Bitter Murmur | Abby Anderson x Male Reader

Chapter 18

Her hips rocked against him in a steady rhythm, the friction sending waves of pleasure crashing through his body. He felt the whispers in his head swell, the voices of the dead a gentle chant that seemed to push him closer and closer to the edge. But he didn't fight it, didn't try to pull away. Instead, he let himself be swept up in the moment, the fierce passion that burned between them a stark contrast to the cold, hard world beyond their sanctuary.

Abby's breath grew ragged, her eyes locked on his as she took him in, her movements growing more urgent with each passing second. He could see the need in her gaze, the desperation that matched the whispers in his own head. It was as if she were trying to claim him in this most primal of ways, to prove that she owned him, body and soul.

Y/N's own moan grew louder, his hips bucking up to meet hers as the whispers grew into a crescendo, a symphony of pleasure that seemed to fill every corner of the room. He could feel the tension coiling in his gut, the pressure building until he could no longer hold it back.

And then it washed over him, a wave of release that left him gasping for air, his body shuddering beneath hers. For a moment, the whispers in his head grew quiet, a peaceful silence that seemed to encapsulate the beauty of their union.

But as he looked into Abby's eyes, he saw the coldness there, the disappointment that twisted her features into a scowl. "What?" he murmured, his voice thick with confusion.

Her eyes searched his, a mix of anger and frustration. "That's all you've got?" she spat, her voice dripping with scorn. "You call that sex?"

Y/N felt the whispers in his head surge, a chorus of confusion and hurt that mirrored his own. He didn't understand, hadn't he given her what she wanted? His body felt bruised and used, a battleground of pleasure and pain that she had dominated so thoroughly. "What do you mean?" he murmured, his voice barely a whisper.

Abby's eyes narrowed, her grip on his arms tightening. "You didn't even try to take control," she hissed, her voice laced with anger. "You just laid there like a fucking corpse."

Y/N's confusion grew, the whispers in his head a cacophony of doubt and rejection. He had thought he was pleasing her, that their union was more than just a means to an end. But as he looked into her eyes, the whispers grew quieter, a sad acceptance that maybe he didn't know what she needed after all. "Sorry...I'm not really experienced in these kind of things." he murmured, his voice tight with pain.

Abby's scoff was a slap in the face, the sound echoing through the room like a gunshot. "Figures," she muttered, rolling off him and standing up. She didn't bother to cover herself, her nakedness a stark reminder of their failed connection.

Y/N watched her, his heart heavy with a mix of anger and despair. "Are you mad?" he asked, his voice tight. The whispers in his head grew louder, a symphony of pain that seemed to match the ache in his chest.

"Mad?" she echoed, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'm not mad, I'm just disappointed. You're a whisperer, for Christ's sake. I thought you'd be more... intense. But at the end of the day, how is some weirdo that surrounds himself with walking corpses supposed to be good at fucking, right?"

The whispers grew in his head, a chorus of anger and humiliation that made him want to crawl away and hide. He had never felt so exposed, so utterly degraded. But as he watched her dress, he realized that he had been wrong about her. The whispers had whispered sweet nothings of acceptance and unity, but all she had wanted was to use him, to take what she needed and throw him away when he couldn't give her more.

"Abby," he whispered, his voice thick with pain. "Why are you being like this?"

Her laugh was cold, devoid of any warmth or affection. "What did you expect?" she spat, pulling on her pants. "A romantic confession? A declaration of love?"