IVE x reader (ONESHOTS)

I Can't Stand You | Wonyoung

You don't just annoy Jang Wonyoung.

You offend her.

Your existence alone—your slouch, your stupid half-smile, the way you don't bother fixing your tie—feels like a personal insult to everything she represents.

And she makes sure you know it.

"Can you not sit like that?" she snaps the first day you're assigned next to each other. "You look disgusting."

You glance at her lazily. "Good morning to you too, Barbie."

Her head turns slowly.

"What did you just call me?"

You grin. "Relax. Compliment."

She scoffs. "You're unbelievable."

"And yet," you say, tapping your desk, "here you are. Stuck with me."

She mutters, "This school is a joke."

From then on, it's hell.

She reports you for chewing gum.
You hum loudly when she's reading.
She corrects your answers in front of the class.
You deliberately score higher just to piss her off.

Every insult is sharp. Personal. Calculated.

"Do you ever wash your hair?" she asks one afternoon.

"Do you ever stop pretending you're better than everyone?" you shoot back.

Her smile tightens. "I am better."

That's the problem.

She believes it.

Everyone knows not to sit between you two.

The air feels electric—like one wrong word could start a fire.

"You hate her, right?" someone asks you.

You don't even hesitate. "Yeah. She's a nightmare."

Across the room, Wonyoung is saying the same thing.

"He's a loser. I don't know why he even talks to me."

And yet— she notices when you're absent. you notice when she's quieter than usual.

Neither of you says anything.

The project forces things to get worse.

Late nights. Empty classrooms. No audience.

She's ruthless.

"Redo this," she says flatly, pushing your laptop back. "It's sloppy."

You laugh once. "You're not my boss."

She stands. "Then stop acting like you don't care about failing."

You stand too. "Maybe I don't care."

"That's your problem!" she snaps. "You waste potential like it's funny."

You go still.

"...Why do you give a shit?" you ask.

She freezes.

For half a second, the mask slips.

Then she scoffs. "I don't." Lie.

After that, things get complicated.

The insults stay—but they linger too long. The arguments turn into staring contests. The silence becomes heavy instead of peaceful.

One night, rain traps you both in the hallway.

She's pacing. Frustrated. Perfect posture cracking.

"You know what I hate about you?" she says suddenly.

You lean against the wall. "Just one thing?"

She glares. "You don't try. And people still like you."

You tilt your head. "And that bothers you?"

"Yes!" she snaps. Then, You don't tease her. For once.

"That sounds exhausting," you say.

She looks at you like she hates that you're right.

"Don't psychoanalyze me," she mutters.

"Don't yell at me then."

She laugh short, bitter. "God, I hate you."

You smile slowly. "Yeah. Me too."

The tension finally snaps weeks later.

A fight. Real this time.

She says something cruel.

You say something worse.

Silence crashes down.

"You're such an asshole," she breathes.

"You're controlling as hell," you fire back. "And you're scared if you stop being perfect, no one will stay."

Her face goes pale.

Then furious.

She shoves you—hard.

"Get away from me."

You should.

You don't.

Instead, you say, "You're not as untouchable as you think."

She looks at you, chest rising fast.

"Fuck you," she whispers.

And then she kisses you.

Angry. Messy. Short.

She pulls back first, eyes blazing. "This doesn't mean anything."

You're still stunned. "You kissed me."

"I was mad."

You grin. "Yeah. Me too."

She storms off.

Doesn't talk to you for days.

And it's worse than the fighting.

When she finally sits next to you again, she doesn't look at you.

"Don't bring it up," she says coldly.

You nod. "Wasn't planning to."

But she hooks her foot around yours under the desk.

Just once.

Just enough.

Enemies.

Still toxic.

Still sharp.

But now every insult feels like tension instead of hate.

And that's way more dangerous.