A/N: Originally written for the Sinfully Romione 7 Deadly Sins fest on Tumblr, in the Wrath category. Not by JKR, obviously!
Ron Weasley walked into his kitchen and, with the finely honed reflexes befitting one of the Ministry's former top aurors, neatly ducked a saucepan that hummed past his head, clanging into the sink with a vengeance.
"Hey, love," he remarked mildly. "Didn't expect to find you home already,"
"I left early; couldn't concentrate." Hermione replied as she slammed a cupboard shut. "Did you see the Prophet today?" she demanded, whirling on him.
Ron dropped his satchel on a chair and pulled her close to press a welcoming kiss to her temple. "No, had to interview some new clerks for the Hogsmeade branch through lunch. Bloody hell, I'm starving," he added in an undertone.
"Some new 'journalist' they have on staff published a completely disgusting article with all the details of our 'empty, loveless marriage'." She snatched up a newspaper, folded to reveal a specific article, from the counter and thrust it at him angrily.
"Oh, that again," he replied unconcernedly, shrugging off his cloak.
"And they've used the worst, absolutely the worst picture of you," she fumed, still gesticulating at him with the offending paper. Ron grabbed it out of the air and glanced at it, wincing. The photographer had managed to catch him as he slipped on a wet patch on the sidewalk; the short loop showed him jerk to regain his balance with his mouth hanging open and a particularly vacant look on his face. It had been raining and his hair was slicked back, exaggerating the slight receding at his temples so that he looked almost bald. Ron shrugged, tossing the paper onto the table.
"It's pretty hideous, yeah," he agreed, opening the refrigerator door and rooting around inside. "Reckon you can get a bad picture of anyone if you take enough."
"It's not just the pictures, the article is full of repulsive, bald-faced lies!" she seethed, addressing his backside sticking out of the fridge. "'Sources in the ministry claim that Ms. Granger-Weasley has spent long hours closeted with Nigel Eppington, the Associate Director of the DLME'," she read aloud in vicious tone. "'Her relationship with the handsome bachelor is described as "familiar" and "personal" and it's speculated that an official separation from her husband will be announced any day'. You've met Nigel, he's a… a…"
"An' absholute arsehead," Ron supplied helpfully through a mouthful of leftover pastie.
"Yes, and a lazy, misogynistic opportunist!" she spat. "And that's what they think of me, then, that I'd overlook all of that just because some people think he's good looking!"
Ron swallowed, wiping his hands on a tea towel. "Hermione, slow down."
"I will NOT slow down, Ron!" she cried. "I don't know who this Richard Pennyfeather is, but after I'm through with him he's going to think twice about inventing such blatant, slanderous drivel! I'm going to…"
"Steady on," Ron broke in, placing his large hands comfortingly on her shoulders. "This isn't worth getting so upset."
"I beg to differ! It's one thing if it's just me, but when they print rubbish about you, or about our family, or our friends…"
"This is nothing worse than Skeeter, or that Temperance woman from Witch Weekly, or any of the other tossers that've been printing lies about us for years. You always just rise above it, love. What's going on?"
"Well, maybe I'm sick of it!" she ranted. "We've had to deal with this for so long, people gossipping about us and making up stories and printing it so anyone can read, it's awful! And… and… irresponsible!"
"But nobody takes that rot seriously, you know that," Ron reasoned. "No one worth bothering about, anyway. People know they invent any old shite just to boost circulation and... oh." He paused, remembering one additional subscription the Prophet had recently gained from a certain third-year Gryffindor. "That's it, isn't it. You're worried about Rosie and Hugh."
Hermione was quiet for a moment, face obscured by her wild mane. "They're miles away, up in Scotland, on their own," she said lowly. She looked up at him with anguished eyes. "All I can think about is the two of them at breakfast in the Great Hall, opening the Prophet and reading these lies about us! And we won't be there to explain it! Oh, they'll probably…"
"Chuck it in the bin where it belongs," Ron cut in, squeezing her shoulders. Hermione looked decidedly unconvinced. "C'mere," he sighed as he steered her into the sitting room.
"I can't believe you're not more upset about this," she grumbled. "Doesn't it bother you, what they said about us?"
"It used to," he mused as they sat down on the sofa. "You know that. Used to make me crazy, the shite they printed about us. Until one day it just… didn't." She looked up at him inquiringly. "What they write doesn't matter to me anymore. Doesn't change anything about who we are or what we've done. Look around."
"Yes, yes, I know," she broke in wearily. "We're still here, sticks and stones…"
"No, but I mean literally look around. Look at that table," he said, pointing to the sturdy, worn table at which they ate dinner most nights. "Do you have any idea how many times I've shagged you on that table?"
Hermione barked out a laugh despite herself. "No, I guess I don't have an exact figure."
"Neither do I! I've actually lost count, that's how many times it was." He grinned as he saw her features relax with laughter. "They'll never print that in the papers, but I know it, and you know it, and that's all I care about.
"I have everything I ever wanted," he said, sobering. "I have you, the kids. Our speccy git of a best friend is safe. We have more money than we need. I could go on and on." He held her gaze intently. "We come home to each other every night. And there's nothing they could print that would make me doubt you."
She squeezed his hand in silent agreement. "I know you're right," she admitted after a moment. "I think… I think I was just feeling sad about both the kids being at Hogwarts for the first time, and then I saw this and I just got so angry."
"If you're really worried that this rubbish will upset the kids, or make them think we're splitting up, we can send them a letter," he suggested.
"Telling them they have nothing to worry about," she finished firmly, running her hand down his cheek, "and they never will."
She pulled his face down to hers, kissing him deeply. She felt the adrenaline of her earlier anger still humming through her system, heightened by the familiar feel of his rough stubble rubbing against her cheek and his large hand threading through her hair. She swung one leg over to straddle him, fisting the front of his shirt as she tossed her hair over her shoulder.
"And when's the last time I shagged you on this sofa?" she asked archly, smiling to herself at his low groan.
"I guess I don't have an exact date," he replied as he pushed his hips up into her.
"Mmm, we can't have that, now. You know I like to be exact." She crushed her mouth to his again, reveling in the feel of his large hands running up the back of her legs to grip her arse firmly. A moment later she was stretching her arms in the air as he slid her dress up over her head. With a moment's consideration she realized that the best method for getting him out of his clothes in their current situation was magical, and she reached for the wand he had placed on the end table. With a flick he was naked, and if he regretted the vanishing of a favorite Cannons t-shirt, his face certainly didn't show it as he eyed her hungrily.
He quickly popped open her bra and she shrugged out of it quickly, letting her head fall back as his mouth found her breasts. He nibbled and sucked the sensitive skin as she rocked against him, running her hands along the strong, freckled shoulders she adored as his touch lit every nerve ending.
She could feel him rock hard between her legs and soon he was sliding his long fingers down her back and hooking them into her knickers, tugging urgently. She stood a little awkwardly to wiggle them down her legs and kick them off, swiftly climbing back into his lap. She hissed with pleasure as she sank onto him, pausing for a moment to savor the feeling of their connection before starting to move, kissing him again as she raked her fingers down his flat nipples. Their movements weren't rushed, but quickly, too quickly, she felt the pleasure building to an unbearable peak.
"Wait!" she gasped, gripping his shoulders tightly. He stilled, muscles straining. "Too soon," she breathed apologetically with a little laugh.
His voice rumbled low in her ear.
"Turn around."
With a little moan, she lifted herself off of him and turned, settling on her knees with her back against his front. He slid his hips forward a little to accommodate her and then she was sinking down on him again, hands gripping his thighs as every perfect inch of him hit exactly the right angle. She circled her hips agonizingly slowly as his hands roamed her body, his knees pushing her legs even wider.
She sat up and began to slowly thrust back onto him rhythmically, letting the sensations build - her leg muscles straining against the position, the full feeling of him inside her, his fingers rolling her nipples, snaking between her legs to rub her slippery heat - until they overwhelmed her and she cried out. Her head dropped back on his shoulder, body arching and trembling as she let go.
He gripped her hips tightly, bringing her up and down on him firmly for the few strokes it took him to join her, growling out her name in a guttural roar.
Breathless and body still tingling, she slumped back against him, turning her head to the side and tucking her nose underneath his chin.
"Thank you," she murmured. When he looked down at her in silent question she went on, "for knowing me so well, for always knowing what I need."
He responded by kissing her, gripping her body close to him tightly until his stomach growled loudly.
She broke the kiss with a laugh and slowly untucked her legs, wobbling a little as she stood. "Let's get something to eat before we both pass out from hunger and sexual exhaustion," she joked as she held out a hand.
He took it, grinning as he followed her still-nude form to the kitchen.
"Imagine the headlines!"