Crush x Reader One Shots

Poetry Week

hope you guys are having a great day !! love you all <3

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Your best friend continues rubbing your back, humming soothing things into your ear as you both walked to your next class—English.

The reason for your frustration and exasperation is because it is poetry week.

Poetry week is the week every English class in the school studies and creates their own poems to share with the class. At the end of the week, the student with the best poetry won a small prize. Last year the prize was two free tickets to an amusement park.

You hate poetry week because you are a terrible writer. This means when you go up to present today, you were going to have to make up something right on the spot.

"It's okay, (Y/N)," (B/F/N) assures, leading you into the crowded classroom. The rest of their encouragements go unheard as you space out, noticing the person you were looking for in the corner of the room.

(C/N) stands there, nonchalantly listening to music through their headphones, their eyes focusing on everything other than you, it seems like. Dishearted, you take your usual seat at the back of the class next to your best friend.

You daydream for most of English, but once you hear the familiar sound of you name being called, your head perks up to stare at the teacher at the front of the class.

"(Y/N)?" the teacher calls once more, an eyebrow raised. "It's your turn to present your poem for the day."

Immediately, you feel sweat surfacing the soft skin on your palms as you gulp nervously. Shaking, you stand up and approach the front of the classroom as told. "Okay," you mutter.

Your eyes scavenge around the room, desperately searching for something to make up a poem about. The judgmental stares your classmates were giving you weren't helping.

Then, your gaze falls onto (C/N).

They were still at the corner of the room, but their headphones sat around their neck instead of one the ears. Although your heart leaps for them to look up at you, they stare at their desk, instead.

Feeling a new sense of disappointment, words begin flowing from your mouth in a poetic tone.

"Like a rose, they're untouchable. Despite the amount of beauty they may hold, the thorns always reject you the second you grow close," you whisper, your pulse quickening. "I long to run my fingers through your hair and whisper sweet little nothings in your ear, only if you were not so far away. The lines blur as I draw near, and the familiar dismal disappointment fills my soul, extinguishing the sacred torch that was lit in your honor. Now, all that is left is nothing."

Emotion poured into every syllable, the poem escapes you like you had rehearsed it a hundred times. In a way, you do, every day when (C/N) avoids you.

The teacher smiles gracefully, patting you on the back and telling you how amazing the poem was. You sit back down in your seat, while (B/F/N) cheers you on for your perfect performance.

Nothing feels right though. It's because (C/N) hasn't even glanced in your direction one since the beginning of class.

Sigh.