Dec 23, 2023
Doctor: What do you see in this X-ray?
Students: *collective gasp*
Doctor: Please don’t do that in front of patients.
seen from Azerbaijan
seen from Malta
seen from Croatia
seen from France
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Netherlands
seen from Sweden
seen from Türkiye
seen from Türkiye
seen from Netherlands
seen from Serbia
seen from United States
seen from Serbia
seen from Poland
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from China
Doctor: What do you see in this X-ray?
Students: *collective gasp*
Doctor: Please don’t do that in front of patients.
How life feels when you’re studying for the 70th (and last) exam of med school🤍
Tell Me What It Means
(Damian Wayne x F!Reader)
🖤💖18/28 for my 1,000 Follower Special💖🖤
Word Count: 1,404
Debrief: you’re a bit tipsy on wine and bothering your roommate.
Warnings: SMUT, MDNI - 18+
Case Notes: for 🦇 anon, thanks love! Enjoy!
The apartment is quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the muted rustle of Damian’s pen scratching across his notes. He’s on the couch, hunched over his medical textbook, surgical precision even in the way he annotates margins.
You’re sprawled across the other end, feet nudging against his thigh, wine glass dangling from your fingers. The alcohol leaves a pleasant warmth in your chest, but it also makes you bolder than usual.
“You know,” you hum, tilting your head to look at him, “for someone so smart and… cute—” you let the word hang there, enjoying the way his pen stills against the page, “— you’re suspiciously single.”
Damian’s jaw ticks. He doesn’t look up, but his grip on the pen tightens, “Cute,” he repeats flatly, like it’s foreign on his tongue, “That’s what you might call a stray kitten, not me.”
You laugh, setting your glass down on the coffee table, “Okay, fine. Handsome, then. Don’t change the subject.”
He finally glances at you, green eyes sharp in the lamplight, a flicker of something you can’t quite name in their depths. He’s always like this, hard to read, unless you catch him off guard.
“I don’t have time for trivialities,” Damian says, tone clipped but then he softly adds, “Habibti.”
You smile, assuming that it’s some casual, friendly nickname that he used for you frequently anymore, never bothering to look it up, “See, that’s what I mean! You call me cute names in Arabic but refuse to date anyone! Do you know how quick you could pull a girl with that? What’s that about?”
His gaze lingers on you, and for a moment, you swear his throat bobs in a swallow, “If you knew what it meant,” he murmurs, almost too quiet, “you would not take it so lightly.”
You blink. The alcohol nudges you forward, closer to his side, toes pressing firmer into his thigh, “Then tell me.”
“No.” The answer is immediate, but there’s no heat in it. Just tension. A coiled wire inside him ready to snap.
You grin, emboldened by his response, “You’re blushing, Wayne. I didn’t think you could.”
“I’m not,” he snaps, but his ears are pink, and you can’t help but laugh. The sound of your laughter, it always unravels him.
So you lean in, voice dipping, “You are cute. Especially when you keep calling me habibti.”
That’s when he stills completely, pen sliding from his hand onto the open textbook. He turns his face toward you slowly, like a predator who’s finally been cornered, and you realize too late just how thin the line you’ve been walking really is.
“Do not,” he says low, voice almost a growl, “play with things you don’t understand.”
But he doesn’t pull away when your knee brushes against his. Doesn’t move when you shift closer, your hand sliding over his wrist. He just looks at you like he’s been starving for years and you’ve only just offered him something worth breaking his fast for.
Your fingers linger on his wrist, feeling the steady thrum of his pulse— except it isn’t steady at all. It’s fast, sharp, like you’ve struck a nerve.
“Damian…” you whisper, unsure if you’re teasing or daring.
That’s all it takes.
His hand snaps up, cupping the back of your neck, pulling you into him with a force that steals your breath. His mouth crashes against yours, lips hot, urgent, like he’s been waiting years for this moment.
You gasp into him, surprised at first, but his tongue pushes past your lips, demanding, insistent, and suddenly you’re melting. His other hand is at your waist, dragging you across the couch and into his lap like he’s had enough of pretending there was any space between you.
“Habibti,” he growls against your mouth, the word reverent and filthy all at once, “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”
You shake your head, dazed, grinding down against the hardness pressing into your thigh. His breath stutters, his grip tightening almost painfully.
“Don’t—” he groans, teeth catching your bottom lip before he kisses you again, deeper, hungrier. His hips jerk up against you, instinctive, helpless, and you moan into his mouth.
The sound undoes him.
He breaks from your lips only to trail hot, desperate kisses down your jaw, to your throat. He bites, sucks, leaving marks he normally wouldn’t dare— because self-control has fled, abandoned in the wake of your laughter, your teasing, your warmth.
Your fingers tug at his shirt, pulling it up, and he doesn’t hesitate. He yanks it over his head, tossing it aside before dragging your top off with the same urgency. The air between you crackles as bare skin finally meets bare skin, heat and want colliding.
“Tell me to stop,” Damian pants, forehead pressed to yours, though his hips are already grinding into you, hard and needy. “Tell me— because if you don’t—”
You grab his jaw, kissing him so fiercely your teeth clash, “Don’t you dare stop.”
He groans, low and guttural, and in the next heartbeat he has you pinned back against the couch cushions, his body covering yours, mouth devouring you like he’s been holding back a lifetime’s worth of hunger.
His mouth devours yours as he presses you down into the cushions, the weight of him heavy and grounding. His hips grind against you, and you can feel the thick, insistent press of him straining through his sweats. Every controlled edge you know him for is gone— he’s all heat, teeth, hands.
You paw at the waistband of his sweats, tugging them down. Damian growls into your mouth and breaks away just long enough to shove them down, his cock springing free, hard and aching. You’re already slick with want, and when he grinds against you, bare to bare, you moan shamelessly.
“Fuck,” he groans, forehead pressed to yours, eyes squeezed shut, “You’re going to undo me.”
“Then let me,” you whisper, wrapping your legs around his waist.
That’s it. His restraint shatters. He hooks his thumbs in your panties and rips them down, not bothering with finesse. His fingers skim over you once, slick, ready, wanting, and then he’s lining himself up, jaw tight, chest heaving.
“Damian—” you gasp his name just as he thrusts in, deep and hard in one stroke.
The stretch makes you cry out, clutching at his shoulders, nails digging crescents into his skin. He groans at the sting, at the feel of you clenching around him, burying himself to the hilt before pulling back and snapping his hips forward again.
The couch creaks with every thrust, his pace already frantic, desperate. Years of held-back tension pour out of him now, every hard snap of his hips saying everything he never did out loud.
“Mine,” he mutters against your throat, biting down hard enough to bruise, “Habibti, enti hayati— you don’t even know…”
You can barely form words, head tipping back as his pace grows rougher. The sound of skin meeting skin fills the apartment, mixed with your moans, his curses, the wet slap of him driving into you.
Your hands claw at his back, urging him harder, faster. He shifts his angle just slightly, and the next thrust has you crying out, body arching.
“That’s it,” he rasps, watching you come undone, his hand gripping your thigh to pin you open, “Let me hear you.”
It doesn’t take long. With the way he’s pounding into you, the burn of his teeth at your shoulder, his voice growling endearments you half understand in your ear— you’re clenching around him, shuddering as your orgasm crashes over you.
The tight pulsing of your walls drags a raw sound from his chest. His thrusts falter, grow sloppy, and then he buries himself deep with a guttural groan, spilling hot inside you as his body shakes with release.
For a moment, there’s only the sound of your ragged breathing and the hammer of his heart under your palms. He doesn’t move, forehead pressed to your shoulder, still inside you, reluctant to let go.
When he finally lifts his head, his hair is mussed, eyes dark, lips swollen from kissing you senseless, “You’ll never call me friend again after this,” he mutters, voice hoarse.
You smile, breathless, stroking his jaw. “Then tell me what it really means.”
His eyes soften, the smallest smile tugging at his lips. “Habibti means… my beloved.”
⭐️DCU Masterlist⭐️ 🦇Return to the Batcave🦇
If you like my work and want to support me, consider Buying Me A Coffee?☕️
✨Join the Taglist✨
Taglist: @jellibean420 @maaaahhhiii @eastblockchaigirl @the-jess-life @lillian-morningstar @ilovethecreativity @laurakinneyswife @animegamerfox @localgaytrainwreck @gojoswaterbottle @liloolsi @sapphichotmess @silverklaus @jakiiicomics @rae-akarui @th3d1n0r3ad3r @gaychaosgremlin @x-intothevoid-x @qardasngan @signal-is-online @lumestar @nerrivm @httpstoyosi @hades1304 @fri3nd-buddy-pal @invinciblewaffles @lettucel0ver @emskryptonite @changYumi @kyriekurokami @loverofmenandcats @dia111lavillant @warmcookiepuff @chikenuggetrat @mooniewantstowrite @unclearblur @cheese-vikings @alphabetically-deranged @sugacor3 @Imagineadream @demigod-jack-hearth @raggabashie @ludovicachemblyn @hostilityghost @prongspower @koshox @zeena-the-fandom-fiend @kerosene-demon @sept3mberchild @misamisa
From the Start
from the start by laufey
pairing - jack abbot x reader
word count - 4.6k
summary - you're running the flower gram booth fundraiser. this poses a bit of an obstacle for jack.
a/n - medschool!jack abbot!!! awkward idiots in love!!! did i get the idea for this from an episode of bobs burgers? yes. but its rlly cute your honor. it took me so long to write this because my writers block has been BRUTAL and i kept starting and then scrapping stories before i got here. agh pls send in any requests it rlly helps, and im going to start cranking on the ones in my inbox!!! enjoy <3
---
“Shit! Shit!”
You flapped your hand madly to rid it of the sting the pruning had shears caused. You paused to examine it; blood was blooming along a thin, short slash mark, but it wouldn’t need more than a bandaid. Still, you thought grumpily, just another way to make your arduous valentines-carnation journey more unpleasant. God, you hated the stupid holiday.
It was against your wishes that your school’s chapter of the AMWA decided on doing a flower gram for the annual fundraiser, but alas, you were outvoted. And, stuck with no other option than to do what you do, you embraced the campaign one hundred percent. You were never good at half-assing things.
You had your pride, but it also left you with the responsibility of gathering one thousand red carnations and organizing a campus-wide exchange, ensuring delivery of flowers to the intended recipients.
It had taken you longer than you expected to find a place to sell you that many flowers wholesale. Then, of course, once you got your hands on them, there were the flowers themselves. They were obviously cut rather roughly, made for the hands of experienced florists to turn them into beautiful bouquets, but that was a far cry from you. You were an overworked, overtired year two medical student, desperate for this to go well and somewhat in over your head.
So you found yourself, a week from the fourteenth, sitting on the floor of your apartment, surrounded with heaps of stems, working feverishly into the night in a hope that all would be trimmed and somewhat presentable to be delivered by the deadline. As the clock struck twelve, you became a little more rushed, and a little less careful, as evidenced by your bleeding hand.
Still swearing like a sailor, you carefully stepped out of your petal nest and creaked your way towards the bathroom, joints snapping along the way. Your roommate, Chelsea, was brushing her teeth at the sink with a ginormous volume propped up on the faucet in front of her. As you ruffled through the drawers, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. You looked exhausted, if the bags under your eyes were anything to go by, and flyaways framed your droopy face in an odd crown. Chelsea didn’t look much better, a lawyer in training. You often lamented together about your inexplicable choice to put yourselves through more expensive and rigorous schooling.
“What’d you do?” asked Chelsea, muffled over the buzz of her toothbrush.
“Just a nick,” you said, finally locating and retrieving a box of Disney bandaids. “What the hell are you still doing up, Chels?”
Chelsea spit into the basin and turned on the tap, eyes not leaving the pages.
“I’m not up, I’m not up, I just wanted to finish this chapter,” she said. “What are you doing up? Can’t those fucking flowers wait another day? V-day isn’t until next Monday.”
“Yes, well, I have other commitments, believe it or not,” you said, slapping an iron man bandage on your finger.
“Actually, I don’t really,” said Chelsea, grabbing the floss. “You spent the whole weekend volunteering at a clinic, like a goddamn hero. And I know Jack asked you to come to his little friend’s housewarming party with him.”
You had been teased one too many times about Jack for your face to immediately heat like it used to, and you rolled your eyes.
“Not with him, just — you know, with him,” you said exasperatedly. “As a group thing.”
“You are so determined not to see that man’s crush on you,” said Chelsea.
Tired of your friend’s repeated attempts to make you see something that you were sure wasn’t there, you regurgitated your own repeated defenses.
“If he liked me, he would have asked me out ages ago,” you said. “I mean I’ve known the guy since our year one cadaver lab.”
“Aw, he’s just shy,” said Chelsea sweetly. “Cut him some slack!”
You huffed slightly and stalked back to your post on the living room floor.
“Goodnight, meddler!”
“Goodnight sweetums.”
What bothered you most about Chelsea’s pestering was that she acted as though you wouldn’t take the chance if offered to you. Well, the idea scared you slightly. You had never had a real relationship, never even a true fling, only messy, intoxicated hookups in bars and trucks. You were far too busy with school and work to be fussed much about boys.
Jack, though, you had to admit, was special. He was just as steadfast as you, however less fiery. He got good grades, and worked hard to achieve them. You’d never known him to drink or smoke more than the occasional party, similar to yourself, and he was often joining you in your role of designated driver. He understood your overzealous nature, though he didn’t copy it, and he never once dampened your spark. On the contrary, he seemed to admire it.
And he was just oh so pretty. Dark auburn curls, and a crooked smile, and let’s face it, pecs for days. You’d never really gotten over the group beach day your friends forced you to attend over break; he had glistened in the sun like a statue carved by Michelangelo.
But with all of that, he still seemed unaware of his own beauty. He blushed and stuttered when people flirted with him. You knew it spread all the way down his pale, freckled chest because there were a few lifeguards who had taken a liking to him that same day.
You picked up your shears again and resumed your chopping with a little more force.
Silly though it seemed, sure though you were that Jack held nothing more than friendly intentions for you, you had thought through the scenario on several occasions. If he asked you out, would you say yes? Surely he could only prove to be a distraction? But it was Jack, so perhaps not…
God, this was all Valentine’s Day’s fault. The stupid holiday had everyone feeling overly susceptible to harmful, heteronormative ideals blasting out at you from every advertisement, sign, decoration, and rom com displayed. You needed to ground yourself. The facts were that Jack was not going to ask you out, and you would never be tempted to say yes.
In the end, you only made it some halfway through your carnations before you were practically falling asleep right there on the rug, and you forced yourself to bed. After class the next morning, bright and early, you took up your station at the flower booth, placed in the very middle of the quad, with students rushing to and fro in a constant buzz.
You were bundled up against the wind, with two sweaters, a coat, a scarf, a wooly hat, and matching mittens that made it exceedingly difficult to set up your signs. They instructed the public that it was two dollars per carnation, five dollars if you wanted a fancy ribbon. Luckily, the ribbon responsibility fell to your co-organizer, Janice. One less thing to worry about, though you would have swapped her for the flowers any day.
“Need some help?” said a familiar voice.
You looked up, braced for the harsh wind, but found it blocked by Jack’s solid body. You couldn’t help but smile in return; his was warming you from the inside out.
“Thanks, Jack,” you sighed, sitting down at last while he fiddled with the plastic legs of your sign. “What are you doing out here?”
“Can’t I just want to visit you?” said Jack, and you told yourself the pink in his cheeks was from the cold.
“I guess,” you said, working hard to combat your widening smile.
“Can I sit?”
“Um, sure,” you said, waving a gloved hand. “Liz is never on time, anyways.”
He took the empty seat next to you, then shoved his red hands in his pockets. You allowed yourself exactly three seconds to admire his curls in the breeze, before you forced your head forward to face the front.
“So how’s it going out here?” he asked.
“Oh, it’s great,” you drawled sarcastically. “Yeah, I really love freezing my ass off so that people can come up and ask me dumb questions and never buy a flower. Do they not see the signs?”
Jack chuckled.
“Well, you know, charity and all.”
You hummed noncommittally.
“I just love how everyone who voted for the stupid idea magically became swamped when it came to organizing the damn thing,” you grumbled. “I should have done that.”
“You couldn’t possibly have,” said Jack, matter of factly.
“Yeah, you’re right,” you sighed. “Jesus, sometimes it’s exhausting being the way I am.”
“You’re better for it,” said Jack, so genuinely you had to avert your eyes.
You were distracted momentarily when a group of giggling freshmen approached the table, and one in the middle sheepishly asked for a carnation. They twittered away excitedly, and you slumped back with your stiff legs crossed. You shook your head. Jack looked fondly after them.
“I feel like I know how that one will turn out,” you said glumly, scribbling on your clipboard.
“Oh, come on, don’t you remember what it was like to be out on your own for the first time?” said Jack. “The first crush, or girlfriend you’d had when you didn’t need to ask your parent’s permission to go out?”
Your lips turned slightly down.
“Not really,” you said honestly. “I’ve never had many crushes. And when I did, they were never all consuming like that, never strong enough to pull me away from a night of studying.”
You glanced Jack’s way and found that he was already watching you, though upon being caught, he turned quickly to a lone dead leaf on the ground, crushing it with his shoe.
“So… do you — what are your Valentine’s plans?”
You could practically hear Chelsea in your head, but you shook her off.
“Well, I’m going to wander around res all day, delivering love carnations from a wagon,” you said in a monotonous voice, “and then I’m probably gonna go to the library and study for Ratliff’s. Which reminds me, I need to book a study room. Though I hardly think they’ll be in high demand on Valentine’s Day.”
“Yeah, right,” said Jack, scratching his cheek. “No, yeah, I should probably do the same. Um… mind if I join you? Next week, I mean?”
You’re brow furrowed, and you stared at the side of Jack’s curly head.
“You want to study the names and properties of medications with me… in the library… on Valentine’s Day?”
The ear you could see was quickly reddening. He coughed.
“Uh, yeah. I mean, I feel like no one else’ll be around — all my friends have dates, at least.”
“You don’t have a date?” you asked, accidentally aloud, and it was your turn to avert your eyes.
“No,” he said hurriedly. “Not unless you count all the alone time I spend with the Principles of Pharmacology.”
You chuckled lightly, heart picking up a bit. Spending the most romantic day of the year, alone, in a secluded library with a gorgeous guy sounded almost too good to be true. A little dangerous, even. But, you firmly reminded yourself, he was right. No one else would be around anyways, and you could quiz each other. And when your friends woke up the next morning with hangovers, you’d be waking up with a productive night of studying under your belt.
“Okay,” you said, and he grinned at you. “Sounds fun. I can stop by the library later today.”
“That’s okay, I’ll do it!” said Jack happily. “I’m headed that way anyway.”
“Alright,” you said, heart fluttering madly. “Oh, here comes Liz.”
Your friend and peer, with a head of curls not dissimilar to Jack’s but in a shade of darkest brown, was dragging her feet in your direction. There was an iced coffee in her hand, and sleep in her eyes. Jack immediately jumped up from her folding chair, and all she could offer him with her mouth around the straw was a nod of thanks.
“Liz, what the hell are you wearing?” you said sharply.
“A hoodie,” she said.
You shook your head, then began removing your jacket.
“Here you go,” you said, shoving it into Liz’s hands without waiting for permission.
“Babe, I don’t want —”
“Just take it, you stubborn asshole,” you said, sure that she would be moaning about the cold in ten minutes time, and wishing to avoid that all together.
Sighing like you were doing her a great disservice, she set down her drink and shrugged the coat over her shoulders.
Before you could make another move, another jacket was now being shoved, this time to you. Jack was standing in the courtyard in nothing but a crew with your university’s logo on it, no gloves, no hat, no scarf. You blinked.
“That’s okay, Jack.”
“But you’ll be cold without a coat.”
“I’ve got two sweaters on, I’ll be fine.”
“Please just take it, I’ll be inside anyways —”
“Yeah, don’t be a stubborn asshole,” quipped Liz with a grin around her straw.
Sending her a glare, and Jack a shy smile, you pulled on his puffy coat. You were suddenly overwhelmed with the scent of him, and it was all you could do not to stick your nose into the collar and inhale deeply. Only when it was zipped all the way up did Jack look satisfied.
“Thank you,” you said in a small voice.
“No problem,” said Jack. He wasn’t shivering, but his cheeks were turning rather pink again. “Um, I’ll see you Thursday, for the patho study group?”
You nodded, and he smiled again, and disappeared into the crowd. You could feel Liz’s eyes on you, but were spared a confrontation by the approach of a student.
It was a pretty good day for the booth. You got to see Chelsea come to order some flowers for her girlfriend, Tara, then saw Tara later that day to do just the same for Chelsea. There were a couple guys you recognized and were sure they were only sending flowers to dates to increase their chances of sex. A young, and rather brazen girl, who boldly addressed a red carnation to a professor, which technically there was no rule against, though you made a mental note to ask your advisor about it later.
You left around two for a class, and when you got back, Liz was happily reporting the day’s haul as close to five hundred dollars raised. All in all, it wasn’t so bad. The booth did pretty well, and you actually got some studying done at the table.
As the week progressed, flower sales steadily grew and your locked tin box of money was filling up. It meant great things for the association, and helped you accept that maybe, despite the injuries to your fingers and lower back, the hours slaved over the flowers were worth it.
You also kept getting preoccupied by your not-date with Jack, which was drawing ever nearer. You didn’t dare breathe a word of it to any of your friends, especially your despicable roommate, who already had a thirty minute freakout when you walked through the door wearing his coat. You knew that if you confided in her, she’d go overboard and get in your head.
At the Thursday study group, the combination of handing back said coat to its original owner, plus his confirmation of the study room number for Monday, caused some more suspicious looks. Fortunately, Chelsea didn’t tend to run in the same circles, being of a different major, so you weren’t subjected to her preaching.
On Monday, after class, you were needed back at the apartment to help her pick out the perfect Valentine’s outfit. Then the two of you parted ways on the street. Chelsea off to her date, and you off to the library.
You got to the room before Jack did. You compulsively checked the sign up sheet outside the door, but you weren’t surprised to see it, and the rest of the library, almost totally empty that night.
You set up your books, index cards, notebooks, and pencil case, while trying hard not to pick over your outfit. After hours of agonizing, far more agonizing than Chelsea had spared, you had rested on your regular jeans and a zip up hoodie. Cute, comfy, and most importantly, casual. Still, your mind was running over hundreds of scenarios in which Jack in some way, shape, or form, disapproved of this outfit. Ridiculous, you reminded yourself.
You tried to focus on pharm. Which main infections are treated by Penicillin G? You tapped your pencil against your notebook, thinking. Strep, definitely, and meningitis… but beyond that you were drawing a blank. You glanced out of the window, but you couldn’t see anyone else in the library.
Focus. Strep, meningitis, pneumonia, gonorrhea…
Maybe he changed his mind, and he found a date last minute. There might be a message waiting on your machine back at the apartment right that second.
You rested your forehead in your hand, hunching over your notes, trying not to glance at the door every five seconds. Strep, meningitis, pneumonia…
But you know what? Screw him if he was going to bail. Kinda shitty, not too crazy, though, for friends. Acquaintances, even. Maybe you were never really as close as you had thought, maybe you were reading into everything because of your stupid, school girl crush. No matter. Since he was just your friend-slash-acquaintance, it wasn’t that big of a blow. You weren’t about to miss out on your studying. It didn’t bother you…
Suddenly, the door burst open, and in came Jack. He was slightly winded, as though he had been running, the tips of his ears and nose pink with cold. He looked a little anxious, and he straightened up awkwardly, with one hand on the silver handle, and one bent behind his back.
“Sorry I’m late!” he panted. “I — I got… caught up…”
He trailed off, looking worried. You glanced at your watch: it was only two minutes past your agreed upon meeting time.
“You’re not late,” you dismissed, “I just get everywhere early.”
“I know! That’s why I wanted to — um, I just didn’t account for…”
He trailed off strangely again, and stepped into the room. He kept his back squarely to the wall, shuffling inside like a crab so as not to reveal to you whatever he was attempting to conceal. As you took him in, you realized he was dressed nicely, definitely nicer than you. He wore jeans, but not his usual, everyday jean with the holes and fading — these were dark wash, and they looked new. On his top he wore a button down, nothing too dressy, but certainly a step up from the usual college attire of t-shirts and hoodies.
This display made you confused; insecure though you now were that your fears of underdressing seemed to be true, you couldn’t help but enjoy his appearance. Most of the time you saw each other, it was under a haze of exhaustion and stress. This was new.
You fiddled with the sleeve of your sweatshirt, unsure whether or not to break the brief silence. Eventually, you decided you should.
“So — do you wanna sit? I can quiz you,” you said briskly, defaulting to your comfortable business tone. “I was just going over antibiotics, but I also wanted to review muscarinic agonists and antagonists.”
He didn’t budge. In fact, it appeared as though his body was tensing more every second. His face turned from pink to deep ruby red, spreading past his cheeks, down his neck, and you knew, despite not being able to see, down his chest. Just that thought had you heating up a bit too.
“Right,” he said. “Yes.”
Unable to handle the tension, you blurted out the first thing on your mind.
“Are you gonna show me what’s behind your back, or are you gonna stand like this all night?”
You hadn’t thought it possible, but his blush deepened even more, and you regretted the bluntness of your words. He visibly swallowed, staring at the floor like he would very much like to sink into it.
You looked away too, hoping perhaps to take some pressure off of him. Your eyes landed randomly on a bit of orange peel someone had left behind. You didn’t even have the time to be annoyed that someone had been sneaking snacks in the library, before there was a rustling and movement out of your peripherals.
Your eyes widened as you looked up and were faced with a large, truly gorgeous bouquet. It was clearly professionally done, beautifully spaced with mainly lilies and tulips, and spotted here and there with sage and little tiny daisies.
Unable to tear your eyes away from the bunch, you muttered, “is this for me?”
“Um, yeah,” he said nervously, letting you take the bouquet carefully, like he was desperate not to let any of his skin touch yours. “I — I wanted to get you carnations, but I couldn’t very well order them from you, that would kinda be counterproductive — besides, I know you don’t even like them —”
You finally broke away from the flowers to look into his cherry-red face.
“How do you know that?”
He blinked.
“You said so,” he said sheepishly.
“I did?” you said faintly, racking your brains.
A hand moved to the back of his neck, and he turned to face the ground so much so that all you could see was the top of his head and the tips of his maroon ears.
“At the start of the semester,” he said quietly, so quietly you had to strain your ears. “When the fundraiser was chosen.”
You remembered then, with his prompting. You had been sitting in the library, complaining loudly with Chelsea and some other friends.
“I mean, can we please be practical?” you had spat. “Flowers are messy, they wilt, they die, they’re expensive.”
“Use fake flowers,” supplied Chelsea.
“That would be disgusting,” you said. “I couldn’t possibly expect anyone to pay money for a plastic flower.”
“Okay, use real ones, then,” said Chelsea.
You groaned dramatically, attacking the calculator you were supposed to be using for dosage calculations.
“Why couldn’t we use, like, candy canes, or something? They do that in Mean Girls!”
“Because that was for Christmas, this is Valentine’s Day,” said your friend Bree. “There’s nothing lovey-dovey about candy canes.”
“I’d still rather get a candy cane then a fucking carnation,” you said. “That’s another thing stupid about this! Carnations! They’re such a boring flower. And red? I mean, be original.”
“People don’t want originality, they want classic romance,” said Sarah.
“I think lilies or tulips would be classic!” you argued. “Classic, familiar, but more elegant. I’m telling you, if everyone just did what I said, we’d have no problems left in the world.”
You were shocked that he recalled that. He had been there, but you didn’t think he’d been listening. He was buried in work, reading a textbook; you didn't know he’d even been aware of that conversation. But he had not only been listening, he’d carried the information, such inconsequential information, for almost a month.
You wanted to tell him how much you loved them, see that easy smile spread across his cheeks, but you seemed too shocked to find the words. You just stared between him and the bouquet, speechless, not that he was looking to notice. At your lack of response, he spoke again.
“I know it’s stupid,” he said. “I’m sorry, I mean, you don’t even have like a — like a vase, or anything, to put them in, and what are you gonna do, hold this massive bouquet when you’re trying to study? I probably should have just brought them to your apartment, huh? But then — I guess showing up on the doorstep with a bouquet is a little too forward — or old-fashioned — or maybe this whole idea was old-fashioned —”
You had seen him flustered on many occasions, where he’d blush, look away, and press on. This was different… you hardly recognized this stammering, jittery mess of nerves before you. It was honestly a good look on him.
“Jack,” you interrupted him, and he quieted at once. “I love the flowers.”
He let out a harrowed breath, looking at least somewhat relieved. His arm fell, though his hands met behind his back and you were pretty sure they were twisting with anxiety.
“Really? I tried to get anemones, I know you love the ones outside the gym, but they didn’t have any at the shop,” he breathed.
“Is that why you were late?” you asked. “You were getting me flowers?”
He nodded regretfully.
You raised your flowers to get a proper whiff of the dreamy aroma. Then, again, with apparent loss of your filter, “Why?”
He struggled for a second.
“I — I guess I —” he cleared his throat, shuffling his feet. “I didn’t want you to go without flowers on Valentine’s Day, just because you were the only one dedicated enough to run the booth.”
You smiled.
“That’s… very nice,” you said, taken aback. “But I feel like I should tell you, working a booth or not, I’ve never gotten Valentine’s flowers.”
“All the more reason,” he said.
You admired them for a few more minutes, while he admired you outside the scope of your vision, then you asked another question.
“What did you mean, ‘too forward’?”
“Huh?”
“Before, you said showing up on my doorstep would be ‘too forward’,” you explained. “Too forward for what?”
What little color he’d lost upon your assurance that you liked his gift came rushing back at that. You saw him glance at the window and then the door, as though hoping someone would come in and save him from your query. When no one did, he took a deep breath, as though steeling himself.
“I was thinking that maybe — if you had the time, of course, and if you had any interest whatsoever — maybe you might want to… go out? With me?”
Your heart, suspiciously tame up until that point, suddenly made itself known, galloping against your chest with a million times its usual power. You brought your bouquet up towards your face again, partially for the calming scent, partially to hide your face.
Jack Abbot was asking you out. Jack. Abbot. In front of you, hands tied, face red. Asking. You. Out. Chelsea’s voice was once again in your head, now screaming I TOLD YOU SO!
Just as Jack opened his mouth, perhaps to take it all back, you spoke.
“Okay, Jack.”
He took a step closer.
“Okay?”
“Okay, I’ll go out with you. I’d love to go out with you.”
You thought he might have melted right down to the floor, the way the tension left his bones. Finally, that favorite smile of yours spread across his glowing face. You matched it.
“I’d invite you over now,” you said, “but I promised Chelsea I’d be out of the apartment until at least eleven.”
“That’s okay,” he said cheerily. “We should really get some studying done, right?”
“Right,” you said giddily as he unpacked his bag, though you really didn’t want to release your lovely gift to hold a pencil.
As you were figuring out how to balance it in the crook of your nondominant arm, yet another thought struck you. If Chelsea was right… all those times, starting over a year ago, she nudged your shoulder, or sent you a look…
You glanced over at Jack as he pulled out the Principles of Pharmacology, and decided you wouldn’t prod him for a timeline. Because perhaps if you did, you’d have to admit that for as long as he’d been waiting to ask you out, you’d been waiting to say yes.
---
requests open!
masterlist
08/17/2025
It's a matcha latte and disorders of fatty acid metabolism kind of morning
Science side of Tumblr PLEASE share your tips/advice/hacks for academic conferences!
Im attending my first academic conference in a couple weeks and I’d appreciate anything you’d like to share with a lil baby bio undergrad like me
12/29/2025
Cozy winter nights <3