AN/: Those of you who know me, will probably remember a little ol' story called 'Guilty Pleasure'. After having it taken down—thanks again, site—I realised how much I miss writing drabbles. They're quick, easy, and just something I can update when my long stories are trying to kill me. Unlike last time, I've decided to base them around songs. I practically listen to one, think up a small plot, and type-ity-type.
Warnings: Implied sexual situations.
Review.
i. Maybe Tomorrow.
"Honey—do you think—is it straight?"
Hermione stared at the canvas that now hanged from the wall of the corridor, judging the angle with a tilt of her head.
Her husband came through the door carrying a cardboard box with the words 'Books' scrawled across the side.
"Jesus, Hermione. How many books do you need?"
"Please," She scoffed, crossing her arms and taking a step back to look at it again. "Those are just the Conan Doyles, pretty boy."
He dropped the box by the door with a thud, coming to stand behind her. Two strong arms wrapped around her middle, and she leaned back into the embrace with a contented sigh.
"I don't know. I just don't think it's straight."
He chuckled against her neck, the motion vibrating through her body. "How about we assume it is, until it decides to come out."
She rolled her eyes, smiling nonetheless. She clasped her hands over his which rested on her stomach, lacing her fingers through the gaps between Draco's.
"It's fine, baby." He muttered, too occupied with peppering kisses down her neck. "Now, come on; let's make this house into a home."
He released her slightly, though by still holding one of her hands, he pulled her towards the sweeping stairs.
She smirked at him, following him through. "And how do you suppose we do that?"
He pulled her close, balancing them both on one of the stairs.
"There are a lot of rooms in this house." He said with a suggestive quirk of his eyebrow. "Let's make use of them."
'Maybe Tomorrow.' — Stereophonics.