Disclaimer: I don't own J.K. Rowling's characters, I just like to write them in ways she'd probably shoot me for if she read them.
Author's Note: This piece technically takes place immediately after Part Five of my Ron/Pansy fic 'Obsession', but you don't have to read that one to get this one (unless you really want to know why Pansy was in Ron's office). It's also dedicated to the supremely awesome SeraphimeRising, who suggested the title and inadvertantly provided the mental crack that made this pairing possible for me. Oh, and I've mucked about with Gabrielle's age, because if I stick to canon she's only like 15 and in my head for this piece she's 20. Love it? Hate it? Review and tell me why!
Warning: Contains bondage, plenty of smut, and hints at non-consensual sex (sort of).
Business As Usual
by Scribe Teradia
Gabrielle watches Pansy's backside as she exits the office and heads for the lift, and her eyes narrow. It is entirely unfair that the woman can manage to exude sexuality as well as she does and still be wholly human. Even Fleur, who unquestionably received the best of their Veela grandmother's attributes, has only ever managed to inspire a sort of longing, not the raw physical lust that Pansy evokes, as Gabrielle has witnessed firsthand.
She glances toward the closed door separating her outer office from Ron's inner one, then gets up from the desk and moves to close the outer door, hanging the little sign that says they'll be back at a specific time only after adjusting it to give her at least an hour. Just in case. Then she opens the inner door, slipping into the room so quietly that he doesn't even notice her until she's already rounded the desk.
He blinks in that endearingly slow way that he has, his hands moving to cover the visible side-effect of Pansy's visit, which irritates her because it's quite obvious she's already seen it. "Did you need something?" he asks. His voice cracks, as it often does when he's nervous.
"Au contraire, Monsieur, I think it is you who needs something," she purrs, her voice low and sultry with just a hint of a wicked edge in the French accent. She steps closer, reaching up to pull the clip from her hair, allowing the pale blonde waves to frame her face.
"Gab... Gabrielle... I don't think this is a good idea," he sputters, looking torn between the discomfort of the situation and the problematic issue of his arousal.
"If it helps," she murmurs, dropping to her knees in front of him and reaching for his fly, "you can think of her while I do this." She refrains from adding that it wouldn't be the first time.
"I don't want to think of her!" He pushes her hands away, trying to retreat further in the chair, but there's nowhere for him to go, and her hands recover their purchase on his trousers quickly.
"Then don't. It is no matter to me. You need this. Let me." The words are breathed half in English, half in French, a balm to soothe his nerves even as her nimble fingers unfasten his fly, tugging the trousers out of the way before reaching through the hole in his boxers. "Merde, how long has it been?" she asks, without looking up at his face, too fascinated by the hardness pulsing against her palm.
"Ahh, too bloody fucking long," he groans, his teeth gritted as he hisses in pleasure at the contact. His hands grip the arms of the chair so hard his knuckles are white, and she wonders idly if she can make him break the thing. "Merlin, Gab, we shouldn't be doing this."
"We?" she queries, drawing her wand with her free hand and conjuring ropes to bind his arms and legs to the chair. "There, now you are blameless, oui? At the mercy of the wicked Veela, should anyone ask." She lets the wand fall to the floor and returns to the business at hand, shoving fabric aside and out of the way until she has him exposed to the open air. "But no one will ask," she murmurs, more to herself than to him.
Ron gasps at the bindings, testing them automatically, but she notices he doesn't test them too hard. Her hands stroke him again, and his head lolls backwards, his hips shifting as he groans again. Then she leans forward to run her tongue along the exposed length, and the tenor of his groans changes, his hands tightening on the arms of the chair. It spurs her on, encouraging her, though really there's nothing that could possibly make her stop, now, not when he's so unbelievably hard and ready in her hands, not when he tastes so fresh and sweet from the shower.
It's not the first time she's seen to his pleasure, over the years. The first time, she'd been sixteen, her Veela powers just starting to surface, and she really had caught him off-guard and unwilling, though he'd been plenty willing by the time Granger walked in on them. Since his breakup with Granger, he's tried keeping her at arms' length, even though she's been his secretary for nearly two years now. He always breaks, though, sooner or later, undone by his predictable male hormones and equally predictable, delectable male body. So what if he almost never calls out her name in the throes of passion?
She can tell by the sound of his breathing, the way his muscles tighten, that he's close, and it surprises her that he hasn't begged to be inside of her yet. His hands are still tight on the arms of the chair, not straining to touch her hair the way they were the last time she did this, when he imagined he was with his fiancee and called out Luna's name. She chances a glance upward and finds that his eyes are tightly shut, his teeth clenched and gritted, and decides that this behavior just won't do.
"What?" he croaks, his eyes opening when her hands and mouth withdraw, leaving him terribly exposed and unfulfilled. She reclaims her wand from the floor, vanishing his clothes with a charm learned from Grandmere Delacour (it never ceases to amaze her how many naughty things her non-Veela grandmother knows) and setting the wand aside to strip out of her own, slowly. She watches his eyes widen, as they always do, at the creamy skin revealed, the perfectly-proportioned frame (she knows this because she's been told oh so many times how very perfect she is, though not, she's sure, as often as Fleur has heard the same words). "Gab," he tries weakly to protest again, "this isn't right, we shouldn't do this."
Clambering into his lap, Gabrielle slides her legs over his, straddling him and rubbing herself against him just enough to cut off his protests and send a jolt of pleasure through her. "It does not matter, the right and the wrong," she breathes, lapsing into French again as she rubs her chest against his, her fingers raking through his hair and drawing a low hiss from him. "Tell me you do not want this," she adds, rolling her hips toward him again and once more brushing against him.
Ron's eyes flutter shut, and he grits his teeth, but she can feel the way his body responds to her, and the poor man is incabale of denying his body with her right there, warm and wet and willing. "You don't care what I want," he growls, hissing again when her fingers curl in his hair and tug sharply.
"Non," she agrees, dipping her head to nip at his neck, leaving tiny teeth marks against the freckled skin. "It is what you need. What we both need." Before he can protest again, she pulls herself upward, rolls her hips forward and settles back down again, all in a single smooth motion that has them both moaning in pleasure. Whether or not it's what he wants doesn't matter at all, not when it's not his face she's picturing behind closed eyelids, not when she's imagining someone else beneath her, inside of her, a different chest pressed against hers. The chair makes it easier to indulge in fantasy, especially with him bound to it, because she doesn't really require his participation, doesn't need his voice or the sound of him panting and moaning and finally begging for her to go faster, to bring him the release he so desperately needs. When he finally bucks and shudders and calls out someone else's name, his voice drowns out her own cry of another man's name, and she imagines she can feel hands on her backside as she rocks against him, slowing gradually to a halt.
"I didn't mean that," Ron says, his voice hoarse against her ear once their heartbeats have slowed somewhat. She knows he's talking about the name he'd called out, and she sighs, pushing away from him and sliding off his lap, regaining her feet and recovering her wand.
"Of course not," she agrees, setting him free with a flick of her wrist before bending to reclaim her clothing. "It is none of my business." She knows Fleur warned him, once, of the risks involved in hiring her little sister, who is so much more attuned to sexual energy. It hasn't been entirely without its problems, to be sure, but after the Granger incident Gabrielle has made sure to be very discreet about tending to his needs, and so far the working relationship has worked just fine for both of them. "You will want to shower before your next appointment, Monsieur. Angelina is due in half an hour." She dresses as she speaks, and turns her back on him as she sweeps her hair back up into its clip. Exiting his office, she pulls the door closed and crosses to the outer door, to remove the sign and open it again. Taking her place in her chair behind her desk as if nothing at all out of the ordinary has happened, no one would have the slightest clue that she'd just spent the last half hour in a very compromising position with her boss. Business as usual.
The End