Disclaimer: Right, I don't own anything, Harry Potter and HP-related nouns belong to J.K. Rowling. I cower at her brilliance.

Notes: None, another PWP.

You know that feeling you get when you sneeze?

It's something akin to relief.

Something indescribable, almost liberating.

That's how he made me feel. Like the moment just after a sneeze.

No, not just any sneeze, but the pesky kind where you're just about to, and your eyelids become hooded and you can't breathe or talk properly, until finally, it comes out.

It's not a glamorous, or even common, way to describe a relationship. Much less a relationship that might, could, maybe, possibly contain love.

The thing is, neither of us are very good with feelings.

We're not the type of couple who holds hands when walking or looks so obnoxiously cute when they're together that you can't help but smile. We're the type of couple that others might look at oddly, and, with a cock of their nosy heads, think to themselves, "Why are they even together?"

We fight constantly. And if we're not fighting verbally, then we're sparring with angry sex. (Between you and I, the angry sex is much better than regular sex.) We're the type of couple that you just know are going to be divorced by the end of the movie. The type of couple that, were we really in a movie, the audience would already sense our eventual demise just from the opening titles.

Then again, if we were in a movie, we'd probably be one of those rare, surprising ones. The kind of movie with the plot twists that you didn't expect. The movies where cliches don't quite fit--that would be us. See, even though we fight all the time and he makes me want to shoot him on a regular basis, I suppose I do love him. I know I like him enough that, if he died, I would cry, and if he were in trouble, I'd worry and try to help him any way I can. And he's proved himself enough times to assure me that he would do the same.

"What are you thinking about now?"

Well, well, speak (or rather, think) of the devil.

He sauntered over to where I sat, on our expensive designer leather couch in our vast living room in his expensive heirloom mansion, and took a seat beside me.

"Draco, don't put your feet on the table. That piece of stone cost me three paychecks."

He responded by rolling his grey eyes at me.

"Hermione, darling, I don't understand why you even work. You know that neither of us need to even move, right? That's the beauty of an aristocratic lineage."

I fixed him with a glare. "Draco Malfoy, you are a spoiled prat."

Draco only chuckled. "You love it."

I did not even gift that with a reply.

"You know you do, Hermione."

He would get nothing but silence.

"Not as much as you love when I fuck you."

Oh, the nerve! Hmph. No reply.

"You know you want it, right now. Right on that nice, smooth, hard slab of stone."

The prat. The only thing involving stones he would get is my stony silence.

"You want me to pin you down, tie you up, and then slowly, languidly massage your hot, writhing--"

"SHUT UP!"

Draco smirked at my sudden outburst.
Fuck. I let him win.

He ran a hand leisurely through his annoying smooth and sleek blonde hair, and draped an arm over my shoulders.

"So I was thinking. Instead of angry sex, maybe we could try kinky sex."

I showed him what I thought of that.
He probably still has a nice handprint on his cheek right now.

Oh, and what I said before? About angry sex? Yeah, I was wrong. Kinky sex is the best kind of sex. Hands down.