A/N: I wrote this bit of romance earlier this morning for my wonderful friend napchic, for a very special day ;) I'm posting it here for you all, now that she's read it. I do believe this is actually the first post-marriage&kids!Ron/Hermione that I've written! I hope you enjoy it. x


Times Ten
for napchic

She tackled him to the rug before he'd even heard her coming. He'd long ago gotten the hang of balancing her weight against his chest, something about that first kiss where she'd flung herself at him, setting the basis for years to come. But it was more fun, when she surprised him like this, to let her win, flattening them both in a controlled downfall. He wondered if she knew she could no longer surprise him, not since his years as an Auror had taught him to virtually see through pitch black dark, much less sense the approach of another person, whether he could hear her or not. And anyway, she was Hermione, and she'd been duplicating that damned perfume he'd given her for Christmas, fifth year, since she'd come close to running out, somewhere in the middle of the woods while he'd been lost at Shell Cottage, trying to find his way back to her... and he would recognize that unusual smell anywhere, anytime.

He knew what today was, of course. And he'd surprised her with a whole new row of books, added to their quickly growing library. He'd wondered, as he'd been adding them carefully and quietly (and bloody alphabetically) to the new shelf at six o'clock that morning, while she'd been sleeping, how much longer they'd last in this house, with a growing pile of necessary volumes and no more wall space.

"You bought me muggle books! And that new Arithmancy theories book I drooled over last month at Flourish & Blotts! And Ron, how did you know I fancied a book on wood carving?" she breathed against his ear, now lying on top of him in front of the fireplace, his robes and cloak now twisting around his still-lanky frame as she practically shivered with excitement.

He laughed and ignored the fact that the rolled up sleeves of his white button down were about to cut off circulation to his forearms... and he squeezed her tightly.

"I know fucking everything about you. You can't fool me or hide anything from me or hope that I might not find out you want to take up pastry cooking..."

She bit his earlobe harder than was normal, and he winced, still smiling.

"Take off these ridiculous robes," she hummed into his ear, rolling off of him completely and sitting up to toss her wild hair over her shoulder before ripping her shirt up over her head.

She wasn't wearing a bra. Now he knew that. He melted into the rug before scrambling to his feet like a teenager about to have sex for the first time, and he stripped off layers of robes and actually ripped a button off his shirt...

"I thought you liked me in Auror robes," he sighed as she shimmied up onto her knees to unbutton her jeans, slowly dragging the zipper down as his hands paused at his belt, unable to actively focus on her body being revealed to him with agonizing bliss and still effectively use the every day motor skills required to work a belt free from its buckle...

"I do," she breathed, "but I like you even more with your robes on the floor..."

He shivered from the ends of his ruffled ginger hair to the tips of his toes, and the temperature of the room rose several noticeable degrees.

"I thought you hated messes..."

"Ron, shut up and get down here," she groaned, flopping onto her back and kicking her knickers and jeans completely free of her legs.

He shed the rest of his clothing in what had to be almost record time, and he sank down to crawl up between her legs, sliding his warm palms up her cool thighs.

"Hullo," he said, once his face was almost level with hers.

"Hi," she laughed, and he watched her cheeks flush by firelight. And he couldn't help grinning as he recalled that first time in his tiny, narrow bed at the Burrow, the second time when she'd pulled out a chunk of his hair in the shower, the third time at Grimmauld Place when they'd cracked a table top...

"You know," he said, thoughtfully, "we have a pretty raunchy sex life. Violent, too."

She raised an eyebrow.

"Are you complaining?"

"Fuck, no. Please, what would you like to break today?" and he adjusted his body on top of hers, his skin meshing with all of her stomach, her chest, her inner thighs...

She moaned up against his lips, inches away from her own.

"I'll just have to think about that," she whispered, biting her lip gently. "The night is young."

His eyes lit up, darting between both of hers.

"Kids are gone?" he asked, voice dropping much lower.

"Of course, you prat," she said, rolling her eyes as she clamped her thighs almost painfully tight around his hips. "You think I'd let this happen if they weren't?"

"You know I can't think straight when you start stripping out of nowhere," he laughed, but he was quickly silenced by her open mouth as she lifted her head off the rug to kiss him, ankles locking up over his arse.

He moaned into her mouth, forgetting their banter and all days past... Only now remained, the feeling of her body underneath him as he pushed gently back against her lips, lowering her head once more to the rug as he angled his mouth left, perfectly molding their lips between each other's before swiping his tongue along her teeth.

He didn't take any time to prepare; it was obvious she'd been ready for this since he'd walked through the door. Already perfectly aligned, he pushed into her, as far as he could, as she choked back a scream, through their continued kiss. He felt her back arch a fraction off the floor, her hips moving against his to give him better access.

"God..." he whispered as his lips parted from hers for half a second before she tilted her chin up to reclaim them.

He sighed out a heavy, satisfied breath as she did the same, and he reached down to lift her leg higher up his side, pushing against her inner thigh to spread her legs another few inches, sliding deeper inside of her with each movement. Her lips moved right as his moved down, and she kissed his jaw as he softly bit her chin. He opened his eyes wider, lifting his eyebrows to see up into her half-lidded eyes as she pushed her head back further into the rug, swollen lips now parting against air as she panted through her mouth.

He'd long ago discovered that his hands, which had seemed too large and annoying before, were actually the perfect size and that his fingers were perfectly narrow... because he could do this.

She gasped and clutched at his shoulders as his left palm flattened over her right hipbone, left thumb extending inward to press down between them...

"Oh, d-don't stop..." she stammered.

"Wasn't planning on it," he sighed, kissing her again.

She was soon trembling underneath him, and he recognized the signs that it would all be over soon. At least he wouldn't be the first one there, he thought, almost smirking as he drew his lips away from hers again to rest his forehead against hers. She opened her eyes, dug her nails into his shoulder blades, and tensed up before relaxing down into jelly beneath him with a shivery scream.

"I love you," she cried, locking eyes with him.

"Ah, fuck, I love you, too," he groaned as his own body convulsed gently against her sweaty skin, collapsing with minimal restraint on top of her.

He buried his nose against the side of her neck, closing his eyes and shuddering again.

"Brilliant," he whispered.

For a long moment, she held him tightly on top of her, and he didn't try to move. He knew he wouldn't hurt her. Had learned after months of skepticism and rolling away to take back his own weight, that she actually wanted him there. In fact, it wasn't unheard of for her to huff in his general direction if he tried to 'protect her' from his dead weight...

"Okay, move," she finally whispered, too seductively, into his ear. He groaned and slid to the side, chest down, the weave of the rug surely imprinting against the skin of his left cheek as he couldn't bring himself to move any further.

"Make up your mind," he teased, still somehow able to find the energy to make a joke whilst virtually knocked over the head by the after effects of making love to Hermione. He was sure he wouldn't be able to gather enough strength to even breathe properly for the next several minutes, so he simply flattened his right palm over the majority of her bare stomach as she turned her head to smile at him, faces inches apart.

"You've got ten minutes, and then I expect your naked arse to be in the shower with me..."

"Oh, hell..." he moaned, hand tensing on top of her. "Okay, well, go away. You're distracting me from a proper recovery," and he withdrew his hand completely, clamping his eyes shut comically.

She laughed, and he felt her move to leave the room. He tried not to mentally picture the way her breasts looked bathed in firelight, especially as he heard her shuffling around near his feet, surely bending to pick up their discarded clothing from earlier. But as she hummed out a contented sigh, he found it impossible not to recall the feeling of her delightfully hardened nipples against his chest muscles, moments earlier...

"Fuck," he groaned, scrambling up off the rug and rubbing a hand vigourously over his slightly thicker than usual stubble. Pleasure rippled through him all over again as he watched her retreating back, her naked arse rounding the corner into their bedroom...

His toned chest heaved in each breath, bare ankle bones nearly poking through translucent, freckled skin. And his still almost concave stomach goosebumped with renewed excitement.

"Oh, go on, then," he said to himself, rolling his neck and shoulders to regain some small piece of the shocking strength he now possessed, more than thirteen years of holding Hermione's full weight off of the bathtub porcelain to fuck her against wet tile surely to be held at least partially responsible...

More than thirteen years since that first night after the end of the war, holding each other in small scraps of clothing as they cried until they fell asleep together. Exactly ten years, married to the person he'd loved since he knew what it meant to be in love. Since long before that, let's be honest. And how was it that no matter how many nights they shared, no matter how many times she surprised him in the middle of the day at his office to shag on top of his desk or up against his spare robes in his tiny office closet... no matter how many times, it was as good as the first time, every single bleeding time. Better, perhaps, now that he knew what to do. Now that he knew what she liked and how much she wanted him... that she actually wanted him as much as he wanted her.

It was madness. And it was his life. And he wouldn't trade a day for all the riches in the world, for anything another man could ever want. His life was fucking perfect...

"What do you think you're doing out there?" she called, from out of sight.

He grinned, eyelids drooping with sickening amounts of love. But he didn't care. He didn't care if the whole world walked in right now and saw him, completely naked and drunk off of her.

He was finally, truly happy. He was finally who he was meant to be since his birth, the person he'd slowly grown away from and then blindingly back into the moment she'd kissed him for the first time. It had always and would always be her that made him who he was. And at last, he could really believe that in some small ways, he was worth it.

Because she was too brilliant to stay with him if he wasn't. She knew what was good and true and right. And she chose him. Out of every man on earth, every famous, beautiful genius she could have picked... she chose him.

Wicked.