Title: Deus
Author: Michelle K. (dalurve@gmail.com)
Site: http://glimmershine.tripod.com
Challenge: amymandython, written for femslashqueen
Spoilers: through "Constituency of One"
Pairing: Amy/Abbey
Rating: NC-17
Summary: A circle of hell.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Don't sue.

Deus by Michelle K.


You come back to work after she returns from Manchester. For the first few days, you stay out of her way, afraid that you'll make a wrong move and hit a raw spot.

(All you do is hit raw spots.)

So you sit at your desk and do your work, trying not to make waves for the first time in your career. Trying not to think about her hands on your hips, trying not to wonder if your affair ended the night that Zoey went missing, when she whispered, "I think God is punishing me."

You blanched then, and every time you recall it, your reaction's the same. If she deserves punishment, you deserve it tenfold. That is something you can't stop thinking about.

(God's already given up on you.)


You jump at the sound of her voice. "Ma'am. I'm sorry. I didn't notice you."

"Don't apologize." She looks at you for a moment, her eyes dark and her smile small.

It's beginning again.


Abbey's the only lover who's ever been able to control you. You suppose there are lines even she couldn't make you cross, but the boundaries have yet to be found.

"Move down a little," she says.

You slide your ass down the desk as she pushes her fist in deeper. You groan, but deny that it hurts when she asks you. She pulls away and thrusts back in. You grip the edge of the desk. She brings her tongue to your sex, barely touching your clit with the tip. You shut your eyes.

"Look at me," she snaps, but it takes some effort to keep them open and focus on her face.

You whimper as she starts to suckle, and her face goes blurry. When you come, your body goes slack, and the feel of her buried inside you really starts to hurt.

She extracts her fingers slowly, pulling all the way out only after your breathing has returned to normal.

You wonder if she still thinks that God wants to punish her. And, if so, why she wants to go back to doing this with you.

You'd never ask her, though.

(You're not sure you want to know.)


She barely looks at you for days afterward, staring at papers as she talks to you. You feel like furniture, and you think she knows what it's doing to you.

She's always been aware of her power over you.

"Ma'am," you mutter. "Do you need me for anything else?"

"Not right now," she says, still staring at those papers, "but I need you to come to the Residence tonight, if that's alright."

You nod.


You've had a crush on Abbey Bartlet since you were old enough to think of kissing another person as something other than disgusting. Even when she was intoning bible stories -- a direction from your parents, who were afraid that you and your sister would go to hell if not reminded of the lord and creator -- you thought of twirling your fingers in her hair and planting tiny kisses on her cheeks. You wanted her to love you and, when you grew up, you tried to emulate her as much as you could. But you've always known you were a poor carbon copy. And in her presence, you crumble.

(In her presence, you can be less than nothing.)

To be in her presence is what you crave.


She's gentler this time as you lay on the bed she shares with her husband. Her tongue sliding slowly over your lips until she snakes within. Over your clit, then deep inside. You let yourself relax, running your fingers over your breast, pinching at your nipple. You take God's name in what is sin, if not vain.

After you come, she straddles you. She guides your hand to her sex as she bores her eyes into yours. You fuck her this way until she needs more. You settle between her thighs, close your lips over her clit as you bury your fingers deeper inside her. You hum her name over and over, a prayer that only you can hear.

(Worshipping false idols is hardly your worst sin.)


You go back to the routine. Twice a week: once in your office, once in her bedroom.

This is normalcy. This is what you need.

You don't know what she needs.


"You have a way with words, Amy," Josh says. This would usually be followed by a kiss, but your lips remain untouched by his.

"Do I? Is it a good way, or a bad way? Because I'd love to smack around some words. Like perchance? Deserves a slap." You smile. A silence. "Are you sleeping with Donna?"

His face falls.

"I don't care," you continue. "She loves you," you add, because you're sure she's already told him by now. "I'm... I'm with someone." Even if no one will ever know. "Jesus, Josh, say something."

"Something," he mutters. "Amy... I really don't think we should talk about these things, okay. It's... it's creeping me out."

You wonder what he'd say if you told him that you were screwing his boss's wife.

"I understand," you say.


"I understand," you say when Abbey says she can't see you.

Donna would never leave Josh sitting alone when he needs her. You could bond over this shared weakness (weakness you swore you would never have) if she wasn't kinda scared of you. You'd share secrets in whispers while they do things they find more important. Sometimes, you even imagine sinking between her legs until she walks off into the sunset with you, leaving Josh and Abbey behind.

(You would still be damned.)

You must really love Abbey. Otherwise, you wouldn't resent her so much.


Sometimes, as you watch her finger the cross that hangs around her neck, you think about heaven and hell. If you are worthy of either or if your destination is purgatory.

You wonder if she'll be there.

(If so, it'll be worth it.)


"Do you blame me?" you say, because it's one of the only questions you feel you can ask. And, if she responds in a certain way, you can get all your other answers, too.

"Blame you? For what?"

"For Zoey." For God abandoning you. For fucking up your marriage. For being a failure.

"No," she says. It's several minutes before she says, "It's Jed's fault."

You exhale. You feel guilty. You feel sick.

God is walking further and further away.


When you tell her you love her, she is silent.

When she tells you she loves you, you feel what you imagine is happiness.


Late at night. You at your desk. The door opens without knocking. You expect her.

You get him.

"Sir," you say. "I didn't know you were coming to see me."

"I like to be surprising once and awhile," Bartlet says. "Keeps everyone on their toes."

There's silence then, and you hold your breath. He's going to fire you again, this time for playing by his wife's rules instead of your own. You try to push away thoughts of Abbey guiding your head between her thighs. Instructing you when to push your fingers inside her and how long to keep the pads of your fingers pressed right there.

(You wonder why idle hands are the devil's playthings when busy ones can get you into so much more trouble.)

"How are you settling back in?" he says finally.

"Fine, sir."

"And how is Abbey settling back in? To work," he clarifies, lest you think he's lost all insight into his wife.

You wonder if he has.

"She's doing really well. Really well," you lie. You purse your lips against the cap of your pen. "It's tough some days..."

"It is," he says. "Amy--"

"Are you going to tell me to behave myself?"

Bartlet looks at you with genuine surprise before he shakes his head. "It's not my place. Abbey made that clear. And..." A half-hearted smile. "She really would choose you."

Because you love and respect him, you bite the tongue that wants to say, "She already did." You exhale. "It was my decision to leave. It was mine to come back. She shouldn't... I don't blame you."

He nods. "I wanted to see how things were going, Amy. I'm sorry if you thought I was preparing to put your head back on the chopping block."

"Well, I don't have a good record with holding onto jobs. I've learned not to take it personally."

He stares at you for a moment before nodding. Maybe he knows what you've left unsaid. You hope he lets any words die on his tongue as well. "Goodnight, Amy."

You watch him leave.

You're not surprised that she's in your office just a few minutes later.


Her hand up your skirt. Your fingers drumming on the desk. Her nails brush over the edge of your panties.

"God's still punishing me," she rasps.

"I know," you say.

(But at least you're burning with her.)


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