

“Who?”

Waves of men scramble into mechanical, practiced bows in their wake. A handful of smart ones scurry into action, eagerly walking them down the maze of walkways. Jimin doesn’t recognize the kids by face—there are always too many of them—but he knows that they must be his. They all carry the same stench, of fear stretched taut and ambition whetted sharp enough to cut. He’s good at beating that kind of thing into people. That deep, unshakable greed for survival.

“PharmaGreen’s CEO, sir. The current board’s policy is to explore secondary strategic alliances,” the man says, an unwavering two paces behind Jimin. 

Turning up the main staircase, Jimin levels the man with a hard stare, “I don’t recall giving a rat’s ass about board policy.”

“Understood, sir, but we have significant shares in PharmaGreen. Overseeing the sustainability reports from next quarter would be critical to assessing operative risked shares.” 

Jimin pauses mid-step and takes a sip of his coffee. “We have a floating 1.2% share in PharmaGreen. Doesn’t sound operative to me.”

“The CFO signed off on new numbers this morning,” the man says, softer.

“Listen,” Jimin smiles, polite, patient the way he’s raised to be, and leans in closer to him. “You may fuck me, but you still have to call me sir in the morning.”

All the blood drains out of the man’s face at once. “I’ll have him run another check on those numbers.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Jimin says cordially. 

He pauses, for a second or two, taking another sip of coffee as he surveys his property. The perfectly manicured lawns, the precisely trimmed bushes, the import marble fountains. All around him, the courtyard is silent. His bodyguards are hanging a good distance from him. This scene is just right, uncannily so, but still–he would be stupid to miss it.

“Don’t be shy, Sergeant,” Jimin says. “Come say hi.” 

The first time Seokjin met Jimin, he had been a few days undercover at Goldmoon. Back then, Jimin was just a freshman in boarding school. As Chairman Park’s whip-sharp golden child, Jimin was well regarded in the family. But, Seokjin thought, when he ran into Jimin at a Christmas gathering, the kid seemed too nice. Even though he was just a junior officer on the force, Seokjin had seen enough criminals to discern potential.  

Cherub-faced, boyish, happy, Jimin just seemed soft.  

“Hi,” Jimin had said, tagging behind Seokjin as he made his way to the buffet table. “You’re dad’s new accountant, aren’t you?”

“I am,” Seokjin told him. “I’m Jin.” 

Jimin grinned, “Lucky you, Jin. Dad really likes you. What’s your trick?”

“I do my job,” Seokjin said. 

“So you graduated from college? Seouldae?” Jimin asked, around a mouthful of tangerine. 

“Yes,” Seokjin said, filling his plate with galbi. “Are you planning to go?”

“My dad would pop an artery if I didn’t,” Jimin said. “Thinkin’ about Seouldae too. Are the girls there hot though?”

Seokjin wondered if there hadn’t been a mistake. How could someone as immature as Jimin be expected to run the family? 

The answer became clear the second time Seokjin met Jimin. 

“I have a rat problem,” Jimin said over the phone, the summer he came back from junior year. “Are you free?”

When Seokjin showed up, he found his handler in an empty oil drum. His undercover handler from the police force . His mentor of three years, who met him not two hours ago for a debrief, who was Chairman Park’s favorite consigliere.

Seokjin’s heart beat so loud he thought Jimin could hear it a meter away. 

“Sorry to drag you here,” Jimin said, responding to whatever unnerved expression was on Seokjin’s face. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“No, that’s not necessary.” Seokjin croaked, a dry whisper that even he couldn’t understand. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he stared at Jimin, wondering how much Jimin knew. Surely, Jimin knew. Surely he did.  

Cherub-faced, grinning ear to ear, Jimin handed Seokjin a gun and said, “Take care of it, will you, Jin hyung?” 

“I–”

“What?” Jimin prompted, mouth curving knowingly. And right then and there, it became clear to Seokjin that Jimin knew. He knew that Seokjin knew that he knew. And he said, “Do your job, hyung.”

So that’s what Seokjin did. Hands trembling, tasting metal, Seokjin pulled the trigger. A part of him died, flaked and crumbled at his feet, as his mentor’s head flung backwards, exploding over the side of the barrel in chunks.  

“You scared?” Jimin asked, barking out a laugh. He took the gun back from Seokjin with a wink. “Watch me.” 

He put a few more bullets in the corpse, and Seokjin felt every single one in his own chest. 

Then, the third time Seokjin met Jimin, Chairman Park had died. Jimin waltzed into the reception of Goldmoon, a severed head in a fruits basket, looked Seokjin straight in the eye and whispered, “I’ll let you go home, Jin hyung. But don’t ever forget your debt.” 

When Seokjin returned to the force, the formal report was that his handler was killed in a cross-fire. Middle-management didn’t have the appetite to pursue Jimin. Chairman Park had died, and Jimin was just a child. How much damage could a child incur? 

But Seokjin knew. 

Though Jimin kept mum, Seokjin could feel his eyes on him as he rose through the ranks. Officer, corporal, sergeant. With every step, he could hear Jimin’s words ricocheting in the back of his head. He owed a debt, and that was the truth. Jimin had spared his life, his reputation.   

And today, it seems, Jimin’s here to collect. 

“Long time no see,” Seokjin says, “Chairman Park.”

“Sergeant,” Jimin says, throwing his arm around Seokjin. He whispers, his arm an anchor around Seokjin’s shoulder, infinitely heavy and light at once. “Here to do your job again?”

“I’m here to take back what’s mine,” Seokjin says.

Jimin doesn’t seem to hear a thing. Instead, he lugs Seokjin forward, “Yes you will, hyung. Don’t look so upset — have I ever refused you?”