Bitter Murmur | Abby Anderson x Male Reader

Chapter 20

The whispers in his head grew quiet, a soft sigh that seemed to echo the peace that filled the room. He held her tightly, his heart pounding in his chest as he felt her breath against his neck. The smell of her, the feel of her, it was all so overwhelming that he feared he would break if he let go.

But as the moments ticked by, the whispers grew restless, a gentle reminder that their world was one of constant danger and uncertainty. He knew that their peace was fleeting, that outside the hut the world waited with teeth bared and claws at the ready. But for now, he could hold her, could feel her heart beating in time with his own, and pretend that it was enough.

As the night stretched on, Y/N felt himself drifting off to sleep, the whispers in his head a gentle lullaby that sang of love and loss, of battles won and battles yet to come. His hand slid down to her hip, his thumb tracing small circles on her skin as she lay nestled against him, her breathing slow and even. He felt a strange sense of comfort in her warmth, a feeling that was both foreign and exhilarating.

When he woke up, it was still dark, the moon casting a pale glow through the cracked windows of the abandoned hut. His body was sore, a testament to the passionate struggle that had unfolded between them. Carefully, so as not to disturb her, he slipped out of bed, the whispers in his head a soft reminder of the precarious balance they had found.

He got dressed, each article of clothing a silent declaration of his newfound resolve. The whispers grew quieter as he pulled on his shirt, the fabric sliding over his bruised skin, a stark contrast to the gentle caress of her hand. His pants felt like a second skin, a barrier against the harshness of the world outside. His boots were the last to go on, a symbol of his readiness to face whatever came next.

Without looking back, Y/N picked up the guns that lay scattered across the floor, the cold metal a hard reminder of the power dynamics that had just shifted. He checked each one, making sure they were loaded, feeling the weight of the ammo in his pocket. The whispers grew louder, a fierce chant that seemed to pulse with the rhythm of his heart.

"Do it," they urged, their voices a seductive siren's call in his mind. "She's weak, vulnerable. She's nothing but a burden to you."

Y/N's hand tightened around the cold steel of the knife, his eyes never leaving the soft curve of Abby's neck. The whispers grew louder, a cacophony of malicious intent that seemed to pulse in time with the beat of his own heart. "Kill her," they hissed, a chorus of malevolent voices that seemed to echo through the very fabric of his being.

He approached her, his boots silent on the worn wooden floor. She laid there, her chest rising and falling with the steady rhythm of sleep, oblivious to the danger that loomed above her. He could see the pulse in her neck, a soft throb that seemed to beckon him, to whisper sweet nothings of power and control. His hand trembled with the need to end it all, to silence the whispers that had tormented him for so long.

The knife glinted in the moonlight, a silent sentinel of the darkness that had claimed his soul. He raised it high, the whispers in his head a cacophony of triumph. His arm swung down in a swift, precise arc, the blade slicing through the air with a whisper of its own.

But then, something changed. The whispers grew quiet, a sudden emptiness that left him feeling cold and alone. He stopped, his hand hovering above her neck, the knife poised to strike. In that moment of stillness, he saw not a target to be killed or taken care of, but a person. A woman whose life was as fraught with pain and struggle as his own.

He took a shaky breath, his arm trembling with the effort of holding back. The whispers grew agitated, their voices a cacophony of anger and confusion. "What are you doing?" they demanded, their hisses a stark contrast to the softness of her breathing. "Finish it!"

But something in him had shifted, the power of their bond stronger than the whispers' siren's call. He couldn't do it. With a snarl of frustration, he threw the knife to the side, the clatter of metal on wood jolting through the quiet room.

Abby's eyes snapped open, her hand instantly reaching for the gun beside her, which wasn't there anymore. She sat up with a gasp, her eyes wild with fear and confusion. "What the hell?" she panted, her gaze darting around the room.

Y/N took a step back, clearly having a hard time reconciling the whispers' urging with his own feelings for her. His eyes searched hers, the internal conflict playing out across his features like a silent movie. The whispers grew louder in his head, a cacophony of rage and disbelief that he had chosen her over them.

"What's going on?" Abby whispered, the fear in her voice cutting through the tension like a knife. She could see the turmoil within him, the war raging just beneath the surface.

Y/N took a deep breath, the whispers in his head a frenzied storm of anger and disbelief. "They... they wanted me to," he began, his voice hoarse.

"The whispers?" Abby's voice was sharp, the fear in her eyes shifting to something darker. She scanned the room, her hand sliding to the holster at her side, only to find it empty. "Where's my gun and my knife?"

Y/N nodded, his own hand trembling slightly as he gestured to the corner where he had thrown the knife. "I... I had it," he admitted, his voice thick with the weight of his own shock. "But I couldn't..."

Abby's eyes narrowed, the fear slowly giving way to a cold, hard anger. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her eyes never leaving his. "What's going on with you?" she demanded, her voice low and dangerous.

Y/N took a deep breath, his hand reaching up to rub his forehead. "The whispers," he said, his voice tight. "They're getting stronger."

Abby's eyes searched his face, the anger in her gaze not fully masking the worry that lurked beneath. "You tried to fucking kill me?" she asked, her fists clenched