requested by @inkniki I hope you like it Ty for joining my event!
wc: 1.5k
warnings: rough sex, jealousy, name calling, sort of being caught but not really, angsty, they hate eachother :p I haven’t written smut in so long pls tell me if this is ass
taglist: @choeryyxyz @laikaonline @unsvripted @skzlover143 @simleska @felxvrs @julsforjulieni
You’ve hated Jay for as long as you can remember. Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself when you’re scrubbing his plates out of the sink for the third time this week, when you nearly slip on one of his socks abandoned in the hallway, when you knock over yet another line of expensive hair products cluttering the bathroom counter like a shrine to his own ego.
He moved in and everything went to hell.
He’s messy. Loud. Inconsiderate. And worst of all, he has girls over every single night. You can’t even really fault them, he’s annoyingly hot, the kind of man who never looks like he’s trying and still turns heads. But you can fault him for the paper-thin walls, for the way he never seems to care that you have work in the morning while someone is moaning his name at three a.m.
You bring people home too. Loud people. Strangers from bars whose names you forget before sunrise. You make sure Jay hears it, the laughter, the headboard, the exaggerated sounds, all of it a performance, all of it meant for him. It’s petty, maybe even a little pathetic, but that smug look he always wears needs to be wiped off of his face somehow.
It’s late, late enough that exhaustion is tugging at your bones, but the boy you dragged home is pressed against you anyway, lips sloppy against your neck, hands already grabbing like he’s entitled to you. Your mind drifts, unhelpfully, to the bedroom next door. Too quiet. Suspiciously so. You pull away, forcing a smile. “Bathroom,” you say, already slipping out of his grasp.
The living room is a mess, half-empty bottles, discarded jackets, when you hear it.
Jay’s voice. Sharp. Frustrated.
“I’m so fucking sick of her, Heeseung. She’s driving me insane. I don’t know how much longer I can deal with it.”
You’d never thought you and Jay were some kind of doomed, star-crossed thing. You’re barely friends. But that? Sick of you? Driving him insane? You replay his words over and over as something hot and ugly twists in your chest.
You’re the one cleaning. You’re the one picking up after him. He’s the one who never cooks, never helps, never takes responsibility for anything. And somehow you’re the problem?
You don’t even remember deciding to move.
One second you’re standing there, the next you’re pounding on his bedroom door, all thoughts of the boy waiting on your bed completely gone.
Jay yanks it open, shirtless, irritation etched into every line of his face. “What the fuck do you want?”
You don’t answer, you shove him, hard enough to make him stumble back into his room. “Me? What do I want?” you snap. “I want to know what the hell you meant. ‘Driving you insane’? ‘Sick of me’? If you want to move out so badly, hurry up and do it. I’m sick of cleaning up after you like you’re a child.”
For just a moment, something flashes across his face , surprise, maybe guilt, before irritation takes over again.
“Were you listening to my phone call?” he scoffs. “What are you, a fucking perv?”
That makes your blood boil. The argument explodes from there, voices overlapping, accusations flying. You tell him he had no right. He tells you you shouldn’t have been listening. It goes in circles, louder and sharper with every exchange.
Somehow, without noticing, you’re closer. Too close.
You can feel his breath against your face when he snaps, “You’re not listening to me.” His voice drops, dangerous now. “I didn’t say I hate you. I said you’re driving me insane.”
You scoff. “By doing what? Existing?”
“By going out dressed like that,” he shoots back, eyes flicking over you in a way that makes your stomach tighten. “By bringing home idiots who don’t even know you. You think I don’t hear it? You think I don’t know when you’re faking it?”
“You’re not serious,” you say, quietly now. “You have girls over every night, Jay. You don’t get to be jealous.”
He laughs, stepping back like he needs the space, or like he’s giving you a moment to breathe. The absence of him is almost worse.
“I’m not jealous,” he says. His gaze drags down your body slowly, deliberately. “I just know I could do it better.”
Your pulse roars in your ears.
“Better how?” you challenge, even as your voice betrays you.
His mouth quirks. “I could make you feel good. Properly. Show you what it’s supposed to feel like.” He tilts his head. “You want me to?”
Part of you screams no. Tells you to turn around, go back to the boy waiting for you, to keep pretending this doesn’t matter.
But you already know how that ends.
That’s how you end up on his bed.
Jay’s hands are everywhere at once, firm, decisive, like he’s been waiting for permission for far too long. He crowds you back until the mattress hits the backs of your knees, and when you fall onto it he follows immediately, mouth crashing into yours with something close to hunger. It’s rough, not sloppy. Controlled. Like he’s trying not to lose it.
“Tell me to stop,” he mutters against your lips.
He kisses you like he’s making a point of it, slow at first, dragging it out, like he wants you to feel every second you wasted pretending this wasn’t inevitable. When he finally breaks away, it’s only to trail his mouth down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, teeth scraping just enough to make you gasp.
“See?” he murmurs. “Already more honest.”
Your fingers dig into his shoulders as he presses you back into the bed, eyes dark, focused entirely on you now. His hand spreads you up en with precision, cock teasing your pussy as he watches in awe at the way your eyes hit the back of your head. When he finally pushes inside you, it’s deep and unrelenting, knocking the breath from your lungs in a way no one else ever has. “Oh,” you choke, back arching immediately.
Jay groans at the sound, forehead dropping to yours. “There it is.”
He sets a brutal pace, not rushed, not frantic, just devastatingly steady. Like he knows exactly how long he can make this last. Every movement is deliberate, calculated to pull you apart piece by piece. You cling to him, nails dragging down his back, already too close.
“You feel that?” he asks quietly, voice strained. “That’s because I’m paying attention.”
You whimper, actually whimper, and the sound goes straight to his head. He shifts, angling deeper, and the pressure is unbearable. Your legs shake as he pulls you tighter against him, refusing to let you escape the sensation.
“Jay,” you breathe, barely holding on.
“Yeah,” he says, smug now, satisfied. “That’s my name.”
The knock on the door makes you jolt.
“Uh — you in there?” the boy from earlier calls, hesitant now. “You’ve been gone a while.” Jay laughs, low and sharp, not stopping for even a second. He leans down, still pounding into you, lips brushing your ear. “Answer him.”
You shake your head desperately, biting down on your lip to keep quiet as his pace turns merciless. He watches your face fall apart, openly enjoying it, before calling out, “She’s busy, man.”
Jay turns his full attention back to you, grip tightening. “You wanna come for me?”
You nod frantically, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from how overwhelming it feels. “Please,” you whisper, the word ripped from you before you can stop it.
“Beg for it” you scoff, no way, absolutely no way in hell are you begging Jay Park for his stupidly big cock to make you cum when all he’d do is hold it over your head for the rest of your lease. He nudges his cock deeper into your pussy, leaning down so his face is parallel with yours, “I said beg, slut,” and, of course, you fold, begs spilling past your lips that you need him, want him so bad, never been fucked this good before, anything you know will inflate his ego any more than it already is.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, almost gentle now. “Good girl.”
His thumb finds your clit, and the world seems to narrow to nothing but him, his voice, his hands, the way he doesn’t let you look away as you finally break. You come hard, body locking around him, and the sound he makes at your name is wrecked, ruined.
He follows moments later, cum spurting up into you, groaning low as he collapses against you, weight heavy, grounding. For a second, the room is silent except for your breathing.
When he finally lifts his head, he smirks, softer now, but no less smug.
“I’m a better fuck,” he says quietly. “Right?”
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