#ennemy to lover

[enaelyork]

All my Tarkin's Legacy serie [Thrawn, Krennic, Hux romances]

I write all my Tarkin's serie in french, hope i can't translate all of it as soon has possible =)

This is a first person writing / Star Wars Romance / Imperial-First Order obession post.

#1 Bleu - Eleanore Tarkin x Grand Admiral Thrawn

Nothing escapes Eleanore Tarkin.

Because she was born to survive, the illegitimate child of the Grand-Moff has carved out a place for herself within ISB.

Playing multiple covers to root out the best kept secrets.

But that was before her friend Solveig disappeared.

Before the announcement of her marriage to Admiral Spencer, the one who must guarantee her the nobility of her rank.

Before Grand Admiral Thrawn, freshly promoted, takes an interest in the same business as her, seeking by all means to embark her on his ship.

He is claimed to be unbeatable, but he still has a war to win. The one he leads against this indomitable agent of the ISB.

She's the one Thrawn needs for a high-flying mission and he's going to have to use all his wits to convince her.

Because no one is capable of subduing a Tarkin.

Or so she thought.

Read it 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10

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#2 Nébuleuse - Victoria Tarkin x Director Orson Krennic

Shadow is what Victoria Tarkin has always preferred.

It's for this reason that she has been lurking there since birth.

In the shadow of her sisters.

In the shadow of his imperious father, at the height of his power within the galactic empire.

It is thanks to this darkness that surrounds her that she managed to escape. Escape from this world far from what corresponds to her and live her passion in secrecy.

Until her father discovers it and involves her in a heinous blackmail.

It's easy for a Tarkin to pretend and spy, all the easier when the target is the most despised man in the family.

But sometimes even the best mechanics get bogged down and nothing can stop the chaos they create.

Read it 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10

#3 If we had a Soul - Enael Spencer x General Armitage Hux

Blood is a difficult inheritance. Enael knows this all too well. Even if she does not bear the name, the blood of the Tarkins runs through her veins and not a day goes by that she is not reminded of it.

She is one of the heirs thanks to whom the Empire survives. The one they are about to rebuild.

It is undoubtedly for this reason that she attains the title of admiral. A rank that does not suit her. In any case, this is what the ruthless General Hux thinks, determined to make his new recruit fight it out.

But don't they have more in common than they think?

Read it

[hangesophtalmologist]

The Salesman's Obsession

title: the salesman's obsession

pairing: squid game's salesman/ recruiter x f!reader (y/n)

synopsis: when someone dares to interrupt his game, the infamous salesman ought to punish them... but she doesn't intend to play by his rules.

warnings: violence, physical assaut, social stigma, psychotic mc, squid game au

a/n: we shall give the people what they asked for (salesman x readers) (i'm people)

The slap rang out like a gunshot, ricocheting off the cold subway walls. The man on the ground – disheveled, panting – flinched. His cheek blossomed red, but he didn’t dare look up. Above him, the Salesman stood poised, palm still tingling. His eyes were bright but empty, the light behind them clinical, dissecting.

"Come on now, one more try,” he taunted. His voice was smooth, almost musical and weightless, as if he were suggesting a game of chess. "Don’t stop at three. You’ll regret that more.”

It wasn’t joy he was feeling. Amusement, merely. Detached, surgical. Like stepping on something fragile just to hear the crack. The pathetic, the desperate – they all crumbled the same way. He just had to give them a little push, and their precious facade fell apart, leaving behind the twitching core of greed, ready to humiliate itself for scraps.

The sweating businessman bent to pick up his red tile, trembling. His shoulders sagged under the weight of silent despair. Miserable. The Salesman’s lips curled, though not exactly enough to be called a smile. He enjoyed the process. The inevitability of it.

Another failure.

He raised his hand, licking his lips in anticipation, but before he could swing, something unexpected happened. A hand grabbed his wrist.

Firm. Unshaking.

Cold.

His head snapped to the side; the sharp turn of a predator interrupted mid-hunt.

You.

His gaze narrowed. He’d noticed you earlier, lingering on the platform’s edge. Background noise. He rarely missed details, but somehow you had slipped through the cracks. Perhaps that was the first red flag.

His gaze drifted over your hand, slender fingers circling his wrist like a cuff. He could break free easily. Yet he didn’t. Your grip felt… deliberate. Measured.

“Enough,” you said, cocking your head to the side, sly eyes scrutinizing him.

His expression shifted, just slightly. Interest flickered, not outwardly hostile, but curious. He searched your face for clues – that familiar, nauseating blend of pity and self-importance most saviours carried. Yet, your eyes betrayed neither. But he didn’t need any tells – he knew people like you. Hypocrites yearning for crumbs of recognition.

“And who might you be?” His voice retained its warmth, but irritation simmered beneath it.

You stepped between him and his trembling opponent, your hand falling away. “Doesn’t matter.”

His gaze darkened as annoyance started to seep in his body. He didn’t even watch as the man behind you scrambled to his feet, disappearing into the crowd like prey escaping a hunter. His focus was entirely on you now – the intruder. He examined you for long time – longer than what he was used to. The Salesman never cared much for remembering anyone other than his recruits – but there was something about the lines of your face, the crooked slope of your mouth, the mischief in you pupils. Something challenging. Something he wanted to crush.

"You just cost me 100,000 won," he said lightly, adjusting his cufflinks with meticulous care – but the tightness in his jaw betrayed the casual tone. "So. How do you plan to pay me back?"

You shrugged, defying. “I don’t plan to.”

His grin widened, but the glint in his eyes sharpened. “I see. Then I’ll have to take it from you. A slap or cash. Choose.”

“I have a better idea,” you smirked, lazily flicking the red tile between your fingers. “I’ll take his place. I want to play too.”

His smile faltered. The thrill flickered out, but simply for a second – you weren’t desperate, not twitchy or ashamed. Not his typical prey. Yet. Because after all, if you wanted to play, it was because you wanted money – like everyone else.

He just needed to crack your confident mask to see you scrambling for it.

A chuckle escaped his mouth, hunger for your humiliation gnawing at his stomach. He wanted to see your heroic aspirations slapped out of your mind until you were nothing more than the lowlives he usually dealt with.

Yes. This would be even more fun to watch.

His smirk returned, though colder. “Fine. Each loss costs 100,000 won. Can you pay?”

“Don’t worry. I won’t lose.”

Your smugness stirred something primal in him—something ugly, something he hadn’t felt in years. You flipped the red card over your fingers, defiance oozing off you. Then in a split second you hurled the tile to the ground with surprising force. There was no hesitation, no tension. He didn’t need to look down to know you had flipped the blue card over. He watched you carefully, waiting for the inevitable flicker of relief that most winners betrayed.

None came.

Your eyes had barely left him either, like you were also gauging his reaction. Your lips stretched in a predatory smile – a thrill of excitement ran down his veins.

“I paid the debt. Now let’s play for real,” you cheered, displaying a naïve smile, one that could have fooled him as genuine if there wasn’t a flick of calculation - measurement - behind the easy curve of your lips.

The Salesman was a man of control – he could recognize when someone was leading a game, and right now this someone wasn’t him. He wasn’t surprised when you succeeded again.

“You won,” he stated, but there was no satisfaction, no amusement – he was still hungry for your humiliation. He reached for his luggage. But your foot stopped him, stepping on it as you suddenly reduced the distance between them.

“Oh no, Mister. You must have misunderstood me,” you slowly leaned towards him and whispered against his face.

He should have seen it before – but it was only now, when you were inches away from him, that he finally noticed the spark of amusement hidden in your eyes. It wasn’t heroism, nor greed that animated you.

Danger. His heart raced with the adrenaline that was reserved for his favourite kills, an all-too-powerful feeling that welcome your next words.

“I wasn’t playing for money.”

And then with sudden, brutal efficiency, you slapped him. Hard. Hard enough to send him stumbling on his feet and wipe any thought from his mind.

The crack resounded louder than his own had.

His head jerked to the side, pain stinging his cheek. Silence stretched between you. The slap burned, but not as much as the unfamiliar sensation curling in his gut.

Your laugh cut through the quiet, light and playful, but dripping with something – something mad.

He scoffed, bringing a hand to massage his cheek. It was stinging, the only proof that the last seconds had happened. When he looked back at you, you had tilted your head in an innocent expression.

But your conniving smirk was taunting him. “I get you now; it is quite fun. Have a nice day, Mister.”

You turned and walked away, your figure shrinking under the flickering subway lights.

The Salesman didn’t follow. Not immediately.

He watched you disappear into the station, the flickering fluorescent lights overhead casting fractured shadows on the tiles.

He stayed rooted, fingers twitching at his side, replaying the moment. Over and over.

Then, without warning, he laughed. Deep, unhinged, shaking laughter that echoed through the empty station. His stomach twisted with hunger, sharper and more vicious than he had felt in years.

You.

You weren’t a prey.

No, you were something far more valuable.

You were a challenge.

And he would break you. Piece by piece.

[starskq]

I STILL HATE YOU / J.W

Pairing ◊ bratty!fem!reader x brattamer!wooyoung (ft. '99 line)

Genre ◊ SMUT, angst, ennemies to ???

Warnings ◊ SMUT (MINORS DNI), reader is a brat, harddom!wooyoung, they hate each other, fingering, rough, degradation, petnames (good girl, sweetheart...), oral (fem receiving), lots of angst

Word count ◊ 4,6k

Summary ◊ : You and Wooyoung hated each other, but your friends thought it would be a good idea to lock wooyoung's room to "sort things out"

a/n: just a sucker for dom Wooyoung 😵‍💫 enjoy! (not proofread)

You were part of this tight-knit friend group with Wooyoung, Yunho, San, Mingi, and Yeosang. Usually, you would have considered yourself lucky to be surrounded by such a cool bunch of people, but there was one glaring exception: Wooyoung. From the moment you met, you and Wooyoung clashed like fire and ice. You were both cocky, always trying to outdo each other with snarky comments and sarcastic remarks.

It wasn’t even like you had any reason to hate each other; it just happened. Maybe it was how Wooyoung always seemed so smug, with that infuriating smirk plastered on his face. Or maybe it was how he would always find some way to one-up you, no matter what. Either way, the tension between you two was almost palpable, and it was clear to everyone around.

The others in the group seemed to take it in stride. Yunho and San would roll their eyes and laugh it off, while Mingi would try to play peacemaker, often unsuccessfully. Yeosang, on the other hand, seemed to find your constant bickering somewhat amusing, though he rarely got involved. Despite the tension, the group managed to stick together, probably because your mutual animosity oddly balanced the dynamic.

One Friday night, you were all hanging out at their place, lounging on his beat-up couch, debating over what movie to watch. Wooyoung, as usual, had a different opinion from you. He wanted to watch some action flick while you were in the mood for a horror movie. The debate quickly turned into a full-blown argument, with you and Wooyoung standing face-to-face, jabbing at each other with pointed insults, as usual.

“Why don’t you just admit your taste in movies sucks?” Wooyoung sneered, crossing his arms.

“Oh please, like you even understand what makes a good movie,” you shot back, your tone dripping with sarcasm.

Yunho sighed loudly, standing between you two. “Alright, can we just decide already? It’s just a movie.”

San laughed, shaking his head. “You two are hopeless. Can’t even pick a movie without turning it into World War Three.”

The argument over which movie to watch was reaching a boiling point, and everyone in the room could sense it. You and Wooyoung were standing toe-to-toe, practically shouting over each other.

“I’m telling you, action movies are way more entertaining,” Wooyoung argued, his voice filled with exasperation.

“And I’m telling you, horror movies have way better plots,” you shot back, not willing to back down.

Yunho exchanged a knowing glance with San and Mingi. They’d had enough of the constant bickering and had been joking for weeks about taking drastic measures to put an end to it.

“Alright, that’s it,” Yunho said suddenly, standing up. “I can’t take this anymore. We need a break from your constant fighting.”

Before you could react, Yunho grabbed you by the arm while San and Mingi grabbed Wooyoung. You struggled, demanding to be let go, but they were determined.

“Hey! What the hell are you doing?” you yelled, trying to shake off Yunho’s grip.

“Let go of me! I’m not done here!” Wooyoung protested, struggling against San and Mingi.

Yeosang, who had been quietly watching the whole scene unfold, opened Wooyoung’s bedroom door. “In you go,” he said calmly, stepping aside.

Yunho and San practically shoved you both into the room and quickly shut the door behind you. You heard the click of the lock, and the realization set in.

“Are you guys serious?” you shouted, pounding on the door. “This is so immature!”

“Yeah, open the door! We don’t need this!” Wooyoung added, equally furious.

From the other side of the door, Yunho’s voice came through, sounding uncharacteristically stern. “You two need to sort this out. We’re not letting you out until you do.”

“You can’t be serious,” you groaned, leaning against the door in frustration.

“Oh, we’re very serious,” San replied, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You’re both our friends, and we’re tired of the constant fighting. So figure it out.”

Inside the room, you turned to face Wooyoung, who was glaring at you with just as much annoyance as you felt. You crossed your arms, refusing to be the first to speak.

“This is ridiculous,” Wooyoung muttered, pacing back and forth. “Like locking us in here is going to make us get along.”

“Well, maybe if you weren’t such a jerk all the time, we wouldn’t be in this situation,” you retorted, not missing a beat.

Wooyoung stopped pacing and turned to face you, his eyes flashing with irritation. “Me? A jerk? You’re the one who’s always acting like you’re better than everyone else!”

“Oh, please,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes. “I only act like that because you always have to be the center of attention!”

Outside, you could hear your friends laughing and chatting, clearly unconcerned about the drama unfolding inside the room.

“Can’t believe they did this,” you muttered under your breath.

“Same,” he replied, sitting down on his bed with a huff. “This is all your fault.”

“My fault? How is this my fault?” you demanded, sitting down on the floor opposite him.

“You’re the one who always has to argue with me,” he said, gripping his hair in frustration. “You just can’t let anything go.”

“Because you’re always wrong!” you shot back, the argument feeling strangely familiar, yet different with no audience to play to.

You exchanged a heated glance with Wooyoung, who looked ready to explode. “This is all your fault,” he said, his voice low and accusing.

“My fault? You’ve got to be kidding me,” you shot back, crossing your arms. “If you weren’t such a pain in the ass, we wouldn’t be here.”

“Oh, please,” Wooyoung sneered, getting up from the bed and stepping closer. “You’re the one who’s always picking fights.”

“Because you’re always so damn infuriating!” you retorted, matching his step forward until you were face to face.

The tension between you was palpable, and for a moment, it felt like something would snap. Instead, you both turned away with a huff, deciding that silence might be the best strategy. Maybe if you stopped engaging, your friends would see how pointless this was and let you out.

The silence stretched on, heavy and uncomfortable. You sat on the floor, leaning against the bed, while Wooyoung sat on the edge of it, staring at the wall. The minutes ticked by slowly, each second filled with unspoken words and unresolved tension. You could feel his presence, every movement and breath, making it impossible to fully relax.

After what felt like an eternity, the silence became too much to bear. You shifted, the slight noise breaking the uneasy peace. Wooyoung glanced at you, his expression unreadable.

“What?” you snapped, unable to hold back.

“Nothing,” he muttered, looking away again.

The frustration boiled over. “You always do this,” you said, your voice rising. “Acting like you’re so much better than everyone else.”

Wooyoung’s head whipped around, his eyes flashing with anger. “Better than everyone else? You’re the one who’s always acting like you have something to prove!”

“I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t constantly try to undermine me!” you shouted, standing up.

“You’re unbelievable,” he said, standing up to face you. “You think you’re the only one who’s frustrated? You make everything so damn difficult!”

“Me? You’re the one who—”

The argument escalated quickly, voices rising, insults flying. The room seemed to shrink around you as the anger and frustration spilled over. You were both shouting now, words tumbling out without thought.

“You’re so arrogant!” you yelled, stepping closer to him.

“And you’re so damn stubborn!” Wooyoung shot back, closing the distance between you even more.

The space between you was electric, charged with anger and something else you couldn’t quite identify. The fight became more heated, the words more cutting.

“You think you’re so smart, don’t you?” you said, your voice shaking with anger. “But you’re just a coward, hiding behind that smug attitude!”

Wooyoung’s eyes blazed with fury. “You don’t know anything about me!”

“Maybe because you never let anyone in!” you screamed, pushing him back. He stumbled slightly, then came back, his face inches from yours.

“Maybe because you never tried to understand!” he shouted, his breath hot on your face.

You felt a surge of anger and recklessness take over. “Why would I want to understand someone as pathetic as you?” you shot back, your words sharp and cutting.

Wooyoung’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Shut up,” he said, his voice low and filled with warning.

You met his gaze with a challenging look, the anger and adrenaline making you bold. “Make me,” you replied, your voice steady despite the wild beating of your heart.

For a moment, everything seemed to freeze. Then, before you could react, Wooyoung grabbed your shoulders and pulled you toward him, crashing his lips against yours in a rough, almost desperate kiss. The suddenness of it stole your breath, and for a split second, you were too stunned to respond.

But then you felt a surge of heat, a mix of anger and something much deeper. You kissed him back just as fiercely, your hands moving to tangle in his hair as you tried to pull him even closer. It was a battle, not a kiss—each of you trying to dominate, to claim the upper hand.

Wooyoung’s hands tightened on your shoulders, his grip almost bruising as he pushed you back against the wall. You gasped, but it only made the kiss more intense. Your hands slipped from his hair to his back, clutching at his shirt as if it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

The kiss was messy, all teeth and tongues and raw need. You could feel the anger in it, the frustration and the years of unspoken tension. But there was something else, too—a desperate desire, a need to finally break through the barriers you’d both put up.

You fought back, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling hard enough to make him grunt. He responded by pressing you harder against the wall, his grip on your shoulders almost bruising. His lips moved against yours with a fierce intensity, his teeth nipping at your lower lip, demanding submission.

“Is that all you’ve got?” you taunted, your voice breathless but defiant.

Wooyoung growled, one hand moving to grip your jaw, tilting your head back forcefully. “You really don’t know when to shut up, do you?” he muttered against your lips before biting down harshly on your lower lip, drawing a gasp from you, almost drawing blood.

You retaliated by digging your nails into his back through his shirt, trying to assert some control. But Wooyoung was relentless. He grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head with one hand, his body pressing against yours, leaving you no room to move.

“Pathetic,” he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. “You’re always so desperate to prove yourself.”

“Better than being a smug asshole,” you shot back, twisting in his grip but finding no escape.

Wooyoung’s laugh was dark and mocking. “You like this, don’t you? Being put in your place.” His free hand trailed down your side, gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks.

“Shut up,” you spat, trying to ignore the heat pooling in your stomach.

“Make me,” he countered, echoing your earlier challenge. His lips found yours again, even rougher this time, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth, dominating every movement.

You bit down on his tongue, earning a growl from him as he pulled back slightly, only to return with even more force. His kiss was punishing, each movement designed to remind you who was in control. You couldn’t help but respond, your body betraying you as you arched against him.

“You’re such a brat,” he hissed, his lips moving down to your neck, biting and sucking hard enough to leave marks. “Always trying to fight me, but you’re just as desperate for this as I am.”

‘’Fuck you,” you repeated, though the words lacked conviction as a moan escaped your lips.

“Admit it,” he demanded, his hand slipping under your shirt, fingers digging into your skin. “Admit that you want this.”

“Never,” you gasped, tugging against his hold on your wrists.

He yanked your hands down, pinning them behind your back with one hand while his other hand slipped under your shirt, trailing down your stomach with rough, possessive movements.

“Let go of me,” you demanded, but your voice wavered, betraying your conflicting emotions.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” he said, a cruel smile playing on his lips. “Not until you learn to keep that mouth of yours shut.” His fingers found the waistband of your pants, slipping inside with a determined, almost punishing force.

You gasped as his fingers brushed against your core, the sensation both shocking and electrifying. “You’re such an ass,” you hissed, trying to ignore the heat pooling in your stomach.

“Such a dirty little mouth,” he taunted, his fingers moving with a rough precision that made it impossible to think clearly. He found your clit quickly, starting to circle it roughly. “Maybe I should teach you a lesson.’’

Before you could respond, his fingers pushed inside you, the intrusion rough and unyielding. You bit back a moan, refusing to give him the satisfaction, but it was impossible to ignore the intensity of his touch.

“You like that, don’t you?” he whispered in your ear, his breath hot and taunting. “You act all tough, but deep down, you’re just a needy little slut.”

“Shut up,” you managed to gasp, your body betraying you as you arched against his hand.

His fingers moved faster, rougher, each movement designed to break down your resistance. “Fuck. You’re so wet for me. Just admit it.”

You clenched your jaw, refusing to give in. “I hate you,” you spat, though the words lacked conviction.

“Oh, I know you do,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “But your body says otherwise.” He added another finger, stretching you, making you gasp. “Look at you, so desperate and needy. It’s pathetic.”

You wanted to retort, to throw another insult his way, but the sensation was overwhelming. His fingers moved with a brutal efficiency, hitting just the right spots to make you squirm. The anger and hatred mixed with the undeniable physical attraction, creating a storm of conflicting emotions.

“Say it,” he demanded, his voice rough and commanding. “Admit that you want this.”

“Never,” you gasped, though the word came out more like a moan.

Wooyoung’s eyes narrowed, and he thrust his fingers harder, making you cry out despite yourself. “Say it,” he repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“I… I want it,” you finally admitted, the words torn from you unwillingly.

“Good girl,” he murmured, a mocking smile on his lips. “Was that so hard?” He continued his rough ministrations, his fingers moving in a relentless rhythm that left you trembling.

The words were degrading, but they pushed you over the edge. Your body convulsed around his fingers, pleasure crashing through you in waves. You cried out, unable to hold back, your hands gripping his arms for support.

Wooyoung watched you with a satisfied smirk, his fingers continuing to move inside you, drawing out every last bit of your orgasm. "That's it, sweetheart,’’ he murmured, his voice softening just a fraction.

You tried to catch your breath to regain some semblance of control, but Wooyoung was already kneeling in front of you, his hands roughly pushing your pants and underwear down to your ankles.

“Wh-what are you doing?” you stammered, though your body betrayed you with a shiver of anticipation.

“You think I’m done with you?” he growled, his hands gripping your thighs hard enough to leave marks. “I’m going to show you what happens when you push me too far.”

Before you could respond, he leaned in, his tongue flicking against your clit with a precision that made your knees buckle. You gasped, one hand flying to his hair, the other bracing against the wall for support.

“Wooyoung, stop—” you started, but your words dissolved into a moan as he sucked hard on your clit, his tongue working you over with relentless, rough strokes.

“You’re going to scream for me,” he muttered against you, his voice vibrating through your core. “Let your friends hear how much you need this.”

“Fuck—no,” you managed to gasp, though your voice wavered.

Wooyoung laughed, the sound dark and cruel. “We’ll see about that.” He intensified his movements, his tongue moving in ruthless circles while his fingers dug into your thighs, holding you in place.

You bit your lip, trying to stifle the sounds threatening to escape, but it was no use. The combination of his rough touch and skilled tongue was too much. Your hips bucked against his mouth, and a cry slipped out before you could stop it.

“Louder,” he demanded, pulling back just enough to speak, his breath hot against your sensitive skin. “I want them to hear how much you love this.”

“Fuck you,” you spat, but the defiance was slipping away with every flick of his tongue.

He chuckled, the sound sending shivers down your spine. “Maybe later,” he said, diving back in with renewed intensity. His tongue moved faster, harder, and you could feel the pressure building again, even more overwhelming than before.

Your resolve crumbled, and you let out a loud moan, unable to hold back. Wooyoung smirked against you, his satisfaction evident as he continued to push you closer to the edge.

“That’s it,” he murmured between strokes. “Scream for me like the needy little slut you are.”

You tried to resist, to stay bratty and defiant, but it was impossible. The pleasure was too intense, his dominance too overwhelming. With a final, desperate cry, you came, your body trembling as the orgasm crashed over you.

He didn’t let up, his tongue working you through the aftershocks, drawing out every last bit of pleasure until you were a shaking, gasping mess. Only then did he pull back, his lips glistening with your arousal, a satisfied smirk on his face.

He stood up from his knees, his eyes dark with a mix of triumph and raw lust. You barely had time to catch your breath before he was on you again, his hands rough as they grabbed your wrists and pulled you toward the desk beside you.

“You think we’re done?” he growled, his voice filled with cruel amusement. “Not even close.”

You tried to muster some defiance, but the intensity of the situation left you breathless. “You’re such an asshole,” you managed to say, though your voice was shaky.

“And you’re about to learn just how much of an asshole I can be,” he replied, pushing you forward so that your upper body was bent over the desk. His hands were on your hips.

Wooyoung didn’t waste any time. You heard the rustle of his clothes as he freed himself, and then you felt the blunt pressure of his cock against your entrance. He didn’t bother with gentleness; he thrust into you in one brutal motion, making you cry out.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his grip on your hips bruising as he started to move, setting a punishing pace. “Bet you love being fucked like this, don’t you?”

You tried to hold onto some semblance of control, to maintain your defiance. “Go to hell,” you spat, though the words were weak, almost drowned out by the sounds of his relentless thrusts.

Wooyoung laughed, a dark, mocking sound. “Already there, sweetheart,” he replied, his hips snapping against yours with a brutal rhythm. “And you’re fucking coming with me.”

Each thrust was rough and demanding, pushing you closer to the edge with a ruthless efficiency. You could feel the desk digging into your skin, but the pleasure was overwhelming, making it hard to focus on anything else.

“Such a dirty little slut,” he murmured, leaning over you so that his breath was hot against your ear. “Can’t even form a proper sentence, can you?”

You tried to respond, but all that came out was a broken moan. Wooyoung’s pace quickened, his thrusts growing even more forceful, and you felt the pressure building again, a coil tightening inside you. Wooyoung felt your tight walls pulsing around his cock. 

“You’re going to come for me again, aren’t you?” he taunted, his voice low and rough. “Say it.”

“I—” you gasped, trying to fight the pleasure, but it was useless. “I’m going to—”

“That’s right,” he cut you off, his tone filled with dark satisfaction. “Come for me, you filthy brat.”

The words pushed you over the edge, and you came with a loud cry, your body trembling as the orgasm ripped through you. Wooyoung didn’t let up, his thrusts relentless as he chased his own release.

“Look at you,” he said, his voice filled with contempt and desire. “So desperate and needy. Pathetic.”

He pulled out suddenly, leaving you empty and aching. Before you could process the loss, he was moving you again, his hands rough as he pushed you toward the bed. You stumbled, falling onto the mattress, and he was on you in an instant, flipping you onto your back.

“Think you can handle more?” he asked, his eyes dark and challenging.

You nodded, too breathless to speak, your body already craving the next wave of pleasure.

“Good,” he said, positioning himself between your legs. 

He entered you again, the angle different but no less brutal. Your hands clutched at the sheets, trying to anchor yourself as he pounded into you, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge once more. He took your thigh and pressed it against your chest, thrusting deeper. 

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groaned, his grip on your thigh hard enough to leave marks. “Such a perfect little slut for me.”

The pleasure was overwhelming, turning your mind into a hazy blur. You could barely form coherent thoughts, let alone words, as he fucked you with a relentless intensity, pouring all the rage from earlier into it. 

“Can’t even talk, can you?” he mocked, his voice filled with cruel amusement. “Too dumb from getting fucked by my cock.”

You tried to respond, but all that came out was a series of incoherent moans. Wooyoung’s thrusts grew even more forceful, and you felt the pressure building again, another orgasm threatening to crash over you.

“You’re going to come again,” he said, his tone commanding. “And you’re going to scream my name when you do.”

You shook your head, trying to hold onto some shred of defiance, but it was useless. The pleasure was too much, too overwhelming. With a final, brutal thrust, you came, your body arching off the bed as the orgasm tore through you, as you screamed his name. 

“Good girl,” he murmured, his voice rough with satisfaction. He continued to move, his pace never faltering, pushing you through the aftershocks and into another wave of pleasure.

By the time he finally came, his release hot and overwhelming inside you, you were a trembling, incoherent mess. He pulled out slowly, leaving you breathless and spent on the bed.

“See?” he said, his voice filled with mocking satisfaction. “All you needed was to be put in your place.”

You glared at him weakly, the fire of your anger not completely extinguished despite the overwhelming pleasure. “I still hate you,” you managed to say, though your voice was weak, more breathless.

“And I still hate you too,” he replied, his expression hard. “But at least now you know what happens when you push me too far.”

The room was filled with the tension of your unresolved hatred, the physical release doing nothing to ease the animosity between you. As you lay there, trying to catch your breath and regain some sense of composure, one thing was clear: the war between you and Wooyoung was far from over, but for now, you had been thoroughly defeated.

————————

Outside Wooyoung’s room, Yunho, San, Mingi, and Yeosang were still gathered, exchanging knowing glances and quiet laughter as they waited for the inevitable explosion of another argument. However, when the first loud moan echoed through the door, their expressions changed from amusement to shock.

“Did you just hear that?” San asked, eyes wide, looking at the others for confirmation.

“Yeah, I definitely heard something,” Yunho replied, raising an eyebrow. “That didn’t sound like an argument.”

Mingi covered his mouth, trying to stifle a laugh. “I think they’re… uh… working things out in a different way.”

Yeosang’s eyes widened as another, louder moan filtered through the door, followed by a string of incoherent words. “Oh my god, they’re really going at it,” he said, looking both amused and slightly horrified.

Yunho shook his head, a grin spreading across his face. “Well, this is unexpected.”

San smirked, nudging Yunho. “Guess our plan worked a little too well.”

Mingi couldn’t contain his laughter anymore. “Should we just… leave them to it?”

Yeosang nodded vigorously. “Yeah, I don’t think they need an audience for this.”

Yunho stood up, clapping his hands together. “Alright, everyone. Let’s give them some privacy. I think they’ve got enough to handle without us hanging around.”

San stretched, yawning dramatically. “Yeah, I could use a break from all the drama anyway.”

As they gathered their things, another particularly loud moan resonated through the door, making them all wince and then burst into laughter.

“Okay, that’s our cue to leave,” Mingi said, heading towards the front door.

“Maybe we should go get some ice cream or something,” Yeosang suggested. “Give them plenty of time to… sort things out.”

Yunho nodded, opening the door. “Good idea. I think we all need a break from this craziness.”

As they left the house, the moans and muffled sounds of pleasure faded into the background, replaced by the summer evening's quiet hum.

“You know, I always thought they’d kill each other before anything like this happened,” San said, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Guess there’s a fine line between love and hate,” Yunho chuckled.

“Or in their case, a very loud, very thin line,” Mingi added, laughing.

As they headed down the street, leaving Wooyoung and you to your privacy, the group couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation. It seemed that locking you two up together had definitely brought some unexpected results.

[sevenyearstrawberries]

how it started ☠ vs how it’s going 🥰

[gravenmyth]

Ma Meilleure Ennemie 🗡️ 🩸

[cuddlebugmonster]

I like the idea that Leo and usagi didn't like each other in the beginning. They act so similarly, even with their bad traits, which can be an uncanny feeling.

Usagi rarely gets mad, but when he does it's really intense to the point his whole body shakes, he tends to avoid conflict unless it's battle related.

[hitoshi-yuuto]

Marine Ace!AU

Ace : *Watching Marco being a pirates*

Ace disgusted : Ugh. I can’t believe I’m gonna fuck him.

Deuce : … You don’t have too?

Ace : No, I’m gonna.

[wordsofelie]

🎮Walls

Kenma x gn!reader

Summary: Life is falling into place for you: a spacious apartment, a good job, a healthy routine. That is, until you meet your neighbour—and the man is an asshole.

Content warning: time skip setting, manga spoilers, angst with a happy ending, alcohol consumption, mention of vomit, avoided sexual assault, swearing

Words count: 7.9k

Life feels like it’s falling into place. You have a new apartment in central Tokyo, in a building you used to admire when you were younger—one that made your neck ache from staring up at it. You’ve also started your own company, opening an architect's office that has been rewarding and you’ve made yourself a name in the field.

“What about your love life?” Your grandma asks.

And there it is—perhaps the one area of your life you’ve been neglecting. Well, that and your social life in general. Your work takes all your time. On the weekends you’d rather work or go to the gym or meal prep. Anyway.

“I don’t have time.” You answer casually. You always answer that.

Despite hearing this response hundreds of times, your grandmother still doesn’t seem satisfied. She hands you a box of miso soup and a bag filled with fruits and vegetables.

You chuckle, “thank you obaa-chan.”

“Are you sure you don’t need ojii-san to help you move?”

She points to your grandfather, asleep on the couch. That one couch that looks older than you and that you’ve seen your whole life. You often complain about the several holes and stains on it, but deep down, you know you would cry if they ever decided to get rid of it.

You put on a polite smile, “I think he needs to rest.”

The bag of food is well settled in your bike's front tray and when you start riding, you take a last glance at your grandmother waving from her window. You smile.

It’s only an hour by train, one and a half by bike, from your grandparents’ to your new apartment. Now that you have enough money and don’t have to live in a cramped studio that oddly looks like a garbage room, and with the university loans finally paid off, you chose to stay nearby—to be close to the family who raised you.

Your parents moved abroad when you were in junior high and they gave you a choice, which was probably the only time in your life that they listened to your opinion. And you wanted to stay in Japan, stay close to the two people you loved the most in the world. Your obaa-san and ojii-san, in their eternal kindness, sold their house in the countryside and moved to Tokyo so you didn’t have to change schools. You never told them, you guess because you were too grateful for what they did, but you wished you had left this obnoxious city, you wished you had grown up in their old wooden house instead of that tiny two-room apartment they brought—probably worth a lifetime of their work.

And the funny thing is, no matter how much you dislike the city, you stayed—for university, and now for work. The gods have a strange sense of humour.

You reach your apartment faster than expected. Outside, a few cardboard boxes are waiting for you alongside a team of sturdy men to help you lift them. You want to believe you could handle everything yourself, but after the first three trips between the sixth floor and the moving truck, you are overwhelmed with humility.

And remember, now you have the money to pay for this type of service.

You’ve struggled enough when you were younger—isn’t it finally your time to enjoy life?

The movers are surprised when you hand them generous tips with both hands. They bow a few times in gratitude. You want to tell them that you know what it’s like to have physical and tiring jobs like theirs, your grandfather has been there too—carpenter, brick mason, plumber, gardener, selling fish on markets from early morning.

Once they’re gone, you start to unpack everything. You keep a notebook with you to note down what you need to buy—extra sheets, dishwashing detergent, another glass of wine (if you ever invite someone over, the idea makes you cringe a little because gods know when that will happen, you don’t cross out the word anyway).

The first evening in your new place is… special. It’s quiet, spacious, clean in your living room, everything that you’ve ever dreamed of. You decide to open a bottle of beer and turn on your computer.

You still can’t believe you have a proper room where you can work, an office at home. It’s beyond what you imagined when you graduated from university.

It’s 8 p.m on a Sunday but you think that preparing for the week ahead won’t kill anyone. So, you sit down at your desk and check your emails.

The calm only lasts half an hour.

The first scream rings out, startling you so much that you almost choke on your drink. It takes a few seconds for your heart to return to a normal rhythm.

It is unusual. Absolutely, not like the screams in films. It doesn't sound like a woman’s scream, nor like someone needs help. Still, you ponder whether you should take a look outside or not.

 You’re about to finish writing an email when you hear the second scream, followed by thud of a fist hitting a table. This time you’re convinced of two things: first that it comes from the neighbour next door and second, that neighbour is raging over something.

A million scenarios play out in your mind. The worst-case scenario is that someone is being hurt—perhaps a child or a partner. If that’s the case, you can’t stand by and do nothing.

Barely a minute passes before you find yourself standing outside the neighbour’s door.

You don’t know where the courage to stand here comes from because when it’s time to knock on the door, all this courage disappears. What if they are drunk? What if they beat you up in return? What is your company going to become if you go to the hospital? What if you never see your grandparents again?

“D’ya need something?”

A low voice coming from behind you asks and when you turn around, you’re faced with a tall man with dark hair.

“I-”

He smirks as he crossed his arms over his chest and waits for your answer.

“Are you a fan?” He finally questions when the silence stretches for too long.

You blink, confused. “I heard screams,” is all you manage to say.

The man's reaction is anything but predictable.

He bursts into laughter—a loud and weird laugh, that you decide not to comment on.

“Ah, Kenma is probably playing LoL again. I told him to quit. It’s bad for his heart.”

Every word is said too fast, too casually. “Kenma? LoL?”

“You’re the new neighbour?” The stranger ignores your questions. Maybe you’ve whispered them.

“I am.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll tell him to keep it down,” he says, already turning toward the door.

“Thanks… I guess.”

“I’m Kuroo Testurou by the way.” He calls over his shoulder as he steps inside the apartment. You simply say your name in return before he adds, “have a lovely evening.”

And just like that he's gone and you're left here, confused.

At least the screams have stopped, and you know the name of the person next door. It’s better than nothing and you won't end in a crime documentary about a murderous neighbour.

You go to bed early that night, hoping that this was the last time you would get interrupted working.

It turns out, you get interrupted every evening. The wall separating your office from the neighbour room is paper-thin. It makes you crazy.

Some nights it’s screams of anger, other it’s just uninterrupted chatting. You can ever hear the incessant clicks of keyboard keys.

You want to convince yourself that you can handle the situation, but when you start having dark circles under your eyes, when you pour orange juice instead of milk in your coffee, when you don’t turn to the right street to go to your grandparents house and arrive an hour later to their lunch, your obaa-san starts worrying about your heath (both physical and mental health).

“It’s been two weeks since you’ve moved,” she informs you as if you didn’t know when you started being woken up every hour of every night. “And you’ve been acting weird, my love.”

“My neighbour isn’t the quiet type.” It’s the first time you explain the situation to her. You don't want them to burden them with your problems, but fatigue brings out some honesty in you and the words leave your mouth before you can register them.

Logically, she advises you to go and talk to them. “Be kind and explain calmly that you work from home and need to rest because your job is very demanding,” she says. She can’t help but speak with pride when she mentions your work, and you want to smile. But you don’t because all you can do with your mouth is yawn.

“I’ll go if they don’t stop.” She thinks she looks terrifying with her pink apron and her pointed finger. You get up and kiss her cheek.

“I’ll do it, don’t worry.”

You’ve depended on them your whole life, you won’t bother them again.

It’s strangely silent that evening and with a heart full of naivety, you believe you will finally have a good night of sleep. But before that, you need to work on a very important project, one in collaboration with the city hall, probably the most important of your career so far and that you won against renowned architects’ companies. The first sketch is done, and you can start doing the 3D model now.

That is until you hear the neighbour talk and talk and talk.

Enough.

You don’t even check your reflection in the mirror or bother changing into a decent outfit. You simply grab a jacket, put your shoes, and this time, you dare to knock on the door.

You must have been very insistent or perhaps the knocks were loud enough to drown out whatever music or phone call he was listening to—because after three or four sharp taps, he finally emerges from his cave.

The man is nothing like you imagined. Long hair with remnants of blond colouring, yellow eyes narrowed as if annoyed. He is not small but not as tall as who you assumed was his friend. His attitude reminds you of one of those nerd boys you avoided in high school, though you would bet he is around your age.

“Huh?” Comes out of his throat.

Your hands clench into fists at your sides when he doesn’t even greet you.

“Good evening.” You try not to bark. You need to be the mature one here otherwise he won’t be receptive. You’ve learned that from dealing with arrogant old men in your job. “I am your new neighbour; I live next door. It’s a pleasure to meet you but I was wondering if you could talk a little bit less...loudly.” You remember the points your grandmother has given you and it’s all you can think about (apart from insults and words you might regret), “I am working from home so it can be hard to focus with your chatting.”

His face turns into furrowed brows and a wrinkled nose. You're pretty sure you hear a sigh escaping his nose. He avoids your gaze and when he meets your eyes again, the annoyed stare has disappeared, and he looks blank again. He's unreadable.

“Sorry. I will be careful from now on.”

His words sound as scripted as yours. A knot in your stomach forms and the palms of your hands start to sweat.

Why in the world does this asshole seem annoyed when you’re the one who hasn’t been able to sleep and work for freaking days?

“Is that all?” He dares to ask.

“I hope it will be.” You threaten with pursed lips and your chin lifts a little.

“Fine.” He mutters and closes the door behind you.

Great. Your neighbour is a shithead.

The gods are unfair sometimes. Life is falling into place for you but they seem to have one last obstacle for you: him. Kenma.

A storm of questions keeps you wake that night, the main one being: what is this guy doing with his life?

Doesn’t he have a job? What is he doing of his days since he doesn’t seem to be sleeping at nights? And how can he afford an apartment like yours when he looks like he just graduated from high school?

Maybe he was born rich—unlike you. Maybe his parents are paying for everything and he just spends the days doing nothing and doing LoL?

What’s a LoL, anyway?

You search the term online and discover it’s a stupid video game. That doesn’t surprise you. Kenma seems like exactly the type to waste time playing video games all day.

You don’t want to play it stupid, but you can’t stop thinking about how detached he looked when you complained (nicely and respectfully). A part of you wants to make him pay, just a little. Your grandma would probably disapprove, but that's fair play, isn't it?

And so, during the day you start putting on music. Musical music, it’s the only genre that helps you focus when you work. You make your phone calls while standing right next to the wall separating you from Kenma. You even move your coffee machine into your office. The closer, the better, right?

Your little revenge lasts a week. You don’t want to be cruel—not that it would matter much, since you assume he’s jobless.

At first, he doesn’t seem to react, but the second you turn off the music and return the coffee machine in the kitchen, the sound of gunfire and monstrous roars make your walls tremble.

You invest in earplugs.

You don’t see him much—which is a good thing. Occasionally, you pass by him in the corridors or the lift. Neither of you speaks. A lazy look from him and a quick movement of your head to avoid his gaze are the only interactions you have. He always wears his hair in a half-ponytail and oversized jumpers, from a brand you don't know and has them in every shade of colour. You almost look up “Bouncing Ball Co.” online but decide you don’t care. You don’t care about anything related to this man. Really, anything.

The other neighbours, however, seem to like him. They smile at him, greet him warmly as if he wasn’t a pain in the ass who plays stupid video games at full volume. You conclude they’ve never had to share a wall with his gaming room.

When you complain about it to your grandparents over tea and sweet potato cakes, your grandfather suggests moving back to their house. Your room, after all, hasn’t changed a bit, with your old drawings and posters still hanging on the walls.

“They should fix the problem, coming back here won’t change anything to the situation.” She says while pouring you another cup of green tea, the hot drink feels good and warms you up, if only a little. “I’ll go talk to that Kenma boy.”

Your grandfather only shrugs, he never wins an argument with her.

“Please don’t,” you beg. Your grandmother does that thing she does when she’s lying—she smiles and closes her eyes.

“Whatever you want, darling.”

You try to stop the chaos by yourself. By trying you mean that you leave notes at his front door (some rather fiery when you’re not in the best mood, others more docile when you have been praised for your work by your peers.)

But the letters pile up, eventually covering the straw mat outside his door. One evening, you hear a child on your floor asking their mother why there are so many envelopes by Kenma’s door. The mother replies, “Oh, those must be letters from fans.”

Fans. This word again. Coming from Kuroo you thought it was sarcasm; the guy looks like he often uses sarcasm even though you don’t really know him, but now it really starts to make you wonder: who really is this man?

When your initial plan doesn’t work, you resort to a more direct approach. Every time you hear noise from the other side of the wall, you pound on it with your fist.

If that rude bastard can’t read a polite note (you fucking said “please”!), he’ll surely understand this.

The only thing keeping you sane is that you’re going away for work for a full week. The train ticket, the hotel, the food, everything is paid by your client and when you finally leave Tokyo you feel a wave of relief. The knot in your stomach that you’ve been carrying for days disappears.

You call your grandma to inform her you’re in the train now.

“Have a safe trip and don’t overwork yourself. Your worth is greater than any project.”

You smile softly, “I know. don’t worry.”

She’s about to hang up, but you interrupt by saying, “And please don’t go to Kenma’s in my absence.”

“Kenma this, Kenma that. It’s always his name on your lips these days.”

You’re glad the train starts moving, you blame the surprise of the movement for the slight skip in your heart, “Bye bye, I’ll call you when I arrive.”

The business trip goes well. You manage to make your voice heard and your opinion valuable. You meet a lot of other architects, some congratulate you for your work, other only glower at you. They envy your position. You’re young, you’re not the child of a well-known person and you still success in everything you undertake.

You meet a man of a year or two your senpai; he’s very polite, smiles a lot and seems genuinely interested in your ideas.

The absolute opposite of your neighbour.

By coincidence, he lives in Tokyo too, and you end up on the same train back. The discussion is easy, mostly about architecture, and you enjoy conversing with someone who truly understands the nuances of your job.

He offers to drive you home since his car is parked near the train station and even if you refuse at first, you finally agree. It’s better than calling a taxi, right? You’re still confused at the fact that you’re the person who sits in a taxi rather than watching them from afar.

You don’t see it coming, the approaches, the undertones. He suggests stopping at a bar, but you decline, you tell him you’re tired, and the more he talks, the more it’s obvious he didn’t offer that ride out of sympathy.

Your throat feels tight, and you start cursing yourself for trusting a complete stranger just because he does the job as you. How stupid.

You finally catch a sight of your apartment complex and even though you liked the hotel room and the calm of it, you’re suddenly desperate for the four walls of your place—no matter how noisy they can be.

“You can stop here,” you tell, perhaps a bit too loudly. You try to make the shakings in your voice away. “Thank you.”

He does as you tell, you’re about to open the door when a cold hand lands on your thigh. A shiver runs through you, and your legs seem paralysed.

“Don’t you want to stay a little longer.”

You can't meet his eyes. “I appreciate the invitation,” you absolutely don’t. “But I really have to go home.”

“Your boyfriend is waiting or something?”

You open your mouth to lie, but the tension in your neck and throat is too strong. In a sudden move, you open the door and babble a “thank you.”

The engine stops and you know he is looming closer to you.

“Wait,” you want to go faster but he whirls you around by taking your arm. “C’mon, don’t be shy. You were all talk on the train, let’s continue the conversation somewhere else. Or maybe you want to invite me over?”

The snicker that tugs at the corner of his lips makes you want to vomit. Just like with your neighbour, you’re done being compliant and if being polite doesn’t work then you might use violence.

“Ah, you’re home.”

You both turn to the voice. The lazy and unbothered voice. Kenma’s voice.

“I brought to make curry, is it fine for you?” He lifts a plastic bag while saying this.

His eyes flick to the man for just a second—brief, almost out of time—but the intensity in his gaze is enough to make him pause, and then, instinctively, take a step back.

“Let’s go,” Kenma tells you simply and you follow him.

He walks behind you, from the moment you step into the lift to when you finally reach your front door. Somehow, you feel safe.

Apologise, thank him. Your mind orders. But your hands can’t stop shaking and your throat is still dry.

“If you need something…” he starts but stops, his gaze shifts awkwardly to the side, as if seeking the right words. “Just knock. On the door or the wall. You seem good at that anyway.”

You’re left speechless when he closes the door.

It takes you a whole minute to find your keys and get inside.

It’s cold. Silent. Dark.

It’s strange how you suddenly feel lonely.

You’ve always dreamed of living in a spacious place like this; but the white walls, the too-cleaned surfaces, the too-tidy shelves are oppressive.

“Ah, you’re home.” Kenma said.

But are you really?

These four walls and you; they’re not warm, not lively.

You curl up in your genkan, your shoes still on, the light still off and you start crying.

You haven’t in months, or maybe in years.

Did you even cry when your parents left? When you’ve been mocked for wearing soiled shoes in school? When your so-called friends called you boring?

You find the strength to shower and crawl into bed. Kenma lets you sleep that night. You close your eyes wondering if he is thinking about you for you are thinking about him.

Kenma is away for the next week, and you wonder what he is doing. You don’t complain about the peace his absence gives you, but you also want to say thank you.

Thank you for two things; of course, for helping you with the man but also for leaving a bento of curry at your doorstep.

I made too much–Kozume

It is written.

Now you know both his name and family name.

Somehow, the thought makes you smile.

The curry isn’t really good–it’s too salty and the potatoes are too hard. It’s nothing like your obaa-san’s food. Still, you think it deserves an apology for being an asshole with him, not matter how fair you thought it was.

The clean plastic box is waiting for him in your kitchen, wrapped in a pretty furoshiki and when you hear keys and footsteps coming from outside a few days later, you rush out.

“Kenma-san,” you call for him.

“Hello there,” Kuroo answers in its place.

You only notice the tall guy at his side when he speaks.

“Good morning Kuroo-san,” you bow.  

“Heh?” Kenma raises an eyebrow.

“What? You’re surprised because I’m friends with your annoying neighbour.”

“Annoying?” You mumble and a “oops” escapes the dark-haired man.

“His words, not mine.” Kuroo clarifies, pointing a thumb at Kenma, who only sighs in response.

You clear your throat and hand Kenma the box, “thank you for the food. It was...convenient.”

Before you can finish the acknowledgement, Kuroo starts laughing, “convenient. Kenma, man, for gods’ sake, stop cooking.”

Your neighbour takes the box from you and clicks his tongue.

You don’t linger on the goosebumps his fingers leave on your skin.

“My manager said I should eat healthy food.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve been telling you that for years, but you never listen to me. Anyway, we’re going out tonight, wanna come?”

You don’t realise he’s talking to you but the silence stretches for too long and his tilted head suggests he is waiting for an answer,

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“Kuro…” Kenma mumbles and his shoulders slump.

You can't tell if he’s embarrassed or annoyed. He’s so hard to read, it almost upset you.

“Kenma won’t be there,” Kuroo informs as if he isn't standing next to him. “It’s gonna be fun. Apparently, you work a lot, it could be good for you, you know. It’s not just me, by the way, some old friends will come.”

“Okay.”

Kenma widens his eyes and Kuroo smirks. Both seem surprised, though you’re probably the most surprised here.

“Okay.” You repeat, maybe to convince them—or yourself.

“Great, I’ll see you at seven then.”

He grabs Kenma by the shoulder and leads him inside.

Your eyes meet yellow eyes one last time, and your heart skips a beat—or a thousand. Either way, it feels good.

It’s hard to focus on work that day. You keep thinking about what you’re gonna wear, what you’re gonna talk about. What if you make a fool of yourself? What if you’re boring?

Your forehead hits your desk, and a long sigh escapes your lips.

You get ready when it’s time, going for something comfortable and simple, and when seven rings, you find Kuroo standing in front of your door.

“There you are, shall we go?” He offers and though your eyes scan around you, you find no trace of Kenma.

Kuroo said it; your neighbour won’t come.

You knew that, and in lieu of relief, you’re disappointed. You ignore the reason behind it—it doesn’t make sense, but you feel it anyway.

“Sure, let’s go.” You say with a last glance at Kenma’s door, hoping it will open. When it doesn’t, you decide to follow Kuroo.

Kuroo’s friends are fun to be with. There’s Yamamoto, a bit too loud for your taste but nice, then there’s Kai, who’s interesting and makes you comfortable and finally Fukunaga, who is quiet and—something else. The four of them went to the same high school, one from the opposite district where you grew up. They tell you there are usually more of them but one of them is in Russia, another is doing a campaign abroad. Kuroo mentions the other ones, but you don’t remember all the names.

“We’ve got some pretty famous guys in the team,” Kuroo says with pride.

“Kenma the richest though,” Yamamoto complains, and you raise an eyebrow. So, he does come from a wealthy family, you conclude.

Two more join the group, Bokuto and Akaashi, and you can’t help but relate a bit to the latter, with his serious attitude and reserved nature, especially when Kuroo jokes that you’re both workaholics. You don’t deny the assumption.

The evening goes pretty well, faster than expected. You’re not too awkward and find yourself laughing at Fukunaga’s lines to Yamamoto and discuss literature with Akaashi.

You drink a little too much compared to what you’re used to and it’s almost 2 a.m when Kuroo offers to drive you home. The room is blurring, and you can’t refuse.

You sleep the whole way home, vaguely aware of the man helping you into the lift, and only realise you're almost in your flat when you catch the sound of Kenma's voice.

“I’ll take care of them,” you hear him say.

The next second you're pressed against him. His skin his colder than Kuroo’s but his scent is a mix between hazelnut and white musk. Your nose is drawn to his neck.

You don’t know how he manages to take your keys and remove your shoes, but when you open your eyes again, you’re on the couch and he is standing in your kitchen, pouring water into a glass.

“You’re being nice… again…” The last part is above a whisper.

He takes his time to answer, he always does that. “I’m not a brute.”

“I thought you were.”

“Sorry.” He apologises and despite the alcohol making your mind dizzy, your eyes widen and you sit up straight.

“I should be the one apologising.” You reply.

“Don’t be so loud.” He groans and hands you the glass.

“Oh, wanna talk about loud? Weren’t you the loud one when you played shooting games and LoL?”

“I don’t play LoL anymore,” he avoids your gaze.

“I couldn’t sleep for weeks. I tried asking nicely, but you wouldn’t listen or even look at me.” You let out an annoyed grunt, “just like now. You’re not looking at me right now.”

Your body moves on instinct, and inch forward, your nose almost touches his. His ears turn red, but you don’t flinch back. “Do I disgust you or something?”

When he finally turns, when his breath brushes your face, and the pupil of his yellow eyes dilate, you feel every single one of your muscles stiffen. You break the eye contact when your cheeks are burning up.

“You don’t disgust me,” he says but you've already forgotten the initial question.

“Thanks for helping me last time.”

He says nothing back and gets up.

“Drink water and go to bed.”

What happens next must have been a nightmare (you wish it was). But he’s one foot outside your apartment when your stomach twists violently, and you barely make it to the sink before letting your guts out.

It’s the first thing you remember when you get up the next day, Kenma helping you walk to the bathroom, helping you brush your teeth, putting you to bed.

You vomited. In front of your asshole neighbour. He helped you, cooked you food, showed you his kind side, and you vomited.

You’re nothing but shameful.

You want to hide in your bed and never get out of it. Maybe you should move out, sell your apartment and go abroad.

That would make your grandparents sad, though.

You sigh loudly, your head hurts but you still go to your kitchen to make yourself a coffee.

Being in this place reminds you of the night before and if you don’t want to drive yourself crazy pacing the floor, you decide to take your bike to go to your safe place.

Obaa-san notices it right away; the dark circles under your eyes, your bad mood, your incessant fawning—everything gives away your lack of sleep.

“Is your neighbour annoying again?”

Your heart races faster at the mention of Kenma, “what? No, no. It’s over, we found a… solution.” You lie through your teeth.

“What’s wrong? You’re not even eating your food.” She wants to serve you more soup, but you stop her.

You sigh, again, but tell her everything. When you’re done with the story, you see her brows furrow deeper and deeper.

“We didn’t raise you to vomit on people’s feet.”

Your stomach twists, “please don’t talk about vom—I’m embarrassed enough.”

“As you should be. Isao, let’s go.”

She calls for your grandfather and starts packing a bag of fruits.

“What are you doing?”

“We are going to apologise.”

You curse yourself and every single decision that led you to this exact situation. You’d rather quit your job than face Kenma and be forced to write excuses in front of your family.

It’s cruel, cruel, cruel.

You follow them anyway.

“Huh?”

“Kenma-kun,” your grandmother says. “We are sorry to interrupt but we came as soon as we found out what they did to you.”

You look down at the floor, not caring if you seem like a child instead of a twenty-something-year-old. You just want this to be over—soon, soon. But then, Kenma chuckles, and your head lifts.

“It’s fine,” he says. His laugh is soft, so nice to your ears. You’ve never heard him laugh before, but now, you don’t want to hear anything else.

“Please enter,” he offers the three of you, and you finally step inside his apartment.

The curtains are closed but lights cover the walls. Purple, red, blue. The couch is huge, and the kitchen looks too clean to be used. It makes sense when you see boxes of takeout and instant ramen on the counter. At the back, you see the door to his gaming room—the one next to your office—open. You can’t count how many screens there are, and cables are scattered across the floor.

Why does it feel so warm inside? Why do you feel safe here?  

“I brought fruits, it’s nothing, but please accept it.”

You end up staying there for about an hour, talking about everything and nothing at all. You learn he played volleyball back in high school, and that he is two years younger than you. Your grandmother is peeling fruits, your grandfather is drinking the lemonade Kenma offered and he explains that he owns a sports company.

“What a smart boy,” your grandmother exclaims.

You don’t really know what “sports company” means. It could be a million things, and it’s certainly more complex than that. He probably simplified it for your grandparents’ sake.

“Our grandchild is also very smart. They have an architecture office and are the youngest-ever architect to work with Tokyo City Hall. Do you know the new hospital they’re building in the suburbs? They designed the plans and-”

“Alright, it’s almost time for dinner.”

You get up suddenly.

The sun starts to get down, and you only take notice of the time by watching the hour on your phone.

The corner of Kenma’s lips lifts a little and you immediately turn to your grandfather for his smile is too sweet for your heart to handle.

“He is a kind man,” your grandmother whispers to you when they’re about to leave.

“I know, I know.” You groan.

She pinches Kenma’s cheeks, “call us if you need anything.”

You would’ve guessed he’d hate physical contact, but he doesn’t complain. His features are soft as she says goodbye.

“Good luck with them, they seem tough, but they can be very sweet!”

“Oi!” You shout but they close the door behind them, chuckling.

You don’t want to face Kenma, don’t want to show him the embarrassment on your face.

“So… dinner?”

“What?” you turn a little in his direction.

“You said it’s time for dinner. Do you want to order something?”

The question makes you happy even if it leaves you puzzled for a few seconds. It seems like Kenma Kozume is full of surprises. And maybe that’s what you need, so you shrug.

“Why not.”

When he takes his phone from his pocket and starts ordering food, you smile widely and bite your lips.

A dinner leads to another, and another, until it becomes a routine. You come to his place, usually on Mondays because it’s his only free night. He shows you some of his games, you never beat him, and he laughs when you blame it on the controller.

You’re impressed by his skills and think that maybe he should become a professional.

You pretend to be upset when you lose, but deep down, you just want to hear him laugh.

Sometimes you cook something together, though you’re the one in control of the quantity of salt and the temperature of the oven.

And he listens to you ramble or complain about your work.

When he’s out of town, which happens more often that you thought, you start to go out more. You decide that it’s time to put more colour in your apartment, so you buy cacti, and carpets and frames. You long to draw again, like you used to, so you bring back your old pencils and sketchbooks from your grandparents’ house. You missed the smell of that cheap paper and ceder. Sometimes, you have a drink with Kuroo after work (alcohol-free; you won’t repeat the same mistake twice) and a coffee with Akaashi on the weekends. It's often quiet with him; he reads a book and you draw him reading.

When Kenma comes home from his trips, you welcome him with drawings of beautiful places you saw while he was away and good homemade food.

“Better than what I ate at the hotel,” he says, and you can’t help but smile.

You don’t really know where this friendship is going, maybe it isn’t meant to go anywhere, but it’s comfortable and deeper than any relationship you've had in years.

You had no idea what you needed before, but since he showed up in your life, it all became clear.

You still know little about him; he remains a mystery to you, and you can never decipher what he's thinking. But you enjoy being with him—that is.

There are some glances exchanged that last a bit too long, hands brushing against each other, words left hanging in the air as if they’re too fragile to be spoken aloud. It’s not enough to call it something more, but it’s also too much to ignore. Sometimes, it keeps you awake at night.

It's Christmas and you hate this time of year. It's cold outside, crowded in the streets and on top of that, it's the time when your parents return to Japan. Apparently it's important for them to spend time with the family, which you find hilarious, given that they've never been here for any of your birthdays.

You complain and groan about it to your grandmother; she’s used to it. It’s the same song every Christmas. She always stays quiet, and when she does, you know she agrees with you.

It would have been more fun to be with Kenma, you can’t help but think when you’re sitting at the table, half-listening to your father talking about his new project in Singapore. Instead of being here, you could be eating KFC on Kenma’s couch, playing Mario Kart (you’re almost as good as him now) until the sun rises.

Your brother is watching YouTube on his phone (isn’t 12 years old a bit too young to have a phone? Why did you have to wait until you were sixteen and get a part-time job to buy one that lasted until uni?).

You don’t realise you’re glowering over him before your mother calls for him, “Kengo. Turn off that video, please, we’re eating.”

“But it’s Kodzuken’s last live of the year, and he’s breaking his record.”

You roll your eyes and get up to help your grandmother in the kitchen.

“Who’s that Kodzuken?” You hear your grandfather asks from afar.

“He’s the best YouTuber and streamer. You know he has over 10 million subscribers on YouTube, and he sponsors volleyball players too. He’s like the best.”

“Let me see that fabulous man,” Isao chuckles. “But that’s Kenma-kun.”

The plate you’re holding almost drops to the floor.

“Yes. His real name is Kenma Kozume.”

You feel the gaze of your grandmother on you, and she’s about to say something, but your voice chimes in, and you take the phone from your brother’s hands.

“What the fuck…” You curse.

“What’s wrong?” Someone asks; you don’t even know who. You’re too stunned to answer.

“I-I’ll go wash my hands.” You excuse yourself and go to the bathroom.

You sit on the edge of the bathtub and tap his name into the internet.

There are articles about him, a YouTube and Twitch channel, and your brother was right, with million and millions of views; he even has a Wikipedia page.

Why didn’t you know that? Why did you assume he was a rich kid too lazy to work.

You don’t know why but you’re feeling betrayed. It feels like you’ve been lied to—which technically isn’t the case, but it feels the same.

Everything makes sense now: the fans, Yamamoto’s comment about him being rich, the mention of his manager and above everything the sleepless nights spent on his games talking, chatting, screaming. He was just working.

You feel extremely stupid for not connecting the dots before, but you also wish he had told you. Not that it would have changed anything in your friendship, but at least you wouldn’t feel like you’ve spent the last few weeks sharing most of your time with a stranger.

The anger you experienced when your first met him is quick to come back, even if it’s not for the same reason now. It’s not because he is too loud, but because he is too quiet.

Maybe he doesn’t trust you. Maybe you don’t matter to him as much as he does to you. Maybe he’s not the stranger, but you are, and he just pitied you.

It’s a good thing your grandmother opens the door to come and get you, otherwise, you could have spent the whole evening making up scenarios and speculating on why Kenma never told you what he was really doing in his life.

You act like nothing happened when you sit back down at the table. Your brother has turned off his phone, and your grandfather keeps glancing at you. You stay silent until your parents leave.

"Don’t be mad at him,” your grandmother says when it’s time for you to head home.

You don’t promise you won’t be.

You do go home, but instead of your door, you stand in front of his. He’s probably still doing his live, but you knock on the door anyway.

When he opens, you can see the red in his eyes, probably from staring at the screen too long.

“What’s that?” You show him your phone.

“My… YouTube channel.”

He’s so unbothered, so unimpressed, it makes you want to cup his face with your hands and scream at him.

“I didn’t know.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“I didn’t know you were doing this. You said you had a sports company.”

“I have a sports company. Why are you so upset?”

Kenma never asks questions, he usually just answers them and then listens to you talking, asking more questions. It leaves you confused.

“I know nothing about you.”

You feel your eyes getting wet and your throat tightens. Why are you so emotional when it comes to him? You hate how weak it makes you.

“What do you want to know?”

Everything. Everything, is the answer.

Your favourite colour. Your favourite food. What makes you laugh (apart from seeing me lose at Mario Kart). What films do you like? When did you start being friends with Kuroo? What's your happiest memory? Your saddest one?

“What do you think about me?”

Among the infinite questions rushing through your mind, this is the one you chose. Perhaps it’s the one you’ve wanted to know the most, the one that’s been eating you alive for weeks.

“I-”  He begins but stops immediately.

“Of course,” you turn around. Two steps, is all it takes to reach your door, but Kenma stops you.

When you face him again, you feel your blood rushing through your whole body, warming you up.

He’s avoiding your gaze, but his hand clings to yours and his face his red, from his chin to his ears.

“You’re interesting and it’s nice to talk with you… Your food is good. You’re passionate about your work and it makes me want to be more invested in what I do. You’re funny when you’re upset and you’re a terrible, terrible player.”

His grip loosens a little, and he straightens up.

“I think you’re great, a good person. Someone I like spending time with, someone I think of when I go to bed, and someone I miss when I’m away. I didn’t tell you about my job. Maybe because I assumed everybody knew me, well, at least everyone who uses social media. Maybe also because… you’re way cooler than me, and what I’ve done with my life is nowhere near what you’ve accomplished.”

You’re shocked, to say the least. It’s the longest you’ve ever heard him talk—he who never uses extra words, who makes minimal effort in everything he does—just bared his soul to you. He must be exhausted at this point.

You gulp loudly, and the only thing your mind can picture is you kissing him. So you do. One step toward him, a hand against his cheek, and your lips on his.

You fear he might push you, run away, and slam the door in your face. But instead, he kisses you deeper and his hands find your hair and the back of your shoulders and your waist.

You don’t know how long it lasts—one minute, forever. Your brain doesn’t seem to work properly, only your heart responds, and it screams his name.

Kenma Kozume.

One of you breaks the contact only to rest your foreheads together.

It’s awkward, but it feels right.

Someone passes by, one of your neighbours, and you both step back.

They greet you with a wide smile, excusing themselves for interrupting.

You clear your throat, “I-I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Sure.” He says, not meeting your eyes.

That night when you go to bed, even though the sheets are cold against your skin, you think the walls feel warm.

“And so, if you want to marry someone, you just need to be annoying and insult them for being an asshole.” Kuroo explains matter-of-factly to Bokuto.

“I never said Kozume was an asshole.” You justify.

You hear Kozume sigh.

“Well… at least not directly to him. But I thought it really hard. Maybe I wrote it in the letters I left at his door-”

“Love… they got it I think.”

“Right, sorry…”

“Arrrrgh, I’m so jealous… I want to have a relationship like you guys.” Bokuto scratches the back of his neck and groans loudly.

“Bokuto-san, if you love someone just tell them.”

“But Akaaashi, I’m not a poet like you. I can’t just write love letters and stuff.”

“C’mon, bro,” Kuroo interrupts. “Isn’t it great to be single? You don’t have to worry about making the other mad or sad or-"

“Kuro says this because he doesn’t want to be the only single guy here.”

“Oi! Kenma, if I hadn’t helped you conquer their heart, you wouldn’t have been able to get someone like them.”

“You helped him?” You rest your chin in the palm of your hand and look at Kuroo.

“He never told you? The night when you were completely wasted, two years ago, I was the one who suggested he take care of you. And the day when-”

“Okay, time to go. Your grandparents are waiting for us.” Kenma gets up and you can see Kuroo smirk from the corner of your eyes.

You’re about to tell him to wait, you want to know more about his friend’s story. But Kenma takes your hand and leads you outside, not caring about Kuroo’s comments about him being a coward and Bokuto’s complaints about nobody caring about his love life problems.

Once you step outside, you call for him.

“Huh?” He speaks. He never says more than that.  

“I love you.”

He kisses the top of your nose and whispers, “I love you too.”

a/n: the story comes from a dream i had, i woke up and knew i had to write it haha. hope you enjoyed it

elie

[thefriendlyferretwriter]

Weasel

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Ravenclaw!F!Reader

Summary: A back and forth with the infamous Fred Weasley sends the two nemeses into a back-and-forth that lands them in detention, where both their frustration and anger send them into a deep argument full of insults, tension, and revelations.

Warning: LONG, 8k words, lots of scene cuts becuz a LOT happens, rivals to lovers (not really, Fred's obsessed with reader and is a little shit), boy pulls on the pigtails of the girl he claims he dislike type trope, was forced to give reader at least a last name, same for her best friend ( went with one of the most generic name Tiffany), Fred being a little shit, argument, tension, reader is unhinged

A/N: Fun fact about this fic it almost included a Pygmy Puff before I checked and discovered that they were created by the twins for their shop and since they are still students I had to go and swap it up with a baby puffskein. No idea how to describe that fic, there will definitely be multiple parts, enjoy!

There are no other places like Hogwarts.

The scenery, the castle's secrets, and the yearly competition between houses are something to behold.

But what might be icing on the cake is the library. The place where I can lose track of time all the while learning about the magical world.

The library has a hush rule but you can't help the coughs, the few ink pots falling to the ground, or even the giggles here and there but it doesn't bother me one bit, it even helps me focus as I enjoy yet one more day in the castle.

"Hi there Raven."

And there goes my enjoyment.

With a roll of my eye, I direct them toward the annoying voice belonging to none other than Fred Weasley who stands there with his satchel on his side leaning against one of the book-filled shelves.

"Weasel," I acknowledge him with a sigh looking back down at my page.

"Weasley," he corrects drily.

I brush him off as I finish my inked sentence and wait for it to dry before turning the page and asking him what he's doing here.

He leans on the table by his hip and crosses his arms inclining his head towards me, "What is it to you?"

"You being here is a bad omen so either you're here to sell your stupid stuff to the first years," I say glancing at his sachel for a second before looking back down at my work, "Or it involves annoying me and I'm having a good day to waste it dealing with you today."

I don't look at him and instead focus on my next sentence when I hear some shuffling and a piece of rolled-up parchment drops next to me that I recognize all too well.

"You must be kidding me," I groan snatching the parchment from the table.

"Unfortunately no. McGonagall benched me and said that if I wanted to stay on the quidditch team I needed a tutor."

His speech makes me groan as the lines reiterate his rant in a distinguished manner and is signed at the bottom by Professor Flitwick.

"McGonagall sent me to Flitwick who recommended you. Said you needed tutoring on your record."

I let go of the paper and join my hands together placing my thumbs on the base of my nose to try and diminish the incoming headache.

"Soo," he draws out attracting my gaze, "See you later, I'll be waiting for your owl."

I see him walking backward, all cocky as he dares to wink at me before turning around and descending the spiral stairs.

I audibly scoff and slam my notebook closed.

Yet another day ruined by that damn Weasel.

"He's a pest."

"You're exaggerating again," she laughs at me standing up from her seat.

"No, I'm not!" I say shoving the last book in my bag as class just ended, "He's obnoxious and annoying and a nuisance to my peace," I stand up and follow right after her.

It's been a few days since my unfortunate meeting with the least likable Weasley in the library and the meeting with Professor Flitwick and McGonagall this early morning couldn't have gotten any worse since no amount of pleading on my part could get them not to assign me with him. As a supplement I had the redhead walk in on me pleading which had him reveling at my misery digging me into a deeper foul mood.

"He's a funny guy that sometimes goes too far," she says pushing a chair that wasn't tucked under its assigned table.

"He's the bane of my existence," I say full of venom.

She laughs walking toward the classroom's exit," That's romantic."

"No, saying someone is the bane of your existence isn't romantic."

"I'm sure you could turn it into something romantic, like a poem or a book about forbidden love," she daydream walking through the door.

"You read too many romance books," I say stepping outside the classroom when I freeze and feel like I'm going underwater as my body is iced out for a moment.

It feels as if I've been hit with glacius but I'm able to use my voice and squeal in shock as the feeling subsides and I'm brought back from my shock by two giggles.

I see two first-year Gryffindors laughing nervously before they simultaneously decide to run away, one of them letting loose on her wand that was levitating the bucket letting it fall on the ground with a loud clash.

I'm left in the middle of the open hallway surrounded by classmates who just exited their class.

The wind hits me and I feel my body shiver before I look up at my friend whose mouth is covered by her hands in surprise.

I hear it.

The annoying infuriating sound of distant laughter, one I cannot mistake for another.

My eyes zero on him sitting on the transfiguration courtyard's tree clutching his stomach as he laughs balancing himself on the branch.

"You were saying?" I ask her rhetorically still dripping in the pink-colored jelly-like liquid.

She lowers her hands and approaches me slowly trying to wipe my face.

I feel the bubbling of rage making its way up my throat with my breathing taking up seeing him seated up there on the branch looking like a king sitting upon the throne of his buffoonery surrounded by his brainless friends, or rather, George's brainless friends and it makes me snap.

I push her hand away and stomp my way through the hallway onto the courtyard's grass toward him.

"Weasley!" I yell as I march to him.

"Oh, now she remembers my name," he laughs out loud for his twin and his friends to hear as the number of students stopping by increases.

He slides off the branch with ease and starts strutting to me with this damn cocky smile.

George stands up from his leaning stance on the tree, "Fred," he says.

I don't know if it's a warning or a scolding but his intent doesn't matter to me.

My hearing is replaced with the beats of my heart drumming in my ears as my face feels as hot as lava.

My steps get bigger and bigger and the closer his infuriating smirk approaches, the rage escapes me as my hand swings back and closes into a fist before landing in his face mid-step.

The audible hit is met with a groan and while I'm far too small to send him to the ground with a punch it does send him swaying back and hunching over.

In a second George jogs to his twin and hands him support grabbing his elbow as Fred's groan turns into another one of his annoying chuckles.

"You see how she hit me?!" he shouts looking delighted by the situation before he lays his gaze back on me with a bit of blood on his teeth.

His smirk falls and I believe for a moment that I finally did it, I finally managed to instate fear in this jackass before I realize his gaze moved from my frame to someone behind me.

The buzzing in my ears ceases and my hearing comes back to me as the grass crunches under one's weight indicating someone approaching.

A cold sweat travels through my body when I turn around and spot none other than Professor Hooch standing tall in front of us.

By instinct, I take a step back and bump into Fred before jumping aside as if he burnt me which isn't far off as my knuckles are calling out for help burning and tingling from the impact it had on his cheek.

She sends us both one of her infamous hawk looks that could petrify Dumbledor himself, "I presume that display of violence can be explained by your appearance?" her pointed look is directed at me.

I try to wipe the substance off my hair with an annoyed huff.

Her eyes travel to Fred whose head is pointed down grabbing his chin and messing with his mouth moving his jaw from side to side.

"That rewards the both of you with an hour's detention," that answer makes him groan and I point at him with outrage.

"But he-!" My disbelief doesn't reach her before she cuts me off.

"You're both dismissed. Mr.Weasley, I advise you to escort your brother to the infirmary to tend to his injury. As for you, I advise you to go clean yourself up before heading to the infirmary as well, perhaps at a time Mr.Weasley won't be there," she finishes her sentence looking at George who acknowledges her insinuation with a nod.

Still clutching his jaw, Fred is led away by his elbow by George as Hooch walks to stand in front of me, "While I understand your frustration I did expect better from you than violence."

My eyes widen and the breath I take in is cut off, "He-"

"This isn't about Mr.Weasley's childish behavior, he will receive his punishment either way. What disappoints me is that you could've avoided any punishment by reporting this to me or any other professor in the area but instead, you will ecope of an hour's detention as well."

She says shaking her head as she walks away leaving me standing here in the courtyard covered in the substance and an aching fist that doesn't even feel satisfying knowing it didn't teach the jerk anything.

"Why is it so windy today?! I thought it was supposed to be sunny!" I complain trying to be louder than the wind.

"No it's supposed to switch all day, look," my friend says motioning to the daily prophet in her hands bringing the paper closer to my face so I can see the weather section indeed announcing an insufferable change of weather all day.

"You can still spot the puddles from the rain earlier," Luna Lovegood points to the Quidditch pitch where the grass is still two shades darker and the random puddles of water stir with strength from the wind blowing.

My venting is interrupted by a loud collision that sends me twisting around back to the pitch to see Gryffindor and Ravenclaw teammates fighting over the quaffle like rabid dogs in what is supposed to be an amicable match as a form of training.

"Remind me again what's the point of an amicable match if there is no amicability?" I ask turning to face them just to miss the apparent goal from a Gryffindor through one of the Ravenclaw's lowest hoops.

I groan when I recognize the face of the person who managed to pass our defenses as he basks in the small victory.

"What is it raven?! Can't take in the sigh of greatness?!" he gloats seated comfortably on his broom with his red hair all tussled.

His pretentiousness blinds him and his arrogance leaves him to ignore the whistle suggesting the match continues and leaves a fellow Ravenclaw to score in a flash right behind him. The only indicator that anything happened at all is the small thunder of applause and shouts of approval coming from the small gathering of students who decided to kill time and participate in the amicable match to cheer each team on.

His head whips around and the sight of the opposite team scoring sends him tilting his head back with a groan that he tries to conceal but it doesn't escape anyone's notice.

The karma is enough but it is so rare to catch the weasel in one of his life life-learning moments that I don't hesitate before deciding that I need to add my little grain of salt to the wound.

I have it, I have the perfect response to give him right on the tip of my tongue and I wonder for a second if the smirk grazing my lips isn't a giveaway but my witty taunt is stopped when a broom enters my line of vision.

"See?! I told you your presence would do me good. Look at that, bullseye!"

I'm sure he means no harm, I know him to be humble but the poor lad either didn't see Weasley or simply decided to ignore his presence.

The fact that he is being ignored after being wrecked is sickly satisfying and my smirk manages to widen somehow.

It is clear he simply didn't see Fred as this one's scowl sends him silently flying away in an awkward, one-sided staredown that ends with him glancing at me with an uncomfortable wide-eyed stare, silently asking for help.

I stare at him flying further and further away and only look back when I notice George approaching his twin on his broom.

His frustration is clear and the eye roll along with his head thrown back pleases me a great deal.

The devilish idea is too good and it doesn't take a lot of self-convincing before I fall for temptation.

"What is it Weasel, too busy drowning in your own ego you can't pay attention?!" I shout so my sickly honeyed voice reaches him and George as I tuck my now pastel pink hair behind my ears.

'The concoction should last less than a week. This Flemont Potter was a genius!' nurse Pomfrey said.

The scowl adorning his face fills me with warmth and electricity buzzes through my veins knowing I have the last word for once.

"Nice hair," he tries himself at a desperate dig that does not work as Professor Hooch whistles for him to fly back to the match.

Turning his back to me, he flies back to the center of the field I can't help but laugh realizing that it's the first time he turns his back to me without walking away with the last word.

The whistle is blown and the speed at which each team goes at the other's throat could cause whiplash if one wasn't used to it.

I'm focused on a group of players when my peripheral vision drags my eyes to my friend throwing the quaffle with all his strength leaving another small group of three players to speed away.

Taking a moment to take in his throw he looks back down and waves at me with a smile, satisfied with his play.

I wave back with a grin of my own before he disappears out of my sight as a bludger hits him straight in the back of the head with a resounding thunk throwing him off his broom and crashing to the ground.

I hear a loud yell and realize it comes from me as my body instinctively reacts and bolts toward the pitch.

Professor Hooch is already by his side by the time I run to his limp self.

"Is he okay?!" I get caught off guard by my friend reaching him and kneeling at his side before I do.

I stand there looking down at him in shock as people start surrounding the area trying to take a look at the wounded on the ground when I notice the Gryffindor team lowering themselves on the ground including the culprit.

His quidditch robe swings with each one of his steps as he walks towards the commotion very slowly like in a trance.

"You too bring a stretcher," she says shooing away both a Gryffindor and a Ravenclaw player.

I hear George Weasley calling after his brother who has now reached Professor Hooch kneeling on the ground

"Is he okay?"

How dare he. His filthy meek voice asking about his well-being as if he isn't the reason my friend is lying unresponsive on the ground.

That familiar boiling sensation in my chest rises again and I feel my fists clenching by themselves.

Before I can comprehend my thought process I am bolting toward him. Still, before I can reach him George jumps in front of him getting ready for whatever, a whatever that does not come as I am held up by the waist by two Gryffindor players sensing the hostility.

"What is wrong with you!" I holler up in the air struggling with all my might against the hold of the chasers which is useless against the player's strength.

The rest is a blur, George pushes the douche towards the locker room as I follow the stretcher closely to the infirmary.

"If you stare any harder you're gonna be the first third year student here to achieve wandless magic," she chuckles "It's you! You did this!" he yells shoving me back and sending me stumbling on the ground probably trying to get me as dirty as he is. back down at her textbook.

"False," I utter not leaving the weasel out of my burning stare.

I notice her raising her head from my side view in wonder.

"Granger," I state chewing on my thumb's fingernail.

The sight of him simply sitting there without any consequences under the excuse of 'it's part of the game, nobody can prove there were any malicious intents behind that strike' drives me mad and haunts my head with multiple scenarios of murder that keep replaying again and again.

"You have to let it go. Pomfresh said he'll be fine."

"He didn't deserve that strike it was targeted to piss me off because I got the last word," I say wincing when I realize I bit my thumb a bit too hard and drew some blood.

"It's part of Quidditch, many, many people took strikes to the head."

"Bullshit. A strike to the head during an amicable match? Come on," I roll my eyes frustrated that everybody seems so eager to just brush this incident off.

"I'm gonna start thinking you're checking him out and not actually glaring at him."

"Have you lost your mind?!" I say louder than intended, my head whipping left to glare at her this time.

There is no silence as the Care for the Magical Creature class takes place outside and the lack of chatter is covered up by the sound of wind rustling the nearest tree's leaves and the distant purrs and grumbles of the different creatures in their pen.

"Is there a problem?"

Unlike McGonagall or Snape, Professor Hagrid's tone of voice isn't accusatory but genuinely one of concern. This concern eats at me as the idea that he might believe even for a moment that my words are targeted towards him makes bile rise in my throat.

"No!" is my immediate response to reassure the professor but the rest of my explanation seems to be stuck in my throat as I have a hard time imagining myself explaining to the class that I was just defending myself at the mention of me hypothetically checking Weasley out.

That same person here in the open classroom with a side smirk plastered on his annoying face trying his best not to laugh at me, not because it would be rude but because not laughing at the right time alongside the rest of the class wouldn't be as satisfying as a full-on public humiliation.

I see Hagrid lowering his chalk and I can already foresight him asking what he might have done wrong which is not something you want to ask as a teacher in front of a bunch of ruthless teenagers.

His other hand joins in on the other starting to mess with his chalk making him appear anxious and way less mighty.

The awkwardness doesn't begin to measure to the remorse of having put him in this situation because of my impulsive nature.

"It's my fault!" my friend shouts in my defense.

Looking at her, Tiffany managed to snatch up a baby puffskein and hold it up to Hagrid's sight.

"I put him in her hair and she was afraid he would do a pooh."

The laughs are inevitable but I'm certain the 'do a pooh' will haunt my nightmare.

The mocking is a harmony of taunting and I can only look beside me to glare at her sitting there with the puffskein in hand as I wish he would just 'do a pooh' in her hands this instant.

At least Professor Hagrid seems reassured, smiles as the misunderstanding is cleared up, and turns back around to continue the lesson.

We're sent to different enclosures containing different creatures and are instructed to feed them to create a bond.

"Look at him acting casual as if he didn't send someone to the infirmary with a trauma to the head," I say full of venom seeing him being buddy-buddy with another Gryffindor girl as they try to feed Mooncalf in the open and have a laugh as they are surrounded by the eager herd starving for pets and seeds.

"Will you quit it and enjoy one of the only course that's relaxing here," she scolds kneeling closer to the ground to feed a diricawl who nibs at her finger affectionately before walking past her hand and pitter-pattering to her to lay his head on her chest to receive pats on his head.

"Plus you've already been told we can't know if the blow was on purpose."

"That's a load of bullshit and you know it, he's one of the best beaters here," I say with a pointed look at her throwing a violent handful of seeds towards the rest of the diricawls.

"Did I just hear you compliment Fred Weasley?" she says looking up at me with a teasing smile.

"It's not a compliment I'm just stating a fact, the probability of Weasley hitting someone right on the head by accident at such distance is close to none," I say throwing another handful as my eyes catch a paddock with dubogs in it, one in particular who is devouring the weasel with his bulgy eyes.

There are three dubogs in the small paddock and two of them are cooling off in the dirty pond uninterested in anything else but sunbathing with only their eyes above the murky water blinking one at a time as the third one is eating up Weasley with his eyes.

A devilish idea makes its way into my head. The opening I get is served to me on a gold platter as Tiffany is distracted by the herd of diricawl overtaking her landing her on the ground, surrounded.

My chance is heightened by Weasley's back turned to me talking with his little girlfriend.

I take my chance disregarding any rational thought invading my head. Sneakily climbing over the fence, I crouch and walk toward the desired enclosure. The creature doesn't seem to sense me approaching and if he does he doesn't seem to care one bit licking his eye and pawing the ground with his hind leg.

A part of me wishes I could egg him on and ask him if he wants to nibble on the Weasel's ankles but I'd rather not throw my plan out of the window. Instead, I carefully slide my arm to the latch and pull on it slowly to make sure not to make any noise before giving the door a small push to create the crack that seems to be enough to throw the creature out for a jog as he crashes against the paddock's door.

I don't get to see the seconds before the disaster as I have to hurry back and jump over the fence once again, running back to my friend and free her from the diricawl's clutches giving her a hand and raising her back up as the show starts.

The screams that grace my ears aren't from fear but more from shock as the tall redhead lands on the ground when I finally get to lay my eyes on him. The dubog licks him from bottom to top with the creature's natural dirt and slimey skin rubbing off on him as his Gryffindor girlfriend screeches for help calling for Professor Hagrid who runs up to help in a flash.

The man's height isn't only impressive and intimidating but also a great advantage to grab the massive creature off and drag it back to its enclosure where the other two are still sunk in the water, sunbathing and behaving.

Once shut close, Professor Hagrid grips the wooden bars of the enclosure to gather himself before turning around and helping Weasley up with just one hand gripping the back of his blouse. While he seems shaken up by the encounter, he tries to rub off some of the mud on his face but only manages to smear it looking around at the rest of us.

The reactions vary, some are as shocked as he is and others shrug off their worries and are now laughing at his appearance now that they've established that he is healthy and no longer in danger.

I myself giggle knowing that while I can't get him punished for his action back on the pitch, I get to watch him look like a fool and even up the score. My friend does not agree and lets me know by elbowing me in the ribs making me groan mixing laughter and painful grunts.

Laughter that is spotted by the redhead when his head whips to me before his eyes light up.

His eyes shift from eureka to burning hatred. Shrugging off the hand of his friend trying to tidy him up and storms in my direction.

"It's you! You did this!" he yells shoving me back and sending me stumbling on the ground probably trying to get me as dirty as he is. The confrontation is cut short when Hagrid once again showcases his immeasurable strength by yanking the weasel back with a tug on his now mostly white blouse and throwing him behind his eleven-foot frame that stands now right in front of me.

"Enough with the both of you!" his voice booms in the open area.

He takes a step back and I can get a peak at the redhead enough to see him huffing and puffing from being thrown around like a doll.

"This is a classroom, not a pub. Now the both of you will walk all the way up to Professor McGonagall's office and explain exactly why I had to send the both of you to her and she will be the one to give you your punishment!"

I look at him now, hair disheveled and his tie undone covered in dirt and mud and slime. He still looks somewhat decent as he pushes his hair back with a huff.

I must look just as messy with my pink hair having been thrown on the ground and I decide to tug at the end of my own blouse trying to tidy myself up and avoid any more wrinkles on it.

"Miss Granger, please accompany those two, you know what to do if they misbehave."

"She tried to kill me!" Fred yells pointing at me.

"Do you have any proof, Mr.Weasley?"

He seems to hesitate for less than a second before motioning to me with his hand in frustration.

"It's logical thinking, she hates my gut and she's crazy!"

"You jerk-!" I bellow throwing myself in his direction before I'm engulfed in the Professor's arms.

"Enough!" He yells once more letting me go only when I stop fidgeting in his hold.

"There is no way of proving the Miss did anything. This paddock's lock has been faulty for a while and after this incident, I will personally see that it is dealt with."

He says as if he was addressing the whole class who is still standing all around us watching the event unfold.

"As for the both of you, you will do as you're told and let Miss.Granger accompany the both of you back to the castle and receive the punishment the both of you deserve for the waste of both my time and your classmates' time."

The tone is harsh and the decision is final.

"I am very disappointed in the both of you. You're worth so much more than this petty rivalry," the man shakes his head walking away.

Those words seem to have the same result on both of us. We look down a bit ashamed before we are ushered away by Hermione as we start the long and silent journey back to the castle.

We both stand in silence, side by side with yet a respectable distance as the two professors stand in front of us with judgmental stares that don't need any words to transcribe their distaste…or is it disappointment?

We were sent to our respective bathrooms to clean up 'as best as you can' while my request to wash off completely was denied by both teachers and so here I stand with the back of my blouse tainted by dirt as Weasley could barely wash the slimy texture out of his own blouse and barely dry it with what I believe might have been a spell.

And so here he stands looking dirtier than me despite the order to clean up.

"Now that the awful stench has been managed I believe a proper punishment is in order," McGonagall says with her hands joined in front of her.

"I agree, my cauldrons are in dire need of a scrub," Snape says with his usual disinterested tone.

Weasley starts protesting and claims that I should receive a harsher punishment for my so-called actions.

"She tried to kill me!" he protests.

"And as I told you Mr.Weasley there is no way for us to possibly prove this claim as Professor Hagrid did not see any of this unravel."

"Just like no one saw you throw that bulger." I bite under my breath.

"Exactly Miss.Hermlock. And I would suggest you speak with your full chest if you have any objection." Mc.Gonagall drily berates me.

"Snape-Professor Snape," he quickly corrects himself, "said multiple times that in such cases veritaserum should be used, and since she's SO confident saying she didn't do anything she won't mind doing this, won't she," he says towering over my side.

"I've always known you were a moron but I never thought you would outdo yourself in front of teachers," I smirk crossing my arms.

"Mr.Weasley, even with Miss.Hermlock's permission, the usage of such beverage on a student is forbidden. I would've hoped that with a father working for the ministry, you out of all of us would remember that."

My smirk doubles in size which I thought would never be possible.

In the end, my smirk is wiped away when we are both awarded two hours of detention with Snape. And as if it wasn't enough the punishment is cleaning the endless potion class's cauldrons.

We're ordered to go clean up, thoroughly this time and go for lunch before being expected in the dungeons for our detention hours.

We arrive at the same time just as the last student exits the class, we are left standing side by side, or more precisely 3 feet away from each other as we walk in right in front of Snape's office where he is seated with his head down to his paper purposely stalling and letting us stand there in awkward silence.

What must've been minutes feel like hours as I try my best not to side-eye the redhead standing silently beside me.

I wonder if I should've refrained from opening that damn pen when I hear those continuous scraping of pen meant to insult us as the dark-haired teacher ignore our presence.

He finally puts his feather back in its inkwell before he stands resting both his hands on his desk, "I believe I don't have to remind you what you need to do during those two hours of detention."

Neither of us answers and that seems to egg him on to stand straight and walk around his desk to stand right in front of us, his hands placed behind him.

"You two will clean every single cauldron here, I made sure none of my classes cleaned their equipment to make sure the lesson will stick and you won't have to keep me company again on such a fine day," he says bending to my height and looking straight into my eyes for just a moment before moving his sight onto Weasley, "At least one of you will learn."

Standing back up his speech is interrupted by strong stomps getting closer.

Turning around, the three of us look towards the class's entrance as we spot for a single second a figure sliding across the entrance and disappearing with a loud thud that sounds painful.

It is the first time I make eye contact with the weasel since the last time we butted heads and it is to share a sour scrunched-up expression for the victim of the fall who we hear grunting in the hallway before the sound of their footsteps echoes once more and we see the face of the one who rushed here most likely to speak to Snape.

He's bent over leaning on the door out of breath.

"Berkshire, if you're done fooling around you may grace us with an explanation as to why you're disturbing this detention."

Still out of breath, Enzo Berkshire huffs and puffs for a few more seconds before settling down still bent over.

"It's Nott," he exhales deeply before breathing in once more, "He and Wood started a brawl between quidditch teams, Hooch told me to come get you."

Turning back to the teacher, his eye roll is noticeable and his silence is an obvious assessment of the situation as he probably is planning what to do now that he is torn between us two and the alleged brawl.

"Alright, As the head teacher of house Slytherin, I will accompany Berkshire and assist Professor Hooch in this conflict."

He points to us, "As for the two of you. You will stay here and complete your detention without any complaints. If you leave before your time is up, I will know and that will reward you an entire week of detention."

Pointing at Berkshire, Snape walks past us and orders him to lead them away and with a flick of his wand makes it known that it is thanks to that maneuver that he'll know of us potentially leaving the classroom.

"Behave." is all he says before walking right behind a speeding Enzo Berkshire.

I wonder if he was referring to the both of us or maybe just Weasley.

I don't get to ponder on that before my thoughts are drawn elsewhere at the realization that my worst nightmare is unfolding before me, I am now stuck with the most insufferable student here for two hours doing the most aggravating task besides cleaning the house bathrooms.

I only get back to reality when I hear him throw his robe and satchel on a nearby station.

Being left alone with him, the task at hand, and the absence of Snape to muzzle the redhead angers me as I frop my own bag and stomp to one of the sinks filled to the brim with dirty cauldrons.

I don't even get to enjoy a full minute of tense peace as the douchebag starts his usual yapping.

"Can't say I'm surprised he would leave me alone with you, Snape has always hated me and it's no wonder he left me with you considering you tried to kill me," he mouths off as always lifting a cauldron from its stove and piling it on top of another one.

"And yet you're still breathing, what a shame." I roll my eyes as well as my sleeves picking up a scraper.

A moment of silence passes and I pray this is the moment he realizes he needs to shut up so we can endure the rest of this detention in mild peace but alas this is a good idea and everyone knows that Frederick Weasley never had one of those in his life.

"Damn. The sorting hat must've made a mistake, maybe you belong with the other psychopaths in Slytherin." He throws both cauldrons beside the filled sink with a loud clang.

"I'm sorry but I'm not the one cladding the scales." I bite back.

"Oh, she has claws," he draws out loudly, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

"What is wrong with you?" I ask genuinely turning around to face him.

"No, the question is what is wrong with you," He asks back louder.

"Nothing is wrong with me! You're the one who can't figure out when to stop, you're the one who always goes too far and you're the one who went too far once again, so much so that you ended up sending my friend to the infirmary!" I hurl and see him losing that fire that usually overtakes his pupils showing he enjoys egging on people once they are set off.

"It's the risk when you play Quidditch," he tries and fails to sound firm in his statement making me scoff.

"For Rowena's sake, you're still acting as if you didn't purposely throw that bulger at him!" I say running my hands through my hair in frustration.

"I didn't!" he says even less believable.

Done with his excuses I turn back around to give all my attention back to the dirty cauldrons when he manages to slide between me and the sink making me take a huge step back.

"I didn't mean to throw it that hard."

I stare at him, no, I glare at him feeling the urge to punch him again but I remember that it didn't do anything for me the last time and instead opt to let out my frustration by hollering at him and walking away before I make the mistake of punching him and have a Professor magically appear out of nowhere to give me more detention again.

Even when I think I finally win and have him admit to his wrongs he still finds a way to make excuses for himself.

"What were you expecting?! I'm a beater that's what we do!"

Does he really think I don't know what a bloody beater is?!

Is he trying to make me pass off as an emotional wreck because of my appropriate reaction to such injury during a supposed amicable match?!

Any beater whether amateur or professional could agree that either maliciously or not that throw was unwarranted during training.

"There really is something wrong with you," I walk right in front of him, toe to toe, and spite my statement right in his face pushing him aside to gain back access to the sink.

I start scrubbing as my mind throws all the different reasons I despise the fucker. Irresponsible, unfunny, no compassion.

I'm so lost in my spiteful analysis of him that I don't register that my thoughts aren't my own anymore as I unconsciously start rambling out loud.

"An idiot who doesn't even think before taking people down with him," I grumble scrubbing away.

"Come on now it's not like he's dead," He nips throwing down yet another pile of small cauldrons beside me.

"I'm talking about me!" I yell letting go of my current task and letting the pot fall and clang with another one causing a ruckus in the sink.

"Not only is my friend in the infirmary because of you but I'm also stuck with you trying to teach someone who I learned has never been slacking in muggle history before recently."

His jaw slacks open and his eyes double in size like the breakfast sausages I had this morning.

"Wait a minute. You think I'm doing this on purpose?!"

You do everything on purpose! Your dad works for the ministry, he is a Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office employee dammit! If anyone is an expert at muggle stuff it's your dad!" I say as a matter of fact.

"And tell me exactly what would it bring me to purposely be bad at this subject all of a sudden?"

"Oh I don't know, maybe to annoy me more often than usual." it sounds like a question but I know I'm just clarifying the situation.

"You think I'm gonna waste my days stuck with you in the library acting dumb for fun?" he tries to ask sarcastically.

"And why not? Beside the library part isn't that what you do all day anyways?"

The quick wit seems like it struck him as he scoffs with a broad smile.

"If you want to be a failure for the rest of your life go ahead and be my guest but I'll ask you not to take me down with you."

That same disbelief smile disappears and leaves place for a blank look that doesn't often grace his face.

"Unlike what you think, success doesn't necessarily come from academic prowesses." he tries to bite.

"Obviously not when it comes to you." I mock before turning back around feeling satisfied for getting him not once but twice in a row.

The triumphant silence doesn't last long before he dwells in a monologue that I don't bother listening to. Instead, I tune him out and start scrubbing which helps to cover the annoying sound of his voice.

His speech feels like hours long but is probably just a few minutes tangent as by the time my ears recognize his next sentence I'm only done with the first cauldron.

"-With such a nasty attitude it's no wonder Murphy didn't show up to your date."

The cauldron clashes with another as I let it fall back into the abnormally huge sink before turning my head toward the nuisance of my life.

"How do you know about that?" the voice that comes out of my mouth is one I don't recognize.

He pauses and seems to hesitate.

"Heard Katie talk about it to her friend."

"I never said anything about it to Katie, 'matter of fact I never said anything about this date to anyone ever so there's no way you heard this through gossip."

"He told me." he tries again even less believable than the first time.

"Bullshit." I seeth.

It's bluff, while I believe I might know Murphy it's not to say that he isn't just like any other guy and simply good at hiding his real intentions.

He starts ranting about some story I can tell is made up on the spot and it's like the wheels stopped turning and the lightbulb lights up in my head with such intensity that the next words come out of my mouth in a loud realization that echoes his own.

"You did this, It was you!" I accuse him with a rageful glare.

He steps back and rolls his eyes tilting his head back, "Oh my-you know what?! Yeah, I did. I warned the guy and I did well because he deserved better than to be stuck on a date with a stuck-up cunt like you." he finishes his tirade by sticking his index finger in my enraged face.

"You're fucking evil." I spit it like it's a statement everyone agrees upon watching him turn his back to me walking farther away.

My outburst is so intense that I have to take a shaky breath and keep my tears at bay as my better judgment is thrown out the window and I decide to finally pour all my frustration out.

"You know, you always take some sick pleasure in telling me I'm cold-hearted," the beginning of my speech is shakey but I quickly regain strength in my voice to let out all my poison,"But you can't even own up to your own fucking flaws and the fact that you're nothing but a jackass who use your so-called 'pranks' to harass everyone in school because they know better to be friends with an asshole like you who's only friend is his twin because no one else wants to be around you!"

My rant is over and the only noise filling the space is my heavy breathing. Catching my breath I feel hot and can barely focus on anything other than my heart beating in my ears as I feel my boiling blood travel all through my body as I stare dead into the eyes of the one who brought me to such an extent of anger.

When my heart settles and I can finally hear my breathing slow down I can focus solely on him and realize that his stare is dead.

He's not glaring, he's just looking. All trace of anger is gone and he's left staring at me or rather through me with dead eyes.

I seem to have struck a nerve and for once the guy doesn't have a comeback. Instead, I'm rewarded with the shoulder shove of a six-foot-something figure who passes me to walk to the sink and starts scrubbing away…

What the heck?

The feeling of regret invades me for a moment but is quickly replaced by one of annoyance.

Why should I feel regret? It's not like he ever feels regret for the horrible things he does. He never apologizes to anyone no matter how far he crosses the line.

The regret quickly fades and I instead let the small spot of confidence inside me grow. It's the first time I've ever shut the mouth of the biggest jerk there is, why shouldn't I enjoy it as long as it lasts?

After everything, I'm entitled to this. I'm entitled to twist the knife.

I take a first careful step and then a second, more confident one closer to him and the sink.

"Yeah, I might be a cold-hearted bitch. But you're an arrogant jackass who's not even funny." I say more calmly yet still petty.

"Oh piss off!" he shouts throwing the cauldron back into the sink with a smash that I wonder might have actually shattered or maybe chipped one of them.

I jump aside to avoid another shoulder shove and follow him with my eyesight to spot him grabbing his stuff and realize he is trying to escape this detention to avoid my lash-out.

Figuring out his plan I catch up and run past him to stand in front of the door blocking his way out.

"No! No, You called me what you called me and now I get to call you whatever I want!"

I wonder for a moment why he doesn't push past me, for sure his frame can easily overpower mine but instead of crashing into me to walk out of the potion class he instead turns around and throws both robe and satchel on a station with a shout that almost rivals mine.

"Alright then let's go ahead, get it all out of your system sweetheart." He snarls standing in the middle of the class, his arms expanded before he places them on his hips.

"You!" the bitter tone escapes me in a rough huff as I point at him, "Have done nothing but make my life hell since the day I arrived." I start walking towards him, "And for what? I have NEVER given you any reason to hate me and yet I have been the target of so many of your pranks that I started being known as the damn Weasley's guinea pig!" I throw my finger in his direction before it falls back on my sides as I walk slowly but with conviction towards him.

"There we go!" he says faking being proud probably to egg me on in my rant with a sick smirk bending down to my eye level and crossing his arms probably to toy with me and undermine me as he always does.

"You do nothing at school but be a nuisance and waste everyone's time including mine and it's so sick to think that you can't even let others be successful just because you can't achieve anything on your own, it's pathetic!" I'm getting closer, almost toe to toe with the redhead who doesn't take a step back and stays planted where he stands or rather is bent over.

"Come on let it all out," he snarls.

"But somehow I was still stupid enough to think that this time you would have the decency to at least admit you went too far and apologize for hurting my friend but even then you cannot take responsibility as always," I finish my tirade taking my final step right in front of him as our noses brush.

"Anything else?!" he angrily spits in my face with a scowl.

I breathe in harshly wishing I could punch him or clap back like I did before but realize if my rant hasn't aroused all kinds of empathy it is useless to keep calling him names it won't male a difference.

"Yeah, your attempt to make me look ugly by turning my hair pink completely failed because I still look good unlike you," I say sourly throwing a glance at his mop of hair.

He sneers.

His arms that were crossed in front of him manage to travel up and brush strands of hair behind my ears before his fingers slide down and twirl the locks in his hands toying with them.

When I'm done bathing in the hatred coating his eyes I notice I'm not the only one panting when I feel his breath brush my face.

Why is he panting? I'm the one who just rambled angrily for five minutes.

"Got it all out?" he says calmer this time around.

I look at him and my eyes make the mistake of switching between his eyes and lips just a second to see his doing just the same and analyze my face.

We haven't moved from our spot and I don't know why.

"Yeah, I think so," he whispers his lips brushing over mine with each syllable.

He stands back up, his hands leaving my hair and falling back to his side as he brushes past me leaving me to stand there frozen trying to comprehend the goosebumps littering my body and my hands shaking by my hips.

I manage to turn around and see him grabbing his stuff and making his way to the class entrance once more.

I find my voice, less confident than before but still strong enough to try and stop him.

"What are you doing detention isn't over yet!" I begrudgingly state.

"Then I guess I'll get a week's worth of detention!" he announces walking out with one hand clutching his satchel and the other one throwing his robe over his shoulder.

He's gone, and in the newly found silence, I breathe out through my nose and assess what just happened.

Weasley just mocked me, pissed me off and egged me on, undermined me, and left me in a classroom filled to the brim with cauldrons to clean all by myself after toying with my anger, my hair, and…

My hand bolts into fists and my nails sink into my palms as I conclude what I already know.

I hate him.

[urlibragirl]

summary : you and eren were childhood friends, but you guys drifted apart. One day, Eren decide to stick the pieces back.

warnings/content : mdni!, fem!reader, jealous!eren, eren is a virgin, little bit of angst, p in v intercourse, unprotected sex, oral sex(m receiving)

word count : 1271

Sighing heavily, Eren rubbed his forehead as he tried to recall the events leading up to your falling out. You guys had been inseparable during childhood, always playing together and sharing secrets. But somewhere along the line, things changed. 

He remembered the day clearly, it was after Jean had joined your group of friends. There was something different about you, you seemed happier, more confident. And yet, at the same time, she seemed distant too. Like there was part of herself that kept hidden even from him.

Grinning widely, you clapped your hands excitedly as you talked to your friends about the tv-show you watched the night before. Your laugh echoed through the hallways, drawing attention from everyone around you.

You may have been known for being somewhat wild and carefree, but there was no denying that people enjoyed being around you. Even though Eren preferred quieter gathering, he couldn’t help but admire your ability to light up any room you entered. Watching you interact with others made your heart ache just a little bit more. 

He wished things could go back to how they used to be, but he knew that ship had sailed long ago. Instead, he forced himself to focus on his studies, hoping that one day he might finally gain control over his feelings. Little did he know, your paths were destined to cross again under unexpected circumstances.

One fateful evening during winter break, Armin hosted a party at his place which included most members of their original friendship circle. Despite initially declining due to personal reasons, Eren eventually caved in under pressure from Mikasa and Jean who insisted he needed some time off studying. Reluctantly agreeing, he arrived at Armin’s house.

As the night wore on and the party reached its peak, Eren found himself drawn to you, despite the animosity that had grown between you two over the years. With a determined stride, he made his way through the crowd until he stood in front of you, his heart pounding in his chest.

"Hey," he said, trying to keep his voice casual despite the butterflies fluttering in his stomach.

You glanced at him, “Oh, hey Eren,” you answered “It’s been a long time.”

You guys stood in awkward silence for a moment, the weight of your unresolved issues hanging heavy in the air.

“Look, I didn’t mean to ignore you or act like a jerk. It’s just that seeing you with Jean made me realize how much I missed having you around. We were best friends since forever, and suddenly, you were gone. I tried to move on, but my heart wouldn’t listen. So yeah, maybe I acted immaturely sometimes, but deep down, I was hurting too.” 

Your eyes widened in surprise as you listened to Eren pouring his heart out. You hadn’t expected such honesty from him. For once, he sounded vulnerable instead of aloof. “There’s also something I need to tell you,” you began, your voice barely above a whisper. “Something I’ve been wanting to say for quite a while now…” You paused for effect, taking a deep breath before continuing.

“The truth is, I’m in love with you. From the moment we met all those years ago, I knew there was something special between us. And as time went by, that feeling only grew stronger.” you finally said.

“But what about Jean?” Eren asked with a surprised tone. “Oh, with Jean it wasn’t anything serious,” you said. “It’s going to sound horrible but both of us needed someone to forget about the friend they were in love with, me with you and him with Mikasa, but apparently it wasn’t really effective”

“So why didn’t you say something?” he asked. “Well, I could ask the same thing to you Eren?” you answered, teasing him a little bit.

“I guess I was just scared,” he admitted sheepishly. “ Afraid that maybe you really had moved on without me – I’ve missed you Y/N,” he confessed, his voice shaking. “More than you’ll ever know”.

As your faces drew closer, the world around you seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you in a bubble of intense emotion. Your hearts raced in unison, beating wildly against your chests as you prepared yourselves for whatever laid ahead.  Finally, after what felt like an eternity, your lips met in a tender, passionate kiss.

It was as if all the pent-up frustration and sorrow from your tumultuous past had suddenly vanished, replaced by a powerful wave of desire and affection. Time stood still as you were both lost in the moment, savoring every second of your long-awaited reunion. 

When you guys finally pulled apart, you gazed into each other's eyes, lost in the depths of each other's souls. "I love you, Eren," you whispered, your voice shaking slightly with emotion. "And I love you too, Y/N," he replied, his voice equally strained.

As your lips parted, Eren found himself struggling to catch his breath. This was new territory for him; he had never experienced such intense passion before. He looked into your eyes, wondering if she felt the same way. 

To his relief, he saw a mix of lust and tenderness reflected back at him. Gently guiding you towards the nearby bedroom, he led you inside and closed the door behind you. The room was dimly lit, casting eerie shadows across the walls. 

Undressing each other slowly, you were revealed in the sight of each other's naked forms for the first time. Despite being a virgin, Eren couldn't hide his excitement or nervousness. You sensed his apprehension and decided to take charge. 

Kneeling down beside him, you ran your hands up his thighs, stopping just short of his erection. Looking into his eyes, you gave him a reassuring smile before taking him into your mouth. Eren let out a moan as you teased him expertly, sucking gently on his cock while running your tongue along its length. 

Overwhelmed by pleasure, he reached down to touch your hair, encouraging you to continue. As you worked him over with your skilled tongue, he couldn't help but wonder how lucky he was to have found someone like you. 

Meanwhile, you moved up to straddle Eren's lap, grinding your hips against him suggestively. You wanted this to be special for him, and you intended to make sure it was. Slowly lowering yourself onto his hardened member, you gasped as you felt him slide inside your wet folds. It was tighter than he expected, but in a good way. 

You began moving up and down, meeting his thrusts halfway as you both sought release. The sounds of skin slapping against skin filled the air, punctuated by gasps of pleasure from both parties involved. Eren grabbed hold of your hips, pulling you closer as he buried himself deeper inside your warmth with each stroke. 

Your rhythm became faster and more urgent as you neared climax. Just when it felt like neither of you could take another moment, you both cried out in ecstasy, your bodies shuddering together as you reached orgasm simultaneously.

"Oh god," Eren groaned, his voice hoarse from exertion. "That was incredible." He pulled you closer, burying his face in your neck as he savored the scent of your skin. "I don't think I've ever felt anything like that before." You smiled contentedly, tracing gentle circles on his back. "Oh don’t worry, we're just getting started." 

With renewed energy, you two began exploring each other's bodies once more, lost in the heat of the moment. Every touch sent waves of pleasure coursing through you, heightening your senses and deepening your connection. 

a/n : i wrote this at 2 a.m, so there might be grammar mistakes sorry

[the-lantern-lights]

Vampire/Werewolf Au time!

Martin: Jon, when’s the last time you ate?

Jon, who needs to drink blood every like 3 days: I don’t know… 2 weeks?

Martin: HOW ARE YOU NOT DEAD ?!

Jon, very much dead: Ha ha, very funny Martin. I’m fine, get back to work.

I’m not fully happy with the result of the art, but I’m super busy moving and I couldn’t wait to share this au I’ve been thinking about for weeks and I should make more content for this au in the future

[darklinaforever]

So now people are saying that Qimir is a manipulator and a groomer ?

Yes, there may be some form of manipulation in Qimir, but that is because of his gray / ambiguous nature, because in reality he is a seemingly healthier alternative to the Jedi doctrine that has essentially ruined life of Osha.

He's the one who truly understands her and treats her accordingly in a generally good manner, not to mention seeing her for herself / who she really is.

In the narration, Qimir is not bad for Osha.

People need to make that distinction between these things.

And he's not even a real Sith. It seems pretty obvious given his overall behavior. It is very likely that together Oshamir will does something that differs from both the Jedi and the Sith.

On the other hand, groomer ?

Wow...

Qimir probably never expected his Acolyte to also be his lover. Mae is the proof of that, because he didn't have that type of relationship with her at all, nor did he even consider it. He just saw Osha and completely fell for her.

And again, Qimir's whole thing is that he seems to respect Osha very well without really forcing her to do anything. Although he brought her to his lair, he seems to leave her free rein and would be ready to let her kill him.

Qimir is sincere with Osha.

This kind of antis / haters thinking kills me.

The antis are really back in force, is not it ? Reylo wasn't enough for them ? Why do they have to rebel as soon as a new Enemies to Lovers comes out ?

It's been around forever because it's a trope that is loved for many good reasons, beyond the fascination of the problematic aspects which are just as valid.

Evolve, it’s 2024 damn it.

And I'm not even going to comment on the age difference, because it's ridiculous, Ohsa & Qimir are both adults.

Like it or not, Oshamir is a romance.

And I hope Lesley won't let the stupid antis / haters influence her writing !

By the way, don't forget that an article is coming out on villainous crush / enemies to lovers on my tumblr soon, at the end of next week !

[grumpybluefairy]

[pocchi-poket]

Ma meilleure ennemie is going to be in every enemies to lovers playlist

[theawesomedashing]

I don't know what happened. But I like these glow ups. ♥️♥️♥️