When we go out you hold the door for me and watch my step like it is second nature. Regardless of my pleas telling you that I am okay, you give me your jacket at the first sign of a shiver. There is a tug on your lips when I say one of my ridiculously bad jokes. Your eyes light up when you get excited about your favorite show. Children gravitate toward you because you play all of their games with them. You hold my hand like it is the most fragile thing in the world. When I catch you staring at me, your ears and cheeks become flushed. Yet, in those seconds your eyes tell more than your words ever could.
La idea de posesión es siempre imposible de realizar positivamente; en verdad, nunca se tiene nada ni a nadie; por tanto, uno intenta cumplirlo de un modo negativo; la manera más segura de afirmar que un bien es mío, consiste en impedirle a otro que lo use.
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what I was wearing today when my tc complimented me saying I look nice & “fall-ish”. from now on this is gonna be my favorite outfit. im crying. first time my tc has ever complimented my outfit or even how i look….
“Can you write one. Me and my crush know each other since we were kids but haven’t seen each other in years and now we are in the same class and he is a bit cocky and I’m always talking in class and we are both really good in English but I have an American accent and he is English.”
Finally got to another request in my growing pile! I enjoyed writing this because my crush is in my English class too ;) I took inspiration from my class for the Romeo & Juliet idea, but sadly none of this actually happened to me! (Except the people reading in boring voices - that’s all very real.) Anyway, I hope you guys like this. I’m not sure if this is what the requester had in mind, but FYI, more detail is always better for best results!
Word count: 3.7k
Your alarm goes off and you sit up suddenly, dizzy and disoriented. You rub your eyes and check the time. It’s 6:30 a.m. Why the hell would you get up this early during the summer?
Then the realization hits you like a truck. Because it’s not summer. It’s the first day of school.
You groan and collapse back onto your pillow. Time for another tedious year of endless work and boring classes.
Walking into first period English an hour later, you think to yourself, Let’s see what we’ve got this year. Each new school year means new classes and different classmates, which is probably the one interesting part of going back to school. You always secretly hope for your crushes to be in your class but are often disappointed. This year, there is no one in particular on your mind, so the best you can hope for is some eye candy to get you through the year.
But as you scan the room you are mostly disappointed, as none of the faces really pique your interest. You sigh and plop yourself down at a desk near the back of the room. Ah well, maybe next period. You pull out a notebook and turn your attention to the teacher, who is writing her name on the board. Just as she finishes, the bell rings for the start of the period, and she turns around to face the class.
Before she gets the chance to say anything, though, the door opens abruptly and someone bursts in. “I’m not late yet, no worries,” the newcomer announces loudly. He has a silky voice and rich English accent, which is music to your American ears. You turn to get a closer look and your eyes widen.
Standing in the doorway, nearly filling the frame, is your best friend from elementary school. Years and years ago, you’d played tag on the playground and had playdates and sleepovers and told each other your deepest, darkest secrets. You’re pretty sure you’d gotten married several times. But your blissful marriage was tragically shattered when he moved away with his family. In recent years he’s only crossed your mind a few times; you’ve wondered how he was doing here and there but never spent much thought on him.
And now, like a figment of your past suddenly transported to the present, he’s standing there in your classroom, hotter and tanner and definitely taller than in your childhood years, confidence radiating off of him. All eyes are on him and he smirks a little, clearly enjoying the attention. Girls all around you, and probably some guys too, are ogling and blushing and fanning themselves, and you can’t help but feel some of the same things as everyone else - awe and intimidation and curiosity all at once.
The teacher, however, is less impressed. “What’s your name?” she asks, examining him through narrowed eyes.
“(C/n),” he responds, flashing his teeth as though this will win her over. His smile falls when he sees her mark something in her attendance book.
“All right, (c/n), find a seat,” she says.
He scans the room, his eyes passing over you. Then he does a double take and stares at you, his eyes widening. For a split second he looks stunned, then the grin returns to his face. He saunters over and slides into the seat next to yours.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t (y/n)!” (C/n) winks at you. “Fancy seeing you here.”
You turn in your seat to face him and whisper, “I could say the same to you! What are you doing here?!”
He shrugs. “My dad went back to his old job, so we moved back,” he says simply.
“Wow, well um…hi,” you say, still reeling from the shock of seeing him again. “You…you’ve grown since I last saw you, that’s for sure!” You wince at your awkwardness.
“So have you,” (c/n) responds, looking you up and down appreciatively. His eyes linger on your chest for just a second too long, and your cheeks flush. Your mouth opens to say something, but your teacher beats you to the punch. “Quiet back there!” She looks disapprovingly in your direction. You hadn’t realized that she’d started talking, and you close your mouth instantly.
(C/n) quiets too, but as soon as the teacher looks away he leans over to you and whispers, “It’s nice to see you again, (y/n).”
You smile down at your notebook and doodle a small heart in the margins where he can’t see it.
From that day on you look forward to school more and more, actually getting up early and spending more time choosing your outfit because you know you’ll see him. You can’t deny your growing feelings for him; the platonic best-friends dynamic you had years ago is far gone - for you, anyway. You have no idea how (c/n) feels about you - he teases you and talks to you all the time, but he’s such a naturally confident and friendly person that it can’t mean anything special. Still, you’re happy to spend time with him in class, where you chat back and forth whenever the teacher isn’t paying attention. You both enjoy the class too, though, and participate more than enough to appease the teacher. The first topic of the year is Shakespeare and his works, which you’ve always loved. Your class is tackling Romeo & Juliet.
Each day the class reads through a scene of the play together. You always volunteer to read the part of Juliet, and considering the low enthusiasm of the rest of the class, the teacher usually has few other options. Today, you’re reading Act 1 Scene 5, where Romeo and Juliet meet at the ball.
“So, who will be our Juliet today?”
Your hand shoots up. The teacher looks around the room, half amused, half exasperated. “Really? No one else? Alright, (y/n), the part is yours. Do we have a Romeo?”
“I’ll do it.” The voice comes from beside you. You turn to look at (c/n), surprised. He doesn’t usually volunteer, and if he does, it’s for the part of “Servingman 2” or some other menial role.
The teacher nods, satisfied. “Thank you, (c/n). We need a Capulet…” As she assigns the rest of the parts, (c/n) looks over and winks at you. Your heart starts thumping in your chest.
As Capulet and the other irrelevant characters make their way laboriously through the beginning of the scene, you grow more and more restless. Your classmates read slowly and with an utter lack of emotion. By contrast, you pour your heart and soul into your lines, and as a result your teacher has grown to like you. You start to doodle in your notebook again.
Then it’s time for Romeo’s first line. (C/n) makes a show of clearing his throat, which elicits scattered laughs from the classmates. He throws another glance in your direction before focusing on the text.
“What lady is that which doth enrich the hand of yonder knight?”
Your head snaps up and your pencil falls out of your hand. His voice is completely different from the other students’ monotonous drones - he reads with emotion and in a loud, clear voice. The style of language doesn’t sound awkward on his lips as it does with most people; instead, he sounds effortlessly sophisticated and natural, as though he came right out of the time period of the play. (The silky English accent probably helps.) You completely believe that (c/n) isn’t just reading Romeo’s part - he is Romeo. You gaze now with rapt attention, eager to hear more.
(C/n) smirks without looking up while the servingman responds, “I know not, sir.” Then he launches into his little speech and you nearly faint.
“Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope’s ear,
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear.
So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows
As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows.
The measure done, I’ll watch her place of stand,
And, touching hers, make blessèd my rude hand.
Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight!
For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.”
A smattering of applause rises from the class. (C/n) laughs, stands, and takes a bow. “Thank you, thank you,” he says dramatically, blowing kisses.
Even the teacher smiles a little before quieting the class. “Nice delivery, (c/n). Let’s keep moving.”
Unfortunately it seems the class, while impressed, is little inspired by his emotional reading. Tybalt and Capulet take over the reading with unchanged monotony. After an eternity, Tybalt exits the scene and Romeo starts up again.
(C/n) gets out of his seat and kneels next to your desk, book in one hand, the other reaching for yours. You look at him quizzically.
“What? It says right here in the script. ‘Taking Juliet’s hand.’” He grins as if everything is a joke to him - and it probably is.
“We don’t have to act it out,” you say nervously.
He fakes a gasp. “Are you unwilling to commit fully to the experience?”
You glance at the teacher, who says nothing, just watches with mild amusement. The other students are paying full attention now, many of them giggling and whispering to each other.
“Umm, okay,” you say finally, letting him take your hand.
(C/n) smirks in satisfaction and reads, with just a touch of overexaggeration, “If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine, the gentle sin is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.”
A hot blush is rising steadily on your cheeks, and your heartbeat picks up at the word “kiss.” You clear your throat several times. “Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this; for saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.” In your nervousness you stumble over the last word and curse inwardly at yourself for being so childish and awkward. You envy (c/n) and his endless confidence.
“Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?” (c/n) responds in a sly voice, as Romeo probably would.
“Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer,” you say, trying to calm the furious beating of your heart. Be cool! You hope (c/n) can’t feel your hand sweating. You let your hand go limp, wondering if he’ll let go, but he holds on tight. He leans forward a little and you shrink back.
You can hear the smirk in his voice when he says his next line. “O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do. They pray; grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.” (C/n) looks up for most of his line, his eyes boring into you, amusement dancing in them. You hide your face, which must be bright red by now, in your book.
You can barely open your mouth to read your line, because you know what’s coming - it’s stated in the stage direction. A mixture of excitement and terror churns inside you. You stumble through the next line. “S-saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.”
(C/n)’s voice lowers a little, which makes him sound even sexier. “Then move not,” he says huskily, staring intently at you, “while my prayer’s effect I take.” He stands slightly, pushes your book away from your face with one hand, and crashes his lips onto yours.
It only lasts a second before he pulls away. Cheers, wolf whistles, and excited tittering erupt all at once. You can only gape in shock, your lips tingling and your heart beating crazily. You manage to glance at the teacher, who looks stunned, although she must have seen it coming. “(C/n)!” she exclaims, her hand to her mouth. “Inappropriate!”
(C/n)’s eyes haven’t left your face, watching your reaction. He calls back without turning around, “What? I was just following the script!”
The laughter and excited buzzing in the class resumes with renewed strength. The teacher is at a loss for words, and only shakes her head for a moment before asking, “(Y/n), are you okay?”
You let out a shaky laugh. “H-hah, yeahh…” you say, feeling the eyes of all your classmates on you. By some divine miracle, the bell rings just at that moment, and you jump up and run out of the classroom before anyone can ask you any more questions.
The next day there is no class read aloud; it seems your teacher has decided to play it safe. You sit slumped down in your chair, knowing that people are still looking at you and whispering about what happened yesterday. You absolutely refuse to look at (c/n), knowing your cheeks are red and that you will certainly say something stupid. So you stare forward, glancing quickly at him only at the end of the period when you can’t fight the suspense anymore.
To your surprise, he too is looking at the ground, refusing to meet your eyes. He has been unusually taciturn today, and there’s been none of your usual banter. He’s probably regretting what he did, disgusted and embarrassed that he kissed some girl leagues below him in front of everyone. Seeing him like this only heightens your mortification. The rest of the week you speak as little as possible in that class, and even (c/n) remains silent, an impressive feat for him.
On Friday, before class lets out, the teacher announces the homework assignment. “Over the weekend I want you to write something about love. It can be any style and any length; this is just to get you warmed up for all the writing we’ll be doing this year. Bonus points if you can be as romantic as Shakespeare,” she adds jokingly.
That night you toss and turn in bed, thinking about Shakespeare and (c/n) and your assignment. What do you know about love? Absolutely nothing. All you know is playground weddings and staring at (c/n) in class, wondering if he feels the same way.
But this gives you an idea.
You get up and pull out your notebook, opening to a clean page. After a moment’s thought, you start to write.
Monday morning you trudge into English class, yawning. The day before you’d made the mistake of marathoning your favorite show for hours. And hours. And hours. Your guard is down and you temporarily forget to avoid eye contact with (c/n), so that on the way to your seat you glance at him and your eyes meet. He smiles hesitantly. You blink a couple of times, dimly surprised but too groggy to react, and sit down.
“Good morning everyone, I hope you had a nice weekend, and that you all wrote some beautiful pieces about love!” the teacher says, with an enthusiasm that no one should possess at 8 am on Monday.
You groan and hit your head against your desk. You forgot all about the horrendous poem you wrote earlier. You take your notebook out of your bag and leave it closed on your desk, refusing to open up to the poem.
“Take a few minutes to share what you wrote with the person next to you.”
You freeze. The only person next to you is (c/n). No way in hell are you reading him your writing. There are so many allusions to your past and present friendship, he’ll know right away it’s about him.
(C/n) leans over. “Hey, (y/n),” he says, a little uncertainly. It’s been days since you last talked.
You manage an awkward half-smile. “I guess we’re partners,” you offer meekly.
“Guess so,” he agrees. “Why don’t you read yours first?”
“Nah, I’m good,” you say casually.
“Oh, come on, it can’t be that bad!”
“No.” You shake your head in stubborn refusal.
(C/n) reaches out suddenly and grabs your notebook off your desk. “Hey!” you protest, stretching out a hand for it, but he holds it out of reach. “Thanks! Here, you can read mine.” He hands you a piece of paper.
You slump back in your chair in resignation and reluctantly look down at his paper, still freaking out internally. Shit, shit, shit, he’s reading your writing. You keep sneaking glances over at him but finally focus on the paper in front of you, because after all, you’re curious!
“I don’t know much about love. In kindergarten, we only had friendship, and what they call puppy love - “dating” your best girl friend and “getting married” on the playground. But even then, I think I got a taste of what real love would be like. She understood me like no one else did. I had no doubts about how strong our friendship was and how perfect a match we were, so at that age, the only logical thing to do was to get married.
Unfortunately there was no happily ever after for this young couple, because soon after our (multiple) wedding(s) I moved away, and we didn’t see each other anymore. Without her, I became a different person. I was no longer confident but instead became very insecure, and at my new school, I was so shy that I didn’t make any friends. I never took any chances and didn’t go after the things I wanted.
Eventually I realized I couldn’t go on like this, so I tried to be confident again, or at least act like I was - fake it till you make it, as they say. Well, for the most part, I made it. I started making friends again and eventually cared less and less what people thought and took more risks. But when it came to girls, I couldn’t chase after them or even talk to them. Maybe I still believed in cooties. Or maybe I was still hung up on my wife from elementary school, the girl I was certain was my other half. For years the closest thing I had to love was this memory of her, which was becoming more and more like a dream.
Then I moved back. And suddenly, she was a reality again. I saw her for the first time in years and everything came flooding back. All I wanted was for her to like me, to be impressed by me, to fall in love with me. I thought I could win her by being confident - it was the only way I knew how. But I think I may have overdone it. I think I’ve driven her away. And now that I’ve lost her again, I’ve lost all the confidence I’d built up. I wish I could explain to her that under the facade I’m still the boy she knew so well and that she is still the only person who truly understands me and accepts me for who I am. But I don’t know how to tell her any of this. I’m still just a clueless little boy. And I still don’t know much about love.”
You stay frozen in place for a moment, staring at the page, the weight of everything you’ve just read crushing you. Of course you’re wondering if this is about you, but if you assumed and got it wrong you would never get over the humiliation. Maybe (c/n) had other girl best friends, other wives. How should you know?
“…Once, we were best friends and had playground weddings. Now, I can only stare at him in class, wondering if he feels the same way.” (C/n) reads the last part of your poem aloud. After a second of silence, he looks up. “Funny, this sounds a lot like my piece,” he remarks casually.
You look in his direction but can’t make yourself meet his eyes, so you watch his fingers play with the spiral binding of your notebook. “I guess we’ve both gotten married a lot, huh?” you say.
He takes a deep breath. “Actually, there was only one person.”
“Oh.” You hesitate before answering, “Me too.”
(C/n) starts to smile. “(Y/n), look at me,” he says gently, and you finally bring your eyes up to his face. “You know I wrote this about you. Did you write yours about me?”
“Maybe,” you say nervously, the panic still muddling your thoughts. Then it sinks in: he likes you back. (C/n) likes you back! You start to smile too despite yourself. “I mean, yes. This is about you.”
His face splits into a wide grin. “So…does that mean you like me too?” he says in a low, flirty tone that makes your heart flutter.
“I guess it does,” you answer coyly, the old fire returning - along with the fire in your cheeks. But now, it’s a happy blush. You still can’t believe this is really happening, and pinch yourself to make sure you’re not dreaming. You both sit there grinning at each other.
Then (c/n) frowns. “But I thought you hated me; the way you avoided me, I thought I’d screwed everything up by kissing you and that you were disgusted with me.”
A giggle escapes your lips. “Of course not, I was just an idiot and didn’t know how to react…and then when you stopped talking to me I thought you were the one disgusted with me!”
“Well, thank God we’ve got that sorted.” He laughs.
The teacher’s voice makes you both jump. “It sounds like you’ve all finished reading each other’s writing. Is there anyone that would like to present their piece to the class?”