☆ kai

“𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦, 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘷𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘢 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴” ୨♡୧

[jhyoos]

🍂Welcome To My Page !

🍁 𝐊͟𝐀͟𝐈͟ ͟‘͟ ͟𝐋͟𝐈͟𝐍͟ . ♊︎ (she / her )

♡ 20, bisexual, arcane & tlou writer

.ᐟ this page is 18+ page only. i do not condone racist, zionist, minors, homophobes, etc.

my request are open and don’t be shy to ask! i am a college student, so I won’t guarantee that i’ll answer quick.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ masterlist ɞ˚‧｡⋆

ཐིཋྀ 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐒 𝐀𝐋𝐋. iu

[jhyoos]

Hi everyone! I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m gonna have to abandon this account as multiple of my fics have been flagged 😀. but I won’t be deleting it as a lot of memories were made on it. I’ll be tagging my new account as soon as I make it! 🫶

[jhyoos]

hi everyone. I’m currently getting warnings on my tumblr about mature content so I’ll have to avoid posting for a while that why I haven’t posted the first chapter of my series yet. I’m sorry! 🥺🤍

[jhyoos]

Inked In Lotus

mercenary caitlyn kiramman x geisha reader

— november 26, 2025

comment to be tagged !

[jhyoos]

Hi everyone! I’ve decided to delete some of my fanfics as they don’t fit my aesthetic and writing style anymore. The only one that will be on here is just my most popular work Roses and Steel. I’m deleting everything on November 24. If you want I can gladly put them on ao3.

Thank you to everyone that’s been supporting, patient and loving to me on here and I hope you guys continue to do so. I’m currently working on a gothic romance series so stay tuned! 🤍🖤🫶

[jhyoos]

what if i made a long ahh fanfic inspired by this :

Frankenstein (2025).

this my edit. hype it up on tiktok @screamfxce

[jhyoos]

hi everyone! i just came back on here to say that there have been protest against 🧊 in LA. one of my closest friend’s parents got deported leaving her to take care of her little sister. i’ve met their parents on multiple occasions and they treated me like their own. i want to spread awareness as i have a platform. it’s not a big one but it is one. i feel that all families deserve to be together. if you support 🧊 or 🍊 in any way please unfollow me. 🤍🇲🇽

[jhyoos]

Fight For You

boxer!abby x model!reader

summary: you meet abby at a high-end party.

mentions: fame au, modern au, everyone is alive, mentions of ed, smoking, drinking, romance, angst, smut, fucking in the bathroom, oral & fingering (r!receiving).

author note: suprisingly this was highly requested ! very long fanfic so get something to eat!

You were a model—not a household name, not a face plastered on every billboard in Manhattan or Paris—but you walked. You moved. You made it somewhere. You’d been in a few Vogue spreads, dimly lit behind the star of the page. You’d walked Victoria’s Secret runways, wings stitched to your back like borrowed dreams. You weren’t the centerpiece, but you were there, shimmering in the glow of flashbulbs and eyes that didn't always see you.

As much as girls romanticized it—modeling was war. Polished smiles in front of the camera, but behind the scenes? It was elbows out, lips stitched shut. A competition of bone counts and measurements, where praise sounded like “you finally look thinner” and love came in the shape of hunger.

When you first started, your manager had you on diets so strict they felt like rituals—punishment masked as discipline. Celery sticks for breakfast, water for dinner, shame for dessert. There were nights when your body rebelled, when you’d throw everything up until your vision blurred and your ribs ached. You smiled anyway, because that’s what pretty girls did.

Then came the miracle.

Victoria’s Secret reached out. They wanted you—a new Angel. And God, you flew. You cried in the back of your Uber, mascara bleeding into your palms. When the official post dropped on their Instagram, your phone lit up like a Christmas tree. Follows. Blue checks. Brands. People cared.

And yet... people commented.

Under the glowing announcement, buried between the fire emojis and “she’s perfect,” came the venom. “She’s too thick to be an Angel.” “She doesn’t have the face for it.” “Bet she slept her way in.”

You told yourself not to look. You did anyway. You always did.

And you tried to brush it off. You liked the positive comments. You reposted the good ones. You told yourself the hate came with the fame. That it was just noise. But even angels have soft spots under their wings.

You weren’t famous-famous. You were known. Seen. Not always remembered. But in a world that wanted you to be skin and air, you were something real. And that, maybe, was enough.

Abby Anderson was everywhere.

Her face graced the cover of every major sports magazine—ESPN, Women’s Health, Boxing Monthly—always front and center, gloves slung over her shoulder like royalty, like muscle wrapped in silk. When competition season rolled around, her image lit up city billboards like neon prayers. Times Square. L.A. Live. Hell, even Tokyo had her gritted smile above the skyline.

She wasn’t just known—she was inevitable.

Her Instagram was a force of nature. Millions of followers, all eyes on her knuckles, her callouses, her workouts, her smirks. The caption could be two words—“Try me”—and it’d break the algorithm. Her fans called themselves the Anderson Army, flooding every comment section with love, awe, thirst. Her fights sold out in minutes. Pay-per-view numbers shattered records. Even people who didn’t watch boxing knew who she was.

Abby was a beast in the ring. Some called her a bull—not because she was reckless, but because she was unstoppable. Every match she walked into, she didn’t just win, she dominated. Her fists moved like poetry written in blunt force. Her footwork was tactical, brutal, almost unfair. Opponents fell before the second round like they knew what was coming.

And she looked damn good doing it.

Viral TikToks caught her mid-punch, sweat-glossed and godly, jawline sharp enough to cut diamonds. There were fan cams edited like music videos. Tweets that said, “Abby Anderson could knock me out and I’d say thank her.” Gym clips turned into thirst traps. She didn’t try to be hot—she just was.

She had the fame, the fans, the money, the muscles, the girls who lined up for a chance to be close. And her team? Top-tier. Nutritionists, trainers, publicists, stylists. Everything about her life looked like it was curated for a champion, and it was—because she earned it.

Every scar, every bruise, every early morning and broken rib—it paid off.

Abby Anderson had the world in a chokehold, and the world loved it.

Your friend was the kind of model who didn’t just walk runways—she owned them. Her name alone got invites to the most exclusive parties in the city, the kind of places where no phones were allowed but everyone knew everything that happened anyway. You were surprised when she asked you to be her plus-one.

“Please come,” she’d said, voice syrupy over the phone. “Some other friends are coming, but you're the only one who doesn’t drink. Help me make sober choices, yeah?”

You laughed softly but agreed. You couldn’t say no—not just because you cared, but because deep down, you wanted to see it. That other world. That forbidden, neon-lit underbelly of the elite.

She helped you pick out a dress, too—that dress. A black, sequined slip of a thing that clung to every curve like it had been sewn on with whispers. The neckline plunged like a dare, held up by the thinnest black straps. A small silver clasp cinched the cutout just beneath your chest, the only thing keeping the whole thing from unraveling completely. It was short—dangerously short—and it shimmered with every breath, every turn, catching the light like stars stuck to your skin. Paired with simple black heels and your hair down in soft waves, you looked like temptation bottled.

The party was already in full swing by the time you arrived.

It was hot—humid with bodies and bass, sweat and perfume clinging to the air. The kind of party where everyone was somebody. The room reeked of status, of secrecy. Celebrities you once idolized were tucked into dark corners, drinking like they were trying to forget their own names. Others were laughing too loudly, eyes glassy, pupils blown wide. The scent of weed, champagne, and something chemical lingered everywhere. A haze of smoke floated near the chandeliers like a ghost.

If only the paparazzi saw this. The unfiltered version of fame.

Your friend tugged you by the wrist to a booth she had rented out—elevated just enough to overlook the dance floor like a throne. You sat down, pressing your thighs together on the cold leather couch, the sequins of your dress crackling faintly. You nursed a single drink, barely sipping it as the others around you knocked shots back like water.

Laughter. Slurred voices. Someone snorted something off a phone screen. You stayed silent, posture poised, eyes scanning. Watching.

Eventually, your friend stood, swaying just a little. “I’m heading to the dance floor with them,” she said, already halfway gone.

You nodded, a little uneasy, but you understood. This was her scene.

Now it was just you. Sitting alone in a storm of sound and sweat, the only one not drunk, not high, not tangled up in the mess. Just quiet, calm, and breathtaking in your dress like a still frame inside a film reel spinning too fast.

You lasted longer than you thought you would—sitting pretty and still, the only clear head in a room full of beautiful chaos. But it was starting to crawl under your skin. The sound, the heat, the way the air felt like it was breathing you in. Your nerves were humming too loud for comfort. So, with a quiet sigh, you got up from the booth and decided to make your way to the bar.

Eyes followed you the moment you stood. Like hounds catching a scent.

You kept your gaze low, trying not to make contact. You weren’t here to mingle with the rich tweakers and chemically confident heirs of nothing. Every time someone tried to strike up a conversation, you gave them a single word—“No.” “Sorry.” “Taken.” Short. Sharp. Enough to cut without bleeding.

Then someone touched you.

A hand, too firm, closed around your arm. You stopped cold. Turned.

His face was familiar—he might’ve been in a movie, or maybe the son of someone who was. But his pupils were so wide they swallowed the color of his eyes, and the whites were streaked red like cracks in glass. He wasn’t just high. He was gone.

“Hey…” he slurred, breath sticky. “What you doing all alone?”

You flinched at his tone, at the sway of his body. Your stomach twisted, but you managed a polite, strained smile. “I’m not alone, sir. I’m here with my friends.”

“Mm,” he grinned, like he didn’t believe you. Like he didn’t care. He tugged your arm, pulling you closer like you were some party favor to unwrap.

Your heart skipped in fear and instinct—your fingers grabbed at your arm, trying to yank free.

“You got a boyfriend?” he asked, voice low and greasy.

“I—”

Before you could answer, you felt a heavy hand on your shoulder. Solid. Protective. Warm.

“Fuck off,” a deep voice growled behind you. “She’s with me.”

The guy froze. His hand dropped like he’d touched fire.

You turned your head—and there she was.

Abby Anderson.

She stood tall, her shadow swallowing the guy whole. Muscles carved into her like she’d been sculpted, not born. Her jaw clenched just enough to say try me. The air shifted. The guy muttered something, barely audible, then backed off into the crowd like a kicked dog.

You exhaled for what felt like the first time in minutes.

“Thank you so much,” you said, voice still shaky with adrenaline.

“No problem,” Abby replied, eyes steady on yours.

Then she looked you up and down—slowly, deliberately. Her gaze lingered at your dress, lips twitching in approval. “You want a drink?” she asked.

You nodded. “Yeah... I was on my way to the bar.”

“Perfect,” she said, her hand brushing your lower back. “Let’s go.”

The dance floor was a different world entirely—smoke in the air, lights strobing in pulses of red and gold, bodies packed so tight you could feel the music in your bones. It wasn’t dancing, not really. It was moving, grinding, existing too close and not close enough all at once.

Abby held your hand as she led you through the crowd like she knew exactly where to go. Her grip was firm, grounding. She stopped in the center, surrounded by heat and rhythm, and turned to face you with a look that was half playful, half something deeper.

You bit your lip. “So this is the part where you pretend to dance?”

Abby chuckled, hands already settling on your waist. “Nah. This is the part where I let you lead and pretend I’m doing something.”

The bass thumped through the floor, into your heels, your spine. You started slow, swaying your hips to the beat, your hands brushing up Abby’s chest to hook behind her neck. She followed your rhythm effortlessly, bodies pressed just enough to tease, but not quite enough to satisfy.

She was warm, solid, her scent sharp and clean beneath the smoke and sweat. Her gaze didn’t leave yours—not for a second. Not even when your thighs brushed, not even when your hips tilted forward in a soft, suggestive grind.

You felt her breath catch. Yours did too.

You tilted your head up, lips brushing against the shell of her ear. “Still pretending?” you whispered.

“No,” she breathed. “Not anymore.”

Her hands slid down to your hips, pulling you flush against her. Every motion was slow and deliberate, like she was trying to memorize how you moved, how your body fit into hers.

Your hands were in her hair now, fingers threading through the strands as your mouth hovered near hers, your noses touching, foreheads brushing.

And then—

She kissed you.

Right there on the dance floor, under a flickering red light, while the whole room spun and bodies crashed around you. Her lips crashed into yours with a heat that left no room for second thoughts. It was messy and perfect, her mouth tasting like whiskey and victory. Her hand slid up your back, cradling the base of your neck like you were something precious, and the kiss deepened—tongues brushing, teeth grazing, everything hungry and real.

You kissed her like you were tired of pretending. Like the night belonged to you both and everyone else was just noise.

By the time you pulled away, breathless and dazed, her forehead was still pressed to yours, eyes half-lidded, lips slick from yours.

“Still wanna call it one dance?” you asked, voice husky.

She smirked, lips brushing yours again. “Nah. I’m not done with you yet.”

“Come with me,” she murmured, her voice like gravel and silk.

She took your hand again—firmer this time—and pulled you through the crowd. Past the dancers. Past the bar. You barely noticed where you were going, but when she pushed open the heavy black door and the cool tile of the upscale bathroom greeted your heels, it hit you—

This wasn’t gonna be a quiet conversation.

The door clicked shut behind you, muffling the chaos outside. The room was dim, bathed in golden light from crystal fixtures on the walls. Too pretty a place for what was about to happen.

You turned around to face her, but Abby was already close again, crowding into your space in the most delicious way. Her hands found your hips, then slid around to your lower back, pulling you against her like she needed you there.

“You’ve been driving me crazy all night,” she whispered, leaning down, lips brushing over your jaw. “Walking around like that in that little black dress…”

Your breath caught as her mouth ghosted along your skin—cheek to jaw to neck.

“I didn’t know I’d catch a boxer’s attention,” you teased, voice barely steady.

Abby’s teeth scraped lightly against your throat, just enough to make your knees wobble.

“You caught a lot more than that,” she growled. “You think I was just gonna let you sit there alone, looking like that? Not a chance.”

Her lips met yours again, but this time it was rougher—needy. Her hands explored your back, your sides, fingers grazing bare skin as she pushed you gently until your back hit the cool tile wall. The contrast made you gasp, and she took full advantage, deepening the kiss like she owned your mouth, like she’d waited too long already.

Your hands were in her hair again, tugging gently, nails dragging along her scalp. She groaned into your mouth, one hand sliding down to your thigh—lifting it so it rested against her hip.

You moaned softly as the pressure between you built, your bodies locked together in this stolen moment of heat and hunger and want.

“Say the word,” she breathed against your lips, her hand hovering, waiting.

“I want this,” you whispered. “I want you.”

That was all she needed.

Her lips brushed yours—not a kiss yet, just the idea of one. Soft enough to make your breath catch. Her nose nudged yours, foreheads touching. You could smell her—warm and clean beneath the sweat and cologne, with a faint trace of whiskey still on her breath.

Her hand slid up your thigh, knuckles grazing the hem of your dress. “This is driving me insane,” she whispered. “You in this little thing, walking around like you don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

You grinned, high on the rush. “Maybe I do.”

Abby groaned, a low sound in the back of her throat that lit you up from the inside out. Her mouth met yours in a kiss that melted all the air between you. Her lips were soft but firm, her hand gripping your waist, dragging you into her as if she couldn’t bear even an inch of space left untouched.

You whimpered into her mouth when she pressed you harder into the wall, thigh slipping between yours, nudging upward with steady pressure.

“You’re already warm,” she whispered against your lips, voice thick and ragged. “And fuck—you’re shaking.”

You were. It wasn’t fear. It was anticipation, trembling like your body already knew what was coming.

Her hands moved with purpose—sliding up your sides, over your ribs, finding the zipper of your dress and pausing. “Can I?” she asked, voice low.

You nodded.

The zipper purred down, slow and deliberate, as cool air kissed the skin of your back. Your dress slipped from your shoulders like it was made to fall. Abby let it, guiding it down your arms until it pooled around your feet.

The way she looked at you then—

Like she was starving. Like you were everything.

Her hands roamed up your thighs, trailing goosebumps in their wake. Her palms were rough, used to wrapping around gloves and landing punches, but they touched you like silk. Her fingers splayed across your stomach, thumbs brushing the underside of your bra as she leaned in and kissed the base of your throat—slow, reverent.

“You’re unreal,” she murmured against your skin.

You tilted your head back, a soft moan escaping you as her lips traveled down your collarbone, every kiss a promise, every pause a test of restraint. She took her time, building you up with touches and kisses so gentle you felt like you were going to come apart before she even got there.

She dropped to her knees, lips ghosting over your stomach now, her hands gripping your thighs again. You looked down at her—this powerhouse of a woman, a boxer with bruised knuckles and fire in her eyes—kneeling for you, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Abby…”

“I got you,” she whispered. “I want to take care of you.”

And the way she said that?

It didn’t sound like a pick-up line.

It sounded like a promise.

Her mouth pressed a kiss to your hipbone. Then another. Then lower.

You threaded your fingers into her hair, back arching as you felt her breath where you needed her most, every nerve ending screaming awake, your whole body aching for her.

When her mouth finally met your skin, hot and slow and deliberate, you gasped—and that was when you stopped thinking altogether.

You were hers. In this moment. In this heat.

Your breath hitched, when you felt her mouth on your heat, exploring you.

She picked up on every whine you made in certain spots and attacked them with her tongue.

"Fuck you're so sweet," she mumbled against you which made up moan.

She was slow, at first. torturously soft licks and kisses on your clit that made your knees buckle. Then deeper—pressing and sucking in a rhythm that felt otherworldly. You gripped her hair, fingers tangling in her golden strands, moaning shamelessly as she devoured you like it was the only thing she needed to survive.

She worked you open like a prizefighter dissecting her opponent—calculated, relentless, skilled. She knew exactly when to add pressure, when to ease up, when to slide her two thick fingers inside you and curl them just right, making you yell out her name in pleasure.

She sucked on your clit as she continued to finger you. The sound of your arousal filled the bathroom as she fingered you. "Fuck Abby," you moaned out.

The sound of your voice moaning out her name only made her more determined to make you cum. Her fingers got faster and your moans only got louder.

You heard loud knocks on the bathroom door and a few voices, but that didnt stop Abby as you grew closer to your climax.

Abby pulled her mouth away and stood, her fingers still inside of you as she kept a steady pace. Her thumb rubbing your abused and swollen clit making you tremble. She used her other hand to grab your throat, gripping it with just enough pressure. "Are you gonna cum?," she whispered.

"Yes...fuck yes. I'm so close," you whined.

"Be a good girl and cum all over my fingers," she commands.

After a few more pumps of her fingers inside of your cunt. You came and hard. Abby kissed you muffling your moans as she slowed her pace, helping you calm down from your high.

The silence after the storm was thick and golden.

Your chest was rising and falling fast, dress wrinkled and hanging low on your hips, hair a wild halo around your flushed face.

You both stayed like that for a few heartbeats—no words, just the sound of your breathing and the muted thump of the party outside, miles away from the moment you were in.

Then, slowly, Abby's big hands gently slid up your sides.

“You good?” she asked, voice hoarse and low, her thumb brushing along your jaw.

You nodded, still breathless. “Yeah,” you murmured, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. “Very good.”

She let out a soft laugh, something cocky and proud warming her expression. “Yeah? Scale of one to ten?”

You leaned back against the wall, eyes twinkling. “Ten. Maybe eleven.”

“Damn right,” she said, grinning now, stepping behind you to pull the straps of your dress back over your shoulders.

Her fingers moved deftly, pulling the zipper up in a slow, smooth line that sent a fresh shiver down your spine.

Then you turned around to face her and—

“Oh my God,” you giggled, pressing a hand to your mouth.

“What?” Abby blinked, instantly alert. “Did I mess up the zipper?”

“No,” you said, biting your lip to stop from laughing. “You’ve got lipstick all over your mouth. Like… everywhere. You look like you fought a tube of MAC and lost.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That bad?”

You nodded, laughing now, reaching up to wipe her face gently with your thumb. “You look ridiculous. Hot, but ridiculous.”

Abby grinned, totally unfazed. “Badge of honor.”

Then—bam bam bam—a sudden knock on the bathroom door, followed by the obnoxious giggle of some drunk stranger.

“Yo, hurry up in there! We gotta piss!”

Abby rolled her eyes and looked at you with a smirk. “And just like that… the moment’s gone.”

You both burst out laughing, quietly, like a shared secret. She reached for the door handle, pausing just before she opened it.

“You wanna get outta here?” she asked. “We can go somewhere quieter. Talk. Or… not talk.”

You tilted your head, smiling soft, still feeling the fire she left behind glowing low in your belly.

“Yeah,” you said. “I’d like that.”

The bathroom door swung open and the two of you stepped out, back into the chaos.

The music hit first—thick, heavy, vibrating through your chest. Then came the blur of heat, perfume, weed, strobe lights flickering off mirrored walls. People pressed in from every side, some dancing, some spilling drinks, all of them moving like they were floating through honey.

But you weren’t really paying attention to any of it—your focus was still wrapped around Abby, your skin still buzzing where she touched you.

Then—

“Baaaaabe!” your friend slurred, suddenly appearing from the crowd like a glittering, unhinged fairy. Her dress was sliding off one shoulder and her mascara had migrated halfway down her cheek, but she was grinning ear to ear, holding a bottle of something pink and dangerous.

She threw her arms around you in a sloppy hug. “We’re leaaavinggg,” she declared, then looked up at you with wide eyes. “I want Whataburger. Like now.”

You blinked. “You’re hungry?”

“I’m starviiing,” she drawled, stumbling a little in her platforms. “I want fries. And a honey butter chicken biscuit. And you’re drivinggg.”

Of course. You should’ve known. Mom friend mode: activated.

You turned back to Abby, who stood there watching you with that low smirk that made your knees weak. Her hair was tousled now, lips wiped clean, but her eyes still held that same heat from the bathroom. That want.

You hesitated. “I’m sorry,” you said, stepping closer, keeping your voice low. “I gotta take care of her. But I’ll—um—I’ll add you on Instagram. And we can text. Set something up. Soon.”

Abby nodded, the smirk shifting into something softer. “Yeah,” she said. “I’ll be waiting. Don’t leave me on read.”

You smiled, heart fluttering a little. “I won’t.”

And even though it wasn’t a kiss goodbye, there was something electric in the way your eyes lingered on each other just a second too long, like the universe wasn’t done with this yet.

Then your friend yanked on your hand. “WHATABURGER, BITCH.”

You laughed, throwing one last look over your shoulder at Abby before diving into the crowd, one arm wrapped around your intoxicated bestie, guiding her like a lighthouse through a sea of chaos.

Your phone buzzed in your purse.

A follow request from Abby Anderson.

Your friend was still tearing up her Whataburger like it was a competition and she was winning gold. Honey butter chicken biscuit? Gone. Fries? Vanishing. Drink? Half-empty and clutched in her glittered claws like she was fighting dehydration and heartbreak.

You? You were in another world, sipping your diet coke and staring at your phone like it had just whispered something sinful.

[1 notification] abbytheanderson sent you a follow request.

You blinked. Already? You hadn’t even left the damn parking lot. She was good.

You tapped accept, and no lie—your stomach flipped like it was performing stunts. Not even thirty seconds later, another buzz.

abbytheanderson 🥊: hey beautiful

You bit down on a smile, typing back before your brain could overthink it.

you: hey you :)

Buzz.

abbytheanderson 🥊: couldn’t let you disappear like that. you left me wanting more.

You swore your pulse skipped. This woman had a black belt in flirting.

you: good thing you found me then

abbytheanderson 🥊: definitely. hey, random—but you free this weekend?

Your heart sped up. You took a quick sip of your drink to cool down your face, fingers dancing over the keyboard.

you: yeah, i think so. why?

abbytheanderson 🥊: there’s a film showcase downtown. some sports doc screening, bunch of celebs. got an invite +1, and i figured it might be more fun with you.

A movie showcase. That was not casual. That was dress up, flashbulbs, maybe a red carpet territory. Your stomach turned into champagne bubbles.

you: you want me to be your date?

abbytheanderson 🥊: unless you’ve got another famous boxer in your dms rn 👀

You laughed into your drink.

you: nope. just the hottest one.

abbytheanderson 🥊: damn right. i’ll pick you up saturday. wear something that’ll make me stare the whole night.

You locked your phone with a sigh, brain short-circuiting. Your bestie looked up from her fries with ketchup on her cheek.

“Why do you look like you just got proposed to?”

You smiled into your straw. “I’ve got a date.”

Your best friend stood behind you, clutching a makeup brush like it was a wand. "Sit still or I’m gonna make your winged liner look like a lightning bolt."

You giggled, sipping your iced coffee while she dabbed a warm highlight onto your cheekbones. “If Abby sees me and combusts, I blame you.”

She winked. “That’s the goal.”

The dress was hanging up on the door like it needed its own spotlight.

It was the dress—like Aphrodite and red carpet royalty had a baby and named her “divine.” A shimmering champagne gold that sparkled under even the faintest light, clinging to your curves like it was sculpted just for your body. The fabric was sheer but layered in all the right places, ruched along the hips and gathered at the waist in a delicate knot that accentuated everything. Strapless and sensual, the neckline cupped your chest softly and dipped into a subtle sweetheart shape, drawing the eye upward—no necklace needed, just collarbones and confidence.

The choker was a sheer mesh ribbon, soft and romantic, tied in the back like a little secret. And in your hand? A small velvet clutch that looked like luxury.

"Okay," your friend said, stepping back and crossing her arms like a proud stylist. "You look like you're about to walk into a movie and walk out with the star."

You turned to the mirror and exhaled. You looked… expensive. Golden. Ethereal.

And somewhere out there, Abby Anderson was probably trying to tie a tie and not think about your lips.

“Okay,” you said, smoothing your dress down, trying not to ruin your makeup by grinning too hard. “Let’s go melt her brain.”

The car door clicked shut behind you, heels clicking on the pavement like your own entrance music. The showcase was already buzzing—paparazzi lights flashing in bursts, guests in tailored designer looks pouring into the venue like liquid silk and velvet. Your driver looped back around, and your friend gave you a quick squeeze on the hand.

“You got this. Go make that boxer wish she had a mouthguard.”

You grinned, rolling your eyes and walking toward the entrance, that golden dress shimmering with every step like you were dipped in honey and starfire. The fabric clung just enough to whisper with movement, catching the camera flashes even when they weren’t aimed at you. Heads turned. People stared. And somewhere near the doors—

She saw you.

Abby was standing near the carpet, talking to some guy in a sports jacket, but the second her eyes landed on you? Conversation dead. Her jaw? Slightly dropped. Like someone had just uppercut her with Cupid’s fist.

She looked… good. Too good. A tailored black suit, no tie, but the first two buttons of her shirt open to show a bit of her collarbone and that stupidly strong chest. Her hair slicked back like she stepped off a Vogue Homme cover, one hand in her pocket, the other holding a drink she no longer remembered existed.

You saw her lips move—"Holy shit."

You floated up to her like you were gliding, heels clicking like punctuation to her stunned silence.

“Hey,” you said, giving her a smile that would’ve won wars. “I clean up alright, huh?”

“‘Alright’?” Abby shook her head slowly, eyes never leaving you, and damn if there wasn’t a glint of something primal in them. “You look like a damn goddess.”

You blushed, biting your lip just a little. “Not bad for a plus-one?”

“I’m upgrading your title. You’re the main event now.”

She reached out, offering you her arm like some old Hollywood gentleman, but the smirk on her face was all Abby—cocky, smooth, a little dangerous.

You took it.

The two of you walked the carpet together, and the cameras noticed. Photographers subtly turned toward the tall boxer and the glowing mystery girl on her arm. Whispers floated like perfume: “Is that Abby Anderson’s date?” “Who is she?” “She looks like a star.”

Inside, the lights were dimmer, the ambiance expensive and dramatic—velvet seats, champagne trays, and a giant screen waiting for the showcase to begin. Abby guided you to your seats, but not without sneaking glances at you like you were illegal and she wanted to get arrested.

“So,” she murmured, leaning close once you were seated. “What are the odds I get you to be my plus-one again? I was thinking… a real date. One with dessert and less paparazzi.”

You looked at her, still glowing from the lights, the crowd, the adrenaline.

“I’d say the odds are pretty high,” you whispered back.

She grinned, and you swore your stomach did a little backflip.

The movie hadn’t even started, but you already felt like you were living in one.

The afterparty was on the rooftop of the venue—elevators opening to golden lights strung like constellations, sleek white lounges, and a panoramic view of the city glittering below like a spilled jewelry box. The music was mellow, expensive-sounding. People sipped cocktails like they were made of stardust and name-dropped producers like prayers.

Abby got swept into a circle of suits and sharp smiles, people clapping her on the back, toasting to her latest win, asking questions with ulterior motives. She smiled through it, charming without trying, but you could feel her eyes flick to you every few minutes.

You wandered off to the ledge, the wind teasing your hair, your dress still glowing faintly under the rooftop lights. You leaned your elbows on the glass railing, the city stretching out like a promise, the hum of nightlife pulsing below you like a heartbeat.

Your drink was cold in your hand, but your skin still buzzed from earlier—her arm on yours, the way she looked at you like you were art in motion.

“Hey.”

Her voice came soft behind you, lower now, free of the public version of herself. You turned and found her there, hands in her pockets, her suit jacket open just enough to make your pulse trip.

“You done charming the VIPs?” you teased.

She gave a low chuckle, stepping up beside you. “They were boring as hell. I missed this view.”

You raised a brow. “The skyline?”

“No,” she said without hesitation, her eyes dragging down your profile like a caress. “You.”

That earned her a quiet laugh from you, heat rushing up your neck. “You’re really laying it on tonight, huh?”

“I’m just saying what I’m thinking.” Her shoulder brushed yours. “So… what do you do when you’re not breaking hearts in golden dresses?”

You hesitated for a second, still looking out at the city. “I model. Victoria’s Secret.”

That made her blink. “Wait—seriously?”

You nodded, a little sheepish. “I mean… I’m not like, one of those Angels. I’m usually backup. Fill-ins. Commercial stuff. They don’t exactly put me on billboards in Times Square.”

Abby looked at you for a long moment, her head tilted. “That’s wild.”

“What is?”

“That there are people out there who didn’t put you on a billboard. I’d hang a photo of you in every damn room of my house.”

You turned to her with a laugh, playful and warm. “Wow, romantic and a little bit stalker-y. Impressive.”

She grinned, closing the small space between you. “Tell me where the line is, and I’ll try not to cross it.”

You looked at her. Really looked. The city lights caught in her eyes, and something about her felt safe even in the middle of all this chaos. You smiled, heart softening.

“There’s no line,” you murmured.

Abby’s smile shifted, gentler now. She looked at you like you were something to be unwrapped slowly. “Then I’ll keep standing right here.”

You turned toward her fully now, leaning your hip against the railing, one hand cradling your glass while the other played with the condensation on the side. The wind tugged gently at the fabric of your dress, making it shimmer even more in the light. Abby was looking at you like you were unreal, but she blinked when you spoke, brought back to the present.

“So…” you tilted your head, curiosity playing in your voice. “Why boxing?”

That made her smile, and not the kind she gave the higher-ups—this one was smaller, more personal, like a story lived too long in her chest.

She shrugged a little. “I used to watch it on TV with my dad. Every Saturday night. He was always busy at the hospital, but when there was a fight on, we were synced. Like… we got each other.”

You nodded softly, listening.

“I started wrestling in school—figured it was the closest I could get. Got recruited, did alright. But it never felt like mine, y’know? Then I tried boxing. First time I landed a punch clean, everything clicked. I was like—this is it. This is the fire.”

You bit your lip, something warm blooming in your chest. There was a sparkle in her eyes now, not from the city lights, but from the weight of meaning behind her words. Passion always looked good on people—but on Abby? It was devastating.

“That’s hot,” you said, softly but truthfully. “Like, actually hot. You knowing who you are like that.”

She huffed a little laugh, rubbing the back of her neck, suddenly sheepish. “You’re the first person I’ve told that to in a while.”

You shrugged, eyes twinkling. “Well… you picked the right person. I’m an excellent secret-keeper. They don’t let just anyone model underwear, you know.”

That made her grin wide, her eyes roaming your face like she was trying to memorize it. “You really gonna keep talking like that and not expect me to kiss you again?”

Your breath caught a little, heartbeat fluttering as the tension curled tighter between you like a string pulled taut.

“I mean,” you whispered, leaning in just an inch, “I wouldn’t be mad if you did.”

She didn’t rush. Abby leaned forward slowly, giving you time to pull away if you wanted—but you didn’t. You leaned in, too, until your lips met in a soft, barely-there kiss. Not like the heated one from the club. This one was warm and lingering, like a question you already knew the answer to.

When you finally pulled back, both of you smiling, you rested your head lightly against her shoulder, looking back out at the glittering skyline.

“So…” you murmured, “You planning on knocking anyone out tonight, champ?”

She smirked. “Only if they try to take you from me.”

The car ride back was quiet in a good way. Abby drove with one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally brushing your thigh like she just had to remind herself you were really there. The city outside the window melted by in a blur of neon and soft shadows, and the gentle beat of the music wrapped around you like a lullaby.

By the time you reached your apartment, the air had cooled down to a soft breeze, lifting the hem of your dress and brushing over your skin like a whisper. Abby parked and got out before you could even reach for the door handle. She walked you to your door like a proper date, her hands in her pockets, her steps slow—like she didn’t want the night to end just yet.

You turned to face her at your door, heels clicking softly against the concrete. “Thank you for tonight,” you said, your voice warm and low, your smile a little sleepy but no less sincere.

Abby looked down at you with that easy grin of hers, one side of her mouth curling higher than the other. “No problem, angel,” she murmured. The nickname settled on your skin like velvet, making your cheeks heat in the soft moonlight.

You turned to unlock your door, keys jingling—but something stopped you. A quiet little nudge in your chest. You turned back around, heart kicking up a notch. She looked surprised at first when you stepped toward her, but she didn’t ask questions.

You leaned in and kissed her.

This one was slower. Softer. There wasn’t any club music thudding behind you this time, no crowd, no chaos. Just the two of you and the buzz of the porch light. Her lips tasted like the mint gum she always chewed, yours like sweet gloss and maybe a little bit of stardust.

When you finally pulled away, her eyes fluttered open like she’d been floating somewhere far off.

She smirked and licked her lips, clearly feeling the gloss residue.

You laughed quietly, hand brushing her chest as you stepped back toward the door. “I put on just lip gloss this time… so it’s not hard to take off.”

She grinned, something a little cocky flickering behind her lashes. “You planned that?”

You winked. “Maybe.”

“Smart girl,” she murmured, biting her bottom lip before taking a slow step back. “I’ll text you when I get home.”

You nodded, your fingers resting on the doorframe, reluctant to let the night end. “Okay. Drive safe.”

“Always do,” she said, and then—one last look, one last smirk—she turned and walked back toward her car, the night gently folding around her.

You leaned against the door with a quiet exhale, smiling to yourself like a fool.

an : i don't want it to be too long...so part 2 coming soon!

[jhyoos]

Save A Horse, Ride A Cowgirl 3

bronc rider abby x reader

mentions: romance, kissing, jealous abby, angst, lesbians being lesbians, time jump, proposal, marriage, lev mentioned

summary: you and abby have been together for 5 months.

notes : thank you guys for supporting me throughout this! its gonna be a long finale, but no smut. i wasnt exactly inspired to do so. i also didnt proofread this

part 1 | part 2

It’d been five months since Abby asked you to be hers—half a year since that night in a random Airbnb, all golden warmth and sleepy grins, the kind of night that felt like it could stretch into forever. And for a minute there, it did. You were so happy. Like… stupid, in-love, nothing-can-touch-me happy. The kind of happy that lives in your chest like fireworks on slow burn.

But then the season picked up, and Abby hit the road again—arena after arena, bronc after bronc, town after dusty town. You tried to keep that high alive, clutching onto the glow through glitchy Facetime calls and texts that came in at 2 AM. It wasn’t her fault—she was chasing her dreams. You admired the hell out of that. Still, it left this hollow little ache in your ribs. Like you’d been laughing too hard and suddenly stopped.

So you did what anyone trying not to drown in missing someone does—you distracted yourself. Nights out with Dina, Ellie, and Jesse turned into hazy parties, neon lights, and laughter that felt a little too loud, like you were trying to cover up the silence that always followed you home. You’d stumble in with smeared eyeliner and a phone full of selfies, only to meet the stillness of your apartment. Just you, your pounding head, and the echo of a love that felt too far away.

Your dad kept you grounded in the weirdest, most comforting way—parked next to you on the couch, both of you watching Abby on TV as she took yet another win. There she was, fierce and unshakable, the kind of woman who made dirt and danger look like ballet. You cheered for her from the safety of your living room, voice raw from pride, chest heavy from longing.

And then—like the universe finally decided to toss you a bone—she called you after work. Her voice warm, tired, but laced with something bright. “Babe,” she said, “I want you to come with me. For the last few competitions. Travel with me.”

You didn’t even hesitate. Of course you said yes. How could you not?

Because loving Abby was easy. It was the waiting that hurt.

And now? Now you were gonna close that distance, one dusty road and rodeo at a time.

The trips were like something out of a movie—dusty highways traded for high-rise skylines, small-town gas stations swapped with rooftop bars and glittering hotel lobbies. It was new terrain, but the same Abby, steady at your side, even when she was too busy to hold your hand. You met her team for the first time, all easy smiles and backstage chaos. Her manager, Manny, was this fast-talking, big-hearted guy who looked like he hadn’t slept since the 90s but still somehow ran the whole operation like a well-oiled machine.

The hotels? Insane. Plush robes, room service pancakes at midnight, elevators that whispered instead of dinged. You were swept up in it—this world she’d built, this life she lived on the edge of dust and spotlight. And when she rode? God. She was electric. Each competition was like watching lightning try to outdo itself. And she won—again and again, like the universe owed her.

But then finals came.

The moment you checked into that glossy glass-and-gold hotel, something shifted. Abby barely set down her bag before she grabbed her gear, threw on her hat, and kissed your cheek with a distracted “I’ll be back,” already halfway out the door with Manny. You sat on the bed surrounded by the emptiness of luxury, her absence suddenly louder than any TV could cover.

You didn’t see her again till sometime around 3 AM. The room was dark, cool, and quiet when you felt her—soft lips pressing kisses down your shoulder, warm hands tracing the shape of your body like she was memorizing it again. She tasted like rain and adrenaline. What followed was a blur of breathless moans and running water, bodies colliding beneath the steam. She fell asleep right after, wrapped around you like armor, only to wake again at dawn and press a kiss to your temple like none of it was real.

And then came the finals.

Before the event, she kissed you. Not just a quick “see you later,” but something slow, deep. “For luck,” she whispered, brushing your nose with hers. You wore the hat—the same one she gave you the first night you met at the rodeo, when you were just a pretty buckle bunny she couldn’t stop staring at. That hat had history. Sweat, stories, so much damn love stitched into the band it felt like it buzzed with it.

The arena roared.

You watched her enter the ring, all calm fury and perfect form. The bronc bucked like it had something to prove, muscles snapping like whips beneath Abby. The crowd held its breath—so did you. Every second felt like a knife’s edge. But she held on, knuckles white, jaw clenched, focus locked in. Until—

Her grip faltered.

It was a blink. A gasp. She slipped—hard.

The sound when her body hit the ground was sickening, a sharp crack that silenced the crowd. Her head bounced against the dirt, limbs limp for just a second too long. Your heart dropped straight through your stomach. The bronc was still raging, hooves inches from her skull before the handlers wrangled it away.

Medics were on her in seconds.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Just sat there in the stands clutching that cowboy hat like a lifeline, willing her to blink, to breathe, to move.

The hospital was cold in a way that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. It was the kind of chill that sank beneath your skin, into your bones, into that trembling, panicked part of you that refused to calm down no matter how many deep breaths you tried to take.

They rushed her through those sliding glass doors, sirens still echoing in your ears. You tried to follow—your legs moving before your brain even caught up—but a nurse stepped into your path, her hands outstretched.

“Ma’am, you can’t go back there.”

“Please, please—she’s my girlfriend!” your voice cracked, raw with desperation. “She needs me.”

The nurse’s face softened, just for a moment, but the rules were rules and you were left standing there, helpless, as the doors swung shut behind Abby. Like some invisible wall had slammed down between you and the only person in the world who made sense.

You found yourself beside Manny in the waiting room, both of you pacing, sitting, standing, pacing again. Time stopped making sense. Minutes bled into each other, stretched long and thin by worry.

You’d been staring blankly at the tiled floor when a voice cut through the silence.

“How’s Abby?”

You looked up. A man stood there—tall, sturdy, with a presence that carried weight. His eyes were locked on Manny.

“I don’t know,” Manny said, voice low. “They haven’t said anything yet.”

The man nodded once, jaw tight. “I’ll go find out…” Then his gaze shifted, landed on you. “You must be the girlfriend.”

There was a beat of silence, your heart tripping over itself. You straightened up, nodding, uncertain. “Yes, sir.”

His face softened just a bit. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Jerry. Abby’s father.”

You blinked, startled, and reached to shake his hand—but he didn’t just shake it. He took it gently, and kissed the back of it with this old-school grace that caught you completely off guard.

“Come on,” he said, voice calm but full of something steady. “We’re gonna find out what’s wrong with her.”

You nodded, swallowing down the fear trying to rise in your throat like a tidal wave. You rose to your feet and followed him, step for step, as the halls stretched ahead of you like a maze.

The weight of that cowboy hat still rested on your head—Abby’s hat. Her heart. Her everything.

And all you could do now was pray you’d get to see her wear it again.

The hospital hallway buzzed with that sterile kind of quiet—machines beeping behind doors, murmurs of nurses, the squeak of shoes on polished linoleum. You walked next to Jerry, your hands clenched into fists so tight your nails bit into your palms. Manny trailed just behind, his usual confident stride dulled by the weight of the moment.

A nurse sat behind the front desk, eyes flicking between screens like she was watching a thousand lives play out in real time. Jerry stepped forward, that protective edge in his voice suddenly softer.

“Hi. Abigail Anderson—she was just brought in from the rodeo.”

The nurse clicked through the system, her face unreadable as her eyes scanned lines of text. You held your breath like the words on the screen might determine the rest of your life.

“She’s in the OR now,” the nurse said, her tone professional but kind. “Head trauma. CT scans showed a depressed skull fracture on the left parietal bone, just above the ear. The pressure was building fast—we had to move quickly. But the surgery’s underway now, and she’s stable.”

“Wait, wait—skull fracture?” you asked, your voice trembling, like the words tasted foreign in your mouth.

The nurse nodded, glancing at you. “It’s called a comminuted fracture. The bone shattered into fragments and was pressing against her brain. The swelling was dangerous, but the surgeon went in to relieve the pressure and remove the bone shards. So far, there haven’t been any complications. She’s responding well under anesthesia.”

You leaned against the desk, knees nearly giving out. Jerry stepped closer to you instinctively, like his body knew yours needed something solid to hold onto. Manny just stood there, hands in his jacket pockets, eyes glassy like the words were still echoing through him.

“She’s in good hands,” the nurse said, her eyes softening. “The team operating on her—some of the best we have. If all goes well, she’ll be out of surgery in an hour. Then it’s recovery. Monitoring brain function. But for now… she’s okay. We’ll keep you updated.”

You could’ve cried right there.

Stable. No complications. Okay.

It wasn’t over—but she was fighting, even now, even unconscious, just like always. Strong. Stubborn. Still Abby.

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat, and whispered, “Thank you.” You clutched the brim of her cowboy hat in your hands like a prayer, and sat down beside Jerry and Manny.

All you could do now was wait.

And hope.

The wait dragged on like time had molasses in its veins. Every second felt like it was trying to strangle you. You sat between Jerry and Manny, heart thudding in your throat, replaying every second of Abby’s fall over and over in your head like a broken film reel. The nurse had said an hour, but it felt like forever.

And then—finally—the surgeon stepped out, mask down, eyes calm. He spoke with Jerry first, quiet and low. You watched Jerry nod, the tension in his shoulders softening by degrees before he turned back toward you and Manny.

“She’s out of the OR,” he said, his voice like an exhale. “Stable, but real weak. She’s got a long way to go… but she made it.”

Manny covered his mouth with his hand, his relief visible in the way his knees buckled for half a second. You felt your body finally release the breath it had been holding since the arena.

Jerry reached out, placing a hand on your shoulder. “She asked for you.”

Those four words nearly undid you.

You stood on shaky legs, holding her hat to your chest like armor. As you followed Jerry down the hallway toward the recovery wing, the world blurred around the edges. The white walls, the nurses, the hum of machines—it all faded as you reached her door.

Jerry stepped in first, made sure everything was okay, then gave you a little nod and stepped out, letting the door ease shut behind you.

Abby was in the bed—pale, too still, with wires curling around her arms like vines and a monitor rhythmically ticking out the beat of her survival. A thick white bandage was wrapped around her head, just above her temple, stark against her golden skin.

Her eyes opened slow, sleepy. Dazed.

And when they landed on you, they lit up with something soft and star-bright.

“God…” she whispered, lips dry, voice hoarse. “It’s like I see an angel.”

You let out a broken little laugh, walking toward her like you weren’t sure your legs would carry you all the way. “That’s not funny, Abs,” you murmured, voice catching, eyes already stinging.

You leaned down and pressed a kiss to her lips—gentle, lingering, like you were scared she might vanish if you let go too soon.

She blinked up at you, eyes glassy but full of something fierce. “I know…” she breathed out, her voice trembling like wind through cracked glass, “…but I had to make sure you remembered how pretty you are.”

You laughed again, watery and disbelieving, forehead dropping to her shoulder. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“I know,” she whispered. “But I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

And right then, in that too-bright hospital room with the machines humming like lullabies and her hand barely holding yours, you knew—love like this didn’t break easy.

It bent, it burned, it bled—but it survived.

A few days passed, slow and tender. Abby’s color started coming back, her voice a little stronger each morning. You brought her breakfast with way too many syrups, fluffed her pillows like it was a full-time job, and sat by her side every time the nurse came in to check vitals. The machines came off, one by one, and the bruises on her face started to fade into soft purples and yellows like a sunset trying to disappear.

When the doctor gave her the green light to leave, you’d already made up your mind.

You extended the hotel stay—no hesitation. There was no way you were putting her in a car for hours when she still winced from bending down to tie her shoes. You didn’t care how fancy the hospital discharge paperwork looked. She needed time. Real time. Not just to heal her skull, but to let her heart catch up to the trauma her body had been through.

You made a cozy little nest out of the hotel room, full of takeout containers, ginger tea, soft music, and quiet, lingering kisses on her temple. You were patient. Gentle. You didn’t push her.

But when it came to bronc riding? That’s where the softness ended.

“Abs,” you said one afternoon, tucked beside her in bed, her head in your lap. “You can’t go back to riding. Not yet. Not for months. You almost died.”

Her fingers twitched against yours, jaw tight. “I know,” she said quietly. “I’m not planning on anything right now.”

It felt honest. Grounded. Like she was finally seeing what you saw.

Then Manny showed up, practically bouncing through the door with this grin that said everything’s changed.

“She won,” he announced. “Abby—you won the finals. They gave it to you. Even with the fall. You’re number one now. Top bronc rider in the league. You're officially the best.”

Abby lit up. Not just a spark—an explosion. Her whole face transformed. She sat up straighter, eyes wide, like every ache in her body disappeared in that one breath.

“No way,” she whispered, then louder, “No way! I did it!”

You saw it immediately—the way the fire flickered back into her eyes. Not just joy, but hunger. She was already reaching for the reins again, already leaning toward the ring.

And just like that, your heart dropped.

“No,” you said, firm. “You’re not getting back on that bronc. Not for months. You agreed.”

“Babe—”

“No!” Your voice cracked like a whip, sharp and scared. “You’re chasing death. You think being number one means it’s worth it? Worth nearly breaking your skull open?”

“It is worth it!” she snapped. “I worked my whole damn life for this. You want me to just sit here while everything I built fades away?”

“It’s not fading,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “It’s just pausing. For your safety. For us.”

She didn’t hear you. Not really. The gears were already turning in her head—future interviews, comeback rides, glory burning behind her ribs.

That’s when the fear turned into anger. A bitter, aching, sharp-edged kind of love that clawed its way out of your throat.

“Then fine,” you said, standing up, the hotel light casting your shadow over her. “If you get back a bronc in these next few months, we’re done. I mean it.”

Abby blinked, like you’d just slapped her.

“You’re giving me an ultimatum?”

“I’m giving you a choice,” you said, voice trembling. “Between the ride that almost killed you… and the person who sat in a hospital praying you’d wake up.”

The silence that followed could’ve cracked stone.

You didn’t want to leave her. Didn’t want to fight. But love wasn’t just kisses and winning smiles. It was boundaries. It was saying no when saying yes might cost everything.

And now… she had to choose.

Abby didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at you like she couldn’t recognize the weight of what you just said. Her breathing was shallow, chest rising and falling like she’d just taken a hit—but not from a bronc. From you.

You didn’t want to hurt her. God, that was the last thing you wanted. But watching her get tossed like that, head slamming against dirt, blood soaking into the ground—you’d never unsee that. You couldn’t just sit back and let her flirt with death again, not while calling it passion.

Her fingers clenched in the sheets, jaw tightening. “You don’t get it.”

Your heart cracked a little. “Then help me. Help me understand why being number one matters more than being alive, Abby.”

“It’s not about the title,” she muttered, eyes burning. “It’s about me. It’s who I am. If I walk away now… it’s like all the bruises, all the broken bones, everything I’ve fought for—it’s like it never meant anything.”

You stepped closer, lowering your voice, trying not to let it tremble. “It meant something. It still does. But it’s not worth dying for. And it’s not worth losing me for.”

Abby looked away. Swallowed hard.

You watched her wrestle with it—watched pride and pain and fear wage war behind those storm-colored eyes. And you knew this was deeper than just a sport. It was legacy. Identity. The only thing she ever truly called hers.

But you also knew that love meant sometimes being the anchor when the person you love is lost in the current. And right now, she was drifting.

You sat beside her again, softer this time. “I love you, Abby. That’s why I’m saying this. Because I want more time with you. I want to grow old with you. I want you in one piece.”

Her eyes welled up, but she blinked the tears away fast, like letting them fall would be surrender.

“I don’t know if I can stay off that long,” she whispered, voice cracking. “What if I lose everything while I’m gone?”

You gently reached for her hand. “Then we build it again. Together. But you can’t ride if you’re gone. And I can't keep standing by if you're choosing danger over us.”

There was another beat of silence.

Then finally, she exhaled. Shaky. Heavy.

“Okay,” she said, so soft it barely reached you. “Okay. I won’t ride. Not yet.”

You didn’t trust it fully. Not yet. But it was something. A crack in the armor. A promise, maybe.

And for now, you took her hand, pulled her into your arms, and let your heartbeat speak the things words couldn’t. That you were scared. That you were here. That you loved her enough to draw the line—and stand at it, hoping she’d cross back to you.

The months that followed were golden—soft-lit and slow, like the world finally let the two of you breathe.

Abby kept her word. She stayed off the broncs, at least for a while, and during that time, you two found something even more powerful than adrenaline or spotlight. You found each other—fully, deeply, without distraction.

Your nights weren’t wild or extravagant, but they were full of the kind of magic you don’t realize you’re living in until you look back. Takeout scattered across the living room floor, your favorite show half-playing in the background. You’d sit wrapped in a blanket, your head on her shoulder, her fingers absentmindedly tracing hearts on your thigh. Some nights, when the mood was just right, you’d throw on a slow country song and dance barefoot in the living room, her hands on your waist, your head tucked beneath her chin. Just two girls, in love, swaying under cheap lighting like it was moonlight.

One of those nights, when everything felt almost too perfect to be real, she pulled back mid-dance and looked you straight in the eye.

“You gonna marry me or what?”

You laughed. “Is that your proposal?”

Then she got down on one knee, with nothing but her eyes shining and a promise trembling on her lips.

“Yes,” you said, breathless. “God, yes.”

And just like that, the dream kept unfolding.

By the time the rodeo season came back around, Abby was ready—mind sharp, body stronger, heart steadier. She kissed you before her first ride back and whispered, “I’ll be careful. I swear.”

You believed her. And she didn’t let you down.

Month by month, ride by ride, she rose again. Not like before—more calculated now. Wiser. Safer. But still electric. Still Abby. And the crowds? They loved her even more for it.

When your wedding day finally came, it felt like time had slowed to give you space to soak it all in.

The garden was blooming—roses and peonies and wild little blossoms that caught the sun just right. The very place you’d dreamed of since you were sixteen, flipping through bridal magazines and sketching your future in a tattered notebook.

And your dress?

It was everything.

A backless mermaid silhouette, hugging you in all the right places, designed by you, sewn by your hands, born from your vision. Silk that shimmered like moonlight and lace like whispers. People gasped when you walked down the aisle, but all you saw was Abby—tears in her eyes, hands shaking, heart wide open like a promise she never planned to break.

You said I do with voices cracking and hands trembling and hearts racing. And when she kissed you—when she held you—it felt like every version of you that ever hurt, ever doubted, ever feared... finally exhaled.

Abby posted the wedding photos the next day, and within hours your dress was everywhere. Viral. Trending. Everyone wanted to know who made that dress. And the answer?

You.

Your online boutique lit up overnight. Sales pouring in. Clients requesting customs. And soon, you had a space of your own—a little shop with big windows and your name etched on the front like a crown.

Abby stayed right beside you through it all. She didn’t just support your dream—she believed in it. While she kept climbing back up the rodeo ranks, every fall she took was met with grace, every win with humility. It took time, sure. But eventually, she was number one again. No shortcuts. No risks. Just grit and growth.

Now, when you walk past your closet, you see that dress—the one you wore when you became hers forever—and you smile.

Because this? This wasn’t a fairytale.

This was earned. This was real. And this was just the beginning.

It had been a few years since you stood under that wildflower arch and promised forever, and now… you were Mrs. Anderson. A name that still made your heart skip when you caught it on letters, packages, little tags Abby left on the fridge when she forgot to kiss you goodbye.

The broncs were behind her now. Abby had hung up her saddle from competition, traded in the roar of the crowd for the quiet power of the earth. You both bought a patch of land so wide you could breathe in every direction—and turned it into something out of a painting. A white wraparound house with creaky wood floors and a porch that caught every color of the sunset. Behind it? Acres of open sky and warm earth. Horses that she raised with her bare hands. Cows with names. Sheep that wandered like soft little ghosts through the pasture.

Abby became a rancher like it was what she was meant for all along. Sunrise woke her before the alarm. She’d tie her hair up, pull on her boots, and disappear into the misty morning to tend to the land. She looked right out there—sun spilling through the trees, hay in her hair, humming old songs her father once sang while fixing up fences or brushing down the horses. She’d come back sweaty, tired, glowing. Sometimes you'd just sit on the porch watching her like a dream you never knew would come true.

And you? You had your boutique. One hour into the city, one hour back, but every mile was worth it. Business was good, real good. Clients with high expectations, influencers dying to wear your designs, and every now and then someone would come in just to see the “wedding dress girl.” You still sold online, but the shop was your world—mannequins draped in silk, sketches pinned to the walls, laughter between fittings. It was work, sure, but it was your kind of work. The kind that made your soul hum.

But everything changed the night you found Lev.

You were closing the shop, locking up after a long day, when you saw him across the street—skinny, tired, holding a half-eaten bag of chips like it was all he had. He had an edge to him, sharp-eyed and stubborn, but there was something in the way he looked at you… like he wanted someone to notice him. Just once.

You crossed the street.

You asked if he was okay.

He lied, of course. Told you he was fine. That he didn’t need anything. But you offered him a warm meal anyway, and after a moment—he followed.

You didn’t ask questions until he was fed, and even then you were gentle. He told you his name was Lev. Told you he was trans. Told you that when he came out, his parents kicked him out and said never to come back.

That was all you needed to hear.

You brought him home.

Abby wasn’t thrilled at first—she had that protective, guarded look in her eyes, the kind she got when something she didn’t understand wandered too close to her heart.

But Lev… Lev had a way of earning space. He didn’t ask for permission to belong. He just started helping. Fed the animals. Cleaned the stalls. Rode bareback like he was born to do it. He had a temper, sure. Wasn’t always polite. But he tried. And the animals adored him. And soon, so did Abby.

One morning, you woke up to find them both outside fixing the chicken coop, laughing at some dumb joke you couldn’t hear. Abby called him “kid.” He called her “boss.” They were thick as thieves before the month was over.

Now? He’s family. No papers, no courtrooms, just a quiet, unwavering truth that lives in the way Abby leaves an extra plate for dinner without asking, and the way Lev calls you both “moms” when no one else is around.

And the house—your wraparound dream of a house—it holds more now. More stories. More love. More late nights with country music floating through the windows, Lev asleep on the couch, Abby’s arm wrapped around you on the porch swing.

This life you built?

It ain’t perfect. But it’s real. And it’s yours. And in every corner of it… there's love stitched deep like the seams of your favorite dress.

A few weeks passed, and something in you couldn’t rest—not until you knew for sure. For Lev. For the little boy who’d carved out a home in your heart with more quiet resilience than most grown men could muster.

So you did the research. Dug into public records. Asked around. Made the calls no one wants to make.

You found them—his parents. If you could even call them that.

And you and Abby drove out to meet them, heart armored and expectations low. The moment they opened that door, you knew this wasn’t going to be the story with redemption at the end. Their eyes were cold, words sharper than knives, their hate so effortless it made your chest ache. They didn’t ask about Lev. Didn’t want to know how he was, what he liked, if he smiled more now. Just shoved the paperwork across the table like he was something to get rid of.

You signed it. They signed it. You left with your head held high and Abby’s fingers wrapped tight around yours.

You didn’t tell Lev. He didn’t need to hear what was said in that room. He didn’t need their words anywhere near his spirit. Instead, you poured your energy into something that mattered—his new start.

You enrolled him in the nearest school, made sure he had teachers who got it. Who respected him. You decorated a room just for him—walls painted deep navy with stars scattered across the ceiling, bookshelves stuffed with comics and space encyclopedias, posters of his favorite anime, and a beanbag chair so big he practically disappeared into it.

You and Abby surprised him when he came home. He dropped his backpack and just stood in the doorway, blinking like he couldn’t believe it was real.

“This… this is mine?” he asked.

“All yours, kid,” Abby said.

And just like that, your perfect family was whole.

Now, here you are.

The porch creaks beneath you as you sway in your swing seat, legs tucked up, your sketchbook balanced on your lap. The golden-hour light paints the ranch in watercolor—amber fields, soft shadows, the quiet sounds of life in every corner. Your phone rests on the little coffee table beside you, playing Luke Bryan low and lazy through the speaker.

The world is still.

Then—a kiss on your forehead, warm and soft like honey poured slow.

You glance up and smile. Abby.

She’s fresh from the barn, smells like hay and sunshine and the kind of peace you only find when you stop chasing the noise.

You scoot over, pat the swing, and she sits. You drape your legs across her lap, and she rests one hand on your calf, the other sliding up to rub slow circles on your knee.

“What are you doing out here so early, bunny?” she asks, voice rough and sweet like she hasn’t used it all morning.

“I had to drop Lev off,” you murmur, sketching another curve onto the page. “And I closed the shop today. Didn’t really feel like working.”

“Hm. That’s good,” she hums, leaning back, letting her body melt into yours. “You’ve been working yourself too hard.”

“So have you,” you whisper back.

She chuckles, soft and deep, and you tilt your head to look at her.

There’s something in the way her eyes hold yours, something so full, so steady, it presses tears to the backs of your eyes.

“You know,” she says, brushing a thumb across your ankle, “I never thought I’d have all this. You. A home. A kid. Love that don’t go nowhere.”

You close your sketchbook and set it aside, crawling up so you’re tucked against her chest, your heart beating in rhythm with hers.

“Me either,” you breathe, kissing the place just above her collarbone. “But I thank God every day I do.”

And under the golden sun, the slow spin of the earth, and the gentle strum of country music playing somewhere in the background—you sit, wrapped in each other, knowing you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

taglist : @rhian88 @abbyslvrrr @hell0-ki55y @spritelova @abbyscoochiecruncher @smaugayra @chaikichainsaw @femme-historian @h2pinky @lilredbird101 @kirna-diane @viperineee @sincerely-forest @athena-winters13 @madsxh1022

[jhyoos]

until i make up my mind on what part 3 of save a horse, ride a cowboy would be like here’s a few instagram posts that they’ve done of each other and text messages!

an.abby ✓

♡ 978k 💬 7,538 ➤ 5,567

Liked by dailymail and others

an.abby 🤍 @reader.https

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reader.https 🤍

abbysboots ain’t nobody told me nothing 😫💔

dinaadorbs ahhh so cute! 🫶

elliespace AYE YOOOO 👀

reader.https

♡ 278k 💬 2,644 ➤ 7,949

Liked by an.abby and others

reader.https finally got her to do it 🤭

──────

an.abby you actually posted it?

-> reader.https come home my legs miss being open 😔

-> elliespace that’s a crazy ass statement

abbyfp thank you for your service!

abbylefteye MORE.

taglist : @rhian88 @abbyslvrrr @hell0-ki55y @spritelova @abbyscoochiecruncher @smaugayra @chaikichainsaw @femme-historian @h2pinky @lilredbird101 @kirna-diane @viperineee @sincerely-forest @athena-winters13 @madsxh1022

[jhyoos]

posting part 3 of save a horse ride a cowgirl tomorrow!

[jhyoos]

coming soon !

mainly for my bookie @torradeironic !

(just a warning. it’s gonna be heavily based on the french beauty and the beast.)

comment if you wanna be added to the taglist!

[jhyoos]

Guns & Lace

outlaw!abby x rich!reader

mentions: modern au!, 1800s au!, romance, fast pace, hints of homophobia, sex in barn, forbidden love trope, kissing, reader comes out to family, violence, shooting, readers father is the sheriff

summary: you have a secret relationship with one of the most wanted woman in the country.

notes: im ovulating so the romance and smut is a little too over the top.

You were the daughter of the town’s esteemed sheriff, a symbol of grace and perfection molded by the expectations of high society. To the townspeople, you were nothing short of divine—each appearance sending ripples of admiration through the crowd. A new dress, a shimmering necklace, or simply the glow of your porcelain skin under the sun was enough to make them sigh in awe. Your mother ensured you lived up to this image, shaping you into the perfect lady with a delicate yet unyielding hand. Every morning was a lesson, every evening a test—how to curtsy at just the right angle, how to smile without showing too much teeth, how to keep your spine straight even when the bones of your corset dug deep into your flesh.

You liked being a lady, or rather, you liked the beauty of it. The elegance, the fine silks that draped over your body, the glint of candlelight against your jewelry—all of it had a certain enchantment. But there was an unspoken weight that came with it. The corsets were suffocating, the carefully practiced posture left your muscles aching, and the shoes—oh, the shoes—were a punishment wrapped in luxury. Worst of all, you were expected to endure the sharp tongues of high society with nothing more than a polite smile and a veiled retort, never truly allowed to bite back. Even horseback riding, one of the few freedoms you had, was made into an ordeal by layers of lace and ruffles that always found a way to tangle in the saddle. You wanted more. You craved more.

And then, as if the universe had heard your silent plea, she arrived.

No one knew who she was—not yet. But you did.

You had heard your father speak of her in hushed yet furious tones, piecing together the stories, the rumors, the scraps of information collected from frightened witnesses and unlucky men who had crossed paths with her. A woman built like a warrior, golden-haired, with a gaze sharp enough to cut. A leader. A ghost. A legend. Abby Anderson.

And there she was, in the grandest ballroom of the year, standing among politicians and the wealthy elite as if she belonged. Her suit was crisp, fitted in a way that made her broad shoulders even more imposing, yet she moved with an ease that suggested she was not the least bit intimidated by the opulence around her.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you watched her. You should have been terrified. But terror was not what you felt.

Her eyes found you.

She smirked, slow and deliberate, as she strode toward you, weaving effortlessly through the dance floor until she stood close—too close.

"Didn’t think I’d meet an angel at a place like this," she murmured, her voice a low hum, thick with something dangerous.

Your throat went dry. You knew who she was. You knew what she was. And yet—

"And I didn’t think outlaws got invited to presidential balls," you managed to say, your voice steadier than you expected.

Her smirk deepened. "You wound me, sugar. I’m no outlaw. Just a woman who knows how to walk through the right doors."

The heat of her presence was intoxicating. Every brush of her fingers against your sleeve, every lingering glance, sent a thrill rushing through you. You should have left. You should have turned away.

But you didn’t.

"You shouldn’t be talking to her."

Your mother’s voice sliced through the moment like a blade, and before you could react, she was there, her gloved hand gripping your wrist tight enough to leave marks. "Go dance with one of your suitors, darling. This one is… not our kind."

You barely had time to process the loss of Abby’s warmth before your mother was dragging you away, her nails digging into your skin through the delicate lace of your gloves.

She didn’t stop until she found an empty hallway, away from prying eyes. When she finally released you, she was fuming, her lips pressed into a hard line.

"Women like that," she spat, as if the words themselves were poison, "are not fit for society. They’re unnatural. Filthy. Do you understand me?"

Your stomach twisted.

"I have seen what happens to girls who entertain… that kind of company," she continued, her voice low and seething. "They end up outcasts. Ruined. And I will not have you ruin yourself over some broad-shouldered brute pretending to be a man."

You felt like you had been struck, though she had not laid a hand on you. Shame and anger warred inside you, tightening your throat.

"She was just talking to me," you whispered, though you knew it didn’t matter.

Your mother scoffed. "She was corrupting you," she corrected. "And you, foolish girl, were letting her."

She took a deep breath, smoothing down the fabric of her dress as if that alone could erase the conversation. "Now, go back inside. Dance with someone respectable. And do not let me see you near that woman again."

With that, she turned and disappeared back into the ballroom, leaving you alone, trembling with something that was not fear—but something much more dangerous.

And then—

"Well, that was somethin’."

You spun around, your pulse hammering in your ears. Abby leaned lazily against the wall, arms crossed, watching you with an unreadable expression.

"You—"

She pushed off the wall, stepping closer, her voice softer now, intimate. "Figured she wouldn’t like me much. Pity. I like you plenty."

The air between you was thick, electric. You should have run. You should have turned and gone back inside.

But instead, you did something reckless.

"Abby," you breathed.

She froze.

A flicker of surprise passed over her face, but it was gone in an instant, replaced by something slower, something deeper.

"You know who I am," she murmured, more statement than question.

"My father—"

"I know who your father is," she interrupted, taking another step closer, so close you could see the flecks of green in her stormy eyes.

You swallowed hard. Your name was on the tip of your tongue. And before you could stop yourself, you gave in.

"My name is—"

"I know who you are," Abby cut in, her voice a low whisper, tinged with something that made your breath hitch.

She lifted her hand, fingers grazing your jaw, slow and deliberate. The moment stretched, thick with unspoken words, with all the things you wanted to say but couldn’t.

A slow smile curled at the edges of her lips.

"See you around, angel," she murmured before turning, disappearing into the shadows.

And for the first time in your life, you wanted to follow.

The memory of that night at the ball clung to you like the lingering scent of roses after a storm. No matter how hard you tried to push her away from your thoughts, Abby Anderson remained, etched into your mind like an ink stain that refused to fade. You saw her in the flickering candlelight of your bedroom, in the whispers of the wind that slipped through the cracks of your window, in the ghost of a touch that never truly left your skin.

You had danced with suitors, entertained polite conversations, played your role as the perfect daughter of the sheriff, but none of it mattered. Not when your mind drifted back to her. The way her voice curled around her words, the way her fingers had ghosted over your wrist like a promise, the way she had looked at you—like she saw something worth stealing.

And clearly, she couldn’t forget you either.

It was a late night, the kind where the world was quiet, draped in darkness and secrets. You had slipped away from the manor, seeking solace in the gazebo overlooking the still waters of the estate’s lake. The moon painted silver ripples on the surface, casting a reflection so serene it almost made you forget the cage you lived in—the beautiful, gilded prison of your family name.

You leaned against the wooden railing, letting the cool night air kiss your skin, lost in your thoughts.

How did one move on from someone like Abby?

A soft sound behind you sent a shiver down your spine. The rustle of fabric. The faintest scuff of a boot against wood.

And then—

A tap on your shoulder.

Your breath caught.

You turned, pulse hammering in your ears.

And there she was.

Abby stood before you, half-drenched in moonlight, her golden hair tousled by the breeze, her piercing eyes drinking you in like she had been searching for you just as desperately as you had been searching for her. She looked so effortlessly out of place in the elegance of your world, a predator among painted dolls. And yet, she fit so perfectly in the darkness, in the forbidden spaces where only the bold dared to wander.

"How—" Your voice came out breathless, barely above a whisper. "How did you get in here?"

The manor was a fortress, guarded at every entrance. Even you, the daughter of the sheriff, had to be mindful of your steps. No one got in without permission. No one.

She smirked, slow and wicked, like she held all the answers to the questions spinning in your head.

And then—

She kissed you.

It was sudden, overwhelming, the warmth of her lips stealing the breath from your lungs. She tasted of something untamed, something wild and dangerous, and yet you melted into her like she was the only thing keeping you standing.

The question of how she got in, how she had managed to slip past the guards, the locked gates, the watchful eyes of your mother and father—it all faded away.

This was your answer.

Abby Anderson had a way of taking exactly what she wanted.

And tonight, she wanted you.

The moment her lips met yours, the world ceased to exist. The cold night air, the distant hoot of an owl, the flickering lanterns lining the garden path—none of it mattered. All that mattered was her.

Abby kissed you with a certainty that sent a thrill down your spine, her hands finding purchase on your waist, pulling you flush against her. She wasn’t tentative, wasn’t careful—no, she kissed you like she had waited a lifetime for this, like she was staking her claim, like she had been searching for something and finally found it in you.

And you let her.

You melted into her, your fingers gripping the fabric of her shirt as if letting go would send you plummeting back into the carefully constructed life you were supposed to live. The life where you were nothing more than the sheriff’s perfect daughter. The life where women like Abby Anderson were nothing but a whispered warning from your mother’s lips.

But here, under the moonlight, in her arms, you were something else. Someone else.

She broke the kiss, just barely, her lips still ghosting over yours as her breath fanned against your skin. You were dizzy, lips tingling, chest heaving, but she only smirked—pleased, confident, as if she knew exactly what she had done to you.

"Still wondering how I got in?" she murmured, her voice teasing, yet thick with something deeper, something that made your knees weak.

You swallowed hard, staring up at her, trying to gather your scattered thoughts. "I should be worried," you whispered, though your grip on her hadn’t loosened in the slightest. "If you can get in this easily, what’s stopping someone else?"

"Sweetheart," she drawled, thumb brushing against your waist in slow, lazy circles, "no one else is as good as me."

Your stomach flipped.

She wasn’t lying—she was a ghost, a legend, the woman your father had spent months trying to track down. She had no face on wanted posters, no official name in bounty records. She was a whisper, a shadow, and yet here she was, standing before you, real and solid, her hands warm against your body.

"You shouldn’t be here," you finally said, though the words had no weight behind them.

She chuckled, dipping her head just enough that her lips brushed against the shell of your ear. "And yet, you don’t seem too eager to send me away."

Damn her. Damn her and that voice and the way she knew exactly what she was doing to you.

Your silence was all the answer she needed.

Slowly, she pulled back just enough to look at you properly, her hands never leaving your waist. In the dim light, her expression softened—not entirely, not enough to strip away the sharp edges that made her who she was, but enough for you to see something real in her eyes.

"I haven’t stopped thinking about you," she admitted, her voice quieter now, more serious. "Since that night at the ball."

Your breath hitched.

Neither had you.

Every fleeting thought, every stolen moment, every memory of her touch had haunted you. But hearing her say it—knowing she felt the same—it sent something dangerously close to hope blooming in your chest.

"You’re going to get caught," you murmured, though it wasn’t a warning. It was a fear. A truth.

She smirked again, tilting her head. "Then I guess I better make this visit count."

And before you could say another word, she kissed you again—slower this time, deeper, as if sealing a promise neither of you had spoken out loud yet.

You lost yourself in her.

The taste of her, the feel of her—Abby was fire and sin wrapped in something dangerously intoxicating, and you drank her in like you’d been starved your whole life. The kiss was slower now, deeper, her hands firm on your waist as she pulled you closer, leaving no space between you. It was different from before—less about staking a claim, more about savoring.

And you let her.

The night wrapped around you like a well-kept secret, the moonlight spilling through the gazebo casting silver streaks across her face. You could see the way her brows furrowed, the way her lips parted against yours, the way she let out the faintest sound when your fingers found their way into her hair.

You could’ve stayed like this forever.

But forever was a fragile thing.

A distant sound—rustling in the trees, the crunch of gravel under boots—sent reality crashing back into you.

Your eyes flew open. “Abby,” you whispered, a warning in your tone.

She didn’t pull away immediately. Instead, she lingered for a second, pressing one last kiss to your lips, softer this time. Like she knew this moment was about to slip away.

When she finally leaned back, her hands stayed on you. “You expecting someone?”

You swallowed hard. "No, but my father has men patrolling the estate."

Her jaw tensed slightly, the rogue in her sharpening. “Damn. They’re getting better.”

Your heart pounded against your ribs. The thought of your father’s men finding her here, of her getting caught, of what would happen if your father realized his own daughter was sneaking around with the very outlaw he had been hunting—it sent a cold dread down your spine.

"You need to go," you whispered urgently.

But she just smirked, tilting her head. "You trying to get rid of me already?"

"Abby," you hissed, stepping back, but she only followed, hands finding your waist again, keeping you close.

"You worried about me, sweetheart?" she teased, but there was something softer underneath, something real.

You scowled. "I am when my father wants your head on a spike."

Abby hummed as if considering that. "Wouldn’t be the first time."

"Abby."

She sighed, but her smirk never fully faded. "Alright, alright." Reluctantly, she let her hands fall from your waist, stepping back into the shadows of the gazebo. "But I’ll see you again."

It wasn’t a question. It was a fact.

Your stomach twisted, a mixture of fear and something else, something dangerously close to excitement. “You shouldn’t.”

She grinned. "That never stopped me before."

With a last lingering look, she melted into the darkness, disappearing as easily as she had arrived.

And as you stood there, breathless, pulse still hammering, you realized something terrifying.

You wanted her to come back.

Ever since that night, you and Abby fell into a dangerous, intoxicating routine.

Every few nights, when the house was quiet, when the guards had long settled into their rounds, you would slip out of your room and make your way to the gazebo. And every time, without fail, she would be there.

You never saw how she got in—never heard the crunch of boots on gravel, never caught the flicker of movement in the shadows. She simply appeared, like a ghost summoned only by your presence. Sometimes she was already leaning against the railing, arms crossed, that ever-present smirk tugging at her lips. Other times, she’d wait for you to turn, wait for the moment your back was to her before grabbing your waist, making you gasp as she chuckled softly against your ear.

She lived for the way you reacted to her.

And you lived for the moments you could be near her.

It started with stolen kisses—rushed, heated, lingering. Pressed against the wooden posts of the gazebo, hands tangled in fabric and hair, trying to take as much of each other as you could in the fleeting moments you had. Abby kissed you like she was afraid you’d slip through her fingers, and you kissed her back like you were terrified this was all just a dream.

But over time, it became more than that.

It became whispered conversations under the moonlight, words meant only for each other. Abby told you about the world beyond your gilded prison—the vast open lands, the hidden saloons where no one asked questions, the thrill of outrunning the law. And you told her about your world, about the weight of expectations, about the loneliness that came with perfection.

She listened.

She always listened.

And slowly, without meaning to, you started leaving little pieces of yourself with her.

It began one night when she ran her fingers through your hair, idly twirling a loose strand between her calloused fingers. “This is nice,” she murmured, almost to herself.

Without thinking, you pulled the lace from your hair, the one your mother insisted you wear to keep yourself "presentable," and tied it around Abby’s wrist instead.

“There,” you whispered, running your fingers over the delicate bow. “Now you have something nice too.”

Abby looked at it, then back at you, something unreadable flashing in her gaze. She didn’t say anything—didn’t need to. The way she leaned in and kissed you told you everything.

After that, it became a habit.

A bracelet, one of the many you had been gifted but never wore, found its way around her wrist. A pocket square embroidered with your initials, tucked into the inside of her coat. Small things, things no one would question if they saw you without, but things that meant everything when you saw them on her.

And then, one night, you gave her something more.

It was a simple photograph, a small portrait taken at your father’s insistence. In it, you were poised, elegant, the very image of the sheriff’s perfect daughter. But when you handed it to Abby, her fingers brushing yours as she took it, her expression softened in a way you had never seen before.

“You carry this around with you?” she teased, though her voice was gentler than usual.

You swallowed, unsure why your hands suddenly felt clammy. “I thought… maybe you’d want something to remember me by.”

Abby stared at you for a long moment, thumb brushing over the edges of the photo. Then, carefully, she tucked it into the pocket of her coat.

“I don’t need this to remember you,” she murmured. “But I’ll keep it anyway.”

And when she kissed you that night, it was different—slower, deeper. Like she was savoring you. Like she was memorizing every part of you.

Like she already knew she’d never be able to let you go.

The ride around town with your father had been uneventful—quiet, almost peaceful if you didn’t know any better. The streets bustled with familiar faces tipping their hats or offering polite smiles as you and the sheriff rode past, your father a man well-respected, and you… the pristine daughter of law and order.

You played your part well, as you always did, nodding, smiling, waving when expected. But inside, an uneasiness clawed at your chest, an unshakable feeling that something was coming.

And then, as you returned to the estate, it came.

Your father helped you off your horse, his hands steady as ever as he guided yours away from the reins. “I’ve set up a meeting with an eligible bachelor for you tomorrow morning,” he said, voice calm, firm—unchallenged.

You felt your stomach drop, but you kept your face carefully composed as he continued.

“He’s a nice man. From Italy. Nice oceans, views, new culture…” His eyes met yours then, serious. “And most importantly, you’ll be safe there. You will marry him.”

Your lips twitched into a practiced, obedient smile. It was all you could do. You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat as he reached out, pulling you into a brief hug.

He kissed the top of your head. “I have to go back to the office. I’ll see you at dinner,” he said, his words final, before mounting his horse and riding away, leaving you standing there in the settling dust.

The moment he was out of sight, your composure cracked.

You barely made it up the path before the tears slipped free. Silent, burning, bitter. You pulled off your gloves as if they, too, suffocated you, your pace quickening toward the manor. A few ranch hands caught sight of you but said nothing. They knew better.

But someone did speak.

A hand grabbed your arm, yanking you off the main path and into the barn. Not just any barn—the hidden one, the one your father used for storing crates of moonshine, whiskey, and whatever else kept his business running behind closed doors. The flooring was clean, meant for storage, not animals, and it smelled of wood, liquor, and secrecy.

You already knew who it was before you saw her.

And when you turned, breath shaky, it was confirmed.

Abby.

She stood in the dim barn light, her sharp blue eyes scanning your face, immediately locking onto your tears. Her expression hardened, concern creasing her brows. “What happened?”

That was all it took. The moment she spoke, you broke.

A sob tore from your throat as you crumpled into her arms. She caught you, strong and steady, pulling you close without hesitation. One hand cradled the back of your head, the other wrapped tightly around your waist, holding you together when you felt like you were falling apart.

You buried your face into her coat, voice muffled, breaking as you confessed, “I’m getting married really soon… and I’m leaving to Italy.”

Abby stilled.

Her entire body went rigid, the grip on your waist tightening for just a second before she pulled back just enough to look at you. Her hands still framed your face, thumbs brushing at the wet streaks beneath your eyes.

Her voice was low, dangerously calm. “What?”

You sniffled, trying to keep yourself together. “I don’t wanna get married… I don’t want to leave you, Abby.”

There. You said it. The truth, raw and trembling between you.

Something dark flickered in Abby’s gaze. Her jaw clenched, a muscle twitching beneath her skin. “Who decided this?”

“My father.” Your voice wavered, barely above a whisper.

Abby let out a bitter laugh, one that held no humor. “Of course.” She shook her head, her grip on you never loosening. “And you’re just… going along with it?”

You looked away. “What choice do I have?”

Abby inhaled sharply through her nose, exhaling like she was trying to control herself. “He says I’ll be safe there,” you continued, your voice small. “That it’ll be good for me.”

Abby scoffed. “Safe?” Her eyes burned into yours, piercing, fierce. “You think a gilded cage in a foreign country with some man you don’t even know is safety?”

Tears threatened again, but you held them back this time. “It doesn’t matter what I think. My father has already decided. It’s happening tomorrow.”

A silence stretched between you, thick, suffocating.

Then, Abby spoke, voice low and steady.

“No.”

You blinked, frowning. “No?”

“No,” she repeated, stronger this time. “You’re not marrying him. You’re not leaving. You don’t want this, so you’re not doing it.”

You let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “Abby, it’s not that simple—”

“Yes, it is.” Abby stepped closer, her hands tightening on you, grounding you. “You don’t belong to him. Or to anyone. And I’ll be damned if I let him take you away from me.”

Your breath hitched.

Abby exhaled, calming herself, her voice gentler when she spoke again. “Look at me.”

You did.

Her eyes softened, but the fire in them never dimmed. “Do you trust me?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

Abby nodded, her jaw set, her grip firm. “Then run away with me.”

Your stomach flipped. “What?”

Abby leaned in, forehead nearly touching yours. “Run away with me. Tonight.”

Your heart thundered in your chest. Run away. With Abby. Leave everything behind—your father, your family, the only life you had ever known.

It was reckless. Impossible.

You didn’t know what to say.

The words sat heavy in your throat, tangled in doubt and longing, in fear and hope. Every possible response warred inside your mind, but nothing came out. You were terrified—terrified of the unknown, of leaving behind everything you had ever known, of stepping into a future so uncertain.

But then there was Abby.

Abby, whose presence made your heart race. Abby, whose touch set your skin on fire. Abby, who had become the only thing that made sense in your world of suffocating expectations.

You loved her. That much was clear. And being with her… being truly hers—it would make you happier than anything else ever could.

She must have seen the hesitation in your eyes because she didn’t push for an answer. Instead, she kissed you.

Soft at first. Patient. But the moment you melted into it, the moment your lips moved in sync with hers, it turned into something deeper, something more.

Her hands found your waist, gripping you like she was afraid to let go. Then, her lips left yours, trailing down the curve of your jaw, then lower, pressing slow, lingering kisses along your neck. Each one sent a shiver through you, heat pooling low in your stomach.

A small gasp escaped your lips when your back suddenly met the rough wood of the crate behind you, bottles clinking faintly inside. Abby was against you now, her hands roaming, her body pressing closer, her mouth working against the sensitive skin of your throat.

Then, fingers toyed with the buttons of your blouse, and in one smooth motion, she undid them, peeling the fabric from your shoulders.

Your breath hitched.

“Abby, wait…” Your voice was barely a whisper.

She stilled immediately, lifting her head to meet your gaze. Concern flickered across her features, her hands halting their movements. “What’s wrong?”

Your fingers curled into the fabric of her coat as you hesitated. “I—I don’t know how to do this… Especially not with a woman.”

For a moment, there was silence.

Then, Abby’s expression softened, and a slow, reassuring smile curved her lips. “That’s okay,” she murmured, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I’ll lead the way.”

There was no judgment in her voice. No impatience. Just quiet understanding.

Then, she kissed you again.

Abby kissed you slow, deliberate, like she was savoring every second. The warmth of her breath fanned against your skin as she trailed soft kisses down your collarbone, her hands resting firmly on your waist as if grounding you, making sure you stayed with her in this moment. Your body was tense beneath her touch, not from fear, but from the unfamiliarity of it all—the thrill of stepping into something you had never allowed yourself to consider before.

Her fingers traced the bare skin of your arms, slow and careful. “You’re shaking,” she murmured against your shoulder, her voice a mix of amusement and tenderness.

“I… I don’t know what I’m doing,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

She pulled back slightly, her piercing blue eyes searching yours. “You don’t have to,” she said softly. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

Her words were comforting, but they didn’t stop the nervous energy buzzing inside you. You wanted this—you wanted her—but the weight of everything, the years of being told how you were supposed to act, how you were supposed to be, left you hesitant.

“I just… I’ve spent my whole life being told what I should do, what’s expected of me.” You exhaled, your fingers gripping the fabric of her coat. “This—you—it’s the first thing I’ve ever actually wanted for myself.”

Abby’s expression softened, and she reached up, cupping your face with both hands, her thumbs brushing gently over your cheeks. “Then let yourself have it.”

You swallowed hard, your heart hammering against your ribs.

She kissed you again, this time slower, deeper, as if silently reassuring you that there was no rush, no expectations—just the two of you in this hidden space, stealing time before the world could take you away from her.

Her hands moved again, featherlight against your skin, tracing the curve of your spine before settling at your waist. The warmth of her touch sent another shiver down your body, and you found yourself gripping her wrists, not to stop her, but to hold onto something real, something steady.

“I want this,” you finally whispered against her lips, and you felt her smile.

“Then trust me.”

Abby had undressed you. She was able to find some blankets in the barn and locked the barn from the inside. Your legs was resting on her shoulders as she devoured you like you were her last meal.

She licked up your folds and clit repeatedly before sucking on your clit. She moaned against you, enjoying the taste of you which only sent vibrations through you, making you jerk.

She held your thighs caressing them, her muscles flexing as the sunlight from the holes of the barns relflected onto them. She looked beautiful, like your own personal god.

The feeling was foreign to you, but you couldnt deny that it felt amazing, making soft whimpers and quiet moans.

You were trying to be quiet as there was still farmhands and guards patrolling the manor, but Abby wasnt helping at all as her tongue made it's way inside of you. You gasped loudly as your hand made it's way to her hair.

"Ha! Wait!," you moaned out, as you felt tongue move around inside of you, her hand moved down to your clit, rubbing it in circles with her thumb.

You bite your lip as you looked down at Abby, who was looking at you. You two made eye contact as she continued to move her tongue in and out of you.

The intense eye contact was soon broken when Abby pulled away and kissed you, eagerly. You could taste yourself on her as you kissed her back.

Two of her fingers found their way into your entrance, making you gasp against her mouth. Her fingers moved around inside of you stretching out your walls as you clenched around them.

She notices it and kisses your forehead as she starts to move her fingers in and out of you. "Does that feel good?," she asks.

"Yeah. It feels really good," you whined out.

"You're so beautiful," she says as she uses her other hand to grope one of your boobs, pinching your nipple before putting it in her mouth.

You whined as you grinded against her fingers "Please...,"

"Please what, babygirl?," she asked, before putting your nipple back in her mouth.

"Move your fingers faster, please," you begged.

She responsed by fingering you faster, the sound of your pussy juices faintly filling the sound of the barn.

You put your hand tightly to your mouth, muffling your moans. You had to be quiet, knowing farmhands and patrol was right outside.

Abby unlatches from your nipple, moving your hand and kissing you. The pace of her fingers got fasters which you didnt even think was possible, your hand went to her bicep, your nails digging into her arm.

There was a tight feeling in your gut, felt like you almost needed to pee the pressure of it was painful yet pleasurable. It made your wall clench tightly around her fingers again.

"Cum for me," she says in between your lips.

Just like that you came, gasping and moaning in Abby's mouth as she slowly finger fucked you.

When you came down from your orgasm, she pulled away. She put her hands around your waist, rubbing her hands up and down. "Did you like it? Your first time?," she asks.

"Yeah," you say "You're really good with your fingers."

Abby chuckles before getting up and getting your clothes. "Come on so you can go back before your parents start wondering where you are."

The morning light poured through the grand windows of the sitting room, casting a golden hue over the pristine furniture and polished floors. You sat still, painfully still, dressed in the most suffocating gown your mother had chosen for you. It was a delicate shade of ivory, lace wrapping around your arms and corset laced far too tight, restricting every breath you took.

The weight of your elaborate hairstyle made your head ache, strands pulled and pinned with too many clips, too much perfume clouding your senses. You felt more like a decorative doll than a person, meant to sit pretty and obedient as men discussed your fate.

The Italian man had arrived promptly, dressed in fine fabrics, his dark hair slicked back with precision. He was handsome in a distant, statuesque way, with sharp features and an air of entitlement. But it was clear from the moment he walked in—this meeting wasn’t about you. It was about what you represented.

Your father and the man spoke easily, exchanging pleasantries and discussing business affairs. Your mother sat beside you, a tight smile on her face, pleased that everything was going smoothly. You had barely been acknowledged beyond your father listing off your ‘best qualities’—your grace, your talents, your ability to be a good wife.

It was only when the Italian man turned to you directly that you felt truly seen, though not in the way you wanted.

“You are very beautiful,” he said in a thick accent, his gaze sharp as it swept over you. “And tell me, what makes you a good wife?”

You forced a polite smile, the words coming from your lips like they weren’t your own. “I am skilled in embroidery and music. I can manage a household, and I have been trained in etiquette and diplomacy.” You swallowed the bitterness threatening to rise in your throat. “I will be a loyal and dutiful wife.”

Your mother’s approving smile widened. Your father gave you a satisfied nod.

The man hummed, taking in your words with an impassive expression. Then, he turned to his mother, an older woman draped in luxurious silks, her beady eyes watching you with scrutiny.

“Stand up,” the man instructed.

You hesitated for a fraction of a second, but under your mother’s expectant gaze, you obeyed. Rising to your feet, you folded your hands neatly in front of you, waiting.

“Turn around.”

The request sent a cold wave of humiliation down your spine, but again, you complied, slowly spinning in place as if you were nothing more than a product being inspected.

His mother tilted her head, her lips pursed as she examined you. Then, she spoke.

“She’s a good weight, nice hips—good for baby-making,” the older woman noted, her voice firm, clinical, as though she were evaluating livestock. “And her skin… it’s perfect.”

You stilled, blinking as the words settled in.

Good for baby-making.

Perfect skin.

Your hands clenched at your sides. Your lips parted, but no words came out. You had no words, no way to express the sickening feeling curling in your stomach.

They weren’t looking at you as a person. You were nothing more than a vessel, a means to an end—a bride to be sent away, a future mother to bear their lineage.

Your mother beamed at the woman’s words, clearly proud. Your father nodded in satisfaction.

And you?

You wanted to scream.

But instead, you simply smiled. A perfectly practiced, empty smile.

Because that’s what they expected of you.

After what felt like hours of conversation—most of which you weren’t even part of—the Italian man finally reached into his pocket, retrieving a small, elegant box. Your breath caught in your throat as he flipped it open, revealing a ring so extravagant it nearly blinded you under the chandelier’s glow.

The band was gold, thick and heavy, adorned with a massive diamond at its center, surrounded by smaller shimmering gems. It was undeniably beautiful, but as he delicately took your hand, sliding it onto your finger, the weight of it felt suffocating. A symbol of ownership rather than devotion.

He smiled, pleased by the sight of it on you. “A fine ring for a fine wife,” he said, holding your hand a little too long, his fingers pressing firmly against yours. “I will return in a few weeks for the wedding.”

Your heart dropped, but you forced yourself to nod, your expression carefully composed.

Your mother was practically glowing with pride, while your father clapped the man on the shoulder, a hearty laugh escaping him. “A fine match,” he declared. “You’ve made an excellent choice.”

The man chuckled, giving you an approving look. “Yes, I believe I have.”

You swallowed the bile rising in your throat.

The farewell was quick, formal. You and your parents stood at the grand entrance of the manor, bidding him goodbye as he prepared to leave for Italy once more. His mother gave you a final once-over, satisfied, before stepping into the carriage.

And then, before leaving, he turned back to you.

His arms wrapped around you, his embrace stiff and firm. You barely had time to react before he leaned in, pressing a brief kiss to your cheek.

It took everything in you not to flinch.

Your skin burned where his lips had been, not from warmth, but from the sheer discomfort of it. You managed a stiff smile, whispering, “Farewell.”

He stepped back, nodding at you one last time before climbing into his carriage. The horses stirred, the wheels creaked, and just like that, he was gone.

The moment the carriage disappeared down the road, you let out a quiet breath, your hands trembling at your sides. The weight of the ring on your finger felt unbearable.

Your mother turned to you, sighing with delight. “What a wonderful day,” she mused, clasping her hands together. “You should be honored, dear. A future in Italy, with a respectable man, a prosperous family. It’s everything we could have wanted for you.”

Everything they wanted.

You simply nodded, feeling the cold wind against your skin, wishing—praying—for something, anything to stop this.

The moon hung heavy in the sky, casting silver light over the still waters beyond the gazebo. The air was thick with the scent of blooming gardenias, and the distant hum of crickets filled the silence. You sat at the wooden table, hands folded tightly in your lap, heart hammering against your ribs. You knew she’d come. She always did.

And she did.

Abby emerged from the darkness, her boots light against the wooden floor as she stepped toward you. But the moment she saw the glint of gold on your finger, her stride faltered. Her jaw tightened, and for the first time, she hesitated before coming closer.

“You’re actually engaged…” she murmured, her voice low, almost hollow.

You inhaled sharply. “No,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “He never asked.” You pulled the ring from your finger, the heavy weight of it leaving an imprint on your skin. You set it down on the table between you, as if casting it away would make it mean less. “The ring is nothing, Abby.”

Abby didn’t sit. She stood there, tense, her gaze fixed on the ring as though it might attack her. “It doesn’t look like nothing,” she muttered, arms crossed, muscles flexing beneath her worn shirt.

Your throat felt tight. “I love you, Abby,” you whispered, the words trembling as they left your lips. “I love you so much. And I wish—God, I wish—I wasn’t who I am. Maybe then… we could be together.”

Abby’s gaze snapped to yours, her eyes dark with something unreadable. She stepped forward, closing the space between you in two long strides. Her calloused hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing along your cheeks, and you melted into her touch, leaning forward as if she could hold you up.

“We can be together,” she said, her voice fierce. “Right now. You just have to come with me.”

Your breath hitched.

“Run away with me.”

Her words lingered in the air like a prayer, like a promise. The temptation of them curled around you, warm and intoxicating. The idea of freedom—of being hers, only hers—was almost too much to bear.

But then reality clawed its way back in. The expectations. The duty. The eyes that followed you everywhere. Your father’s voice, your mother’s hands arranging your hair, the weight of their hopes pressing down on you like an iron cage.

You shut your eyes, willing yourself not to cry. “Because, Abby… my duty is here.”

Abby exhaled sharply, her fingers slipping from your face. “Duty,” she scoffed, shaking her head. “And what about you? What about what you want?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

She stepped back. “They hold you up so high,” she muttered, voice laced with something bitter. “So high you can’t even breathe.”

Tears welled in your eyes, but you blinked them back. “It’s not that easy,” you whispered.

“Yeah,” she said, her voice breaking just slightly. “It never is.”

Silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken words and unbearable truths. The weight of your confession hung in the air, suffocating, as if the very walls of your gilded cage were pressing down on you. Abby stood there, fists clenched at her sides, her jaw tight, her breath uneven.

She was furious—not at you, never at you—but at the world that refused to let you have each other. At the people who decided your fate before you even had a chance to.

Her fingers flexed like she wanted to reach for you, but she didn’t. Instead, she turned away, dragging a hand down her face. “You say you love me,” she muttered, voice raw. “But you won’t fight for us?”

Her words cut through you like a blade. You shot up from your seat, hands trembling. “You think I don’t want to fight?” you snapped, stepping toward her. “You think I don’t lie awake at night, dreaming of running away with you? Of never looking back?”

Abby turned to you, her expression softening. You sucked in a breath, fighting the lump rising in your throat.

“I have spent my whole life being who they wanted me to be,” you whispered. “If I leave, I will be ruining everything they built for me.”

She took a step closer. “But you’d be free.”

You swallowed hard. “And you’d be hunted.”

That was the other cruel truth. Even if you ran, even if you somehow escaped the eyes watching your every move, Abby would never stop running. She may not have been on wanted posters yet, but that wouldn’t last forever. You knew your father—knew how ruthless he was. If he realized who Abby truly was, if he found out you left with her… he’d never stop looking.

Abby shook her head, frustrated. “I don’t care about that.”

“Well, I do!” you blurted out, your voice cracking. “I care if something happens to you. I care if they put a bullet in you because of me.”

That stopped her.

Her shoulders fell slightly, and for the first time that night, you saw something like defeat in her eyes. It terrified you.

“You really won’t come,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart twisted painfully. “I can’t.”

Her eyes searched yours, looking for something—hope, hesitation, anything to hold onto. But she must have found nothing, because she exhaled sharply, stepping back.

“Then this is it, huh?” she murmured.

Your lip quivered. “I don’t know.”

Abby studied you for a long moment before nodding to herself, as if coming to terms with something. She took a deep breath, looked up at the stars, then back at you.

“If you ever change your mind,” she said, voice steady, “I’ll be waiting.”

Tears burned your eyes as she turned, disappearing into the darkness.

This time, you didn’t stop her.

Days bled into weeks, and Abby never returned to the gazebo. You told yourself it was for the best, that this was the life you were meant to live, but every night, when you lay in your lavish bed, staring at the ceiling, you felt hollow.

The day of the wedding arrived faster than you wanted.

The grand estate was transformed into a spectacle—flowers draped over the balconies, silk banners rippling in the breeze, and the scent of expensive perfume and freshly baked pastries filling the air. Townspeople gathered beyond the estate gates, desperate for a glimpse of the sheriff’s daughter marrying into wealth, while esteemed guests filled the halls, sipping on imported wines and exchanging pleasantries.

Your mother was all smiles, fussing over your gown, ensuring every stitch was in place, every curl of your hair perfectly arranged. She beamed at you in the mirror, her hands resting on your shoulders.

“You look perfect,” she said, voice thick with pride.

You looked at yourself—the gown, the jewels, the poised expression you forced onto your face.

Perfect.

Then why did you feel like you were drowning?

Your father entered the room, nodding approvingly before offering his arm. “It’s time.”

You walked through the estate with him, each step feeling heavier than the last. The grand doors opened to reveal a courtyard full of people, all rising to their feet, their eyes on you. Music played, a soft melody meant to feel like a dream, but it felt more like a funeral march.

At the end of the aisle stood the Italian man—your husband-to-be—dressed in the finest suit, his family standing beside him. He smiled at you, but you barely saw him.

Your mind was elsewhere.

Not here.

Not with him.

Abby.

Where was she now? Had she truly left? Had she moved on?

You wished she would storm in at that moment, like something out of a storybook—grab you, take you away, free you from this life.

But she wouldn’t.

She had given you a choice. And you had made it.

Your father placed your hand in the groom’s, and the ceremony began.

The priest’s voice droned on, but you barely heard him. The courtyard felt suffocating, the weight of a thousand eyes pressing down on you, waiting—expecting. Your hands trembled in the Italian man’s grip, your breath shallow.

You weren’t here. You weren’t present.

You were back at the gazebo, feeling the warmth of Abby’s hands against yours. You were in the barn, crying into her arms as she whispered promises you were too afraid to believe. You were beneath the moon, with her lips on your skin, telling you she’d wait.

And now you were about to let it all slip away.

“Do you, signorina, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

The world blurred.

Your mother sat upright in her chair, poised and elegant, but you knew that look in her eyes—stern, unwavering. A silent warning. Your father stood tall, expectant. He had done everything to ensure this marriage, to secure your future. You could feel his presence like a brand on your skin, tying you down.

You turned your head slightly, and through the crowd, you spotted the ranch hands, the same ones who had seen you crying that day in the stables. Some looked away uncomfortably. Others pitied you.

The Italian man squeezed your hands. “Cara,” he murmured, urging you to respond.

The silence stretched too long.

Your throat tightened. Your heart pounded. The words wouldn’t come out.

You looked at your father. “I…”

He nodded encouragingly.

Then, you looked back at your husband-to-be, at the man you were supposed to spend the rest of your life with.

And all at once, it hit you.

This wasn’t your choice.

You had never had a choice.

Your breath shuddered as your hands slipped from the groom’s grasp. A murmur rippled through the crowd. You took a step back, the long train of your gown dragging behind you.

Your father’s face fell.

Your mother clenched her jaw.

“Tesoro?” The Italian man’s voice wavered.

You shook your head. “I can’t.”

Gasps filled the courtyard.

You turned on your heel and walked away.

Not rushed. Not frantic. Just steady, deliberate steps toward the entrance of the estate, past rows of shocked faces, through whispers of scandal.

Your mother rose to her feet. “You will come back here,” she hissed, her voice sharp like a blade.

You didn’t stop.

Your father’s voice followed next, low and threatening. “If you walk away from this, you walk away from everything.”

You hesitated for half a second.

Then, you kept walking.

Through the halls of the estate, past the maids and butlers frozen in place, out into the open air. You lifted your skirts and ran.

Ran until your lungs burned.

Ran until the estate faded behind you.

Ran until all you could think about was her.

The world blurred around you as you ran, feet pounding against the dirt path leading away from the estate. Your wedding gown—so pristine and elegant just minutes ago—snagged on twigs and tore as you lifted the heavy skirts, desperate to keep moving. Your lungs burned, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t stop.

The estate’s walls loomed behind you, filled with gasps, outrage, and disappointment. Your mother’s voice echoed in your head, sharp and seething. Your father’s threat burned in your chest. If you walk away from this, you walk away from everything.

Good.

Everything had been a cage.

And you were finally breaking free.

Your breath hitched as you stumbled toward the stables, your heart hammering against your ribs. The stable hands were already in a frenzy, muttering among themselves about the chaos unfolding at the wedding. Some of them looked at you in shock—the sheriff’s daughter, still in her wedding dress, panting, desperate.

You didn’t have time to explain.

You reached your horse’s stall, flinging open the gate. Your hands shook as you fumbled with the reins, the golden band on your finger catching in the light. The ring. His ring. You yanked it off, giving it to a stable hand.

“Miss—” One of the stable hands stepped forward hesitantly. “Where are you—?”

You climbed onto the saddle, yanking the reins tight. “Tell my father I made my choice.”

Then you kicked your heels into the horse’s sides, and you were off.

The wind tore through your hair as you rode past the pastures, past the ranch hands who stood frozen in shock, past everything that had ever tried to hold you down. Your heart raced, but this time, it wasn’t from fear. It was from exhilaration. From hope.

You didn’t know where you were going, not exactly.

But deep down, you did.

You were going to her.

The world spun as you ran, feet pounding against the dirt road, your breath ragged. The wedding had crumbled behind you—gasps, screams, the sound of your mother calling your name, your father’s voice booming with betrayal. None of it mattered anymore.

Your heart slammed against your ribs as you pushed forward, ignoring the tears streaming down your face, the fabric of your wedding dress tearing with every desperate step. You had one destination. The place Abby had whispered about, night after night at the gazebo. The place she dreamed of taking you.

“There’s a valley past the river,” she had murmured, tracing patterns on your palm as you sat together in the dark. “No law, no rules. Just open land and the sky stretched so far it swallows you whole.”

And now, you were chasing that dream. Chasing her.

The journey felt like an eternity, but you rode harder than you ever had before. You knew this path by heart. Abby had spoken of it too many times for you to forget.

The valley stretched before you, bathed in golden hues of the setting sun. The river cut through the land like a glistening ribbon, the grass swaying in the breeze. And there, standing beside her horse, waiting as if she had known you were coming—was Abby.

Your breath caught, a sob choking its way out of your throat. She looked up, her sharp blue eyes locking onto yours. And for a moment, time stopped.

Then you were off your horse, feet barely touching the ground before you sprinted toward her.

“Abby!”

She barely had time to react before you crashed into her, your arms wrapping around her neck, your body slamming into hers with the force of everything you had held back. She caught you instantly, arms tightening around your waist as if she was afraid to let go.

You buried your face into her shoulder, shaking. “I left,” you choked out. “I left, I left, I left—”

Abby held you so tightly it almost hurt. “You’re here,” she whispered into your hair, her voice breaking. “You really came.”

You pulled back just enough to look at her, your hands trembling as they framed her face. “I couldn’t do it,” you breathed, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I couldn’t marry him. I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t—”

She silenced you with a kiss, desperate and deep, like she had been waiting her whole life for this moment.

You melted against her, fingers tangling into her shirt, gripping onto her like she was the only thing keeping you grounded. And maybe she was.

When she finally pulled away, her forehead rested against yours, both of you breathless.

“You’re mine now,” she murmured.

You nodded, eyes still glistening. “I always was.”

Abby exhaled sharply, her hands sliding down to your waist. “We leave tonight.”

You swallowed hard, nodding. “Take me with you.”

She grinned, the same cocky, reckless grin you had fallen for all those nights ago. “Darlin’, I was never leaving without you.”

And as she lifted you onto her horse, hands warm and steady against your waist, you realized something.

You weren’t running anymore.

You were finally free.

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part 2?

[jhyoos]

comment to be added to taglist!

[jhyoos]

Save A Horse, Ride A Cowgirl 2

bronc abby x buckle bunny reader

mentions : modern au, cocky abby, romance, smut, strap on sex, fluff, ellie, dina and jesse mentioned

summary : abby takes the reader out on a date to the rodeo fair.

notes : part 1 <-

It had been a week since you last saw Abby—not for lack of trying, but because her schedule was packed. Between training, competitions, and whatever else a professional rodeo star did on the daily, she was constantly on the move. You’d barely gotten a glimpse of her after that night under the stars, and yeah, you were feeling the absence.

Then, out of nowhere, she found you on Instagram.

You weren’t expecting much when you clicked on her profile, but the second you did, your jaw nearly hit the floor. Over two million followers. Verified.

The Abby Anderson you met at the rodeo was already something, but this? This was next level. Scrolling through her feed, it was all action shots of her on horseback, winning competitions, and the occasional training video where she looked effortlessly cool. And, of course, thirst trap pictures—shirt slightly unbuttoned, sweat-drenched after a long day, those muscular arms flexing in ways that made your brain short-circuit.

You followed her back immediately, not expecting much, but then your phone buzzed.

ab.anderson: Hey, bunny.

That was all it took. One simple message.

Numbers were exchanged, and you started texting here and there, but Abby? Abby texted like an old man. She sent full sentences, used punctuation, and even signed some texts off with -A like she was sending an email. The sexting? Even worse.

So, to save your sanity, you resorted to FaceTiming whenever you both had the time. It was easier, and if nothing else, you got to watch her struggle with modern technology.

Then, one night after work, just like clockwork, your phone lit up with her name.

You answered, flopping onto your bed. “What’s up, cowgirl?”

Abby’s face filled the screen, and damn, she looked good—hair damp from a shower, sitting somewhere that looked like a hotel room. “Hey, bunny,” she said, her voice warm, familiar. “What are you doin’ this weekend?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Why? You finally making time for me?”

Her smirk widened. “Damn right. There’s a rodeo fair in town—I wanna take you.”

Your lips parted in surprise. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to go—it was just unexpected. Abby was the one always in the rodeos, so you figured she’d be too busy competing.

Before you could respond, though, a thought struck you, and you couldn’t stop yourself from asking, “Okay, but real quick—why the hell do you text like an old man? Have you heard of TikTok? They'll teach you everything you need to know.”

Abby groaned, running a hand down her face. “I don’t use my phone much, and I don’t manage my social media. My team handles all that.”

Your eyes widened in mock shock. “You have a team?” You gasped dramatically. “I’m messing around with someone famous?”

Abby laughed, shaking her head. “Yeah, I guess you are,” she said, voice dripping with amusement. Then, she leaned in a little closer to the camera, her eyes gleaming. “It’s nothing, really—just the number one bronc rider in the country.”

Your jaw dropped at her blatant flex. “Oh, fuck off,” you said, laughing. “You just had to throw that in there, huh?”

Abby grinned. “Had to make sure you knew what you were dealing with.”

“Oh, trust me,” you drawled, smirking. “I definitely know.”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “So? You comin’ or what?”

You bit your lip, pretending to think before finally nodding. “Alright, Anderson. Take me to the rodeo.”

Her smirk softened into something warmer, something almost fond. “Good,” she murmured. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

The weekend finally rolled around, and your room looked like a damn tornado had ripped through it. Clothes were strewn across the bed, shoes kicked to the side, and Dina was sitting cross-legged on the floor, scrolling on her phone between giving you brutally honest fashion advice.

Your hair was styled perfectly, your makeup was flawless—but the outfit? That was the real struggle. You held up a few options, groaning each time they didn’t feel right.

"You’re overthinking this,” Dina sighed, tossing a pillow at you.

“You’re underthinking this,” you shot back, pacing in front of your mirror. "I like her a lot, Dina. I have to look good."

“You always look good,” she said, rolling her eyes before sitting up. “But if you want to look hot—go with those shorts and that cheetah print corset top.”

You turned to the mirror, holding up the outfit against your body. The booty jean shorts hugged your curves just right, and the cheetah print corset top? It was giving country but make it sexy. You paired it with some black boots, did a little spin, and finally, finally felt satisfied.

Just as you finished adjusting everything, you heard a honk outside.

“Perfect timing,” Dina grinned.

“Lifesaver,” you said, giving her a quick hug before grabbing your bag.

Stepping out of your room, you found your dad lounging on the couch, eyes locked on the TV as Yellowstone played. Without a second thought, you leaned down and kissed his cheek. “Bye, Dad.”

“Be safe,” he muttered, still half-distracted. “And don’t be out too late.”

You smirked. No promises.

Pushing open the front door, you were immediately greeted by the sight of that familiar black truck parked in your driveway. The engine was humming low, the headlights casting a soft glow, and sitting behind the wheel—looking fine as hell—was Abby.

She was decked out in all black. Black jeans, black button-up, the sleeves rolled up just enough to show off those arms, a silver belt buckle glinting under the porch light. The way she leaned back in her seat, one hand resting on the wheel, exuding effortless confidence? Yeah. Trouble.

You climbed into the passenger seat, closing the door behind you with a soft thud before turning to her. “Damn, Anderson,” you said, looking her up and down. “You didn’t even look like this the first time we met.”

That smug smirk of hers grew as she gave you an equally slow once-over. “I should say the same to you, bunny,” she murmured, voice thick with approval. “You look real good and…” she trailed off, reaching toward the center console, “you forgot something.”

She lifted up the hat she had given you, the one from the rodeo, and before you could even react, she placed it on your head, her fingers lingering just a little too long.

Your stomach flipped.

“You ready?” she asked, her voice softer now, her eyes locked onto yours.

You smiled, adjusting the brim of the hat before nodding. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

With that, she put the truck into drive, pulling off down the road, the night just beginning.

The festival was alive with bright lights, the air thick with the scent of fried food, caramel, and the smoky tang of barbecue. Laughter and country music blended into the background as you and Abby moved through the bustling crowd, tickets in hand, ready to indulge in everything the fair had to offer.

From the moment you stepped through the gates, the night was nothing but fun. Abby, as it turned out, was really good at carnival games—almost too good. Every time she stepped up to a booth, she won with ease, knocking down milk bottles like it was second nature, landing impossible shots in rigged hoops, and hooking prizes from claw machines like she had magnets in her fingers.

She must have won you at least five plushies before you even reached the food stalls.

"Are you sure you’re not cheating?" you teased, hugging an oversized stuffed horse to your chest.

She smirked, tossing a ring onto a bottle without even looking. It landed with a perfect clink. "Nah, bunny. I’m just better."

Your night was briefly interrupted when a few festival-goers recognized her. People stopped her in passing, asking for autographs, asking why she wasn’t in the rodeo today. Abby didn’t even hesitate before slipping an arm around your waist, pulling you into her side as she answered,

“I canceled for this pretty lady right here. Don’t worry—I’ll be back in the arena before you know it.”

That answer alone had your stomach flipping.

Eventually, you two made your way to a concession stand that sold drinks and jello shots. Abby stuck to her whiskey, sipping slow, watching with amusement as the men behind the counter flirted with you, handing you drinks and shots for free simply because you were pretty.

You took every single one they handed you, and before you knew it, you were drunk out of your mind.

Abby didn’t mind, though. If anything, she loved seeing you in your fullest element—carefree, laughing, tipsy off life and liquor.

But then, something caught your eye.

A mechanical bull.

You gasped, eyes going wide with excitement, and before Abby could react, you took off, weaving through the crowd toward it.

“Shit—bunny, wait—” Abby called after you, quickly catching up, standing at your side as you bounced on your heels in line.

“You sure you wanna do this?” she asked, a knowing smirk playing on her lips.

“I’m more than sure,” you grinned, barely able to contain your excitement.

The line moved fast, and when it was finally your turn, you climbed onto the bull with surprising ease, settling in like you’d done this a hundred times before. You wrapped one hand tightly around the horn, the other adjusting the hat still perched on your head. With a confident grin, you shot a thumbs-up to the operator.

He pressed the button.

The bull jerked to life, spinning and bucking in unpredictable movements, but you held on like a pro. One hand gripping the saddle, the other keeping your hat in place as you moved in sync with the mechanical beast.

Abby was impressed.

But if she was being honest? She wasn’t really focused on how good you were at staying on.

She was focused on the way your hips rolled, the way your thighs clenched to keep yourself balanced—the way your body moved so effortlessly in a rhythm that had her wishing, praying, that it was her beneath you instead of that damn machine.

She was so lost in the sight of you that she almost didn’t notice the group of guys standing nearby, whispering among themselves, eyeing you in a way that made her blood boil.

“Damn, look at her ride that thing.”

"Bet she’s even better in a—"

Before the guy could even finish that sentence, Abby was already on her feet, standing over them, voice low and dangerous.

“Watch your fuckin’ mouths.”

The guys looked up at her, startled, and quickly muttered some half-assed apologies before backing off.

By the time Abby turned back, you had finally lost control, tumbling off the bull with a breathless laugh.

“Woooo! New record—60 seconds!” the operator announced through the mic before stepping over to help you up, handing you a giant plush cow as a prize.

Still clearly drunk, you stumbled down from the platform, plushie in hand, and the moment you saw Abby, your eyes lit up like you had just won the lottery.

“Look what I got!” you beamed, holding up the cow proudly.

Abby let out a small chuckle, shaking her head as she wrapped an arm around your shoulder. “Yeah, I see it. Come on, babygirl,” she murmured, voice soft as she led you toward a nearby table by the food venue.

She pulled out a chair for you, easing you into it before sitting beside you, resting a protective hand on your thigh.

"Let’s get you some food before you pass out on me."

Abby was about halfway to the food stand when you shook your head, pressing your fingers to your temples.

"I'ma be honest, my head is still spinning,” you admitted, leaning back in your chair. “Can you get it for me? I’ll save our spots here.”

Abby turned back to you with a smile, tilting her head slightly before leaning in to give you a quick kiss on the lips. “Alright. What do you want to eat?”

You smirked, eyes glinting with mischief. “You… but I’ll settle for some nachos.”

Abby let out a low chuckle, shaking her head as she patted your thigh. “Alright, I’ll be back.”

With that, she walked off, disappearing into the crowd.

As you waited, you sighed, pulling off Abby’s hat and using it to fan yourself. The night air was warm, and the combination of alcohol and excitement had left a flush on your skin. You were still grinning to yourself when you noticed movement from the side—then suddenly, a group of guys stepped up, surrounding you almost entirely.

It didn’t take long to realize who they were.

The same group of perverted assholes that had been whispering about you while you were riding the bull.

You remained seated, looking up at them with a bored expression.

One of them smirked, tipping his beer can toward you. “Damn, sweetheart, you sure know how to ride.”

Another one chimed in, eyes raking down your body. “Bet you’d be even better on somethin’ else.”

You worked at Hooters—you were used to men hitting on you. So instead of reacting, you plastered on a small, polite smile, already preparing to shut them down.

“Thanks, but I’m good. My girlfriend’s getting me something, and she’ll be back any second now.”

That should have been enough. Should have been.

But it wasn’t.

The flirting didn’t stop. If anything, it got worse. More persistent.

One of them, the tallest of the group, stepped closer, invading your space. “C’mon now, no need to play hard to get,” he drawled. “We’re just tryna have a little fun.”

Your patience was running thin. “And I said I’m good,” you said firmly. “I don’t want any of you—”

Before you could even finish, a rough hand grabbed your arm, yanking you up from your seat.

It happened fast—too fast for them to react.

Before he could tighten his grip, before he could say another word, your fist connected with his face.

A sickening crack filled the air as his nose burst open, blood spilling down his face. He stumbled back with a strangled yell, clutching his face in pain.

“Fuck off!” you snapped, eyes blazing as you glared at the rest of them. “All of you.”

The rest of the group stood frozen, wide-eyed.

“I’m a lesbian. I don’t even like you—any of you.”

There was a stunned silence. Then the guy you had just punched groaned, still gripping his nose. “What the fuck, you crazy bit—”

“What the fuck’s going on here?”

The deep, unmistakable voice sent chills down your spine.

You turned just in time to see Abby storming toward you, jaw clenched, brows furrowed in a deadly glare. She was holding a plate of nachos, but her focus was entirely on the scene in front of her.

The guys immediately took a step back.

Abby’s gaze snapped to the guy with the bleeding nose, then back to you, eyes scanning for any sign of harm. “Bunny,” she murmured, voice tense, “you good?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Just dealt with some assholes who couldn’t take a hint.”

Abby’s eyes darkened, and without missing a beat, she dropped the plate of nachos and stepped toward the group.

They didn’t wait for her to get closer.

One of them muttered, “Shit—let’s go,” before grabbing his friend and dragging him away, disappearing into the crowd like cowards.

Abby watched them go, chest rising and falling with barely restrained anger.

Then she turned back to you.

“C’mere,” she murmured, voice softer now.

You didn’t hesitate, stepping into her arms as she pulled you into a tight embrace. You felt the tension in her muscles, the way her fingers flexed against your back like she was trying to ground herself.

Finally, she sighed, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “Next time?” she said, voice teasing but still laced with concern. “Wait ‘til I’m back before you start throwin’ punches, yeah?”

You smirked, tilting your chin up to look at her. “No promises.”

Abby huffed, shaking her head before pressing a firm kiss to your lips. “You’re gonna be the death of me, bunny.”

You let out a small sigh, rubbing your temples. The adrenaline from earlier was fading, leaving behind a dull headache—and your buzz? Gone.

“I think my buzz is wearing off,” you admitted, looking up at Abby. “Can we just go? They kinda ruined the mood.”

Abby frowned, her jaw tightening slightly, but she nodded. “Yeah, sure. We can go to my place.”

That made you pause. You raised a brow, crossing your arms. “Your place? Didn’t know you were from around here.”

“I’m not,” she said with a smirk. “I’m staying at an Airbnb.”

That was enough to convince you.

The ride to her place was quiet, comfortable. Abby kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on your thigh, her thumb rubbing slow circles against your bare skin. You leaned into the seat, feeling exhaustion creeping in—but when you pulled up to the Airbnb, you were wide awake again.

Before you could even get out of the truck, loud, excited barking rang through the air.

The moment Abby opened the door, two dogs bolted toward her, tails wagging furiously.

You blinked.

“You have dogs?” you asked, sliding out of the truck and shutting the door behind you.

Abby chuckled as she knelt down, rubbing one of the dog’s head affectionately. “Yeah. Didn’t I mention them?”

You shook your head, already crouching to pet them. You loved animals—always had—but taking care of them? Different story. Feeding, walking, and worst of all, cleaning up after them? Not your thing.

Still, that didn’t stop you from melting a little Alice licked your hand. “Aww, you’re both so cute,” you cooed, scratching behind their ears.

Abby carried the giant plushies inside, dropping them onto the living room couch before turning back to you.

“Their names are Bear and Alice,” she said. “I adopted them from a friend.”

You glanced up at her with a small smile. “Well, they’re adorable.”

Bear—who was definitely the troublemaker—jumped up on you, his paws landing on your thighs, his tail wagging like crazy.

Abby snorted. “Yeah, adorable until they knock you over.”

You laughed, nudging Bear back down gently before standing. “So… what now?”

Abby raised a brow, a slow smirk creeping onto her lips as she stepped closer.

“I can think of a few things,” she murmured, her hands slipping around your waist.

Your stomach flipped.

Yeah, you were definitely feeling awake again.

Abby’s gaze flickered down to your lips, and that was all the signal you needed. You leaned in, pressing your lips against hers, soft but full of intent. She didn’t hesitate to kiss you back, her hands gripping your waist firmly before she lifted you with ease, making you gasp against her mouth.

Instinctively, your legs wrapped around her, your arms draping over her broad shoulders as she carried you effortlessly through the Airbnb. The feeling of being handled like that sent a shiver through you, heat pooling low in your stomach.

By the time she reached the bedroom, Abby laid you down onto the bed, her body hovering over yours. The room was dimly lit, just enough for you to see the hunger in her eyes. You pulled her down into another kiss, deeper this time, biting her bottom lip just enough to make her groan. But before she could take control, you pulled away, your lips curling into a smirk.

You sat up, sliding off the bed slowly, making sure her eyes followed you. Abby leaned back on her elbows, watching as you reached for the hem of your top, peeling it off teasingly slow before taking your bra off also. The cool air met your bare skin as you let the fabric drop. Next, you hooked your thumbs into your shorts and panties, sliding them down your legs with the same deliberate pace.

Abby’s tongue darted out to wet her lips, her hands flexing against the sheets.

“You gonna ride me like you did that bull?” she asked, voice thick with anticipation.

You bit your lip, letting your fingers ghost over her thighs as you climbed onto her lap, your bodies pressed together, heat radiating between you.

“I think you already know the answer,” you murmured.

As you sinked into her lap, you felt something abnormal in her pants. You looked at her confused "Whats that?," you asked.

A knowing smirk appeared on Abby's face "Find out," she said.

You looked at her with a raised eyebrow before getting off of her and unbuckling her pants and pulling them down, along with her boxers, letting them pool at her ankles.

It was a strap, a black one that was about 8 inches.

"You had this on the whole festival?," you asked, looking at her.

"Gotta be prepared," she said with a shrug.

Abby's strap was stuffed deep inside of your wet cunt, she groaned seeing you take every single inch with ease.

Her hands were on your waist as you were on top of her, keeping your promise.

Riding her.

You put your hands in the middle of her chest, keeping yourself balanced as you started to slowly ride her, needy moans spilling out of your mouth.

"Fuck bunny. You're doing so well...taking me so well," she praises as she looks up at you, taking in the sight of you. The way your breast bounced with each thrust, the bites she left on your shoulder and neck, the way you took her cock like it was made for you.

Fuck—what a sight to see.

Once you adjusted to her cock, your thrusting became faster, your hands shifted from her chest to the back of her thighs.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," you moaned out as your head tilted back, your cunt fluttering around her cock, wanting more.

Abby pulled herself up, sitting up as she grabbed her hat, that you disgarded on the side of the bed as she put it on your head. "Come on ride my cock, cowgirl. You can do it better than this.'

The words coming out of Abby's mouth only made you whimper. Even she knew you werent giving yourself enough simulation.

She took that as a sigh to wrap her arm around your waist, keeping you steady before she uses her other arm to leverage herself to fuck up into you, making you gasp in pleasure.

The thrust were deep and fast, the head of her cock kissing your cervix, making your eyes roll to the back of your head.

She grunts with each thrust as she felt it too, the base of the strap rubbing against her huge, puffy clit.

You soon match her thrust, going down as she thrusted up. It made her cock hit every spot perfectly earning almost pornographic moans out of you.

Your hips soon start to twitch and the knot in your stomach starting to build up. "Ah— fuck I'm gonna cum," you announce.

"Me too, babygirl," she grunts out.

The grip she had on you, got tighter as her hips twitched against yours, but you didnt stop you couldn't. You wanted to cum. You needed to.

You stopped Abby's movements by pushing her back down by her chest, her hands went back to your waist as you got back to bouncing on her cock.

You bite your bottom lip as you switched between grinding and bouncing. "Im coming!," you moaned out.

You both came at the same time, Abby threw her head back the sounds coming out of her were a mix of moans and gasps.

The sounds coming from her only made you cum harder, seconds after her, your juices spilling and covering her cock and thighs along with her own.

You huffed before you slowly got off of her and laid down beside her.

Abby was looking at you, her eyes heavy but full of something deep—satisfaction, maybe, or amusement at the lazy grin pulling at your lips. She reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear before letting her fingers trail down your jaw.

Then, with a teasing smirk, you broke the silence.

“Save a horse, ride a cowgirl,” you murmured, voice smug and slightly breathless.

Abby huffed out a laugh, shaking her head. “Jesus, you’re ridiculous.”

The morning was slow and peaceful, the kind of lazy dawn that made you want to stretch out the moment forever. Abby was still knocked out in bed when you slid into one of her flannels, the fabric drowning you in warmth, the scent of her clinging to it like a second skin. You didn’t bother buttoning it all the way, just enough to cover yourself as you padded barefoot through the Airbnb.

Bear and Alice stirred the second they saw you, tails thumping against the floor as they eagerly followed you to the back door. “Alright, alright, hold on,” you muttered sleepily, opening it and stepping onto the porch as the cool morning air kissed your legs. They ran out to do their business while you made your way back inside, the scent of coffee filling the air as you brewed a fresh pot.

You perched on one of the stools at the kitchen island, cradling the warm mug in your hands, taking slow sips as you let yourself sink into the morning. That was, until you heard the soft creak of footsteps behind you.

Abby shuffled in, looking half-asleep but still effortlessly gorgeous. Her hair was a little messy, her arms stretching above her head as she yawned. She was only in a sports bra and sweatpants, and damn, did she look good—like the kind of good that made you want to skip breakfast and drag her right back to bed.

She came up behind you, pressing a slow, sleepy kiss to your cheek before moving toward the coffee pot.

“You’re up early,” she murmured, voice husky from sleep.

“Had to let your children out,” you teased, nodding toward the dogs outside.

She grunted in response, pouring herself some coffee. You watched her for a moment before deciding to address the elephant in the room.

“So… when are you gonna ask?”

Abby turned, raising a brow. “Ask what?”

You rolled your eyes. “To be your girlfriend, dummy.”

She smirked, taking a slow sip of her coffee as she leaned against the counter. “I thought we were locked in when I put my hat on your head.”

You scoffed. “Well, you were wrong. And you’ve been doing slang research—‘locked in’ is new.”

Abby huffed out a laugh, shaking her head before stepping closer. “Alright then,” she said, setting her coffee down before looking at you properly. “Will you be my girlfriend?”

A smirk tugged at your lips as you lifted your mug, letting the words sit in the air for a beat before answering.

“Yes. I’ll be your girlfriend.”

You smiled against the rim of your cup, taking another slow sip as Abby watched you, grinning.

“Good,” she murmured. “Because I wasn’t planning on letting you go, anyway.”

Abby leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips, her hand resting on your thigh as if to anchor you to this moment. When she pulled back, she gave you that signature smirk—the one that made your stomach do flips.

“You know,” she mused, eyes dragging over you with that signature smirk, “you look real good in my clothes.”

You raised a brow, setting your mug down before leaning forward on your elbows. “Yeah? Guess you’ll have to get used to seeing me in them, huh?”

Abby’s smirk softened into something more genuine, something a little too tender for the casual morning conversation, but she didn’t shy away from it. Instead, she leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead before muttering against your skin, “Yeah, I guess I will.”

taglist : @rhian88 @abbyslvrrr @hell0-ki55y @spritelova @abbyscoochiecruncher @smaugayra @chaikichainsaw @femme-historian @h2pinky @lilredbird101 @kirna-diane @viperineee @sincerely-forest @athena-winters13 @madsxh1022

[jhyoos]

hiiii! i love your writing so much and recently i've been craving for an angsty powder/jinx (i'm not sure if you write for her) x reader one-sided story (by reader's side) and idk, if you want to add a happy ending, you can do what you like better! could you, please?😩😭🙏🏻✨

Bound To You

jinx x reader

mentions : established relationship, break-up, angst, romance, between s1 & s2

summary : jinx thinks it's best to break-up after blowing up the council.

You and Jinx had been together for three years, bonded by ink, chaos, and something deeper neither of you ever had to put into words. You were the same age, but life had shaped you differently—while she ran with the wild and reckless, you carved out a space for yourself as a self-made tattoo artist in the depths of Zaun. Your setup was far from professional, your tools secondhand, your ink not always the best quality, but people came to you for the art, for the price, for the stories.

Jinx was one of them. She’d walked into your shop one day, all swagger and mischief, asking for a set of cloud tattoos. The process took time, so she kept coming back, letting you etch those wisps of sky into her skin while conversation filled the spaces between the buzzing of your needle. It started as casual banter, then inside jokes, then something else entirely—something that made her linger even after the ink had dried.

When Jinx finally asked you out, she did it in the most Jinx way possible: by spray-painting a bunch of unconscious goons into the words “Will you be my girlfriend?” right in the middle of your apartment. She was beaming, so damn proud of her masterpiece. You? Not so much. But looking at her—grinning, slightly unhinged, waiting for your answer—you couldn’t say no.

Your apartment became her safe haven. Whenever the weight of the world crushed down on her—when grief, anger, or memories of Vi clawed at her mind—she’d find her way to you. She’d lay her head on your lap, spilling her thoughts in tangled sentences while your fingers traced absentminded patterns on her arm. She missed Vi more than she ever admitted outright, but you saw it in her eyes, heard it in the way her voice would break. And you? You listened. You gave her words of wisdom, reassurances she sometimes took and sometimes didn’t.

Jinx wasn’t overly affectionate—not in the conventional way. Kisses were rare, and sex wasn’t frequent, but when she did show love, it was always a surprise. Sometimes, in the middle of a conversation, she’d press a quick, unexpected kiss to your lips and laugh at your reaction. Other times, she'd show up at your apartment in the dead of night, wordlessly shutting the door before turning you inside out in the way only she could.

You loved everything about her. Her intelligence, her beauty, her chaotic humor. Jinx was everything you could ever want. And for three years, she was yours.

It all started when the whispers began—the rumors that Vi had returned to Zaun. At first, it was just street talk, the kind of gossip that spread like wildfire in the undercity, but then she was at your doorstep. Vi, standing there in the flesh, with a blue-haired enforcer at her side, eyes sharp and questioning.

They asked about Silco. About Jinx.

"I don’t know," you said, voice firm as you stared at them. And it was the truth—you really didn’t. Jinx had vanished the moment word got out that her sister was back. You hadn’t seen her, hadn’t heard from her. The absence gnawed at you, but you weren’t about to hand over even the scraps of information you did have. So, before Vi could press further, you slammed the door in their faces and locked it.

Days turned to weeks.

You missed her—her weirdness, her sassy comebacks, the way she’d throw her arms around you when she was feeling playful or press a chaste kiss to your forehead when she thought you weren’t paying attention. But she was nowhere to be found. And then, one day, word spread that Jinx had done the unthinkable—she had blown up the council.

The undercity was electric with her name. People were rallying, some mourning, others idolizing. A new era was being painted in shades of chaos, and Jinx was at the center of it. People even started dyeing their hair blue in her honor, turning her into something more than just a person—she was a symbol now. And since everyone knew you were her girlfriend, your business boomed. People wanted ink that would mark them as Jinx’s followers, as if carrying a piece of her on their skin would make them untouchable. It was overwhelming, exhausting, but it kept your mind from caving in on itself.

Until that night.

You came home after another long day, locking the door behind you before toeing off your shoes. Your body ached, your mind was heavy, and all you wanted was to collapse onto your bed. But as you stepped into your room, you froze. A hooded figure stood in the shadows, unmoving.

A gasp escaped your lips as you fumbled for the light switch. The moment the room flooded with dim light, your heart leapt into your throat.

Blue braids peeked out from under the hood.

"Jinx?" you called out, voice barely above a whisper.

Slowly, she turned to face you. It was her. But she looked different—drained, haunted, as if she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders.

Without hesitation, you stepped forward, wrapping your arms around her, holding her tight. She smelled like oil, gunpowder, and the faint remnants of whatever perfume she used to wear.

"Are you okay? Where have you been? I missed you so much," you murmured against her.

But she didn’t hug you back.

You felt the stillness in her, the way her arms stayed at her sides. Slowly, you pulled away, looking into those tired, stormy eyes.

"What’s wrong?" you asked, your stomach twisting with unease.

She hesitated, her gaze flickering down for a brief moment before she spoke.

"I don’t think we can be together anymore," she said, voice hollow, barely a whisper.

Your heart plummeted.

"What?"

Your breath hitched in your throat, the weight of her words slamming into your chest like a freight train.

"What do you mean?" you asked, your voice unsteady, barely more than a whisper.

Jinx looked at you then—really looked at you. There was something in her eyes you had never seen before. Guilt? Regret? Fear?

"I'm wanted," she muttered, her voice hollow. "A high price. Enforcers are breathing down my neck, and it won’t be long before they figure out I’ve been with you."

Your stomach twisted. "Jinx—"

"If they find out about you, they’ll come after you too," she cut you off, her voice sharp, raw. "I can’t let that happen."

You stepped closer, shaking your head. "I don’t care. Let them come—I can handle myself."

Jinx scoffed, a bitter smirk curling her lips. "You really think that? You think you can take on Piltover’s enforcers? They’re not just gonna arrest you, they’re gonna use you. You’re leverage."

"I don’t care!" you snapped, your chest burning with frustration. "I care about you! We can leave, go somewhere else—anywhere. We can figure this out together!"

She let out a breathy, humorless chuckle, shaking her head. "That’s cute. Really, it is." But there was no joy in her voice—just exhaustion. Just pain. "If you get hurt or if you die...I wont be able to live with myself."

"Don’t say that—"

"It’s the truth," she shot back, her fingers curling into fists. "I can’t be what you need me to be. And you can’t be what I need anymore, either."

"Stop deciding that for me!" you snapped, stepping forward, reaching for her, but she flinched back.

Her eyes darkened. "This isn't a choice."

Silence stretched between you, suffocating.

"So that's it?" you asked, your throat tight. "After three years, you just—what? Walk away?"

Jinx hesitated for a moment, her breath shallow. You could see the war in her eyes, the hesitation in her stance. But then, just as quickly, she shut it down. She tugged her hood up over her braids, shrouding herself in shadow.

"You’ll be better off without me," she murmured, voice barely audible. "Just… forget me, okay?"

Your heart screamed at you to do something—to grab her, to tell her she was wrong, to beg her to stay—but your body wouldn’t move.

And then, just like that, she turned.

"Jinx, wait!" you called, your voice cracking.

She didn’t stop.

"Please—don’t do this!"

But the door creaked as it shut behind her, and you stood there, staring at the empty space she left behind, your hands trembling, your vision blurring.

Jinx was gone.

And for the first time in three years, you truly felt alone.

It had been nearly a month since Jinx walked out of your life, and in that time, everything around you had crumbled.

The streets of Zaun had changed—more enforcers, more raids, more bodies being dragged off to Stillwater. The name Jinx carried more than just a reputation now; it carried fear, chaos, and destruction. And you? You were caught in the middle.

You shut down your tattoo shop, selling off the property after hearing about the latest wave of Jinxers arrested and locked up in Stillwater. You had always been loyal to Zaun, always supported its people in your own way. But when it came to violence—to the way things had spiraled—you reached your limit.

You didn’t want to be associated.

And so, you drifted.

Days bled into nights, spent drowning in cheap liquor at The Last Drop, trying to forget the way Jinx’s voice used to sound, the way her touch used to linger. You let the numbness consume you, burying the ache of her absence under layers of booze and exhaustion.

But that all changed the night there was a knock on your door.

At first, you didn’t think much of it. Maybe your landlord, though you had already paid your rent. You groaned as you pushed yourself off your couch, rubbing your face as you stumbled toward the door, already irritated.

"Dude, I’ve already paid—"

Your breath caught in your throat as your words died mid-sentence.

Jinx stood there.

She looked different.

Her long braids were gone, her hair chopped short in a messy, uneven cut. Bruises and cuts littered her skin, some fresh, some fading. There was something hollow in her eyes, something worn and desperate.

Before you could say a word, she grabbed your wrist and yanked you forward, crashing her lips onto yours.

You melted into the kiss, your body reacting before your mind could catch up. She was warm, familiar, everything you had been craving for the past month. You clung to her, pouring every ounce of pain, longing, and relief into the way your lips moved against hers.

When she finally pulled away, her breath was heavy against your lips.

"Come with me," she murmured, her voice urgent. "I’m leaving—far away from here. And I want you to come with me."

Your heart pounded as you searched her face.

"Jinx—" You bit your lip, shaking your head. "I haven’t seen you in a month. You disappeared—no word, nothing."

Her grip on your wrist tightened.

"And I’ll make up for every second of it," she promised, her voice barely above a whisper. "I swear."

You stared into her eyes, searching for any hint of doubt, any hesitation. But there was none. She was serious. More serious than you had ever seen her.

You exhaled, nodding slowly.

"Let me grab some important stuff."

[marmialadee]

[jhyoos]

relapsed over spring break 😔