#dibby

Abby hadn’t meant to come out.

She’d said the same thing every week—nah, I’m good, maybe next time—but halloween night the rugby girls had laughed and dragged her anyway.

The house was one of those off-campus rentals that smelled like last semester: sticky floors and too-sweet drinks, the porch sagging under a line of carved pumpkins collapsing inward.

Inside, the bass turned the drywall into a chest cavity. People were already sweating through their costumes. She’d thrown on black jeans and a flannel and let Nora smear a thumb of charcoal under each eye.

“There,” Nora had said, pleased. “Spooky biceps.”

Abby posted up on the kitchen threshold because it had a wall she could lean on and a door she could stand near. She held a cup she didn’t drink. It gave her hands a purpose.

The party did what parties do: split and recombine, conversations fracturing, bodies pinballing from room to room. She could be useful in a scrum. Here she felt too much and not enough at the same time.

She saw the red hair first.

Short, sharp, glitter clinging to the edges like dust from a comet. Not a costume. A band shirt soft with years, black jeans torn at the knees, boots unlaced like she’d already decided how the night would end.

Ellie. 

Abby knew of her, the way you learn a face without a name because it keeps appearing where you are: the coffee shop on Park Ave, hunched over a notebook; the art building steps, mouth set around a stubborn thought; the library stacks, green eyes catching the fluorescent like crushed glass.

Seeing her here hit like realizing you’d been bracing for bad weather and got the first cold drop.

Abby told herself not to stare. Staring got you noticed, and being noticed meant you had to do something with it. She took a slow sip of warm beer and made the mistake of looking again.

Another girl came up behind the redhead—Dina—the one Abby had clocked before with the same quiet certainty. Dark curls, warm skin that glowed even in bad house lighting, eyes the color of old wood. She moved like someone who trusted the ground.

Dina lifted a hand and ran it through the short hair once, twice, then made a fist and drew the head back in a small perfect line that bared the throat.

The motion was gentle and it wasn’t.

Music swallowed whatever sound Ellie made, but Abby could feel it anyway, the way a struck string can hum against your own ribs. A shirt collar shifted. Underneath, at the hollow of the throat, a circle of metal flashed—silver O-ring, leather dark as a bruise.

Anyone else would have taken it for a Halloween prop, some part of a half-assed punk outfit. Abby knew better. 

Her lungs forgot how to open. The want was so sharp it felt like anger. She looked away because she had to, caught her reflection in the microwave door—too tall, too much, shoulders hunched to make herself smaller—and felt late to a language her body had been speaking for years.

It didn’t matter. Every time she blinked, the image reprinted itself: the slight tilt of Ellie’s head, the private bend of Dina’s mouth toward her ear, the flush traveling the column of her throat.

What would she do next? Where would her hand go? How would she praise her? 

The questions swarmed until Abby’s grip on the plastic cup went white at the crease.

Her teammates shriek-laughed their way past and caught her in the undertow toward the living room, where the speakers vibrated like a second heart. She let them have her, let motion do what language couldn’t. The strobe washed everyone into masks: open mouths, thrown heads, hands on hips that weren’t theirs.

Later, when Abby looked up from the floor, her eyes caught and snagged on the couch. 

Ellie half under Dina’s arm. A joint passing. Smoke turning the light into something you could swim through.

Ellie tipped her head back for a slow inhale, then found Abby over the rim of the room as she exhaled—eye contact that held and held until Ellie leaned to say something into Dina’s hair. Dina lifted her head and looked straight at Abby, and whatever she saw there didn’t make her look away.

Abby did. She stared at the scuffed floor and told herself to be a person who could be normal. She failed.

Then a touch landed at her wrist: cool fingers, a pulse under skin that wasn’t hers. She looked up into Dina’s searching gaze.

She was even more beautiful near enough to count freckles. Full mouth parted like she’d just been about to speak. Those steady brown eyes that made the music drop away to a soft thud.

“Hey,” Dina said.

Abby’s voice, when it came, had gravel in it. “What’s up.”

Over Dina’s shoulder, Ellie stood and chewed the corner of her bottom lip like she’d been caught looking and didn’t mind it. Dina slid her fingers into Ellie’s and squeezed once before turning back to Abby.

“My girlfriend and I saw you from across the room,” she said, as if reporting the weather. Ellie rolled her eyes and blushed, which only made Abby dizzier. “Life’s too short for stupid games.”

A beat.

“We think you’re pretty fucking hot. Do you want to dance with us?”

The invitation was so plain it emptied Abby out. Heat ran under her skin, pooling low and tidal; her breath hitched and released like a misfiring engine. She managed a nod that might have been a word.

The three of them made a line through bodies and sweat and laughter.

On the floor where the bass was closest to bone, Dina turned them into a shape without asking. She slid Ellie behind her, caught Ellie’s hands and wrapped them around her own waist; Ellie tucked her face into Dina’s hair with a soft sound that hit Abby somewhere old.

Abby hovered a step back, hands stupid at her sides, feeling huge as a truck in a place built for bicycles.

Dina saved her again. She caught Abby’s wrists, cool fingers confident, and set Abby’s hands on her shoulders like placing weights on a bar. Then she drew her forward by slow degrees, palms skating down Abby’s back to her hips, tugging until the three of them made a closed circuit.

Ellie’s arms, still around Dina, pressed into the fronts of Abby’s thighs. Dina’s leg slipped between Abby’s, steady and unhurried, and the press of it turned Abby’s breath into a gasp that never made it out of her mouth.

She didn’t know what to do with her face, so she looked at Dina’s neck. A curl stuck to her skin with sweat; Abby wanted to put her mouth there. Dina’s hands slid up to Abby’s neck and pulled, and for a split, perfect second Abby thought she was about to be kissed in front of everybody.

Instead, Dina brought their cheeks together, hair whispering against Abby’s collarbone, and said in her ear, low and even, “Wanna get out of here?”

The word yes jumped ahead of everything else.

Triumph shot through her like a flare, then dropped into a heavy wanting that left her blinking. Her hips were still moving, greedy as tide, and Ellie’s hands had found Abby’s legs through Dina’s frame, holding them all where they were like the answer was already a fact.

Outside, the air was too clean. Their breath made small ghosts.

Dina walked ahead with Ellie’s hand in hers, not fast, just like someone who hadn’t learned how to hesitate. Abby followed a half-step behind, self-conscious about the sound of her boots on pavement. The dorm hall fluorescents made everybody look a little unreal; Dina glanced back once on the stairs, eyes warm, and something inside Abby unclenched enough to keep climbing.

Dina’s room was small and honest. Desk with neat stacks. String lights giving the white walls a forgiving shade. A bed in the corner made tight enough to make Abby think of how it would get undone.

Ellie took the desk chair and spun it once, then let it settle and watched. Dina sat on the edge of the bed and patted the spot beside her.

“Come here.”

Abby did, like a sleepwalker does as told—body present, mind arriving in lag. The mattress dipped; their thighs met; the inside of Abby’s mouth went sweet with nerves. Dina touched nothing for a beat, just looked at her the way you might look at something you’ve decided to keep and are checking for how to care for.

Then she leaned in and kissed her, and everything but breath went quiet.

Dina kissed like she trusted the answer would be yes. Not forceful—assured. Lips soft and parted, a low sound in her throat that Abby felt in the muscles along her spine. Abby’s hands hovered until Dina gathered them and placed them, one by one, on the smooth, warm slope of her shoulders. There, that’s better, the grip said. Abby melted into the shape of being told where to go.

Behind her came the whisper of Ellie moving.

The first touch of Ellie’s hands was a shock by temperature alone—cool palms up Abby’s back, slow circles between her shoulder blades as if smoothing a wing that had been bent wrong. Then fingers found her braid, slid in, and the tug drew Abby’s head back with a clean line that opened her throat to Dina’s mouth.

The sound that left her felt foreign and necessary.

Dina smiled against her skin. “That’s a pretty sound.” Then, lazily, to the back of Abby’s neck: “Make her do it again.”

Ellie obliged with teeth where the shoulder gives, and Abby’s voice answered without her consent. Ellie made a pleased noise and pressed closer, the firm line of her body along Abby’s back like an argument she’d already won. Abby felt surrounded in the best way, like the edges of her had been found and traced and were being kept from fraying.

“Can I?” Dina asked, and her fingers tugged at Abby’s shirt just enough that the question landed where it should. 

She knew what people expected of her. She’d been built into it. Broad shoulders, arms that could flip a scrum, back that looked like it could hold weight. She’d learned to give the script until it felt like truth: rough hands, hard rhythm, good girl said through gritted teeth. She liked some of it. She liked the parts that were about care. But the wanting that lived lowest in her didn’t translate to performance. It wanted to be steadied. It wanted to be placed.

Dina seemed to know.

Abby managed a nod and something like a word.

“Good,” Dina murmured, and the word went where it was told to go, past muscle and into something that had waited years to be named.

They undressed her like it was nothing, and that was what made it unbearable.

Dina tugging her jeans down, Ellie pulling her shirt over her head, their hands brushing against her bare skin as though she wasn’t trembling under them. Ellie unclasped her bra in one clean movement, straps sliding down her arms, leaving her breasts bared under the glow of string lights. Dina’s fingers caught in the waistband of her boxers, dragging them down slow, exposing her inch by inch until the air felt sharp where it touched her.

Abby wanted to cover herself, fold in, apologize for being too much and too naked under their eyes. But Dina looked up once as the fabric slid past her thighs, her expression warm and sure, and Abby forced herself to keep still, to let them see.

When she was bare, they undressed too.

Dina rose, slipping her dress over her head with a smooth sweep, hair falling heavy around her shoulders. She folded the fabric neatly, setting it on the chair by the desk. That small care hit Abby harder than spectacle—it told her that what was taken off here could be picked up again. Ellie peeled her own shirt away, kicked her jeans to the floor. The sight of her in only thin boxers made Abby’s mouth go dry: pale skin stretched taut over lean muscle, dark hair visible where the fabric clung low.

Abby lay back when Dina pressed at her shoulders, the mattress dipping under her weight. Ellie knelt beside her on the bed, thighs slightly spread, watching. Abby turned her head, caught on the sight—the sharp ridges of Ellie’s hip bones, the flush at her chest, the hard peaks of her nipples under the string lights. She felt exposed, wrecked already, just from being looked at by both of them.

Dina settled between her thighs, palms pressing her legs open with quiet authority. Abby’s stomach flipped, heat rushing low. She managed a breath before Dina leaned down.

The first drag of her tongue against Abby’s clit made her whole body jolt.

A broken sound left her throat. Her hips bucked off the bed, but Dina’s hands pressed them firmly back down, steady, unyielding.

Above, Ellie reached out, caught her braid, tugged her head back so her throat arched against the pillow. Abby gasped at the exposure, helpless under it. Dina’s mouth was merciless in its rhythm—lapping, circling, sealing over her with suction so precise it made Abby’s chest clench.

Ellie leaned over, pinched one nipple hard enough to sting. Abby cried out, the sound swallowed as Ellie kissed her, tongue demanding, teeth catching her lip.

“Loud girl,” Ellie murmured against her mouth. “Bet you like being loud.”

Dina’s tongue pressed harder, fingers sliding inside her in the same moment, curling perfectly. Abby sobbed, torn between the hot mouth below and Ellie’s teasing grip above.

“Good girl,” Dina said between strokes, voice low and even, her breath warm against Abby’s skin. “That’s it. Let me have it.”

Abby’s chest squeezed at the words. Good girl. Said like truth, not like performance. She clutched at the sheets, every nerve begging her to fall apart right there.

Then Ellie caught her wrist, dragged it down, forcing her palm against her thigh.

“Touch me,” she said, blunt, low.

Abby’s fingers brushed soft skin, damp heat, the soft hair under the edge of Ellie’s boxers. Ellie hissed, shoved her own waistband down and off in one quick movement, baring herself. Pale thighs, swollen cunt, glistening under the low light. Abby swallowed hard, fingers trembling as Ellie pressed them where she needed.

She was slick, hot, already desperate. Abby stroked once, tentative. Ellie groaned, hips jerking forward.

“God,” Ellie gasped, grinding against her hand, “fuck—you’re strong, use it—”

Abby’s pulse pounded. She moved faster, fingers sliding deep, thumb circling clit. Ellie cried out, clutching Abby’s wrist, riding her hand with sharp little thrusts. Dina moaned at the sight, mouth wet on Abby’s clit, and Abby nearly lost herself to it.

She was giving both of them—her body split, her strength channeled, her mouth open on helpless sounds. For the first time in her life she was using herself the way she wanted: not for control, not for performance, but for giving, for holding, for keeping them in rhythm until they broke.

Ellie was close already, too needy, hips jerking against her fingers. Abby could feel it, the tremor in her thighs, the sharp catch of her breath. Excitement surged in Abby’s chest—fierce, hungry, protective. She wanted to be the one to hold Ellie through it, to take it from her.

Abby pulled her hand away suddenly.

Ellie gasped, eyes wide.

Abby’s voice came out low, certain. “Sit on my face.”

Ellie froze, breath caught, then scrambled over her without hesitation. She straddled Abby’s head, thighs bracketing her ears, cunt pressing down greedy and wet against her mouth.

Abby groaned, the weight of her, the taste of her. She grabbed Ellie’s ass with both hands, strong grip pulling her down harder, opening her with her tongue. Ellie cried out, hips rolling against her mouth, hands fisting in her hair.

“Fuck,” Ellie gasped, looking down at her, face flushed, nipples peaked hard, breath ragged. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

Abby couldn’t see Dina anymore, but she could feel her—fingers driving into her deeper now, curling, her mouth still relentless on her clit. Abby bucked against it, sobbing into Ellie’s cunt, tongue merciless, desperate.

Dina groaned low, clearly turned on by the sight, and the sound made Abby’s hips jerk. She was drowning, but she wanted to. Ellie’s thighs trembled around her face, squeezing, pressing down hard, demanding.

Abby gave everything. Her tongue worked steady, her hands held Ellie’s ass firm, keeping her right there, grinding against her mouth. Dina’s fingers pushed deeper, her mouth relentless, dragging Abby closer and closer to the edge.

“Good girl,” Dina said again, muffled against her. “Take it. Just like that.”

Ellie’s cries sharpened into ragged words. “Fuck—Abby, don’t stop, don’t you dare stop—”

Her orgasm hit hard, tearing through her, clenching around Dina’s fingers, body bucking helplessly. She cried out into Ellie’s cunt, voice lost under her, hips jerking against Dina’s tongue. But she didn’t stop. She kept her mouth moving, desperate, until Ellie’s whole body shuddered above her, grinding down against her tongue, crying out sharp and broken as she came.

Ellie collapsed to the side, boneless, panting, sweat-damp hair stuck to her forehead. Abby gasped for breath, face wet, body trembling, every nerve fried.

Dina crawled up her body, mouth flushed, eyes dark. She kissed her deep, licking Ellie’s taste from her lips.

“I can taste her on you,” Dina whispered, low, before kissing her again.

Ellie draped an arm across Abby’s stomach, still trembling. Dina’s head lowered to rest on her shoulder. The room smelled like sweat and salt and heat. Abby lay in the middle of it, chest heaving.

This, historically, was where the script in Abby went to work. Say something breezy, say you should go, say you’ll text, stand up, put your hands somewhere they won’t shake.

The script tried. Dina short-circuited it without effort. She reached for Abby’s hand and brought it down, unhurried, past the ordinary places hands go when they don’t know what else to do, to the place that answered softly with heat. Not a spectacle. A placement. The final coordinate.

“Feel,” Dina said. Low, calm, as if she’d been saying it all night in different ways.

Dina caught her wrist, dragged it down, pressed Abby’s fingers against the soaked heat of her underwear. Abby moaned at how wet she was, fabric clinging, obscene. Dina rolled her hips once, deliberate, then drew Abby’s hand back up and placed it on her hip, curling against her side.

Ellie tipped her chin up from Abby’s arm and looked at her like dawn looks at a room. “Still with us?”

“Yeah,” Abby said. It came out rough. It also came out sure.

Dina laced their fingers and squeezed once. “Good.”

They lay there in the boring miracle of after.

The mini-fridge hummed valiantly in the corner. The string lights made small coins across the ceiling, and if Abby unfocused she could connect them into a pattern that looked like a triangle whose center glowed.

She thought about morning—the clumsy hellos, the problem of texts, how her mouth might fail at the cafeteria coffee machine. She thought about the life outside this room that required her to be very good at force. She thought about the collar glinting at Ellie’s throat and the line it drew down into the body of the night, and how not once had she felt like a trespasser.

“Text us tomorrow,” Ellie said into her arm. Not a demand. Logistics spoken like intimacy.

“I will,” Abby said, and meant it without having to rehearse the tone.

“Tonight,” Dina added, voice gone syrupy with sleep, “just stay.”

Abby let all the small muscles that keep a person upright unclench. 

She stayed. 

The building did not fall. The quiet that came wasn’t the brittle kind that follows bracing. It was domestic. It had the weight of a hand at the back of her neck and the shape of yes. It was the quiet of doors unlocked and someone home.

She breathed and felt the breath travel through the new map of her. Ellie’s hand drummed twice against her wrist, a code that Abby didn’t know five hours ago and now could read without thinking: I’m here. Dina’s thumb stroked once along the life line in her palm like memorizing a path.

Abby closed her eyes. Something in her that had stood for years without relief sat down at last, and found not collapse but furniture. The night gathered itself around the three of them and held.

When she slept, it was like the floor of a boat held under a slow, friendly current—not the terror of wake, not the bite of impact. And in the dark water between waking and whatever came next, a steady voice echoed soft and certain in the very center of her:

good girl, stay.