#hallow!requests

The room is quiet—comfortably so, in that particular way only Abby can manage. Manny's out with one of his friends, probably drowning themselves in cheap tequila and calling it strategic numbing, which leaves the dorm peacefully still, just the two of you wrapped up in each other.

Abby’s arm is draped protectively around your waist, her hand resting over your breast like it belongs there—like it’s the only place it ever wants to be.

You wouldn’t dream of complaining. Her breath grazes the back of your neck, slow and steady, and the press of her knee between your thighs does nothing to soothe the growing heat pooling low in your belly.

What finally pulls Abby from her doze is the quiet sound that escapes you—a soft, needy little whimper, laced with desperation. She doesn’t need to open her eyes to know what’s happening.

She feels the way your heartbeat stutters against her arm, pounding like it’s trying to escape your ribcage.

Then, her hand begins to move.

Fingers slide from your chest to your stomach, teasing the hem of your shirt before slipping beneath it. They trace warm patterns over your skin, deliberate and slow, before gliding lower, until she’s pressing her palm against the heat of your clothed core.

A soft, shaky moan slips past your lips.

Abby breathes a quiet laugh against your skin, her lips brushing your shoulder.

“There she is,” she murmurs, voice husky with affection and mischief. Her fingers start to move, slow and certain, caressing over your clothed pussy like she has all the time in the world.

“Abby…” you whisper, voice shaky as her fingers trace slow, deliberate circles over your clothed core. The pressure is maddening—precise, patient, and pulsing with promise.

She presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the back of your neck, her breath damp and warm against your skin.

“I got you, baby,” she murmurs, her voice low and raspy, like gravel smoothed by silk. “Just let it happen.”

The way she says it, all hushed and certain, sends a fresh wave of heat rushing through you.

“Please,” you breathe, barely audible, but Abby hears it like a call to arms. She doesn’t hesitate.

With a slow, fluid motion, she shifts behind you, sliding out of her cocoon of warmth. Her thighs slot on either side of yours, bracketing you, and in the dim light you can just make out the soft definition of her face as she leans over you. Her arms brace on either side of your head, her presence overwhelming in the best way.

And then, without another word, she lowers herself and kisses you.

It’s deep—wet, consuming. Tongues tangle, teeth graze, and you lose yourself in the heat of her mouth.

One of your hands flies up to grip her waist, grounding yourself in the solid curve of her body. A low, raw sound leaves her throat when your hips buck up, brushing against hers in a burst of friction that makes your breath catch.

“Fuck… baby, hold up.” She pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you. Her hands come up to cradle your face, thumbs gentle on your cheeks. Her breath is shallow, just like yours, and you search her eyes through the haze.

“What?” you whisper, lips still brushing hers.

She swallows, steadying herself.

“We’ll go slow,” she promises, voice softer now. “I want to make this good for you. Really good.”

You nod—dazed, breathless, overwhelmed—and she exhales like that tiny confirmation settled something inside her.

Then her voice drops again, a little more hesitant this time.

“Are you sure you want this… with me?” Her thumb brushes lightly over your cheek, featherlight and reverent.

Your answer is immediate, unwavering. “I wouldn’t want anyone else to have my first time.”

Whatever tension lingered in her shoulders melts in that instant. And before she can say anything else, you lift your head and kiss her like it’s the only thing that makes sense.

She moans softly against your mouth, one hand sliding to cradle the back of your head.

You curl your fingers into the fabric of her shirt, pulling her closer, as her hips press down and your bodies align in a way that makes your toes curl.

Then, as tongue brushes tongue and low soft whimpers leave you, Abby slides her hand down your belly and past the waistband of your sweatpants - her hand cups your cunt and a soft breath leaves you.

Abby breaks the kiss to watch you, her eyes stay focused on your face, tracing every twitch and gasp.

“You say stop and I'll stop.” She whispers it like a vow and all you manage is a nod.

Abby doesn’t look away as her middle finger slowly brushes over you folds, a low groan leaves her. “Jesus, you’re dripping. All for me, huh?” Your voice fails you as her finger slowly but surely intrudes your already aching cunt. A gasp rips from your throat as she pushes it in all the way, knuckle deep.

“It’s okay, you’re okay. You’re doing so good, baby.” Abby whispers gently and cups one of your breasts with the other hand. Then, she starts moving - her finger glides in and out of your glistening cunt and the other toys ever so gently with your tit - her thumb brushes over your nipple.

You’re reduced to jerking hips, desperate moans and fingers clawing at Abby’s arms. She watches you like she’s seeing something holy. “God, you’re so beautiful.” She mumbles as she keeps her pace. Then, she brushes her thumb over your clit with every thrust and your toes curl with the inevitable heat curling tight in your lower belly.

“Abby, Abby…I’m gonna.” You manage to croak through gasps and moans and Abby hums softly, picking up her pace.

“Poor baby…s’ too much?” She pinches your nipple gently and draws yet another whimper from you.

“Please..fuck..I’m gonna..” You croak as your hips jerk with the sheer overwhelming pleasure.

“Then come for me, sweet girl.” She mumbles as presses a wet hot kiss to your jaw, her finger moves a tad faster and you could swear that you’re seeing stars. It doesn’t take long for your body to jerk, your voice to break off when a throaty moan leaves you - Abby doesn’t lose up though. She keeps going, relentlessly.

“Atta girl…that’s it.” She whispers into your ear as you ride your high out.

You’re all crammed into Dina’s apartment—some shitty couch, a couple floor cushions, an overturned laundry basket being used as a table.

Music low, drinks half-finished, someone’s passed out in the corner with a blanket that definitely smells like weed and regret.

And Ellie? Ellie’s on the floor, back against your knees, launching into the most insane rant you’ve ever heard.

“…I’m just saying,” she says, hand flailing with a cheeto between her fingers, “If birds wanted to be evil, they totally could. Like, they’ve got flight and hollow bones and talons. You ever seen a goose, man? Those things are demonic.”

The room is silent for half a beat.

“Anyway,” she adds, like she’s just delivered a TED Talk, “that’s why I never trust anything with wings and an attitude.”

Jesse blinks slowly. “Dude, what the fuck?”

But you?

You’re grinning. Fingers carding through Ellie’s hair absently, like you love hearing her unhinged theories about avian world domination. You lean down a little and whisper near her ear, “so… if I wore wings, would you be scared of me?”

Ellie’s neck goes red in an instant. “What—no—wait—maybe? I mean, not in a bad way! Like, in a cool, terrifying, kinda hot way—”

“Jesus Christ,” Jesse mutters. “She’s in love.”

“She’s doomed,” Dina adds, sipping from her beer.

But Ellie’s barely listening—because she’s twisted halfway around to look up at you, and you’re still smiling at her, still stroking her hair, still looking at her like she’s the smartest, funniest person alive.

And she’s melting.

“You’re, like…” she breathes, squinting. “Really pretty.”

You blink, caught off guard for half a second.

“…Thanks, babe.”

“No, like. Really. It’s a problem. You’re smiling at me and I forget how words work. And my brain just goes: pretty. smile. girlfriend. And then there’s just static up here.”

She taps her forehead with two fingers, completely serious.

And you just laugh—soft and sweet—and lean down to press a kiss to her temple.

The room erupts.

“OH MY GOD,” Jesse groans, falling back on the couch like he’s been shot. “How the hell did Ellie pull her?”

“I feel like I’m watching a golden retriever date a goddess,” Dina mutters. “It’s disturbing.”

Ellie turns scarlet, burying her face in your thigh. “Don’t listen to them,” she mumbles. “They’re just jealous.”

You smile down at her, hand curling under her chin to tilt her up again.

“I think you’re perfect.”

Ellie malfunctions. Fully. Stares at you with big, round eyes like you just offered to marry her on the spot.

She mouths perfect? like she’s never heard the word before.

And all you do is nod.

Because you mean it.

Ellie’s still staring up at you, stunned, her face half-buried in your thigh. Everyone else has moved on to another round of some dumb card game Jesse’s pitching, but she’s still stock-still.

You called her perfect.

Her. Ellie “accidentally-walked-into-the-wrong-classroom-and-sat-there-for-40-minutes” Williams. Ellie who once used a sock to hold her blunt ‘cause she lost her lighter and burned her thumb last time. Perfect.

“You good, babe?” you murmur, hand gently brushing her cheek.

She blinks. “Yeah. Yeah, no, I’m chill. Totally chill. Just, y’know, experiencing a full emotional reboot. It’s fine.”

You giggle and press another kiss to the top of her head, and she whines softly into your leg like she can’t handle the affection.

Eventually, someone mentions it’s past one, and the room starts to empty out. You tug Ellie up by her hoodie strings, and she stands like she’s been resurrected, slinging her bag over her shoulder and mumbling something about “walking you back.”

Outside, it’s cool and quiet. The kind of early campus stillness where every window glows soft yellow and the street lamps flicker like they’re just as tired as the students.

You lace your fingers through hers, and she tenses for half a second before relaxing—then squeezing back.

She glances sideways at you. “So. Uh. I meant to ask. That thing you said back there—was that, like, real? Or were you just saying it ‘cause I said your smile makes my brain explode?”

You stop walking and tug her back a little, fingers still locked. “You mean the perfect thing?”

Her whole face goes red again. “That’s the one.”

You shrug, playful. “Guess you’ll have to get used to hearing it.”

She stares. “You’re gonna kill me. You’re actually gonna kill me. Death by girlfriend compliment. Local lesbian found deceased on sorority row sidewalk.”

You grin. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m in love,” she says immediately, too fast, too much. And then realizes, slapping a hand over her mouth.

“Oh my god, ignore that, that was—that slipped out, I didn’t mean to—well I did, but I didn’t mean to say it, not like that, I was gonna wait ‘til, like, Valentine’s Day or a meteor shower or something cool—”

You stop her with a kiss. Gentle. Quick. Just enough to make her forget what planet she’s on.

When you pull back, she’s blinking, dazed. “…was that a good kiss or a ‘shut up, loser’ kiss?”

You smile. “Both.”

She huffs. “Rude.”

But you’re smiling at her with that look again—the one that says she’s yours, chaos and all—and she leans in close, bumping her forehead to yours.

“I meant it,” she mumbles. “Even if it was an accidental I-love-you. I do.”

You tilt your head, whisper back, “Me too.”

Ellie practically floats the rest of the way to your dorm. You part with another kiss, and she’s halfway down the hall before she turns around, walking backward and beaming.

“You still think I’m perfect?”

You laugh. “I think you’re mine.”

And that’s all it takes. Ellie bolts out of sight before you see the way she pumps her fist in the air, quietly muttering, “holy shit, holy shit, I have the best girlfriend on earth.”

She’s standing in the middle of her room. Hoodie still half-on, phone gripped like it’s both her lifeline and her greatest threat.

Her cat’s staring up at her from the bed, judgmental as hell.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she mutters, flopping onto the mattress. “You didn’t see her. She said I’m hers. I had no choice but to fall apart.”

The cat blinks.

Ellie’s phone buzzes.

[You]: made it back okay? [You]: you looked like you were floating

She groans, punches her pillow a little, and then types back:

[Ellie]: i was not floating [Ellie]: i am very grounded. like a normal person. a grounded, non-floating person who is extremely chill and not thinking about your lips at all.

Immediate regret.

She throws the phone face down on the bed.

The cat meows. “I panicked, okay?”

Buzz.

[You]: you’re so dumb. i’m smiling so hard it hurts [You]: love you, loser. goodnight.

Ellie clutches her phone to her chest and lets out a long, dreamy “fuck.”

The warehouse is chaos—raw, unrelenting chaos. Shouts echo like thunder, bullets tear through the air with vicious precision, and the acrid scent of gunpowder clings to your lungs.

You dive behind a rusted cart just in time, the metal shrieking as a bullet ricochets off its edge. Gritting your teeth, you cock your weapon with a sharp snap, a curse slipping through your lips. Your knee screams in protest, but you barely feel it. Not now.

And then you see her.

Sevika charges forward like a lioness unleashed, metal arm gleaming under flickering lights, raised high with fury and purpose. She’s a storm in motion—deadly, beautiful, unstoppable.

Your breath catches. Even in the thick of battle, when death feels like a coin toss, she’s here. She’s with you. And for a second, just a second, your heart forgets how to be afraid.

You pull in a shaky breath and rise, gun steady, eyes locked on your next target. He lunges, wild-eyed, swinging a pipe, but you duck low and fire—once, clean through the chest. He drops, and you’re moving again, adrenaline pumping, instinct guiding your every step.

A blur rushes past—one of your own, machete raised high—and you seize the opening to fire three quick shots into the enemy's flank. Screams mix with gunfire, but your eyes—your heart—search for her again.

And there she is.

Sevika, blood splattered across her face like war paint, her chest heaving, eyes alight with a fire you’ve only ever seen in your dreams. She’s chaos incarnate, and yet, somehow, the only thing that feels real.

But then— A shadow. A shape. Movement near the crates.

A massive figure rises from the smoke, his gun aimed straight at you. You freeze for half a heartbeat—but Sevika doesn’t.

Your eyes lock for a single breath. A lifetime lives in that glance. Words you’ve never spoken. Things you’ve never dared to feel.

And then she moves.

Faster than your mind can process, she throws herself forward—between you and the bullet. Her body slams into yours, knocking you back just as the shot rings out. The sound is deafening.

You see it before you feel it—the way her body jerks, the way she crumples to the floor, lifeless and heavy.

Your lungs forget how to work.

“No... no, no no—”

You don’t remember moving. One second she’s falling, the next you’re beside her, dragging her limp form behind cover with trembling hands. She’s dead weight—unconscious, maybe worse—and your vision blurs with panic.

“You idiot,” you breathe, voice cracking as your fingers search desperately for the wound, hot blood soaking your palms. “You stupid idiot—why would you take a bullet for me?”

Her blood coats your hands, thick and warm, and you press hard against the gash along her ribs.

“You’re not supposed to—this wasn’t supposed to happen,” you whisper, voice barely holding itself together. “Not you.”

The warehouse noise dims, the fight waning in the distance, but all you can hear is the wild, uneven beat of your own heart.

“Don’t you dare die on me,” you plead, eyes blurring. “I love you, Sevika. Do you hear me? I—God, I love you. So stay with me. Please.”

You don’t expect an answer. You’re rambling to the void, to the blood-slick shadow of the woman who’s haunted your every thought.

But then— A breath. A voice. Fragile, like glass cracking.

“Love me?”

It’s barely audible, but it hits you like another bullet. Her eyes flutter open, heavy-lidded and hazy, and your chest caves with relief.

“I do,” you whisper, raw and real. “Yes.”

And when her fingers—slick with her blood—find yours in a weak, trembling grasp, you know.

You barely register the shift in the air before it happens.

A guy—some washed-up varsity asshole reeking of cheap beer and bad decisions—sidles up behind you just as you’re reaching for a soda. His laugh is a wet, slurred thing in your ear as he leans in too close.

“Hey, cheerleader," he drawls, breath hot against your skin. "Bet you taste as sweet as you look.”

Your stomach turns. You wrinkle your nose and sidestep, voice flat. “Yeah, no thanks.”

But he doesn't listen.

A hand clamps around your waist—too rough, too familiar—fingers digging into your side like he owns a piece of you.

And then—he’s gone.

It happens so fast you almost miss it: a blur of ripped black denim and smeared eyeliner, and then Natalie’s slamming him into the fridge hard enough to make the magnets jump.

“Get your fucking hands off her!” she roars, voice slicing through the thumping bass like a blade.

The whole party seems to stutter around you. Heads snap toward the kitchen. The music falters, then cuts out entirely, leaving a ragged silence that hums against your skin.

The guy tries to shove her off—stupid move. Natalie just snarls and drives her fist into his shirtfront, cocking her arm like she’s ready to break his jaw next.

Shauna’s already moving, grabbing for Natalie’s swinging arm, and you dive in too, wedging yourself between them, hands firm on Nat’s shoulders.

“Natalie!” you hiss, dragging her back. “Nat, it’s fine! I'm fine!”

But she’s not hearing you—her eyes are blown wide with fury, chest heaving like she’s still mid-hunt.

It takes both you and Shauna hauling her backwards, bracing against her thrashing, before she finally stumbles a step away from him.

The guy’s on the floor now, scrambling back, eyes blown wide with something that finally, finally looks like fear.

Natalie’s still shaking, still burning, as she spits, low and deadly, “Touch her again, and I’ll fucking gut you.”

Silence crashes down hard.

You turn her toward you, cupping her face between your palms, forcing her to see you—to feel you. “Hey,” you breathe. “I’m okay. Baby. I’m right here.”

For a moment, she’s still wired, muscles locked tight. Then—slowly—she softens under your hands, enough to clutch at your waist like she’s anchoring herself to you, grounding herself in something real.

“He touched you,” she grits out, like it’s the only thing that matters.

“I know,” you whisper, leaning in close. “But you got me, Nat. You always do.”

A beat passes, thick and heavy.

Then her forehead drops against yours, and her voice—rough and raw—slips out like a vow.

“No one touches what’s mine.” You can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips, even as your heart hammers in your chest.

Her bleached hair falls in messy waves, framing her face like some kind of crooked halo. She nudges your knee again, a little firmer this time, pulling you out of your daze.

“The lighter, airhead.” Her voice is amused, teasing, warm.

You blink, like you’re waking up, and fumble to hand her the battered Zippo. She flicks it open with practiced ease, the small flame flaring to life. For a brief moment, the soft glow dances across her face like a dying sunset, casting golden edges on her sharp features.

God, she’s beautiful.

You try not to stare too long as she lights the blunt, but it’s hard not to when she looks like that — all edge and smoke and moonlight.

She holds it out to you without a word, and you take it, fingers brushing hers. The smoke curls from her lips like a phantom, pale and weightless, catching in the cool night air.

“You’re quiet,” she says, eyebrow cocked as she watches you. “Quieter than normal.”

You don’t answer right away. Just lift the blunt to your lips, take a slow hit, and hold it in. Let the smoke—and the question—linger for a while.

“Dad’s being overbearing again,” you finally say, the words heavy even in the hush of the night. You pause, searching for the right way to say it. “Travis and him were going at it again this morning. Yelling, slamming doors… I left before it got worse.”

You glance at her, expecting maybe a sigh or a sympathetic look, but Nat just takes the blunt back with that same calm detachment.

You catch the haze in her eyes — not just from the weed. There’s something else there, something soft and unspoken.

“They’re not here now.” Her voice is low, edged with smoke and something almost tender.

That’s the thing about Nat. She never pities you. She doesn’t try to wrap your pain in sugar or offer empty promises. She knows better. Life’s messy. People are mean. Fathers are complicated.

She just sits with you in it. Offers you a blunt, a moment of quiet, a night away from the noise. A distraction, maybe.

But it feels like peace.

Her gaze flickers back to you, slow and a little glazed, but you don’t mind. You probably look just the same — eyes half-lidded, limbs loose, thoughts drifting somewhere between her and the smoke.

“I could take your mind off things,” she offers, voice low and velvet-smooth as she takes another hit.

You watch the smoke pour from her lips in a slow, ghostly curl, and for a heartbeat your pulse skips. That voice of hers never promises anything sane — or remotely appropriate.

You tilt your head, raising a brow in lazy amusement. “How?” you manage, barely above a whisper.

Nat doesn’t answer with words right away. She hands you the blunt again and slides a little closer, her thigh brushing against yours. The warmth of her settles into your skin, and then her hand — god, her hand — lands gently on your knee, fingers curling like they’ve always belonged there.

Your breath catches.

“Lemme show you,” she murmurs, her voice thick, edged with smoke and something deeper.

Her tongue slips out to wet her lips and you watch, helpless. You swallow, hard, the air suddenly feeling too warm. You don’t move — won’t dare to — afraid that if you do, the spell might break and she’ll vanish like the smoke between you.

She leans in slowly, deliberately. The blunt now sits forgotten, propped beside the zippo. All that matters is the way her breath ghosts across your face, warm and intoxicating.

“Nat…” you whisper, hoarse and unsure if it’s admiration or desire that’s got your voice shaking. Probably both.

Her hand comes up, cradling your cheek, and you swear you let out the softest sound — a helpless, aching little thing — but you’re too focused on her to care. You’re looking at her like she’s gravity and you’re losing the will to fight it.

“Are you sure?” you ask again, voice small. Hopeful. Terrified.

Nat huffs out a quiet laugh, and her breath dances across your lips, scorching and sweet. “So fucking sure,” she whispers — and then she’s kissing you.

It’s uncoordinated, a little messy — her tongue finds your mouth too fast, too hungry — but you’re not complaining. Not even close.

She tastes like summer nights and trouble. Like the kind of distraction you don’t just want — but need.

And for the first time all day, your mind goes completely, blissfully quiet.

You break apart with a breathless giggle, foreheads resting gently together, your noses almost brushing. You steal another quick peck — just to hear that sweet little laugh spill from her lips. It had been a messy kiss, unpolished and far from perfect, but it was perfectly you and Nat.

“You still thinking about your dad?” she murmurs, her words feather-soft against your mouth. One hand comes up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that makes your chest ache in the best way.

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. “Nope. I think you rewired my brain.”

Nat grins, her eyes crinkling as she plants another kiss to your lips — quick, playful. “That’s not the weed talking?” she teases.

You nudge her with your elbow, mock-offended, but there’s no real bite to it — just warmth. Pure, golden fondness.

“God, I love getting high with you,” you mumble as you nuzzle her, your nose brushing hers.