PAIRINGS [SEPARATE]: Mattheo Riddle x Reader, Blaise Zabini x Reader, Theodore Nott x Reader, Lorenzo Berkshire x Reader, Draco Malfoy x Reader
SUMMARY: you're their first official girlfriend, and there's nothing more fun than doing silly girlfriend things, of course.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: this was my first time writing for all of the slytherin boys and i'm genuinely so proud of this!! it took me quite a while to write but i managed to push through & i'm beyond glad i did !!! this was a lot of fun & i'm already planning on making more of these. also, i didn't change the time on the screenshots so just ignore that & i usually only write for theo & mattheo so i'm sorry if i completely butchered all the other characters ◝(ᵔᵕᵔ)◜
Having a girlfriend was one thing, but having you as a girlfriend was something else entirely. Mattheo initially assumed it would be easy—oh, how wrong he had been. Being your boyfriend meant living an insanely chaotic life, he had come to realise.
Sometimes you’d ignore his texts for twenty-four hours, let his calls accidentally slip to voicemail, and then send him an innocent text back: hii baby! I fell asleep, whoops :(
Other times you’d randomly show up at his place, no text, no call, no letter, no clear hint or sign that you’d be stopping by to be found. You’d stand at his front door, eyes big, smile wide, and there’d be a stray in your hands, your jacket wrapped around it for warmth and comfort, “I found us a new pet.”
“Fuck sake, darling. Have you gone mad?”
The sleeping thing was something he started to grow fond of after a while, in fact, he knew that when you weren't replying to his messages, you were probably dozing off. It happened more than once that he texted you, and you started texting him back, only for the three dots to remain active for hours yet to come. Turns out, you were never really typing out paragraphs after paragraphs, in fact, it was the opposite.
He’s been staring at his phone for the last thirty minutes, it didn't help that you had a minor argument a few hours before. He assumed you were typing out your concerns, but at this point, it was getting ridiculous. An argument about him forgetting to celebrate your first argument together— mind you. He slips on his jumper, ties his shoelaces, and glances at his phone one last time. You are still typing.
From the warmth of his cosy home, he slips into the cold night. Streets are half-lit, and the uneven rain-stained cobble is making it easier for him to slip. He slips a cigarette between his fuller lips, thumb flicking down on the wheel of his lighter. He keeps one hand around the lighter, shielding the flame, bringing it closer, and then he inhales when it sparks to life.
The walk from his place to yours is approximately ten minutes, and he’s got no complaints, since the cold air is doing well to ease his thoughts from wandering too far. Once the streets get narrower and the details turn quaint, he knows he's almost there.
He digs his hand into his pocket, fishing out his key, since he has your spare one, which had been a rather sweet anniversary gift. Once he makes his way inside—not before stubbing out the lit end of his cigarette outside on the wall, ash falling onto the pavement—he makes sure to take off his shoes, neatly placing them next to yours.
He drags the cap of his hood down, and makes his way down the hall to your bedroom, knowing every nook and cranny of this place like it's his own. He, as quietly as possible, nudges the door open, and, surely—
Your nightlamp is still on, body spread wide over the entirety of your bed, shirt rumpled and dishevelled, showing off the softness of your belly and lower back. Legs peeking out from beneath the duvets, one almost falling off the bed, hair spread out on the pillow like a halo.
He’s leaning against your doorframe, arms crossed, the softest look he can manage plastered on his face. When he takes a step closer, he can see that your phone screen is still on, your chat with him open, thumb holding onto the letter ‘k’ on the keyboard.
He gently takes the phone from you, locking it, plugging it into the charger and placing it down on your nightstand. He wipes a strand of hair away from your face and leans down to press a kiss to your cheek.
He drags the duvets more comfortably over you, tucking you in properly, “Mhm,” he hums, pushing more hair out of your face. “Comfy, darling?”
“Y’h, ‘s ‘ll warm,” you mumble into your pillow, words pushed together and not entirely intelligible. He gathers most of it just fine, though. You shift again, completely disappearing under the duvets, only the back of your head being visible, “Matty?”
“I love you lots, silly girl,” he whispers, shimmying out of his grey joggers—which you have always been extremely fond of—and jumper, his t-shirt follows, and then he's left in his black boxer briefs. He smoothly slides into bed next to you, wrapping a big arm around your waist, and in one movement your back is pressed against his front.
“Sorry for missing our anniversary,” he tells you after a while.
“‘S okay, Matty,” you whisper back, words slurred together, and your eyes are slowly starting to flutter shut. “‘S all super silly anyway.”
“Ah, perhaps it is,” he nudges his nose against the skin of your shoulder, pressing a few kisses on the places where he lingers. He tugs your sleeping shirt back in place, which is actually his. “But if it’s that important to you…”
You tiredly chuckle, “I lied. I was just having a laugh.”
He squeezes you very tightly, and your tired chuckles turn into sweet giggles, “You’re such a bloody pain in the arse, love.”
The following morning he’ll pretend to be thoroughly annoyed with you, but in reality, he can't find it in him to even be slightly mad with you. You’re the most infuriating woman he's ever had the pleasure of meeting, most certainly, but you're also his girlfriend. And that little fact alone? It’s something he wouldn't trade for the world. So if being with you means dealing with silly anniversaries (which you apparently only make up to annoy him), finding you asleep with your phone in hand, and having you show up at his place with stray animals or foolish questions, then he’ll gladly live with that.
Blaise has never been truly fond of anyone he knows. He’s got a handful of acquaintances, and he’s somewhat close with Malfoy and their mutual friends. Does that mean he respects them? Not really, not at all, actually. He’s never yearned to be with people in that way, he prefers his own company.
That’s why he’s such a difficult person to live with. He prefers his own company, yet he's intensely social while going out— constantly telling people what they want to hear, smiling when expected, and laughing when a rather unamusing joke is being shared. In public, he lives to appease others, to keep up his image and reputation, somehow, he's okay with that.
He’s always been fine with this, it’s what he wanted and planned out for himself, until you came along. His heart did a weird somersault, dropped somewhere into the depths of his abdomen, started beating a little faster, and before he was even allowed to realise, you had waltzed your way into his cold heart.
Blaise became more spontaneous after that. Smiles aren't shared when expected, they come naturally. Your odd quirks and habits are sufficient to make him laugh. No matter how much he wanted to stick to his reputation, everyone knew it had slowly started to shift along the way.
He’s dressed in an impeccable suit, not a whiff of dust detectable on it, shoulders straightened, head held high. He’s a vain bastard, there's no denying it, and yet you fell for him anyway. He’s at a very elegant dinner, with people he doesn't necessarily like. He glances at his phone, which is placed on his lap, partially hidden beneath the table.
He walks into your shared flat at 19:00 on the dot. Not a lie being shared, not a minute being wasted. He shrugs off his coat, neatly hanging it up, and his sleek black shoes follow. He’s greeted at the door by his overly excited girlfriend, whom he only just manages to catch as you jump right at him.
“Hi, baby,” you coo, wrapping your legs around his waist, arms around his broad shoulders. You press a kiss to his temple, and a dozen more follow. He doesn't protest, not even when you squeeze him impossibly close to you, your tits being flattened against his chest.
“Mhm,” he places both of his hands on your bare thighs, fingers digging into the soft, warm flesh he's missed terribly today. One arm slips so it’s beneath your arse, while the other trails upwards on your back, “I missed you plenty.”
“I knew it,” you sigh in victory, to which he blankly stares up at you. Soft chuckles flee past your lips, and you press one last kiss to his lips before you jump down— the height difference becomes noticeable almost immediately, since he towers over you by quite a lot. You’re not short by any means, but he's over a hundred ninety centimetres nonetheless.
He wipes his thumb across your cheek, an undeniably tender gesture, “About those cookies?”
A wide smile covers your face, and you're tugging on his hand, dragging him along, “Come, come, baby. You need to try them. I tried a new recipe, and they're lovely.”
He lets himself be dragged along by you, not even bothering to pretend he doesn't care, because he does. That’s how simple it is with you— every little thing you do, or every thought you have, is all important to him. He listens, gathers the information, stores it somewhere in the back of his brain, a spot reserved for only you, and it remains there.
Maybe Blaise isn't fond of people, but you aren't people, after all. You waltzed your way into his heart, his mind, his soul, made yourself comfortable, and he hopes you can stay there for the rest of time.
One thing Theodore became aware of after only four months of dating you, is that you were exceedingly clumsy and forgetful. He could go on about it and complain, but, really— what kind of boyfriend would that make him? He’s composed, often uncommonly calm, so he doesn't get irritated fast, and that works perfectly with your personality.
Last week you stormed into his bedroom, where he was sitting on the edge of the bed, slipping off his jumper. You were holding your phone in your right hand, grip tight, knuckles turning white due to the intensity. You looked him dead in the eye, and in your most frustrated voice, you asked, “Theo, have you seen my phone?”
“Baby, ah,” he cleared his throat, swallowing his laughter since it would only make you feel more irked. “It’s in your hand.”
That’s just the kind of person you were, and here’s the thing: you didn't even know. You were aware that you were more forgetful than the average person on a day-to-day basis, but you didn’t know it was such small and silly things that made him fancy you even more.
“Have you seen my headband?”
“It’s on your head, tesoro.”
“I lost my hair bands. I bought a new pack the other day, and they're already gone. I put two aside.”
“They’re on your wrist, baby.”
“Shit, Theo! Where’s my—”
“Theo, have you seen my—”
“I lost my glasses, have you—”
These are all mundane examples, and each of them makes his heart feel fuller when they occur. You get this specific tone when you've lost something, and it’s easy for him to guess when you're about to tell him something or ask him if he's seen an object you've lost sight of.
He never laughs at you when any of this happens, but pushing his fist against his mouth and letting his eyes fall shut to find his willpower is a common occurrence. He’s not fully sure how you've been able to survive this long. And don’t get him started on the number of times you text him throughout the day, especially while he's at work.
So his gorgeous girlfriend is very oblivious, and having to repeat the same thing at least twice every week might be repetitive and tiring after a while, yet he wouldn't trade it for the world. It has given him a feeling of necessity. You’re extremely independent, and you value that, so asking him for help with the tiniest things is more than enough for him.
Leave it to Lorenzo to turn the same girl he grew up with—shared innocent laughter, whispered ‘don’t tell anyone’ secrets, walked to school with and never doubted his love for—into his beautiful and more than lovely girlfriend.
He feels the need to emphasise the part where he thinks you're more than a little lovely, because you truly are. You’re clever, always quick with a witty comeback, and you don't let anyone walk over you. You never back down if something’s being shared that you don't agree with, and he likes that. He loves defending you, but the fact that you're not afraid to stand up for yourself? That’s his girl. Now, here’s the catch—
You’re positively the most batshit insane woman he's ever had the pleasure of meeting. Some days he's not sure if you want to snog him senseless or throw a hammer at his head. Lucky for him, he’d presumably like both options just fine. You could gather all your strength, shove him against the wall, slap his face until it’s red and stinging, tears pooling into his waterline, and he’d stand there and take it.
What love can do to a person, isn't it right? Then again, he's always let you walk all over him, ever since the two of you were mere children. He’s right where he wants to be.
He simply hasn't learnt all the rules of being a boyfriend, and if there were some magical book— a guide, if you will: ‘what do I do when my girlfriend…’ he would buy it immediately. Fifteen copies sold, and they’d all be neatly stacked on his bookshelf.
“Baby,” he whines for the thirteenth time this morning, pushing his front against your back as he leans into you, letting his chin fall to your shoulder. “I didn't cheat on you. I promise.”
You stubbornly stare at the pot on the stove, mixing the ingredients of the soup you're making, “Mhm.”
His hands wander up and down your waist in a soothing gesture, lingering beneath the curve of your breast, before they slide back down to your love handles. He squeezes the skin there, presses a kiss to the back of your neck, and nuzzles his nose further, “I didn’t,” he draws out, breathy and plaintive. “It was a dream—”
“A nightmare,” you correct.
Ah, shit. “Yes!” he immediately agrees, bobbing his head up and down. “Totally correct, pretty girl. A nightmare.”
When no reply comes, he can only think of one last thing to do, and that’s playing along. He dramatically sighs, letting his forehead slide to your shoulder, eyes closed, “Bloody hell,” he says in a ruffled tone. “I fuckin’ hate that guy. Who—in their right mind—would ever cheat on you?”
“You should definitely break up with him. Only a thought. What a massive git. Total wanker, if I were you—”
Your shoulders start shaking, and you barely tilt your head to the side, but his head has already shot up, and a kiss is placed on the corner of your mouth. Eager and sweet, “He’s my git, though.”
“That he is,” another kiss, and he can feel your smile against his lips. The feeling alone makes him feel all giddy inside, “Still angry?”
“Not really,” you muse thoughtfully, eyes raking over his face. “I never was. I just like seeing you sweat.”
“You bloody witch. Get back here—”
Hell, you keep him on his toes, for sure. He can’t wait, can’t contain the excitement in his body, until he gets down on one knee in the near future. Knowing you, you’d definitely say no, stare at him in silence for a full minute, and maybe whisper a yes afterwards.
Draco has never been a fan of physical touch. He can't exactly recall the last time his father even placed a hand on his shoulder, although his mother oftentimes still cupped his cheeks in her hands and stared at him lovingly throughout his teenage years.
Nevertheless, he shielded away from this affection, not because he hated it, but because it burned. It felt like a silent apology, or another excuse for what was still bound to happen. Every touch, every finger that lingered or forehead kiss that he could remember withered into something that had never been for him and him alone.
This obviously resulted in him getting the most affectionate girlfriend one can imagine. His friends often laughed about it, and they still do whenever they see the two of you. Somewhere along the way, Draco’s appearance became incomplete without you by his side, resting comfortably against him, hand wrapped around his wrist, more frequently around his waist. It made sense.
And for him? The touches that burned turned into something softer, something that he had come to cherish along the way— rather hesitantly, but he got there regardless. He wasn't used to waking up with a soft, warm body flat on top of him, full body weight smothering him. Past him would've rolled you off of him, gotten up, and left. What does he do now? He wraps one arm around your waist, and his free hand connects to your messy locks.
When you finally wake up an hour or two later, he’ll pretend he's been awake for a good ten minutes, but you can always tell by his wide, clearly awake eyes that he's lying. You don't point it out, and he's glad for that.
He’s sitting on the sofa, a book on his lap, visibly engrossed in it. His tea is on the coffee table, and you're sitting half on top of him. Hip pressed against hip, legs all over his lap, head resting beneath his chin. You’re as close as humanly possible, and for you, that’s never enough.
You reach for his free hand, fingertips feather light as they trail over his knuckles. The veins are prominent due to his super pale skin, and then you move up to his nails. Clean, cut, not a hint of dirt on those hands you love oh so much.
“Angel,” he ponders lightly, eyes still focused on his book, flipping the page with his other hand. “Riveting, isn't it?”
“Certainly,” you whisper in awe. You turn his hand around, following the lines of his palm, and his fingers twitch. You move toward another line, and he twitches again, “Does it tickle?”
“Not exactly,” he flips the page again, eyes skimming the words laid out beneath him, never wandering, not even when you huddle closer. That’s the thing— it might seem like he doesn't care, but he doesn't move away, and it conveys much more than words ever could for him. “It’s a peculiar sensation, I suppose.”
You roll your eyes, pressing a kiss to his jawline. He does pause then. A sharp intake of breath, and you press another kiss to the same spot. His eyes flutter, briefly, if you had blinked you would've missed it. Then, a mere whisper, hesitant and sweet—
You grin, “I love you too.”