You look good on your knees.
wc:4.4k
cw: bootlicking, spit, mommy kink
AU where Abby took over Isaac's place >;)
The office smelled of rust, rain, and old coffee. Fluorescent light hummed above, flickering weakly against the steel-gray walls. A map of the Washington Territories was tacked across one side, punctured by dozens of red pins. Beneath it, a table—once a conference table, now gouged and stained—was buried under paper reports, spent shell casings, and the half-disassembled parts of a rifle.
Abby’s voice rasped across the room like sandpaper. It wasn’t the same voice that used to bark orders on the training fields twenty years ago. Age had carved gravel into it, and command had carved the rest. As she’d grown older, she’d grown crueler—angrier at the world that never changed, at the war that refused to end, at the ghosts that still followed her into every room.
She hadn’t wanted to take over the WLF, not then. But when Isaac bled out on the island—his throat slit by one of the last Scars left alive—someone had to step in. Someone ruthless enough to keep order when the world refused to give them peace. That someone had been her.
The years hadn’t been kind. Deep lines creased her forehead, and streaks of gray wove through her once-blonde hair. The muscles remained—she still towered like a statue of punishment—but the humanity that used to flicker behind her eyes was gone. The blue had turned steel.
You sat across from her now, trying not to fidget. The chair beneath you was metal, cold and too small, like the rest of the room. You could feel your pulse in your throat, every heartbeat reminding you how fragile you were in her presence.
“Wanna tell me why you’re here?” she barked.
You swallowed, spine snapping straight. “Ma’am, you called me.”
The sound of her fist slamming against the desk cracked the silence like thunder. “Did I ask that?”
You flinched, shaking your head. “No, ma’am.”
She leaned back in her chair, the old leather creaking beneath her weight. For a moment, all you could hear was the distant echo of boots in the corridor outside—the rhythm of soldiers marching to another endless task. Beyond the office window, you could glimpse the sprawling compound: patrol trucks coated in grime, the tattered WLF flag still hanging from the barracks, the dull orange glow of evening bleeding through the Seattle haze.
You were nearly thirty now, a veteran by all standards, yet sitting in front of Abby Anderson still made you feel small. Smaller than when you were a recruit. Smaller than anyone alive should feel. If she wanted to, she could have vaulted over that desk and snapped your neck in two. You’d seen her do worse to men twice your size.
She took a slow sip from her dented metal thermos, steam rising faintly from the chipped rim. The smell of bitter coffee filled the air as she exhaled through her nose. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter—but sharper.
“On your last patrol,” she began, eyes narrowing, “to clear out the western Seraphite sector… your comrade told me you refused.”
You licked your dry lips. “It’s not what you think, ma’am.”
A scoff escaped her throat—low, guttural. “I didn’t ask for an answer yet.”
You lowered your gaze again, fingers tightening around each other. Calloused. Scarred. You’d spent years fighting Scars—years watching people die in the name of a peace that never came. The war had outlived its meaning. The Seraphites were barely even people anymore—half-starved zealots living in flooded ruins. Yet here the WLF was, still marching, still burning, still killing in the name of Isaac’s vision… or what was left of it.
Outside, the sound of thunder rolled through the distance. The rain would come soon—rain that never stopped in this city, not even after forty years of blood.
You glanced up at Abby again. She was staring straight through you, as if trying to see what you were made of—flesh or weakness. The scar under her left eye caught the light, a pale reminder of a time when she’d been the one on the front lines. Now she commanded from behind the desk, but you knew she still trained at dawn, still sparred with the recruits until they couldn’t stand. There was no softness left in her. No rest. No redemption.
Abby leaned back in her chair, the leather creaking under the weight of her armor-plated vest. Her eyes swept you up and down, sharp and assessing, like a predator deciding whether the thing in front of her was prey or potential. Her arms crossed over her chest, muscles shifting beneath the old fatigues, the faded WLF insignia nearly worn away.
“So?” she said finally, her voice gravelly, like it had been sanded down by years of shouting orders and breathing gun smoke. “What happened?”
You straightened instinctively. Even after a decade under her command, her gaze still did something to you—made you feel like you were twenty again, raw and trembling in the training yard. You nodded, trying to keep your breathing even, to remind yourself you weren’t weak. No one who survived this long in the WLF was.
She’d seen to that herself. Every recruit trained harder now than they ever did under Isaac. Abby demanded perfection—strength, endurance, obedience. You’d earned every scar, every callus, every brutal night patrol. You were strong, muscular, your frame built for war. But you weren’t her.
Your body had kept its shape through it all—your curves, your too-big chest, your thick legs, all things you couldn’t run or starve away. You’d tried once, when you were younger, to match her lean, brutal form. But there was no matching Abby Anderson. She was carved from the same stone the city walls were built with, and she wore her years like armor. You knew if it ever came to it—if she wanted to—you wouldn’t stand a chance in a fight. Not against her.
“I’m just…” You hesitated, a muscle in your jaw twitching. “I’m tired of the war.” The words came out smaller than you meant them to, like a confession that shouldn’t have been spoken aloud.
Her eyes flickered. For the briefest second, something cracked in that hard shell. Maybe it was grief. Maybe guilt. Maybe both. It was gone before you could name it.
She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her voice dropping low enough that only you could hear it. “You’re my best soldier,” she said quietly. Then, with a rough exhale, she added, almost to herself, “You remind me of who I was with Isaac.”
You swallowed hard. The name hung in the air like smoke. You’d heard the stories, the rumors whispered in the barracks late at night: that Abby once saved a Seraphite child, that she was supposed to leave Seattle years ago. That she’d found redemption, once, before the island burned. Before Isaac’s blood dried on her hands. Before she took his place.
You’d always wondered who she’d been before she became this—the Commander. The woman who ruled the WLF from a war-scarred fortress, surrounded by soldiers who both feared and worshipped her.
“This war will never end,” she said finally, her voice rough again, hardened by duty. “Not until every last one of them is gone.”
Something inside you snapped. The words scraped against a place in you that had been festering for years. You pushed to your feet before you even realized you’d done it.
“They’re barely people anymore!” you shouted, your voice echoing off the steel walls. “They’ve got, what, two colonies left? And we—” You gestured wildly around the room, toward the window that overlooked the sprawling city. “We’ve got everything! All of Seattle! Half the coast! And we’re still killing them!”
Abby didn’t move at first. She just sat there, expression unreadable, letting you burn yourself out. The faint hum of the old generator filled the silence between your words.
Her chair scraped backward as she rose to her full height, and for a heartbeat, you wished you’d kept your mouth shut. She stepped close—close enough that you could feel the heat of her body through your uniform. Her breath hit your skin, sharp and coffee-scented, her eyes locked on yours.
“You done?” she asked, low.
You couldn’t answer. The proximity made your pulse spike. You hated how your heart reacted to her—how it always had. You’d had a crush on her once, back when she was just the legend of the WLF, before you’d met her in person. Before you’d learned she could be cruel. You hated that a part of you still admired her—the way she moved, the weight she carried, the strength that could crush you if she wanted to.
You hated that you’d never known her before Scar Island—before Isaac. Before the light went out of her eyes.
Now, face to face, you could see the lines carved by years of war, the faint tremor in her jaw when she clenched it. She wasn’t untouchable, not really. She was just human—broken, tired, and too far gone to admit it.
And you wondered, for the first time, if she hated herself as much as she hated the enemy.
Your eyes fluttered shut, heart hammering in your chest as the enormity of what you’d just said settled like a stone in your stomach. You’d spoken too much—too openly. In the world Abby ruled, defiance meant discipline, sometimes worse. The stories of the basement below headquarters—its stained concrete walls, the chains bolted to steel support beams, the echoing screams—were more than rumors. You’d seen the limp bodies pulled out after “reeducation.” You’d seen the scars left behind. The air up here, in Abby’s office, felt thinner now. Every sound from the rain-spattered windows, every crackle from the generator below, seemed magnified by your dread.
Instinct—panic—took over. Your feet moved before your mind could weigh the cost. In a desperate bid for mercy, or maybe madness, you leaned in and pressed your mouth to hers.
For a split-second, the world stilled: her lips were rough, chapped by wind and command, and you could taste the sharp bite of black coffee. For a moment, you thought maybe—just maybe—this could be your way out. Surprise her. Distract her. Maybe, if you were lucky, she’d take lust over the violence that so often replaced affection in these battered halls.
But then she shoved you away—her strength, as always, absolute. You stumbled backward, almost tripping over a pile of maps at your feet, catching yourself on the battered radiator. The heat seeping from it was weak, barely enough to cut the chill from the rain that hammered against the glass.
“What are you doing?!” she spat, voice breaking between rage and disbelief.
Your hands flew up in apology, chest rising and falling. “I’m sorry,” you stammered, voice small in the wide, cold room.
Abby pinched the bridge of her nose, drawing in a long, ragged breath. She leaned against her desk, knuckles white against the splintered wood, the overhead light casting shadows under her eyes and along the jagged scar on her cheek.
But your lips still tingled from her. The memory of her taste, the feel of her breath against your skin, made your thoughts swirl—equal parts terror and yearning. You knew what would happen if she sent you down to the basement, chained you to the pipes, forced you to kneel and recite the WLF’s mantras until your voice gave out. You couldn’t go back there. Anything—anything—would be better.
So you did what desperation demanded: you moved toward her again. This time, her hand shot out, iron fingers clamping around your throat, the pressure firm enough to send adrenaline surging through your veins. Her eyes narrowed, brow furrowing as she forced you to meet her gaze.
“A fuck won’t save you,” she warned, voice low and lethal, her thumb pressing just enough to make your breath hitch.
You whimpered, the sound betraying your fear—and, shamefully, something else. Something you’d buried for years but could never kill. The rumors in the barracks, the dreams you’d had about her, all came crashing to the surface.
She cocked an eyebrow, lips curling in a half-snarl, half-smirk that belonged to someone who’d forgotten how to be gentle. In one swift, practiced movement, she spun you around and shoved you down onto her desk. The impact rattled the cups, scattered ammunition, and dog-eared patrol reports. The cold wood pressed into your back, biting through the thin fabric of your uniform. You let out a soft, involuntary gasp as her weight pinned you in place, the heat of her body overpowering the office’s damp chill.
Abby’s face hovered over yours, eyes wild and hungry, every inch the predator now. Her hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to expose your neck, to claim your mouth. She kissed you, wet and forceful, her tongue demanding entrance as you gasped beneath her. The taste of her—coffee, rain, sweat, and gun oil—filled your senses. The roughness of her jaw scraped your cheek as her breath mingled with yours.
You whimpered again as her tongue curled around yours, exploring, devouring. She bit your lip—hard enough to sting—and you bucked your hips upward, desperate for contact, for friction, for anything that might keep you here with her instead of the basement below.
Finally, she pulled back, bracing herself on the desk, breathing ragged and heavy. Her lips were red, swollen, and a bead of sweat trickled down her temple. For the first time, you saw something raw in her expression—a longing so fierce it almost hurt to look at. There was a hunger in her eyes, yes, but also a terrible loneliness. The ache of years spent untouched, unloved, in this fortress of war and death.
She stared down at you, lips parted, chest heaving. The whole city seemed to fall silent—nothing but the beat of rain against steel and the electric hum of survival. In that moment, you realized just how alone she was, how far gone you both had become in this world of endless war. And still, even now, you wanted her—wanted to be wanted by her, if only for a moment before the war resumed and the pain returned.
You had no words, just your breath mingling with hers, as you waited to see if she’d grant you mercy or destruction—or, in this new world, if there was any difference left between the two.
She stared at you, unblinking, a dangerous hunger smoldering in her gaze. The tension in the room crackled, sharp as static. You felt rooted in place, breath caught somewhere between your chest and throat. Then, without warning, she moved—her hands were on your waist, firm and urgent, dragging your pants down in one swift, impatient motion. The fabric caught for a moment at your knees, then tumbled down, leaving you bare and exposed.
Before you could process what was happening, she turned you, guiding you to lean forward, pressing your chest and belly to the desk’s cool, sturdy surface. Her touch was commanding—she positioned your hands at the edge of the desk, making sure your fingers curled tightly around it, as if bracing you for what was coming.
You barely had time to shiver at the cold beneath you, the rush of air on your skin, before she settled behind you. One of her strong, calloused hands pressed gently at your lower back, holding you in place, grounding you. Then—suddenly—she slid two thick fingers inside you, all at once.
A gasp ripped from your throat, your legs going weak beneath you. The sensation was shocking, overwhelming; your body responded before your mind could catch up, hips bucking back instinctively, desperately chasing more. Your thighs quivered as you tried to steady yourself, knuckles whitening on the desk.
“You’re wet,” she murmured, the words blunt and cool, but her voice trembled ever so slightly with satisfaction.
You grit your teeth, trying to hold back the flood of sound threatening to escape you. But the effort was futile—little moans slipped out anyway, punctuated by needy whimpers that only seemed to encourage her.
She chuckled low, almost a purr, clearly enjoying the effect she had on you. She began to move her fingers with deliberate intent, curling them upwards, pressing against every spot that made you shudder and gasp. Each time your body clenched around her, she let out these quiet, pleased huffs, eyes never leaving your face. Your hips rocked back against her, seeking, needing, every nerve ending in your body focused on the movement of her hand.
Wetness pooled and dripped down your thighs, your need obvious and a little humiliating, the sound of her fingers echoing obscenely in the otherwise quiet room. You trembled, feeling your orgasm building, teetering on the edge—but just as you thought you’d tip over, she pulled her hand away.
The loss was devastating. You gasped, a long, wounded sound, your hips rolling backward helplessly, as if your body could draw her back in by sheer will. Desperation made you dizzy, pleasure fogging your brain and stripping away every last scrap of modesty.
“Ask for it nicely from mommy,” she said, her hand smoothing over the curve of your ass, thumb tracing lazy circles, the gesture somehow both gentle and possessive.
Shame was a distant memory. You reached back, using both hands to spread yourself open for her, your breath coming in ragged, needy pants. You arched your back, offering yourself completely.
“Please,” you whispered, the word breaking on your tongue. “Please, Mommy I need it—I need you to make me come, please mommy…”
Your plea sent a shiver through her. She drew a sharp breath, then, without further warning, pushed her fingers inside you again—harder this time, deeper. The sensation slammed into you, white-hot, and you cried out, the pleasure hitting you like a wave.
Her fingers were long, thick, every inch of them roughened by scars and callouses, a lifetime of battle etched into her skin. She set a ruthless rhythm, fingers thrusting and curling, working you relentlessly toward the edge. And then she leaned down, mouth warm and wet, tongue circling in a place so intimate you whimpered from the shock and humiliation.
She kept her fingers working, never letting up, her tongue teasing in slow, torturous circles. Your body jerked and squirmed, unable to control itself, pleasure burning through you so bright it hurt. She didn’t stop—her hand unyielding, her mouth merciless.
You shattered—your orgasm tore through you, sudden and unstoppable. You clamped around her fingers, cried out, hands scrabbling for purchase on the desk as you pushed back into her hand, every muscle in your body taut and shaking.
“I’m gonna—please mommy, please mommy—” you sobbed, unable to form words, pleasure wracking you in wave after wave. The only thing you could say, over and over, was mommy—a desperate, grateful mantra, lost in the storm.
She let you ride it out, watching as you trembled, collapsed, utterly spent and whimpering against the desk. You could hear her chuckling softly, her hand soothing gentle shapes into your skin, her pride unmistakable as you fell apart for her—helpless, undone, and still aching for her touch.
Without warning, her hand tangled in your hair, rough and commanding, pulling you downward until your balance tipped. Your knees slammed into the floor—hard, the unforgiving cold shooting up through your kneecaps, making you yelp out a startled cry. The chill of the ground seeped straight into your bones, a sharp contrast to the burning flush in your cheeks.
She towered over you, looking down with an intensity that left you breathless—a hunger in her gaze, sharp and unyielding, almost cruel. Her grip in your hair tightened, yanking your head back, exposing the line of your throat. You could feel her breath against your skin as she leaned closer, her presence overwhelming, filling every inch of your senses.
Then, with a single, forceful motion, she pushed your face forward, pressing you firmly into the heat of her clothed core. The fabric was damp, the scent of her desire unmistakable, heady and dizzying. You whimpered helplessly, your lips brushing against her pants, feeling her arousal through the rough material. Humiliation and longing tangled together in your stomach, twisting tight.
“Smell that?” she demanded, her voice ice-cold and deliberate. “I want you so bad. I want your mouth on me.” Her tone left no room for argument—only a deep, humiliating ache to please her.
You could only nod, breath hitching, muffled against her. But she wasn’t finished—she crouched lower until her face was almost level with yours, her eyes locking with yours, dark and hungry. You watched her mouth curve into a sly, knowing smirk before she reached out, fingers gripping your chin. Without breaking eye contact, she parted your lips and spat, slow and purposeful, into your open mouth. The shock and heat of it sent a jolt down your spine.
Then, as abruptly as she’d taken hold, she released you, shoving you gently backward so you rocked on your heels. You stared up at her, flustered and flushed, breath shallow. She moved to sit on a nearby chair, all smooth confidence, crossing one leg over the other. She beckoned you with a single, crooked finger, an unspoken command to crawl closer.
“But I need to know you’re obedient,” she said flatly, her voice low, cutting through the haze in your mind. She watched you with a cool, assessing look, waiting to see just how far you’d go to please her.
You nodded, unable to look away from her. Your mind swirled with nerves and heat, your body taut and expectant, waiting for whatever she might order next.
She lifted her chin, brow cocked in challenge, a sly smile tugging at the corner of her mouth as she tapped her boot impatiently against the floor. “Kiss it.”
A wave of shame and anticipation washed through you, burning in your chest. Your face felt hot, but you swallowed your nerves and crawled forward, lowering yourself onto all fours until your mouth hovered above her boot. It was scuffed and dirty, flecked with dried mud and city grime from a day spent prowling the streets.
You pressed your lips softly to the worn leather, the cool surface strange beneath your mouth. A pleased sound rumbled from her, a dark purr. She leaned back, satisfied, as if testing your limits.
“Lick it,” she commanded, sticking her foot out, sole up, the filth on the bottom making your stomach twist. You hesitated, a blush of embarrassment rising, but the intensity of her gaze—and the surprising thrill curling low in your belly—pushed you forward.
You flattened your tongue against the rough leather, dragging it slowly from heel to toe, tasting dirt and something metallic, the shame mingling with an even deeper, darker heat. The humiliation was sharp, but for some reason, it sent a heady rush through you, making you dizzy and desperate to please.
She let out a low, delighted chuckle, watching you with an approving, predatory look, her enjoyment clear. Every sound she made, every approving hum, only made the humiliation—and the hunger for her praise—so much sharper. The room felt hotter, the air charged with something electric as you continued, every nerve tuned to her reaction, your whole world reduced to the dirty boot and her satisfied laughter above you.
She stared down at you for a lingering moment, her jaw clenched and eyes burning with desire. Then, hands steady but breath uneven, she undid the button at her waistband. The sound of the zipper sliding down filled the quiet space, loud in the haze of your anticipation. Her pants slipped down her hips, revealing powerful, sculpted thighs, her skin flushed with heat.
She leaned forward, the muscles in her arms flexing as she reached for you, large hands wrapping around your shoulders and hauling you closer. The force of her grip made your heart pound—you could feel her strength, the slight tremor of restraint fighting with her need. She sank back into the chair, spreading her thighs wide. The scent of her arousal hung heavy in the air, thickening every breath you took.
You moved between her legs, sinking to your knees, hands steadying yourself on her thighs. The skin was hot, muscles tensed beneath your palms. You looked up at her, meeting her eyes for just a second, and saw something desperate flicker there. She swallowed hard, biting her lip, and then her hand was back in your hair, guiding you exactly where she needed you.
The second your mouth found her, she gasped, sharp and startled, hips jerking up into your face. Her thighs clamped around you, trapping you there, the heat of her pressing insistently against your lips and tongue. You barely had time to breathe—her hips rolled up, over and over, rough and frantic, making you moan helplessly into her.
“Fuck,” she hissed, her voice low and ragged, head thrown back. Her fingers tightened in your hair, holding you in place as she rode the waves of pleasure, grinding against you with bruising need. Every muscle in her legs flexed and trembled, her whole body tensed around you.
The world narrowed to the sounds she made—the frantic, broken gasps, the choked-off moans that filled the room. You could feel her losing control, her movements growing erratic and desperate. Her hips snapped against your mouth, and your jaw ached, but all you could do was cling to her, letting her use you for her release.
She came fast and hard, hips quaking, her hands trembling in your hair as she let out a guttural moan. Her whole body seized, muscles pulled tight, breath stuttering in her chest as she cried out for you. For a moment, she hovered on the edge, chest heaving, every part of her focused on the pleasure tearing through her.
When it was over, she shoved you away with a force that made you stumble backward, almost falling to your elbows. You looked up, disoriented, as she tugged her pants back up with trembling hands, trying to regain her composure. She rubbed her face, jaw clenched, and when she finally looked at you, her eyes were glazed with something raw—anger, shame, longing, maybe all three.
“Get out,” she said, her voice rough and shaky. “Get out before I do something I’ll regret.”
The command was final, echoing in the silent aftermath. You stared at her, still dizzy from what just happened, your lips swollen and chin slick, your own need throbbing inside you. There was no time to process the confusion or the ache. You got up slowly, knees aching from the hard floor, feeling exposed and small. You pulled yourself together, gathering your things with shaking hands, and slipped quietly from the room, her scent and her voice still lingering on your skin long after the door clicked shut behind you.
