Title: Fuck is a Dangerous Word to Say
Author: softly_sweetly
Characters/Pairings: Ginny/Pansy
Rating: NC17
Kinks/Themes Chosen: Please/Squick your Mod (Ginny/Pansy, Spanking)
Other Warnings: Infidelity
Word Count: ~1900
Summary/Description: "Do not get smart with me. Do you know what I miss, Ginny? I miss the days when I only had to use one hand to count how many people you'd offended."
Author's Notes: Thanks E for the beta.




Fuck wasn't the worst word in the world, but it was still pretty dangerous. It was one of the few words that the kids were never selectively-deaf with - unlike 'tidy', 'stop', 'no' and 'stop hitting your brother with that broom before I come over there and make you' - one of the words her mother still shouted at her for, and apparently one of the words that would get her hauled into her boss' office.

Ginny straightened her blouse and rapped her knuckles on the door.

"Get your arse in here."

Pleasant as ever, then. Pushing open the imposing black door, Ginny closed it quietly behind her and felt the wards shiver into place. So, it was going to be a screaming match, then.

Privately, Ginny was certain Pansy had used the bulk of her family's wealth to buy her way into the Wizarding Wireless hierarchy and carve out a job for herself as director of factual programming. Publically, Ginny was the consummate professional and toed the appropriate 'my boss is the best witch for the job' line. Pansy's desk was the same black wood as the door, the bookcases, her wand and whatever was in the place where her heart should be. If her dress wasn't so tight it had to be painted on she'd have been the perfect Muggle stereotype of a wicked witch.

Resisting the urge to smirk at that image, Ginny crossed the large office and sat down in the chair in front of the desk. She was in the wrong, of course, but she wasn't going to grovel and wait for permission to breathe.

"I believe you have a particularly choice quote from today's commentary?"

Ginny shrugged. "Yes, Pansy, I said 'fuck' on the wireless. I apologise profusely for bringing shame on your good, even-tempered, known for never swearing across the office at anyone, name."

That was baiting, of course, but Pansy didn't rise to it. Yet. Instead she continued glaring across the desk at Ginny, managing to convey with her eyes the sheer anger that her face could no longer contort into. Aaah, the magic of age-defying cosmetic spells. You ended up looking like a twenty year old mated with a marionette.

"I believe your precise phrasing was 'if that knob Clunch's Beating was any worse, he'd be playing for the fucking French handicapped side'."

Ginny winced. It sounded much worse when Pansy was saying it in her cut-glass, icy tones, her face unmoving and the actual - albeit highly offensive - display of failing to be a Quidditch player was in the past.

Holding up her hands, long black nails filed as close to claws as practicality would allow, Pansy flicked down a finger for each offense as she continued, "So, you've offended the French, the handicapped, common decency, anyone with a passing concern for equality, the West Country Weasels, and the listeners who have been complaining in droves that our Quidditch commentator swore at three fifteen on a Sunday afternoon. And, of course, Mr Clunch himself who is threatening to sue us for libel. Have I missed anyone out?"

"Well, I suppose knobs everywhere would hate being compared to such a crap excuse of a Beater."

"Do not get smart with me. Do you know what I miss, Ginny? I miss the days when I only had to use one hand to count how many people you'd offended. Those halcyon days when I could rest assured that there would only be three or four people who would need their egos soothing, and my staff would not swear over the wireless."

Ginny held Pansy's eyes, waiting for the bollocking to continue. She should probably be worrying, or attempting to grovel, or even offering to send Clunch a bouquet of flowers and a beginner's guide to Quidditch. Instead, she found herself trying to work out whether Pansy was wearing a bra. The dress was too tight to allow for one, but her breasts were too perky to not be encased in one. It was a true conundrum.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

Pansy sighed and rolled her eyes. The sigh made her breasts move, and Ginny couldn't help but watch. Pansy dressed to project an image, to make people fear her and want her in equal parts. Ginny didn't fear her, but she wanted her. The image, at least. The vamp, the dominatrix, the hour-glass figure and legs that went on forever. The woman who made you feel she could go from scratching your back to scratching your eyes out in a heartbeat. Pansy embodied everything that was alluring about femininity, every cliché that alluded Ginny either through being brought up with six brothers or through playing professional Quidditch and having three kids. Shifting in her seat and crossing her legs, Ginny pulled her eyes back up to Pansy's and tried not to make her clothes rustle as she squeezed her thighs together.

Ginny held up her own hands, flicking down her fingers as she addressed each of Pansy's points. "So I'll apologise on the round-up show tomorrow, explain it was heat of the moment and won't happen again. I'll send Clunch a case of Firewhisky and the Weasels a new set of protective pads, entertain the French sport Minister next time he's in town, and do a day's voluntary training with the Para-Quidditch team. That's everyone."

Pansy stood up, walking around her desk taking slow, measured steps. Once she was in front of the desk she leant back against it, looking down at Ginny and showcasing that this was one of her shorter dresses, and she'd teamed it with shoes that could kill a man if he pissed her off. "And my apology? My repayment for spending my Sunday afternoon on my knees at the Floo being chastised for the fact you have as much trouble keeping your mouth closed as your legs?"

She definitely wasn't wearing a bra; Ginny could see the bumps of her nipples. Must be magic, then. Uncrossing her legs, Ginny pushed herself up from the chair and stood in front of Pansy, meeting her gaze and smirking slightly. "You hardly need payment, Pansy. I know just how much you enjoy being on your knees."

Pansy's tongue flicked out, running over her lips and making her red lipstick shine. Clichéd, but attractive all the same. "Keep it up, Ginny, and I'll recommend they sack you."

Ginny took a step closer, into Pansy's personal space and the zone where her expensive perfume was heavy on the air. "I apologised, what more do you want from me?"

The smirk was the closest thing to an expression Pansy had managed since Ginny had entered the office. Clearly no charm in the world could negate Pansy's inner Slytherin. But when the silence dragged on, illicit promise crackling in the air between them, Ginny shrugged and turned away. It had the desired effect, and Pansy's hands were tight on her hips as she was pushed over to one of the huge bookcases. "I want you to suffer for the effort I've put into covering up your cock-up."

These situations normally ended one of two ways – the both of them going home to their respective husbands to work out the tension, or some over-the-clothes fumbling that was more fumbling than fulfilling. So Ginny wasn't expecting the slap that landed, loud and stinging, on her arse. "Fuck!"

"Isn't that what got you in this position in the first place?" Pansy purred, using the hand that had just slapped down on Ginny's arse to slide Ginny's hand onto one of the shelves. Instinctively, Ginny clasped onto the shelf, anchoring herself and dropping her head forwards. At least with her hair hanging around her face, Pansy wouldn't be able to see the raging blush infusing Ginny's cheeks.

Pansy's hand was no longer around her wrist, so it shouldn't have been a surprise when Ginny was slapped again, but it still made her jolt. Three more followed, a quick succession that made her both her arse and her lungs sting – one from the impact, the other from the rush of air that left her each time. Then Pansy's hand snaked around her body, resting on the button that held up her trousers. And considering they were low-slung, that left Pansy's hand tantalisingly close to Ginny's groin. "I'm going take these down and turn your arse as red as your hair."

It wasn't a question, it was a statement, but Ginny still got the impression she could say no. Idle – and not so idle – fantasies, tension and flirting had been rife as long as they'd worked together, but it had never got this far. And yet Pansy was undoing her trousers, and Ginny was powerless to stop it. They got pushed down to her thighs, and Ginny didn't know whether she was glad or regretful that she hadn't bothered with knickers today. Pansy's deep chuckle told her she should probably be glad, and Ginny gasped as those long, long nails scraped over her bare buttocks. The sensation stopped, and a second later it was a shock of pain as Pansy's hand slapped onto her skin. Ginny would never have thought cotton trousers could provide so much protection, or muffle so much sound, but as the crack echoed around the room and her arse throbbed, Ginny almost missed the trousers. Almost.

She couldn't help but push back into Pansy's hand as it curved over her flesh, and she missed it when it was pulled back, only to curse it when it slammed down on her other cheek. The blows continued, hard and fast with no set rhythm, just unpredictable and intoxicating blows that made her whole body tingle. She'd had her fair share of slaps to the arse, but this was different. And addictive; she whimpered when Pansy stopped the blows, and moved her hand back around to Ginny's front. Aroused enough that she considered begging for more, Ginny instead cried out when Pansy's hand slipped between her legs, pads of Pansy's fingers rubbing her clit, and nails scraping against her labia, the same kind of pleasure-pain that had made the spanking send her cross-eyed. Pansy didn't let up, rubbing in firm circles and using her body to keep Ginny pressed against the bookcase. And the closer she got to the edge, the more Ginny pressed back against Pansy, primal urges taking over as she rocked into Pansy's hand, gasping and grunting as this illicit, unexpected little death crept ever closer.

And just as Ginny was about to break her vows and come at the hand of another person, Pansy stepped away with a low chuckle. Unable to stop her whimper, it was only when she turned around to demand an explanation, and saw the room, and Pansy, in the late-evening light, that Ginny realised she was in her boss' office with her trousers around her thighs. Pulling them up hastily, she searched for something intelligent to say.

"Swear on the wireless again, and it'll be worse. Now make yourself scarce before the Minister Floos me. If you're here, I might be tempted to sell you out."

Tossing Ginny a vial of Floo powder Pansy returned to her desk, and Ginny headed to the fireplace as much for something to do as any desire to leave. Auto-flyer kicked in, and she found herself stepping out into her lounge without really knowing what had just happened. Harry was waiting, of course, but before he could begin yelling Ginny's need to come took over her need to deal with her husband. Or process the past half an hour.

"Fuck me now, yell at me later."

The look in her eyes must have been convincing, because Harry only wavered for a second before he stepped towards her. And as Ginny led him up the stairs, she was already planning how to get the c-word into next week's commentary, and what to wear when she went to her disciplinary date afterwards.