The Love, The Rage, The Ruin
What if, in theory, Abby gets completely lost in electronic music, like itâs her way of working through all the heavy stuff? đ„č
Violence and sexual themes.
Abby sits on the edge of her mattress, the ancient wooden boards of her bunk groaning as she rests her elbows on her knees. Her long fingers tangle in her damp hair and sheâll have to brush it if she ever wants to braid it.
It feels impossible today.
The shower didnât wash the horrors awayânone of them. It never does.
Those long, jagged shadows, cast by dying embers in the neglected stone fireplace. The biting cold of winter before sunrise. The mess of blood and noise, the way his pained grunts evaporated against the walls of that fucking cabin. They live there now.
In some ways, so does she.
It's deep inside her, in the marrow of her bones.
In the suffocating quiet of her apartment, the walls feel too close, too thick. She can hear the muffled sounds of her comrades on the other side of the wall, doing thingsâmediocre things she canât bring herself to do anymore.
She should feel relief, gratificationâsomething. But all sheâs left with is the relentless, gnawing hum of guilt, a parasite twisting its way through the spirited daughter she used to be.
The couch still smells like him.
Sleep-sweat and the faint trace of expired cologne embedded in the worn fabric.
The pity in his eyes was a stab wound, and she wants to set fire to the furniture. She canât stand to nap there anymore; she canât open a book and lose herself, feet propped up on the cushions.
A bitter resentment claws at her from the inside, a constant reminder that in her darkest hour, when she needed him most, she just wasnât enough of a woman to make him want to stay. Why bother chasing him when she's already gone?
Abby presses her scarred palms against the faded countertop, staring unseeingly at the empty, lonely space where all his stuff used to be.
Heâs a haunted fragment of her past. His mind scattered around Seattle like spray painted shrapnel, and it should feel like freedom. Should feel like some immense weight has lifted off her chest.
But for now, it just fucking hurts.
Itâs not like she didnât try.
Forced herself to twistâcontort her pain into the shape of the girl he needed until she couldnât bend that way anymore. She tried to play the part, her distant smile a painful, sequined mask for the broken thing inside her she just didnât know how to shake. Still doesnât.
Now she's alone, able only to swallow and breathe and sometimes even rest her eyes when her body protests all the strain, but she canât escape it. The yearning to measure up.
And maybe thatâs the worst part of all.
She ought to hate his fucking guts and let it burn.
Forget his presence in her life forever.
Abby tells herself she's on board.
Because if she doesnâtâif she lets herself question Isaacâs orders, the mangled bodies left in her wake, the quiet guilt that coils around her corrupted bones like a viceâthen what is she even fighting for?
The WLF saved her from certain death. Gave her structure. Purpose. A way to channel the rage, the grief, the loss that wouldâve eaten away at her like a brigade of starving maggots otherwise.
Isaac gave that to her. The keys to his cruel empire, laid out on a gleaming silver platter, heavy in her grief-stricken hands. He handed her a compass, and for a while, the needle wasnât spinning wildly.
And yet, something sinister festers beneath her skinâwrithing, unwelcome.
A stubborn thought she doesnât dare let herself say out loud.
Whatâs happening to me?
Sheâs seen the way Isaac looks at her from the corner of his eyeânot as a person, but as a sharpened, willing weapon. Useful in advancing his strategic exploits. She allows it because she doesnât know how to be anything else.
Sometimes, he makes her feel like sheâs more than just a tool in his war efforts. Occasionally, heâs someone she believes in, a visionary like her father had been.
Because the moment she stops, the moment she asks why, she might not like the answer.
The WLF is all she has. All sheâs ever had.
Isaac wouldn't throw her away like all the restâher fallen comrades whose blood still stains the damp earth. But why then, wonât this sick feeling in her gut go away?
She's felt nothing like this before.
This is more terrifying than any war. Far more frightening than any skirmish or random shootout from here to Santa Barbara.
Itâs terrifying in a way that combat never was. Abby knows how to take a hit, how to brace for impact, how to bury her agony so deep the pain canât fucking touch her.
Abby has no defence for it. No feasible way to block out the breathless stutter in her chest, the fluttering ache nestled between her ribs when you do the simplest things. When you laugh and shake your head at her antics. Crinkle your nose in that playful way, the same way you do when sheâs being frustratingly stubborn.
When you look at her with such adoration, as if she were incredibly precious and good all along.
She never knew her name could sound that wayâso fragile on your lips, like it belongs there, cherished and safe. Like youâll never shatter it or ruin her.
Since home was never safe, you aren't home to her; and youâre not a fire in her veins because that tastes far too much like vengeance.
You canât be a free-fall either, because sheâd never, ever climb that high.
But youâre her salvation. Her temperate healing and her sturdy roots. Youâre the warm, velvet rays of sunshine that break through eerie, blackened clouds.
Abby has spent so much of her life convincing herself she doesnât need thisâthat the world built her for something different. That love was for softer people.
Those whose lives had yet to be touched by the same darkness that shaped her. Those who haven't seen the horrors she's endured, the things that stain her mind.
But when sheâs with you, she comes up for air.
When your fingers trace the curve of her spine, when your eyes meet hers, whispering her name. When you make her pulse jump long after the lights have dimmed in The Stadium, leaving only the scent of you and the frantic thudding of her heart, she knows exactly who she is.
And for the first time in her life, sheâs not afraid of heights.
Abby never imagined sheâd be the type to daydream about kissing. But here she is, being jostled around in the back of a Humvee, lost in her thoughts.
And itâs seriously messing with her head.
It started innocently enough.
She can almost feel it, like a memory she hasnât lived yet. A memory she hasnât quite caught up to, though youâre already there, tapping your feet with that smirk.
You trace her jaw with your chilly fingertips, tilting her face to meet yours and she wants to take her time. She wants to draw it out and let it build, but you bite your lip and behind your teeth⊠well, it's warm and so wet, and it makes her weak. Your smooth, minty tongue has her squeezing her thighs together before she risks having to deal with the thrum building between them.
It should embarrass herâfantasies leaving her boxers unexpectedly damp in the middle of a mission. Itâs not like her.
Somehow, sheâs too lost in the fantasy to care.
The soft catch of your breath tickles the shell of her ear, her rough hands studying the dips and ridges of your spine, travelling to the frayed hem of your shirt, and all before she has a moment to steady her breath.
You unravel her braid, running your fingers through her hair, and the sparks are a meteor shower, trickling from her scalp to her boots. The heat of your lips barely leaves hers before she chases after youâjust a little, just enough to make you puff that familiar, happy breath against her mouth as she lifts you onto her lap.
Abby holds you just shy of too tight, needing your weight against her. When you invite her to hold you tighter, she wants to confess how you make her feelâhow she only ever shivers like this for you.
You share secrets in hushed whispers, until choked, desperate whimpers spill from her. Your desires feel like warm stones in her palms, and she wants to collect them. Those same ones, still faintly smelling of salt and the sea, that you found together on the beach when no one was looking.
Sheâs gone for you, completely yours.
She could let herself drown in your beautiful eyes, just this once.
But the doubt creeps in, even in her dreams.
What if she ruins it? What if she taints it with the ghosts of everything sheâs done before she gets the chance to keep you?
A frantic, dizzy ache, like a wildfire between her ribs, makes her clench her bruised fists, until the thought of you is smoldering inside her. She knows youâd kiss her everywhere if she let you.
Her aching hands, blistered and sore, silently plead for it. A gentle kiss to every knuckle, a tingling warmth sheâll remember on the coldest nights. The tip of your tongue teasing them, like theyâve only ever been gentle. Quiet reassurances that the violence is only a small part of who she is.
She wants to give you everything, to enjoy your body beyond measure. To set the bar sky high in all the ways you deserve to be treasured.
She wants to believe sheâs capable of touching you this way, that her calloused handsâdevilishly skilled in breaking, and in punishingâcould also meet you with tenderness. That youâd teach her the art of nurturing until she pulls you so damn close. Until she forgets how to push you away.
Abby catches herself staring again, a knot of longing tightening in her chest, trapped in the fear of wanting too much and deserving nothing at all.
Across the field, your knowing smile stops her heart, snags her troubled gaze, and for just a breath, she forgets why she was ever afraid.
Bravery will find her again.
And then sheâll find you.
Bonus track: đș eating vibes, hands down. She's a dreamy, atmospheric girlie when she gets to love you like this. Abby puts in all the sensory work. 'Nuff said.
