These faces have been and will be in my mind all month, and likely they will never leave. Worse even, there will likely be more added. To artists and those of us who can speak up, we NEED to speak up—we are as much a part of this world and society as everyone else, and we can create things that can do even just a little good/reflection/solidarity. I’m so angry, which only means I’m NOT going to stop speaking out and doing what I can to remind people that this is so wrong and evil. Abolish ICE!!!
hello. i'm so sorry for doing this again but my body isn't cooperating well with me these past few weeks. i need help in buying my meds for PMOS and now, anemia (due to heavy period bleeding).
meds cost around ₱7,500 ($122) per month and my doctor said i need to be medicated for at least 6 months. i just paid some bills and i'm so broke right now. i'm not asking for a full 6 months worth of meds but even a month or two would be a huge help to me since i need it for my health to improve and not miss work.
paypal / ko-fi
reblogs and shares are greatly appreciated as well. please and thank you. ❤️
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: porn w/barely a plot, established relationship, walkie talkie sex, mutual masturbation, dom!abby, bratty!reader, reader is referred to by pet names, sprinkles of condescending abby, improper & probably incorrect walkie talkie etiquette
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.2k
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: so this fic has been in my drafts since july of last year, but seeing the post that had originally inspired it again, made me want to go back and finally finish it. but I really want to thank my lovely friend @wonderlanderings who had started helping me with parts of this fic last summer. ily em! and a special thank you to @sapphicbae for helping me change one of the lines towards the end of this fic. I hope you enjoy <3
A crackle of static suddenly bursts through the room, the sound so jarring it immediately pulls you from your dream state and back into reality.
“Baby? Do you copy? Over.”
You let out a deep groan as you roll over, rubbing the sleep from your eyes and reaching under your cot to blindly search for the walkie talkie you had stashed there earlier.
You hadn’t meant to sleep for so long but after spending the day navigating the treacherous, ever-crumbling terrain of downtown Seattle and outrunning a small hoard of clickers just to reach this damn watchtower, a quick nap felt more than deserved.
It was only supposed to be for a few minutes, just to rest your eyes. But those few minutes must have stretched into a few hours judging by the look of the darkened sky. Your hand is still fumbling beneath the cot in search of the device, your fingers brushing over the antenna just as Abby’s frantic voice crackles through the speaker again.
“Baby, this is the 3rd time I’ve tried to reach you; if you don’t pick up soon, I’m coming to find you. Over.”
The worry is clearly evident in her voice but her thinly veiled threat has your thighs pressing together out of pure instinct. You shake off any of those kinds of thoughts before they can take root as you grasp onto the walkie and bring it back up to your mouth.
“Damn, Anderson,” you murmur, soft and teasing. “You really know how to sweet-talk a girl. Over.”
And despite the miles stretching between you, it’s like you can feel the tension melt from her shoulders after hearing your voice.
“Oh thank god,” she breathes. “You scared the shit out of me, sweetheart. I’ve been trying to reach you for almost an hour. Over.”
“I was sleeping, Abigail,” you say, trying and failing to stifle a yawn. “You should try it sometime. Over.”
“Haha, very fuckin’ funny,” she grumbles, before that sarcastic edge creeps back in. “You are aware that you’re supposed to be on a scouting assignment, right? Over.”
Your eyes roll before you can stop them. “And you, my love, are supposed to be on patrol. What's your 20? Over.”
Abby suddenly falls silent on the other end, only the soft hiss of static hanging in the air between you. You're beginning to worry that you lost the connection entirely when she finally responds, her tone noticeably softer than before.
“I am on patrol, we ran into trouble with some Scars earlier, so we’re holed up in this old theater for the night and I just…” She sighs, low and thoughtful. “Well, I just really wish you were lying next to me. Over.”
The unmistakable longing in her voice sends a pleasant shiver down your spine, a fond smile tugging at your lips.
“I miss you too, Abs…” you murmur, letting your words linger for just a moment, before your lips curl into a small smirk. “But you know, it sure gets awfully lonely up here. Over.”
And it’s like you can hear the light bulb going off in her head, as her voice takes on a much huskier tone when it comes through the receiver.
“That so, princess? Over.”
“Mhm,” you sigh dramatically and roll over onto your back. “I could really use some company. Over.”
Abby attempts to stifle a groan but the walkie picks it up anyway, causing a rush of heat to settle between your legs.
“You know I would be there if I could, baby. Over.”
The crackle of static does little to dull the heat creeping into her voice. You sink your teeth into your lower lip as you fiddle with the button of your cargo pants, teasing yourself with the thought of her calloused fingers replacing your own.
And truly, it’s pathetic the way you want to beg, how your lips are already beginning to form around a soft plea of—Abby, please, just tell me what you’d do to me if you were here.
But she doesn’t give you the chance as her voice sounds over the radio again.
“…what are you wearing? Over.”
You glance down at your patrol clothes, your leather boots that are still caked with mud, the baggy cargo pants that cinch just slightly at your waist and the standard issue WLF jacket which was now shoved behind your head as a makeshift pillow. Nothing even remotely sexy. You grip the walkie tighter between your fingers, barely holding back a snort of amusement when you click the button again.
“Combat boots and a parka. Over.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then—
“Can you stop making fun of me for one damn minute? I’m trying to seduce you, brat. Over.”
The way she practically growls the word brat has your breath hitching slightly, but the knowledge that she’s so far away only emboldens you to push her a little more.
“How can I, when you make it so damn easy?” You laugh softly, your thumb trailing along the edge of the walkie like you’re aching to be stroking the curve of her jaw instead. “What are you wearing? Over.”
The static hums between you for a long moment, the air growing thick with anticipation. Your free hand begins to trail lower, slowly dragging down the zipper of your pants and slipping your fingers beneath the waistband of your underwear.
Your thoughts quickly start to wander, conjuring up images of her—laid out on her sleeping mat in nothing but a sports bra and her underwear. Her head thrown back, lip tucked between her teeth as she clutches the walkie in one hand while the other is buried deep inside her boxer shorts.
Abby’s chuckle filters through the speaker then, low and teasing. “Wouldn’t you like to know, princess? Over.”
But that damn word tacked on at the end of her question gives you pause and you release a small groan as your fingers still right over where you need them most. “Baby, if we’re going to do this, I really need you to stop saying ‘Over’.”
She snorts, the sound rough with amusement. “You know, you’re being real fuckin’ bossy for someone who was just about to beg me to fuck them a second ago. Ov—”
Your lips curl up in a smirk when she stops to correct herself. You got her now. Hook, line and sinker.
“Good girl,” you coo, your words dripping with condescension. “See, babe? You’re such a fast learner.”
And you can picture it now—the way her jaw would tense, the tendons flexing beneath her overly flushed skin. How her eyes would narrow, those cerulean blues practically pinning you in place with a steely glare. Daring you to push your luck.
“Keep up that attitude,” she growls, her voice rough. “And you won’t be able to sit the next time I see you.”
You bite back a moan as you impatiently shove your pants down your thighs. “Ooh, is that a threat or a promise?”
“You’re such a little shit, you know that?” she huffs, a metallic clink cutting through the static as her belt gives way.
Your pulse thrums through your veins, hot and electric and you’re suddenly hyper-aware of the throbbing ache between your thighs. How the damp cotton of your underwear now clings to you, forming to the curve of your body.
“But if you were here, Abs…” you trail off, fingertips slipping back beneath the hem of your panties and trailing lower. “What would you be doing to me, right now?”
It’s like a switch flips. Your eyes flutter shut as you drag two of your fingers between your slippery folds, circling over your clit with filthy precision.
Abby releases a small exhale. “Oh, baby girl.” Her words are a dark purr, the sound so close, so intimate it’s like her lips are grazing over the shell of your ear. “You really think I’d be touching you after how you’ve been acting?”
A small whimper spills past your lips before you can stop it. “Abby—”
“Making me worry about you,” she scolds, and you can hear the way she’s shifting, the soft rustle of fabric beneath the steady static. Fuck, was she touching herself too? “Talking back to me like you’ve got a death wish… Ya’know, I almost broke rank just to come find your bratty ass?”
You whine softly, teasingly pushing two fingers past your slick entrance, the stretch delicious but not nearly enough. So you start to imagine her sitting in that chair just across the room, see the way she’d easily fill the space with her broad shoulders. How she would lean back into it, her thighs spread wide and pants undone, rolling one of her nipples between her fingers just to tease herself while her other hand slips down the soft contours of her stomach and past the waistband of her boxers.
There’d be a slight crook in her brow as she watches you, her eyes darkening with each frantic pass of your fingers.
“M’sorry, Abs,” you respond after a beat too long, voice embarrassingly breathless.
But Abby just laughs, cold and calculating.
“Ah ah,” she tsks, and you can instantly feel the way your body responds to her, clamping down harder around your own fingers. “I think we both know that you can grovel a lot better than that, sweet girl.”
And while the defiant part of you is just itching to shoot off another snarky reply, the desire for her approval severely overshadows it.
“Abby,” you whimper, voice soft and pleading. “I am sorry, I really didn’t mean to worry you, baby.”
“Oh honey, I know you didn’t.” Her voice is suddenly far more sincere, but it still holds that teasing edge. “But I think I know how you can make it up to me…”
And it doesn’t take long for her to have you writhing against the cot, the rough fabric digging into the bare skin of your shoulders as you desperately fuck yourself onto your fingers, letting her talk you through it.
“Fuck,” Abby groans, her breath hitching in her throat. “How does that feel, baby? Are those pretty fingers of yours enough?”
Your whines sound absolutely pathetic even in your own ears as you curl your fingers up, thumb swiping frantically over your swollen clit. “No, Abs, fuck, yours always feel so much better.”
Her answering chuckle has you whimpering into the fabric of your jacket. “Oh, you poor thing. God, I can hear how much that messy cunt needs me… You think you can be a good girl and—”
You want to scream when the connection suddenly drops, a burst of static crackling loudly through the speaker. You tighten your grip on the walkie, pulling your hand from between your legs to search for another station. But the only open channels are other WLF sectors, which you know Abby wouldn’t use in a time like this.
So out of pure desperation you flip back to your original channel, clicking the button and speaking directly into the receiver.
“Abby? Come on, baby, please tell me you’re there. Over.”
No response.
“God dammit,” you huff, hauling your legs over the side of the cot to stand.
You’ve barely gotten your pants pulled back up over your ass when the walkie crackles to life, and you almost trip in your haste to grab it off your cot.
“Hello, Abby? Do you copy? Over.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then Manny’s voice comes over the walkie.
“Negative, chica… Abby is a little uh,” he stifles a laugh. “Indisposed at the moment. Over.”
You let out an annoyed huff. “Manny, what the hell did you do to my girlfriend? Over.”
“Ay, bájale dos rayitas, amiga! I wasn’t the one broadcasting my sex life to our entire patrol squad—” He’s suddenly cut off, followed by some ear piercing feedback that makes you wince.
“Manny? Abby? Come on this isn’t fucking funny, someone answer me. Over.”
Static.
You toss the walkie beside you out of pure frustration, flinching when it bounces off the cot and clatters loudly onto the floor below.
You don’t know whether to feel more worried or irritated as you sit on the edge of the cot, tugging your discarded shirt back over your head. But the longer the silence seems to drag on, the more your thoughts start to drift to dangerous places.
We ran into trouble with some Scars earlier, so we’re holed up in this old theater for the night.
Her words come rushing back to you now, causing a knot to form in your stomach. Abby had said it so casually earlier, you hadn’t even thought twice about it. But now it’s the only thing you can think about.
What kind of trouble had she meant? Were they even safe there?
You’re back on your feet in an instant, shrugging on your jacket and slinging the strap of your rifle over your shoulder before making your way toward the trap door. If her patrol group had been ambushed just now—caught off guard in that old theater, you’d happily endure Issac’s wrath for abandoning your post just to make sure Abby was safe.
Your fingers close around the lock but just as you start to slide it open and prepare to disappear into the night, the walkie crackles back to life.
Your body tenses as another burst of static fills the space, and then Abby’s voice comes through, low and rough—sending a pleasurable shiver down your spine.
“I’m coming to you. Be ready for me, baby. Over and out.”
You should be outraged for Murry Foust. He was missing for 28 days, almost a month. And he wasn't found by the police, or a police organized search party. No. No, he was found by an independently led group.
And of course, the police are claiming "no foul play" in Murry's death.
IDGAF what the economy is doing, I'm going to get what I want, eat well, and live an abundant, happy, well-designed life. I didn't come here to suffer or be in bondage.
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