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‎؛༊ LORE ༘⋆ SEVENTEEN ˚. !! SHE/HER ✶ nanami's wife ⸝⸝ FLEMISH ❤︎ choso's lovergirl ❀ ! the sound of music enthusiast ✦ NL-BE/ENG ✶ nerd!jo's sweetheart ⋆.𐙚 multifandom

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. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ LOVE ISN'T EASY, EASY TO FIND ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

#. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ navigation ˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚.#jjk #intro post #introduction #pinned intro #pinned post #harry potter

nanami kento & higuruma hiromi love to relax on the couch with their girl after exceptionally tiresome days at work. ⋮ tags. pet names (honey, sweetheart). gentle love. they've both got veiny hands/arms (i couldn't help myself). cute & sweet! ⋮ word count. 0.3k ⋮ art credit. owwllly

There’s something oddly comforting, and incredibly lucky, about being squished on the couch between two men who would walk to the end of the earth for you. The big arms are merely a bonus, you'd say. So are the broad chests and expensive-smelling colognes, since all they do is add allure.

A strong arm is wrapped around your waist from your left side, the veins on Nanami’s arm pulsing each time he even slightly adjusts his grip on your warm flesh.

On your other side, however, there's a heavy hand resting on your thigh. Lean, lightly tanned fingers digging into your skin, tightening whenever you try to wriggle closer to both touches. “Are you comfortable, honey?”

You’re fast to bob your head up and down, not sparing a second, not even allowing yourself to second-guess the entire situation.

“You’re rather fidgety tonight, sweetheart,” another rough voice speaks up, hazel eyes darting over every small worry line on your face.

Higuruma squeezes your thigh, and his dark sunken brown eyes, too, are focused on your face.

“I’m fine,” you tell them, voice confident and hushed to not interrupt the intimate moment. You top it off by pressing a sweet kiss to both their cheeks, lip gloss being left behind.

You rush to wipe it off, but Nanami’s already tipping your head back with his index finger, thumb brushing over your bottom lip, “So beautiful, hm?”

Your pupils dilate, and your cheeks flush an embarrassingly dark shade of red when Higuruma presses a gentle kiss to your cheek, making you completely squished between two sets of broad shoulders.

Like any sane person, you don't complain— truly, it might as well be a dream come true. You relax into it, a stifled sigh brushing past your lips, the air hitting Nanami’s thumb, and you get rewarded with another sweet kiss from Higuruma.

hiii, when r u gna write for d slytherin boys again😔

hii, lovely!

i've been trying to focus on writing a second chapter to essays, classics & soulmates (which is close to being finished). still, at the same time, i'm thinking of rewriting the entire first chapter and maybe splitting it into a few more parts since i've already made a series masterlist (in my drafts), therefore i've been postponing it! i'm mapping out some ideas as of right now and since i'm not entirely sure of what to do yet, i haven't been actively working on it

i have a boss!mattheo riddle draft ready to be posted, and i've already written roughly 500 words for another multiple-character oneshot

my hp phase comes and goes (it stays for a few weeks and disappears for months), and considering i've not been interested in it lately it's a bit hard for me to write for it, but i'll definitely try to post the boss!mattheo riddle draft this weekend, maybe ☺️

i'm thinking that if i do occasionally upload for hp it'll be on saturdays & the other media i write for on sundays 💐

#ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ lore's mail

⋆˚࿔ pilot!gojo whenever you're on his flight

tags. established relationship. married life. lovesick!gojo. soft!gojo. married & in love. domestic fluff. ⋮ author's note. i got this idea right before i went to bed and wrote it out in the morning, sorry if anyone's already done this!! i'm actually so happy i made this stop (..◜ᴗ◝..) ⋮ word count. 0.9k ⋮ art credit. 3vangel1ne_

Pilot!Gojo who always comes out to greet you before boarding begins, in order to make sure you don't need anything. A slightly smug smirk plastered on his face, which shows he's more than happy to show you off.

A white collared shirt, clean and pristine, tailored black trousers, a belt that’s snugly wrapped around his hips, showcasing his slim waist. A double-breasted suit jacket making his broad shoulders squeeze uncomfortably against the fabric. White hair tousled as if he's been running his fingers through it, and he still looks like the most handsome man you've ever encountered, sadly enough, because he knows it, too.

“Hey,” he greets, the corners of his lips tugging up into a wide smile. An arm wraps around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and once he's bent over a bit, he’ll press a sweet, lingering kiss to your lips. “You’re looking so pretty.”

Pilot!Gojo who doesn't hesitate to make a heartwarming PA announcement over the intercom to acknowledge your presence. And since, in all honesty, it’s Gojo we’re talking about, it never happens casually.

“Good afternoon, Ladies and Gentlemen,” an overly energetic voice will call out over the intercom, which alone is enough to make people look up. Then, in a subtle, arrogant tone, “This is your captain speaking. There is nothing more I'd like than to direct your attention to row ten. You might've noticed the beautiful woman sitting there—”

By that point, you're already sinking back into your seat, cheeks reddening and eyes turning downcast to avoid noticing the laughter in other passengers' eyes.

“—who I am blessed to call my lovely wife.”

“Oh, for Christ's sake,” you whisper to yourself when he keeps babbling on and on about your beauty, and you're certain the guy next to you is thinking the same as you. His wife, on the other hand, has hearts forming in her eyes, finding it overly sweet.

“I’m sorry for not taking out the trash this morning, baby—”

By the time he gets to the end, stopping with, “I love you,” you're feeling too embarrassed to look up. There’s some clapping, shared laughter, and once you get off the plane, speak some sense into him, maybe after, you too will find it funny.

Pilot!Gojo who thinks he's being discreet when he tells the cabin crew to occasionally check up on you, but in reality, nothing with him is ever subtle or kept on the low.

Every gesture belonging to him is grand, over the top, never deemed simple. They check in every twenty minutes, bring you things you weren't even aware they had on aeroplanes, and the care you receive feels as if you're being treated like pure royalty on its own.

Pilot!Gojo who manages to let you stay with him in the company-provided hotel accommodations without any complaints.

Since he's away a lot, he's found that throwing money at the problem has never truly worked with you. After approximately five years of marriage, he's proud to say he's mastered the art of figuring out you like spontaneous getaways instead.

If he's in a certain place for twenty-four to seventy-two hours, he’ll make sure to recharge the first night if it was a long flight. The day after, however, he’s planning a sightseeing trip, followed by an overly romantic dinner he triumphantly planned himself.

You better believe he's wooing you from top to bottom, wining and dining, lingering touches, soft kisses, gentle hands roaming over your curves, as if he's allowing himself to remember what the world feels like when he’s holding it in his hands.

A magnetic pull of some sort, a solid and grounding feeling to hold you close again. Your breath fanning against his cheek, the short hairs on his neck immediately straightening, like he's been hit on impact.

“I missed you,” he’ll tell you when the world has gone quiet, and the dimmed lamps of the fancy hotel room are the only lights still turned on in the dead of night.

“I missed you too,” you softly smile, hand cupping his cheek, thumb pressing down on the warm skin. Your legs are resting on his lap, your left foot pressing against his thigh, meanwhile with the right one you're tapping out an irregular rhythm, a song he can't place.

His shoulders will relax for the first time in approximately twenty-four hours, eyes briefly falling shut, lips parting ever so slightly, “Mhm,” he deeply hums, bright blue eyes opening again, taking in your every move. “You’re pretty.”

You chuckle, pushing him away, not getting any farther, since he's already pulling you back on top of him, “You tell me that all the time.”

His voice gets bashful when he's like this, a way that you're not used to when it comes to him. Satoru is everything that represents being loud. From the way he thinks, to the way he speaks, from his massive ego to his constant absence of seriousness.

But here, when it’s just the two of you, he’ll allow his light to dim. No pressure of the people around him, judging stares and whispers disappear the moment you lock any door when you're in a room with him.

So, it’s there, barely recognisable, sweet and sheepish—one hand on your waist while the other fiddles with his wedding ring like he can't believe you're truly his—but it’s him, nonetheless. In the depths of time, even if he were to be someone else entirely, you think you'd still be able to recognise him.

“I tell you all the time because I mean it all the time.”

I’m in love with the way you write nerdjo

oh thank you so much 🥹 i'm the most confident when i write for nanami so i'm genuinely flattered, this is so sweet MWAH

#ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ lore's mail

HI ANGEL ^_^ UR THEME IS SOSO CUTE RAHHH EVERYTHING IN UR ACC US JUST SO PRETTY 😭😭🥹🥹🩷🩷🩷

AAAAA HIIII!!! this is so sweet thank you so much 🥹💞

i think this might be my fourth time changing themes 😭 i'm so indecisive but i'm hoping i'll keep this one for a while HAHA

#ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ lore's mail

nerd!jo who feels flustered and falls asleep whenever you sit on his lap (｡˃ ᵕ ˂ *) ⋮ tags. fluff. established relationship. pet names (baby). shy!gojo. he's genuinely besotted. suggestive. ⋮ author's note. writing lovesick!nerd!jo is my new favourite thing to do, i think :p ⋮ word count. 0.4k ⋮ art credit. 3vangel1ne_

Dating someone who fits into the category of being a nerd has its ups and downs, you suppose. The intensity when it comes to certain stuff—a game, an eerily specific topic based on one sentence you uttered, being too logical to your liking—can be beyond overwhelming.

You’re sure that if Gojo were to make a pro and con list about you, there, too, would be quite a lot of cons. You can go on about the entire this is how relationships work rant, but everyone would be exhausted by the first sentence.

If there's one thing you adore most about your boyfriend, it has to be how unapologetically passionate he can be. It’s easy to imagine any setting, insert your boyfriend into it, and watch him ramble about the simplest things.

It’s just, well, you have another sort of passion in mind.

Imagine Gojo in all his glory. White hair tousled, bangs falling in front of his eyes, glasses lopsided, lips covered by the slightest hint of saliva. His teeth pressing down on his bottom lip, big, sparkling eyes darting over every feature on your face.

All you did was press a fleeting kiss to his bicep, fingers caressing the bare, warm skin.

“Baby, ‘s, eh—” the incorrigible words keep falling off his tongue as if he's lost all control of his body. Pale, lean fingers wrap around your wrist, giving a weak pull, yet you manage to end up in his lap, anyway.

You stare down at him, thighs resting on either side of his hips, your weight swallowing him completely. You cup his cheeks in your hands, thumb rubbing back and forth on the flesh.

“Hey,” he breathes out while tilting his head back to glance up at you, face flushing an embarrassingly dark shade of red. “You’re— ah,” his hands go for your waist, searching for the inward curve beneath your hip bone he's grown so accustomed to. Once they naturally settle there, his eyes flutter, “You’re so beautiful.”

“Thank you,” you sweetly reply, pressing a lingering kiss to his wet lips. “You’re handsome. Did you run out of words?”

“Mhm,” he allows his head to fall forward to the crook of your neck. His shoulders relax, fluffy hair tickling your chin as you run your fingers through it, and the room goes quiet.

You’re not entirely surprised when you can feel soft breaths escaping his pretty pink lips, which are still pushed against your collarbone. A chuckle slips out of your mouth, and you press a final kiss to his hair, not moving an inch for the next few hours to come.

It isn't the first time you've triggered a drop in his heart rate, resulting in him drifting off to sleep, and you're certain it won't be the last.

Oh, how you love your passionate yet easily flustered boyfriend to death.

nanami kento experiencing a meet-cute for the first time in his life and not knowing how to act. ⋮ tags. fluff. reader is a bit chaotic. love at first sight. accidental meeting. ⋮ word count. 0.6k

For the briefest moment, Nanami freezes, until he comes to realise—the bag opening, books falling out, papers flying everywhere, a bunch of pencils cracking with the clash, following the tumble they make while plummeting down—this is totally his fault.

A lip gloss, a lipliner, a pack of gum. He can't catch it all, but he certainly does try, especially when he sees a glasses case almost escaping the depths of that purse. Seriously, it might as well be a junk drawer.

“I— uh,” he clears his throat, not hesitating to kneel before you, gathering most of the stuff that has fallen while you do the same. Fingers touching, pulling away when the touch burns, soft chuckles, awkward stifled sighs. “I’m awfully sorry. I wasn't looking where I was going, I suppose.”

“It’s all good,” you promise him in a peaceful tone, taking one earphone out of your ear, pushing it back into your shirt. Only then does he notice your music is audible from where he's kneeling. Everlasting Love, oh, for fuck’s sake—

When everything is pushed back into your purse (messily, might one add), you both stand up.

You’re peering up at him with wide eyes, teeth going straight for your bottom lip. You take him in from top to bottom, not shamefully either. In bright daylight, biting your lip almost obscenely, with not a shame in the world, you're practically eye-fucking him.

How free you must feel.

He pauses for a beat, tilting his head to take you in as well. You’re exceptionally beautiful. Messy, definitely, but beautiful nonetheless. A stain on your white shirt, which stands out, a bunch of colours mixing and colliding, making your entire personality burst with loudness. Despite everything, you make it work.

A barely put-together bun is keeping your hair together, a pencil rammed right through the stands, and the ones that have escaped are framing your face perfectly. Belt shoved onto your pants, which are swallowing you whole, a white tight shirt, however, and the baggy sort of jacket to top it off.

You seem like the kind of woman who: tells people they're not being spontaneous enough, tells others to quit their job if their boss is too much of a complainer, tells the melancholics to make what they're looking for if it hasn't been done yet.

The expression on your face only makes his argument stronger— the perfect blend of chaotic and spirited.

“It was my fault, for sure,” you tell him with a faint chuckle. It’s obnoxiously contagious. Not the kind silently begging for attention, but the kind that shines so brightly that it solely attracts engagement wherever the wind takes it. “My music is especially loud today. They’re working down there,” you point toward the opposite end of the street where you came from. “So I turned my volume up.”

Nanami dumbly nods, taking in every feature of your face, even when you continue rambling about the works up ahead.

Your eyebrows crease together when you're deep in thought, he notes, and you have two dimples in your cheeks. The one on the left isn't as apparent as the right one, and it seems to deepen when you smile, even if it’s subtle. Your eyes crease, and one side of your mouth tilts up more than the other, all your teeth flashing.

It might just be the most beautiful thing he's ever witnessed.

The clouds are currently covering the evening rays, and he's convinced it’s because the sun is already standing in front of him in its complete life form.

If he goes home later that day with your number safely tucked away into his phone, and if the way his shoulders relax for the first time in a long while is because of you, then that’ll be his secret to keep.

jujutsu kaisen masterlist ༄.⋆

─ ✦ gojo satoru

headcanons

flying with pilot!gojo

drabbles

kisses aftermath

drop in heart rate

smau

physics major ⋮ pt. 2

─ ✦ nanami kento

one shots

life is what happens to you (WIP)

my darling wife (WIP)

headcanons

early mornings

slow burns

attractive things he does

drabbles

relaxing after a long day | ft. higuruma

meet-cute

─ ✦ higuruma hiromi

drabbles

relaxing after a long day | ft. nanami

#.𖥔 ݁ ˖╭ ┆lists ╰⊹ ࣪#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento #higuruma hiromi #higuruma hiromi x reader

nerd!jo who's grown rather fond of the sweet aftermath of your shared kisses 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 ⋮ tags. soft & sweet. fluff. established relationship. pet names (baby). lovesick!gojo. shy!reader. shy!gojo. ⋮ author's note. this is my first time writing for gojo in general so i'm a little nervous eee !! ⋮ word count. 0.2k ⋮ art credit. 3vangel1ne_

Satoru who’s grown fond of kissing you a little more sloppily and intensely as of lately, hands moving up and down on your waist, only briefly pausing to squeeze your love handles. They’re everywhere yet nowhere at once, one hand moving to press on your lower back, making your back arch beautifully and pulling you closer so you're squeezed against him.

Your hands, which wander over his lean chest, finally reach his face. Lovingly cupping his cheeks, thumb brushing over the flushed and soft skin, before they move again, settling into the fluffiness of his white hair.

The kisses are great, really, it’s just the way you blink up at him afterwards—eyes misted over, so are his, lips noticeably swollen and darker than usual, mouth parting ever so slightly—momentarily confused and lost. Before you realise it yourself, you're reaching up to adjust his lopsided glasses, not hesitating to straighten them.

The tips of his ears darken, teeth pressing down on his plump bottom lip to keep himself from either letting out an embarrassed squeal or allowing a besotted smile to form on his face.

Lingering, stifled sighs, an awkward thank you, baby slipping over his tongue, head lowering, and before he can second-guess himself, he’ll press a soft, barely there kiss to your forehead.

#lore writes ་༘࿐#jjk x y/n #jjk x you #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #jjk #jjk gojo #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #gojo x you #jujutsu gojo #gojo x y/n #jjk satoru #satoru gojo x reader #jujutsu satoru #satoru x you #satoru x y/n #nerd!gojo #nerd!jo

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ husband!nanami and the attractive things he does

tags. married life. fluff. pda. established relationship. gentle love. domesticated. soft!nanami. domestic bliss. sweet. ⋮ author's note. trying to bless everyone by sharing another husband!nanami post. i've got plenty more ideas of little things he does, so i'm hoping to make some more of these throughout the week (˶˃𐃷˂˶) ⋮ word count. 1.0k

Husband!Nanami who tells you before going out for your date night that those heels will start to hurt after walking for a while, but you claim they match your outfit perfectly and finding another pair would ruin the vibe you're going for, so he doesn't press the issue.

Once you take them off while walking back home, he doesn't complain, he doesn't dare tell you I told you so. Quite the contrary, he’ll willingly hoist you up in his arms, bridal style, while carrying the heels in his hand. No complaints, no mumbled fusses, because all in all, he gets to hold the woman he admires most in this world while using your heels as the excuse.

Husband!Nanami who’ll slightly lean over the table to maintain his conversation with you, elbows steadily planted on the wood, and once you lean in as well, he’ll drag your chair closer to his.

It’s ridiculously smooth, in a way mixed with confidence that hasn't been seen before. You’re there one moment, and the next, your thigh is touching his, and a strong-smelling cologne is wafting up into your nostrils.

With his palm pressed against the material of your seat, or by hooking his ankle around one leg of the chair, he easily drags it closer. No effort, no outspoken words, just the mere act of actively listening and making space for you in his life.

Husband!Nanami who took a photo of you on your first date together. Hair blowing in the wind, the sun setting behind you, adding a golden hue to the picture even through the black and white filter, your smile impossibly wide, eyes creasing, and dimples deepening.

It follows him everywhere, since he shoved it into his wallet the day after he took it, and never bothered taking it back out again. He bought two photo frames a few weeks later, and neatly placed the duplicates in them, then continued to let one photo frame rest on his nightstand and the other on his desk at work. The last duplicate is taped against the sun visor in his car, often keeping it down so he can see you while driving.

He claims it’s only when he misses you and hasn't seen you properly in a while because life gets busy, but he knows he's a liar, since the sun visor is always down. He’s never snapped it shut since hanging up the photo many years ago.

Husband!Nanami who tells you to bring a coat with you, is aware you won't be listening to his advice any time soon. Again, no I told you so’s when you're visibly shivering due to the cold. Instead, he's taking off his coat and hanging it over your shoulders while not uttering a single word.

He’ll catch the soft look you send him, and that’s enough in his eyes.

Husband!Nanami who, even when he's exhausted from working all week and day, still cooks dinner for you when he gets home. He doesn't ask you to do it, actually preferring to either do it himself or do it together.

Soft music playing in the background, all the main lights turned off, dimmed lights turned on, which adds a cosy ambience. The kitchen window is pushed open, and suits and other proper clothes are changed for comfortable, looser ones.

Kisses are being shared here and there, light touches are being pressed to your waist and hips each time he walks past you. Handing ingredients over when you need them, easily taking over with no complaints when you're starting another part of the recipe.

Husband!Nanami who’s come to master navigating you through traffic without losing you, since you're rather fond of wandering off without uttering a single word. Walking behind you, only slightly, so he can wrap one arm around your waist to hold you close, and the other holding onto your hand as he steers you through overly crowded areas.

Husband!Nanami who never dares to look away from you, terribly afraid of missing a single thing. A missed smile, the twinkle in your eyes, a strand of hair falling in your face, or even the simplest detail of an exaggerated story.

He’ll keep his eyes set on yours, unblinking, lips turning upwards in the barest hint of a smile, the bags under his eyes suddenly seeming so small compared to usual. The lines on his face soften, making him look younger than he actually is.

Husband!Nanami who you claim needs to relax now and then, yet you can't help but find him awfully handsome— that quiet, oftentimes bordering on stoic, accumulated energy.

You’ll be panicking over something mundane, and he’ll be standing right next to you, a hand on your lower back or resting on the nape of your neck, squeezing, not once letting his composure drop. Shoulders straightened obscenely, head held high, not once thinking of slouching, and the calmness will ease into your veins.

That’s how easy it always goes with him. He doesn't need to communicate through words with you, since his mere presence looming over you is more than enough. As easy as breathing, you crave that stability like air.

Husband!Nanami who loops his arms around your waist from behind whenever you're doing anything that involves you bending over the tiniest bit.

You’re bent over against the kitchen counter, elbows planted on the island, nursing through a book filled with recipes your mother shared with you— within a second, he's pressed behind you. Firm front against your back, blond hair nuzzling the side of your face whilst he presses kisses to your shoulder and neck.

Reaching up to get something from the highest cabinet? He’s already behind you, unnecessarily adding himself into your personal space, and although he does help, he enjoys the situation greatly. Every time, over and over again.

Bending over to open the freezer, bending over to pick up a book, bending over to—

It’s second nature to him, he's afraid. Being able to help his wife whilst holding onto you in a lovely yet intimate way is a win for him.

Husband!Nanami who always knows what you need before you can come up with a single thought yourself. You've had a bad day, and aren't sure if you want to go to bed or just relax on the couch while watching a film. Meanwhile, he's making both options possible by unnecessarily going out of his way to make you feel better.

#༊࿐ ͎. ｡˚ @ loreshonour hcs ° ⊹ ˚.#hc #headcanon #jjk nanami #jjk x reader #husband nanami #nanami kento fluff #nanami kento headcanons #nanami kento x reader #nanami fluff #jujutsu kaisen nanami #nanami kento #jujutsu nanami

art by thatsallitchief

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ co-worker!nanami and his idea of a slow burn

a/n: the idea of nanami being your co-worker and slowly wooing you while simultaneously still working together has been taking over my thoughts the last couple of days.. obviously i had to write about it. someone save me plsplspls

wc: 1.1k

Co-worker!Nanami who thought you were the most beautiful woman he had ever had the pleasure of meeting when he first met you.

It had been rather embarrassing, truly. He isn't a man of many words, so when his abdomen started feeling increasingly uncomfortable whenever you were around, he sought out doctors— completely oblivious as to what he was truly feeling.

Co-worker!Nanami who realised he reached a new low when he contacted Gojo for help with his non-existent love life. At least, that’s what his friend assessed it to be, considering you and Nanami hadn't once spoken.

Co-worker!Nanami who seeks you out after that comment, even if it was playful, which it definitely was. He simply couldn't let it go.

Good mornings and good evenings. Pitching ideas together instead of alone. Staying late together. Bonding over working overtime. Ordering food while both working late, and then walking home together.

It happens over the span of months, and it feels painfully slow, but it’s there. It’s there and it’s real, and it’s the most amazing feeling he can imagine.

Co-worker!Nanami who respects boundaries but cannot bring himself to give you the personal space you deserve. The worst part is that he's blissfully unaware of what he's doing. It must be that, otherwise, he might just be stringing you along, and he doesn't seem the type.

You’ll only lean back in your chair, head tipping to the side, and his eyes will already be burning holes into your side, aware of the way your eyebrows scrunch together when you're puzzled.

Within a second he's got you caged in. Arms on both sides of your desk, his chest brushing against your back, and even through his suit you can feel his defined pecs. His voice will lower, lips ever so subtly brushing against your ear, cologne freely waltzing its way into your nostrils, the veins on his hands, up the way to his arms pulsing with each move he makes.

Focusing on anything at all is out of the picture, but the way his warmth swallows you whole is unexplainable. His hand is placed on top of yours on the computer mouse, dragging it wherever he needs the cursor to be at that moment.

Frankly, you allow him to do whatever he wants. Sure, there your self-respect goes— but can any woman genuinely deny this man anything?

Co-worker!Nanami who finds himself indulging in spending his lunch break with you more often than not as of late.

Eyes seeking you out once it’s noon, a hesitant smile being sent your way, waiting for your non-verbal approval, and once he gets it, he's already on his feet, on his way to your desk.

Co-worker!Nanami who slowly starts making reservations at more intimate and cosy lunch places near the office so he can take you there.

“Oh, this is just too much,” you’ll say, eyes downcast, playing with the cutlery due to the nerves.

He’ll keep his eyes on you, though, not once wavering, not even allowing himself to think about looking away. He doesn't think he’d be able to, since he's been captivated by your beauty from the moment he first saw you.

“I insist,” his deep albeit gentle voice will respond, tilting his head so he can maybe catch your eye, in the hopes of seeing those pretty lashes blink up at him. Pupils dilated and lips slightly parted, sluggishly blinking while the tips of your ears will turn red.

Co-worker!Nanami who supports your ideas whenever you do a presentation— especially when your boss lets a negative remark slip past his lips.

It’s immediate. He doesn't think it through, he simply lets it be, already forming the sentence, letting it tumble off his tongue without allowing any rational part of him to reconsider it, “I suppose it’s a great idea.”

Co-worker!Nanami who always hands you your coat before you've even gotten the chance to get it yourself once the clock strikes 18:00.

The staircase is quiet when you make your way down together, and so is the lift when you prefer another option on slower days. Small talk here and there, bits and pieces— ‘what are you having for dinner?’ Any plans for the weekend?’ ‘Are you doing anything else later?’ 'Oh, that’s nice.’ ‘Have a lovely evening.’ ‘See you in the morning.’

But it never truly crosses that line of the what-ifs and might-be’s that linger around the office, rumoured by your other colleagues. You don't leap, and neither does he, so he lets it rest there, happy to take the bits and pieces with him home anyway.

Co-worker!Nanami who’s had the shittiest morning known to mankind. The kind where everything manages to go wrong, and every bad overpowers all the good, even if they're mundane things.

His morning will feel better once you walk in, sending him that wide smile that somehow makes the entire office light up, the type to make even the sun seem dull in comparison.

Co-worker!Nanami who, after this horrible day, walks you home since your bus didn't show up. Clearly, his bad day was rubbing off on yours. In reality, he knows this wouldn't exactly be the case, but he feels bad, nonetheless.

The back of his hand will graze against yours while walking, and so will your shoulders, until you're both pressed together, claiming it’s for the cold. Both of you know that’s a complete lie, but neither of you can admit the truth.

Co-worker!Nanami who loses all his patience once he sees you slowly closing your front door, the piercing creak taunting him for not doing this sooner.

He’ll push it back open with the palm of his hand, ignoring your confused expression, and he’ll blurt out, simple, yet straightforward, “Could I possibly take you out for dinner?”

A stutter here, a crack of the voice there, and it’s still the best moment of your life, you're certain. You’ll grin, the exhaustion disappearing from your face, and squeal out an enthusiastic, “Yes!”

Co-worker!Nanami who turns into your husband approximately three years later, but the lunch dates never waver, nor do the dinners, and walking home together turns into a daily thing.

This time, your hands will be interlocked, your head resting against his shoulder. And this time? Rest assured, he won't be afraid to pull you closer.

Co-worker!Nanami who works harder than he's ever had, pushing himself to the fullest while giving his everything to your relationship simultaneously.

He works toward a promotion, getting it handed to him with all the credit he deserves, and it only drives him further with motivation. For the next decade of your marriage, his work becomes his second priority, until you mention settling down, and then he knows that hard work hasn't been for nothing.

He builds a house in Malaysia, surprises you for your next anniversary, one palm pressed to your protruding belly, claiming everything he had ever been handed had been for you all along.

⸝⸝ ⟡

masterlist

#༊࿐ ͎. ｡˚ @ loreshonour hcs ° ⊹ ˚.#jjk x reader #jjk x you #nanami kento fluff #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento headcanons #jujutsu kaisen nanami #nanami x reader #jujutsu nanami #jjk nanami #nanami kento #jjk fluff #jjk x y/n #jjk

art by thatsallitchief

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ husband!nanami and early mornings

a/n: this is my first time writing for jjk, aahh !!! i was originally going to go for choso since he's my favourite but there's something about husband!nanami that rubs me in all the right ways. i love him so much ohmygosh °ʚ(*´ᵕ`*)ɞ°

wc: 1.2k

Husband!Nanami had a quick, efficient morning routine before settling into married life. Never exactly one’s stereotypical bachelor, but the detached environment that used to linger around his apartment before meeting you did, kind of, fit into the category.

Sterile white walls, books stapled upon one another, often were used as a nightstand— aesthetically pleasing to some, a way to personalise the space. Still, in reality, he never truly got around to buying an actual bookshelf back then.

Throwing himself into work had always been good for him, considering he only had himself to look after. He wouldn't let his alarm clock go to snooze, wouldn't allow himself to linger in bed, maybe because the moment he turned, the other side would be ice cold, although he did always dismiss this thought, convincing himself it was only to boost his productivity.

Husband!Nanami who still goes about his mornings as quietly as possible even while being a married man. Not because he doesn't want you around in the mornings, but because he thinks you deserve all the rest you can get.

He’ll already be sitting up in bed, his alarm clock having rang only once, the sunlight filtering through the windows. Turning, and then he’ll see you wriggle beneath the duvets.

Something in his system slows down. Why is he in such a rush, anyway, he seems to think now.

It doesn't matter if he's later than usual that morning, if the rest of his routine doesn't add up to the specific hours and numbers he's been used to for most of his life— all he’ll do is take a deep breath, lie back down, and relax into the pillow. Blond hair sleep-ruffled and beautifully messy, spreading around and over parts of his face like the tiniest of halos.

Husband!Nanami who loves the feeling of your burning skin against his already cooled down fingers. His lean fingers will reach out to your waist, twitchy and slightly hesitant—even after all this time—the flesh burning and smooth beneath his feather-light touches.

He’ll try his best not to wake you, despite being more than aware you have an alarm set in roughly ten minutes from now. He never wins in this marriage, because you want to be awake while he gets ready for work, and he can try as much as he wants by saying, ‘honey, you need your sleep,’ because the next day your alarm will be set nonetheless.

Husband!Nanami who knows your body as if he walks in it himself every day. Your back is arched most unusually, and certainly, it makes it easier for you to wedge your leg in between his muscled thighs.

No words, no whispers, any sort of doubt washes away like a mere wave. He’s not sure why it was there to begin with, but being in a happy marriage and feeling fulfilled all the time still feels like a dream for him.

His palm moves up to your soft belly, firm and reassuring, dragging you backwards onto the mattress, his front pressed against your back.

So, occasionally, he’ll treat himself to ten extra minutes in bed. It’s the best ten minutes of his day, and it sure as hell is a good morning.

When he finally manages to gather his strength to get ready for the day, he’ll press one last kiss to your shoulder, a dozen more to the back of your neck, and you’ll let him. Yet again, you’re so used to the gesture that your head is already tilted at another specific angle, awaiting his sweet lips.

Husband!Nanami who tries his hardest not to let out an embarrassing squeal once he walks into the kitchen—showered, blond hair slicked back, suit proper and pristine, teeth brushed—because you packed him a bento, with freshly baked bread next to the container.

His habit of going to the local bakery a few streets down has certainly rubbed off on you. After work, he’ll sometimes want to treat himself, but since the hours often tire him out, you go for him instead.

He tells you you don't have to, and you tell him that doing sweet things for him comes so naturally to you, that you don't even second-guess it anymore.

Imagine the surprised look on his face the first time you did this, more than eight years ago, a couple of months after you started dating. A bunch of heartfelt love confessions followed, they oozed out of him as if it was as easy as breathing, meanwhile, he held you adoringly while the tips of your ears burnt.

Husband!Nanami who tells you to go inside and get back into bed, but secretly loves it when you wait for him to leave. Seeing the door close behind you once you think he can't see the house anymore makes all sorts of fuzzy feelings explode in his abdomen.

You’ll lean against the front door, the chilly air of dawn wrapping around you like a coat itself, while you're dressed in nothing but the flimsy pair of pyjamas he bought you. Arms tentatively wrapping around your middle, eyes briefly falling shut in peace once you feel his lips graze your forehead.

“I’ll see you in the evening, honey,” he’ll whisper, voice undeniably gentle—that alone can do you in—thumb sliding along your rose-tinted cheeks.

It might've been a déjà vu, it could even be a flash of your foreseeable future together, or perhaps there's just some truth wrapped up in this point in time. Isn't there always? All you can think of is that staying in this very moment together wouldn't be so bad.

Husband!Nanami who can't find it in himself to fully leave without saying—

“I love you.”

Even when he's already made it to the gate of your front path, his sleek black dress shoes clicking on the classic tiles beneath him, he’ll look back. A knowing twinkle visible in his eyes, mixed with something more profound, but you can't figure out what it portrays exactly.

He says it’s because he wants you to know. Still surprisingly timid, even after roughly a decade of being together, like he isn't sure you believe him.

You do, though. And the mornings, they differ each time.

“I love you, silly girl,” when you're exceptionally chipper.

“I love you, baby. Lock the door behind you,” when he's feeling the remnants of sleep.

“I love you, honey,” being his usual one.

He mixes that one up, too. He’ll throw in a darling or sweetheart, and you’ll say it back. Louder, with more emotion. Because he might want you to know he loves you, but you would love for him to know that he's the sun you orbit around.

Husband!Nanami who treasures your mornings together very much. The slight tilt to his lips when he walks to the metro, the love-sick look remaining on his face until he walks into the office, the way he gets his work done faster than usual. It gives him away.

Husband!Nanami who never fails to make your domestic morning routines and habits feel like the first twelve seconds of Landslide by Fleetwood Mac.

Quiet, intimate, too much introspection to not make someone go clinically insane, and a calm awakening for even more bliss of married life yet to come.

Husband!Nanami who can see himself doing this for another ten years. Twenty, thirty, he’ll take it all and cherish each moment like it might be his last. In reality, there isn't a single day when he wouldn't want to wake up next to you, for it has become his greatest blessing, after all.

Oh, how he has come to love the early mornings and the feeling of letting life slow down, even if it’s only for ten minutes.

p.s: i have to confess that i did only write this because i woke up at three in the morning, put on my headphones and then the intro of landslide started playing. yes, i thought of nanami, replayed it a bunch of times (i almost got sick of it), and came up with this... clearly, he's always on my mind

#༊࿐ ͎. ｡˚ @ loreshonour hcs ° ⊹ ˚.#husband nanami #jjk x reader #jjk #nanami kento #nanami x reader #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento headcanons #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x you #jjk x y/n #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen nanami #nanami fluff #nanami kento fluff

Boyfriend things

PAIRINGS [SEPARATE]: Mattheo Riddle x Reader, Blaise Zabini x Reader, Theodore Nott x Reader, Lorenzo Berkshire x Reader, Draco Malfoy x Reader

SUMMARY: they're your first official boyfriend, and there's nothing more great than being loved as if you're the very air they breathe.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: this is a bit of a follow up to girlfriend things since i found the idea of it incredibly cute and couldn't help myself !!! this is ridiculously short i'm sooooo sorry ugh, i couldn't come up with any ideas at first lol (∗˃̶ ᵕ ˂̶∗)

WORD COUNT: 2.967

✦ MATTHEO RIDDLE

Being Mattheo’s first official girlfriend came with a lot of baggage. If it wasn't the typical—oh, not with the Riddle boy—tirade, which was often meant to be comforting and out of love (although it didn't feel that way), it was the invasive eyes of his past booty calls following you everywhere.

Like a moth drawn to the flame, wherever you went, eyes were burning into the back of your head. Vain and self-absorbed. Something you found overly ridiculous is how the women he slept with more than once, gave you polite smiles, never once held grudges against you, and had no problem moving on. It was the ones he touched once—flirted with in an unwelcoming worn-down pub, the signs flickering erratically, a quickie in the toilets that was hanging on by a thread—that couldn't move on.

This always led to unnecessary arguments, and as much as he wanted to pretend it was never his fault, because those girls were his past and not his future, he couldn't deny that you were right. The way your eyes were downcast whenever someone brought up his old days, or how yet another girl flirted with him, is what truly broke his heart.

So, how did Mattheo eventually love you in a way that made you want to stay, one might ask? It's rather simple. He worships the ground you walk on.

“Christ, baby,” he whistles as he makes you spin around to show off the new dress you bought. It clings to all your curves, and it’s slightly out of your comfort zone. “So beautiful.”

“You think so?” you shyly ask, glancing up at him from beneath your eyelashes, hand fiddling with the hem of the dress. “It’s short. I've never worn anything like this before.”

“Mhm,” he wolfishly grins, dimples deepening in his cheeks, and there that cocky glint is. It sparks in his eyes, and there's no way to get rid of it. “You’re beautiful. C’mon, I’ll carry your purse.”

Once all your mutual friends have greeted you, his hand remains firmly on your waist, never letting you wander too far. “She’s gorgeous, isn't she?” he’ll brag the moment you slip away from him to go and get a drink. “Bloody gorgeous. ‘S a bit unfair, innit?”

“Mate, you're whipped.”

It doesn't just stop there, though. It’s also tugging you to his right side, making you sag into him a little whenever the street is on the left. It’s opening your car door for you and closing it again. It’s carrying you home in bridal style whenever you're intoxicated— then again, even when you're tipsy, he insists on it. It’s handing you his jumper, even though he told you to bring something warm.

It’s showing you off loudly when you're clearly feeling insecure. It’s peppering your face full with kisses when he's been busy with work all day. It’s never shying away from your touch when he's with his friends, in fact, he’s the one to insinuate affection.

Mattheo might have a reputation following him everywhere due to his past, due to his family name, and due to the fortune that comes with that, but his love for you is something you've never doubted. It’s loud, and comfortable, and oftentimes more public than anything else— but all in all, when it’s just the two of you? It withers into something profound, worth keeping around, undeniably soft, and you’re here for both sides. You wouldn't trade it for the world, really.

Mattheo Riddle is, and always has been, for the rest of the world to see and mull over. Matt (more often Matty when you're tired) is solely for you to keep.

✦ BLAISE ZABINI

Blaise is positively convinced that actions speak louder than words. Sure, he can tell you he's hopelessly in love with you twenty times a day, manage a declaration of his love by exclusively using words, but what does that mean if he doesn't show it?

Now, he's not entirely getting ahead of himself, since he doesn't always show it the proper way, either, but he's learning!

Whenever your girlfriends talk about how poetic and utterly eloquent their boyfriends are, you find it sweet to listen to. When they get to you, you've got to start coming up with some excuses that sound believable.

Your group doesn't fit in with Blaise’s group. Enough to get by, enough to treat yourself to a vacation or sweets now and then, but you're also comfortably familiar with knowing what it’s like to cut back on certain things. A dry piece of toast for dinner, counting everything twice to make sure you didn't miss anything, and seeing your parents worry throughout childhood but not wanting to bother you with those issues.

So, truly— even while you're still growing accustomed to your new lifestyle, thanks to your boyfriend, it isn't what you were used to growing up, that’s why you're hesitant to speak about it.

You mention a pretty pair of heels once, and the next Sunday you find a large box on your bed with rose petals scattered around. A post you liked about visiting a specific country, and suddenly you're spending your anniversary there. A purse, quick and fleeting, you glance at it once while passing by, and he's already dragging you into the store, not allowing you even to try to fight back.

“I can pay for this myself,” you repeatedly feel the need to remind your boyfriend. Eyes twitchy, pushing your thumbs together and fidgeting with everything you can reach.

“I am aware, my love,” he’ll tell you in his thick posh accent, wrapping his arm tighter around you. “Allow me to do this for you, hm?”

Frankly, can you fight back when he's so sweet about it? Probably. But all you are is putty beneath his hands, and he knows it, that’s why he’s come to master using it to his advantage.

Your first argument hadn't been about social circles or work, like you initially expected. It wasn't loud, and you certainly weren't met with a screaming match. The total opposite. It was deadly quiet. That alone, somehow, was more terrifying than anything else.

He isn't in the bedroom when you come home, he's not greeting you by the door either, and the living room is empty. Every intake of your breath is audible, you can distantly hear the grandfather clock ticking away timelessly, and the hair on your arms shoots upright.

You’re met with your sulking boyfriend when you hesitantly walk into the kitchen. He glances at you, eyes sharp, a furrow in his eyebrow as if he doesn't totally understand you or something you've done. You stare right back at him.

“You made a purchase today.”

“Oh, I did,” your shoulders immediately relax, and you smile up at him, all proud and sweet. You gesture towards your new pair of hoops, shining brightly against your earlobes, “Do you like them?”

“Not quite my thing.”

Blaise’s sharp wit and uncensored honesty are things that made you fall for him, hard and fast. When those exact things are used against you? It’s then that you realise how harsh he truly can be.

“That’s rude,” you say, smile dropping.

He blinks and puffs out a deflating sigh, “Ah, I didn't mean—” he shakes his head, placing a hand on your waist instead. “I desperately wish you would let me take care of you, my love.”

“This is because you didn't buy them for me, really?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“I can buy stuff myself, you know that, right?” you ask, weary and fond, placing your palm flat on his chest. “I have my own money.”

“I’m aware,” he says, hand moving up and down on your waist, lingering, digging his fingers into the soft flesh, and then repeating his movements. “Taking care of you pleases me. That’s all.”

✦ THEODORE NOTT

Before you leave the house to go and have brunch with one of your life-long female friends, Theodore places a lingering kiss on your lips, thumb brushing over your cheek, “You look pretty.”

“Thank you, baby.”

He nods, once, eyes sweeping over your over-the-top outfit choice of the day. He’s so incredibly fond of you, he can't come up with a single negative thought. You’re so uniquely you, and he loves that. Another kiss is pressed to your lips, and he leans against the front door as you tie your shoes, “You have an appointment with Dr Anderson later today.”

“Oh, right—”

“Ten to four,” he goes on, not allowing you to chip in. “Odd hour, honestly. It’s near the park where we always get lunch,” he tilts his head further down to glance at you, catching your pretty eyes. “With all the cherry blossoms? It’s on the third floor. I will pick you up.”

You blink, completely baffled, before you stand up straight again, “All right. Thank you, Theo.”

“Not a problem, tesoro. Don’t forget about your work dinner tomorrow, either.”

That’s how it always goes with him. There is something very domestic about the fact that your boyfriend remembers every little detail about both you and all the appointments you attend. He’ll listen to you talk about your days, store something away in the back of his mind, and exactly three months later, he’ll rattle off the information like you had told him only an hour ago.

He prefers to listen instead of talk, and maybe that’s why he remembers everything to the last detail. You aren't sure. It’s remarkably intimate nonetheless—or scary, you’re not sure—having someone know everything about you, down to the last fact, even things you yourself can't remember.

When you're out and about with him, wandering from one shop to the next, he's terribly attentive, too. His eyes will dart over every object he can find, like right now, his hand is warmly enclosed around yours, and with his free hand, he points at a row of thick, painted ceramic mugs.

“Would you like one of those?”

You squeeze his hand, cheeks flushing red, “It’s fine. Don’t worry.”

He stares down at you, rooted to the spot, even when you try to tug him away from the rack of mugs. His eyes dash over every little feature on your face, visibly searching for something. When he can't find it, he settles with a simple, “I’m confused.”

You turn to him, “Why?”

“I thought you liked these,” he looks back at the rack with a helpless expression. “I bought you mugs for your birthday. Were you not pleased?"

“Theo,” you let out a breathless chuckle, leaning into his side. “I was. I still am. We already have a generous amount of mugs, that’s why we don't have to purchase any more right now.”

“Oh. I like the ones with the flowers on them.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m buying those for you.”

“Theodore!”

“Non ne posso più,” he’ll grumble under his breath, and then a more passionate rant follows about how you don’t let him do anything for you, which you both know is a lie. All you can do is blankly stare at him as he looks through all the shelves, already knowing you've lost.

He ends up leaving the shop with four new flower-covered mugs. Damn your boyfriend all to hell, because they're beyond lovely.

✦ LORENZO BERKSHIRE

Lorenzo had always been relatively rough around the edges, and he's never tried to hide it, especially not from you. You both waltzed into one another’s lives at the developing age of four, he gave you a nasty glare, you gave one back, and then somehow ended up here.

Showing that he loves you is easy when it comes to touch. He’ll squeeze your hips while kissing you goodbye before he leaves for work, he’ll place his palm on your lower back while guiding you through a crowd, and he’ll press feather-light kisses to your soft belly when you're nervous regarding anything remotely intimate. Does that mean he loves you? For sure. Do all of these things work after an argument? Not at all.

This is where his rough side comes in handy. He doesn't know how to apologise, nor does he know how to communicate correctly. Don’t get him wrong— he’s learnt plenty from you over the span of the two decades knowing you, but it’s never been enough.

He isn't a quitter by any means, but when it comes to these issues, he’d preferably just call it a day and move on with his life. But then he sees your tear-stained cheeks, red blotches covering the wholeness of your face, while knowing that’s entirely his doing.

So, he might not be great at communicating, but that doesn't mean he never tries.

You’re having a bad week? He’ll bring flowers home with him. You’re craving something eerily specific during your period? He’ll go out of his way to fix that right up for you. Everyone’s been exceptionally shitty all week, and all you want to do is crawl into bed and stay there? He’s already holding one of the cosiest jumpers he owns in his hands, ready to join you.

He doesn't have a lot of female friends, doesn't have any at all, to be fair, so he reaches out to yours. It goes from one thing to the next, sometimes sending them multiple messages a week.

Do you know what kind of flowers she likes?

Hey! Can you help me surprise Y/N for a date night?

What kind of food does she not like?

Sorry, it’s so late, but she likes the beach, right?

I’m planning a trip for Y/N. Would she like a girls' trip kind of thing? Let me know who’d be joining and I’ll take care of everything. Thanks in advance.

And since your friends are real ones, they’re always more than happy to help out. A girl’s trip there, a beach trip here. A date night at least once every two weeks, flowers every month on a Sunday like clockwork.

A tight schedule, indeed. He often whispers soft ‘I’m sorry’s’ to you in the middle of the night, knowing you're on the brink of falling asleep, and when you look at everything else he does for you as a whole, it’s not that bad.

“You booked me a girls’ trip to the Balearic Islands?”

He cocks his head to the side, an arrogant smirk tugging at the corners of his lips, “Mhm. Asked your girly friends for all the info ‘n stuff. S— mmphf.”

An overly sweet and glossy kiss is placed on his mouth. Your hands are cupping his cheeks as if he's emotionally fragile, “Thank you, baby!”

“We’ll go together next time, yeah? This is just for you to wind down a bit.”

Communication and simple apologies are still something your boyfriend should work on, but overall? He’s pretty fucking great, and you wouldn't trade that for the world.

✦ DRACO MALFOY

There’s nothing more that Draco loathes than when someone talks back to him. When he gives someone a sharp, more likely nasty comment, it’s fine in his eyes. When they do it back? He’s practically seething with barely contained anger, doing everything in his power not to snap.

He’s gotten better at it over the years, obviously. He’s no longer the bratty teenager he once used to be, and he's grown into a rather fine young adult. Hell, even his opinion on Harry Potter has settled, bordering somewhere on this thin line of respect.

His younger self would definitely be cussing him out right now, and the imaginary makes him chuckle to himself.

Now he's calmer, more at ease with himself and the people around him, and he's taking it one day at a time. As much as he can, at least. Because despite all these changes, he just had to go and find a girlfriend who's overly sarcastic, huh?

He’ll be talking to you about his day, going over the basics while you enjoy a romantic evening in a light-dimmed, cosy restaurant. It’s one of the more expensive ones, but he told you not to look at the prices beforehand. His colleagues are fine, work overall is great as well, and then it comes down to how he represents himself around the office. He mentions a compliment someone gave him, and a chuckle stops him.

“What’s the matter?”

“You?”

You move your hand up and down, gesturing to his upper body. You’ve got this explicit look in your eyes whenever you're judging someone, which could make the strongest man get down on his knees and shiver due to the pure embarrassment he feels afterwards.

“Yes? Angel, I'm not seeing the issue here.”

“There’s no issue,” you correct him, cutting another piece off your steak. “Just surprised they’d say that about you of all people.”

It comes out so elegantly. You with your shoulders straightened, hair falling down your back, cutlery held with so much precision it looks performed and almost comical. You say it with quite a lot of confidence, so much so, that it sounds like a compliment.

“Thank y— excuse me?”

The sarcasm wrapped in grace keeps him on his toes. He can't find it in him to complain. With that much irony, intelligence comes in hand. He can be talking about one of the most difficult cases they've had so far, and he won't have to explain anything down to the last detail, because you know what he's talking about the moment he utters the mere subject.

Sometimes he’ll stop and take you in for a moment. He wouldn't be here if he didn't want to be, and he loves you more than words could ever count— but, goodness sake, in those unmistakable sarcastic moments he can only think of how much he would've hated you when he was younger.

⸝⸝ ⟡

masterlist ⋮ ao3

#dividers by cursed carmine #harry potter #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle #blaise zabini x reader #blaise zabini #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott #lorenzo berkshire x reader #lorenzo berkshire #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy #fluff

Girlfriend things

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)◜

WORD COUNT: 3.661

✦ MATTHEO RIDDLE

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.

“Mattheo?”

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?”

“Yeah?”

“Love you.”

“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 ZABINI

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.

✦ THEODORE NOTT

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—”

"Back pocket."

“Theo, have you seen my—”

“On the counter.”

“Theo, my—”

“Right in front of you.”

“I lost my glasses, have you—”

“You’re wearing them.”

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.

✦ LORENZO BERKSHIRE

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?”

“Uh-huh.”

“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 MALFOY

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—

“I adore you.”

You grin, “I love you too.”

⸝⸝ ⟡

masterlist ⋮ ao3

#dividers by cursed carmine #harry potter #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle #blaise zabini #blaise zabini x reader #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott #lorenzo berkshire #lorenzo berkshire x reader #draco malfoy #draco malfoy x reader #smau

Dating a thief

PAIRINGS: Theodore Nott x Reader

SUMMARY: 5+1 things — five times theodore lost his clothes, and the one time he figured out why.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: this is my first time writing 5+1 things and it is sooo silly but at the same time a very challenging experience !!! I'll definitely be making more of these if I can come up with some ideas :-) this was also my first time writing for theo, therefore it might be a bit ooc <3

WORD COUNT: 1.376

The first time it happened, Theodore brushed it off as a coincidence. Admittedly, he's a super composed and neat guy, but even he loses his stuff now and then, so he brushed it off as a mere coincidence. Every once in a while he’ll lose a white pair of socks, the cosy yet athletic kind he wears to go for a jog. He’ll assume it got lost in the laundry along the way, and not blink an eye when it appears in his bedroom, next to his nightstand on the floor, partially hidden beneath his bed, although he checked there. He’s a hundred per cent certain he did.

The same guy who was one of the twelve students who was able to advance to N.E.W.T. -level in potions, never took a moment to think about the fact that his clothes always turned up when you either spent the day with him or slept over.

No one could truly blame him, since distracting him with soft, lingering kisses always worked perfectly fine. Meanwhile, you smuggled a shirt with you or left a piece of clothing somewhere in his room you stole the week prior.

The second time one of his shirts disappears he also dismisses it as a superficial coincidence. He tries, at least. As previously mentioned, he isn't stupid by any means, so he is aware that he hasn't touched that piece of clothing in over a month.

He rummages through his closet, clothes stacked upon other clothes, moving from one clean fabric to the next, eyes squinting as he pushes his teeth down onto his bottom lip, before sucking it in.

He isn't the type of person who gets unnecessarily attached to his clothing, but he does plan his outfits. Today, he's yearning for this one very specific shirt, one he cannot seem to find. It’s a black one, that’s it, a simple black—ridiculously tight—shirt he wears to go to the gym. While there are at least two more black ones in his closet, right in his eyesight, he wants that specific one. It’s a well-worn one, so it’s slightly more comfortable to go out in.

He diverts his eyes to the floor, tilting his head forward to get a glimpse of the area beneath his bed, but it’s spotless. He looks at you, eyes hooded and voice undeniably gentle, “Baby? Have you seen my shirt?”

You intently stare at your boyfriend, eyes sparkling as they dart to his sun-freckled cheeks, the pink tint flushed over them adorably. “Nope,” you tell him, popping the ‘p’ with too much force to sound neutral. “Which one exactly?”

“The black one I wore to Malfoy’s dinner party,” he forces out, going back to searching his wardrobe. “It was last month, I think.”

“Just wear another one, Theo.”

“Mhm, I guess,” he grumbles out, unwillingly reaching for one of the other black shirts. Little does he know, you're wearing the exact shirt he's looking for beneath your sweater.

The third time he loses a piece of clothing is during winter break. He’s wearing a thick, warm jacket with his hands stuffed into his pockets, patting around as he feels for his gloves. His scarf is snugly wrapped around his neck, and he isn't feeling too chilly, since he had a tepid tea before he went out.

He wears this jacket all the time during the winter. It’s comfortable, thick, and keeps him warm. That’s why he never takes out the woollen gloves he always pushes into the pockets— only this time, they're nowhere to be found.

For the rest of the outing, he focuses on his friends, but the way his fingertips are turning whiter and more rigid repeatedly takes his attention away. When he gets back to the castle later on, running into you on his way in, he's too focused on letting you talk about your day and keeping you as close as humanly possible he easily doesn't catch sight of you wearing his woollen gloves.

He finds them tidily placed on the edge of his bed a few days later. Washed, no smell attached to it, and not a hint of who could've taken them to be found.

The fourth time it happens is totally his fault. He got a new pair of grey joggers and he's been rattling on and on about how comfy they are.

“Mhm,” he hums to whatever you’ve been saying while slipping on the joggers. The moment they're fully on and he's tied the knot, his shoulders relax as if he's been carrying the weight of the world on top of his shoulders for years now. “‘S all right, baby.”

One thing about Theodore is that when he wears comfortable clothes, is in a fully relaxed state, and has no one bothering him— he lets go. He lets his head tip backwards against the end of the couch, fingertips become featherlight on the skin of your love handles, and his eyes get even more droopy than they usually are.

Lovedazed is one accurate word for him. When you're involved, his brain gets a little fuzzy and it more often than not becomes hard to focus. That’s why he sees you in his grey joggers the following morning, and all he can manage is, “Oh, you bought the same ones?”

“Sure. Well, actually—”

“They’re pretty on you, tesoro.”

The fifth time isn't subtle in the slightest, and even if his attention is always solely on you, he's too dopey to notice any of it.

You’ve been in his dorm all day and you have potions homework left unfinished for next week. Before sprinting back to your own dorm, Theodore leans down to press a sweet kiss to your mouth, a barely concealed smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“G’night,” he mumbles, leaning forward even further to wrap an arm around your waist, jerking you against his lean frame. Lips being pressed to your upper cheeks, nose, gazing at your forehead, and then back to your mouth, “You could always stay the night.”

You smile at him, dimples deepening as you tilt your head back to stare up at him, “No,” you pinch his hip playfully, to which he grunts. “I have to finish my homework. I told you I’d stop procrastinating.”

He’s trying too hard to compose himself and the red hue covering his cheeks while watching you go, that he easily misses the way the sleeve of his jumper is half hanging out of your unzipped backpack.

+1 The moon has long settled in the sky, most of the students have disappeared into either the common rooms or their respective dorms, and Theodore has only just come back from the library. He’s been running around all day, helping Malfoy with this, Riddle with that, Berkshire with something so ridiculous he simply wants to erase it from his memory.

So after taking care of all these things today, and helping his friends out, he doesn't expect to walk into his dorm room, his nightlamp on, duvets rumpled as if someone had slept on top of them and—

You, in the middle of his room, looking like you own the place. Hair messy, fuzzy socks, with his joggers on.

You’re standing near his wardrobe, searching through his jumpers, reaching for an extra cosy one he wears quite often. Besides the noises you're making, he's totally quiet, not a word being said, and not a breath being shared.

“Ahem.”

You turn around, black jumper in hand, the guiltiest expression one can imagine plastered all over your face, “You weren't supposed to be back for another hour.”

He takes a step closer, an amused spark flickering in his tired eyes, and then, within a second, he's standing right in front of you. He gently pries the jumper from your remorse-stained hands, “I didn't know my girlfriend was a thief.”

“Not a thief, Theo.”

“I don't believe you.”

“I’m sorry.”

He pushes the piece of fabric over your head, and you get the memo to push your arms through the sleeves, then let it fall to mid-thigh. He smiles at you, softly, reserved for only you, “Y’could’ve just asked, amore. You look way prettier in my clothes than I do, anyway.”

⸝⸝ ⟡

masterlist ⋮ ao3

#dividers by cursed carmine #harry potter #5 + 1 things #5 + 1 fic #theodore nott #theodore nott x reader

Essays, Classics & Soulmates ⭑.ᐟ chapter one

pairings: boss!mattheo riddle x assistant!reader

(incl. characters: Fay Dunbar, Ernie Macmillan, Hannah Abbott, Draco Malfoy, Lorenzo Berkshire, Pansy Parkinson, Theodore Nott, Blaise Zabini, Katie Bell, Zacharias Smith, Hermione Granger, Harry Potter)

summary: moving from one city to another was already difficult, but moving from a city generally considered slow-paced and relaxed to one that's fast-paced and constantly crowded was not for the weak. add a boss that makes your life a living hell, prices you can't exactly afford, paces you can't always keep up with, missing home, and you've got the full lovely picture.

author's note: set in london, england, circa 2004-2005, characters aged around 24/25. heads up: reader is supposed to be overly bubbly/passionate about the smallest things & it definitely might be a bit over the top at times so I'm sorry if that's the case, lol!

word count: 11.5k

main masterlist ⋮ series masterlist ⋮ next

25 April, 2004

Moving to London all the way from Norwich was quite the change, apparently. One could have expected it, after all. A few people became many. Your life, which you often considered calm and easygoing, quickly turned fast-paced, perhaps even busy. You have never lived such an engaged life before, never dreamt of it, either. It’s rather odd, and you can't pinpoint the exact moment you started thinking of your slow-paced life as an active, overly involved with everything, life. What went from a weekly get-together with your childhood friends hesitantly formed into a daily cup of tea with a handful of your acquaintances.

It was thrilling at first. You suppose everything is when it’s new, but even then, you definitely weren't the type to complain. You could fit well into this lifestyle, you were sure of it, you even rang your parents, and they too confirmed that you could do this.

Exhilarating, curious, filled with a lot of hopes and dreams. Being away from home, leaving your norm and everything you've ever known behind for such a lively city was not for the weak. And the prices? Everything you considered cheap had risen to prices you considered expensive.

“Babe,” Fay tells you over the phone, and it’s so incredibly easy to hear the smile in her voice. She’s been your closest friend for ages, and as she lives right outside the city, ten minutes tops, you stayed with her for a while right before you moved into your flat in the heart of London. “Fancy going out for afternoon tea sometime?”

“I’m not exactly, ah, rolling in it right now,” you shuffle around, phone pushed between your ear and shoulder as you struggle with your bag. You place it on your desk with a heavy thud, rapidly taking out a notebook and pen, and finally plopping down in your stiff desk chair with a groan. “My boss is making me work too much for too little.”

She sighs, “He is such a prick. I hate him.”

“You haven't met him,” you retort.

“It’s a solidarity thing,” she light-heartedly argues, always having a quick comeback ready to launch. “When I hate someone, you hate them too. All of my exes, as an example. Remember Mandy? When she broke up with me after we graduated from school, you also hated her!”

You let out an exaggerated gasp of disbelief, which fades into a chuckle, “That’s because she once got you flowers she knew you were allergic to, Fay. She was crazy.”

Her energy is quite infectious, so much so, that you can feel it through the thin screen of the phone, “Ah, you're right about that, I reckon. Anyway, I have to go, love. Good luck at work today. Ring me later to rant about your annoying but ‘oh-so-sexy’ boss.”

“I have never said those words in my life, Miss Dunbar.”

She lets out a high-pitched giggle, “Bye, bye!”

Your desk is placed right next to your boss’s office. Any sort of movement coming from you, or if you're gone longer than five minutes, be prepared for him to immediately take notice of it. The chair you're sitting in is lacking proper back support. If you'd lean back, you might as well fall back. It is also too narrow for comfort, and despite complaining about it countless times, you're still sitting in the same chair from when you first started working here.

Picturing your younger self doing a corporate job isn't something you're able to do. It never aligned with your true passions, but then you ended up here, in the middle of London, among media and publishing organisations. As an assistant, yes, but you enjoy it nonetheless.

There are only a few tasks on your to-do list until the meeting planned for later this afternoon.

1. Schedule Mr Riddle’s meetings & calls

2. Prepare the agenda for tomorrow

3. Flag urgent agent/author e-mails

4. Ship proofs to the reviewer

5. Finish up powerpoint

Mr Riddle has this sort of unspoken rule, well, he has many, but his PowerPoint one takes the win. Every presentation you prepare needs to have fifteen slides otherwise it doesn't please him. Try figuring this out while having a boss who ignores your very existence.

During your first week of working here, you had your first presentation, ten engaging and educational slides. High hopes, twitchy hands, and— oh, a nasty glare in return.

During week four of working here, you had another presentation, twenty slides were the way to go, you felt like. A confident smile, a relaxing demeanour, and… a disapproving sigh in response. You’d grown rather fond of your boss's side profile, for it was the only thing you got to see.

But then, week eight rolled around. This was it. Fifteen slides, shoulders straightened, head held high, voice precise and certain. There it was— he leant forward in his seat, thumb on his bottom lip, eyes slightly squinted together. Having his full attention was rather terrifying, you realised then, and he even spoke to you outside the meeting. A grumbled, ‘Nice work,’ and before he allowed you to even open your mouth, he had already turned around and left.

You still took that compliment with grace.

Now, week fifteen. Your laptop is neatly placed on the table as the projector it's connected to lights up the room. Your introduction slide appears on the wall, a bright pink presentation, with film references thrown into it. A twitch of the eye is all you get.

“A pink PowerPoint, hm? And what were all the references about?” Mattheo muses. The meeting has long ended by now, but at least he had the decency to cool down before he called you into his office. He hasn't been completely nice to you, admittedly, but a pink PowerPoint?

“I like the colour, and I like films,” you tell him, hands neatly folded in your lap, curious eyes sparkling as you subtly look around his office. He doesn't call you inside often, quite the contrary, actually, he tries to keep you out as much as possible. He gets his work done, and you get yours done, it’s been working perfectly so far. Fair is fair, he assumes. “All the power points are relatively dull, if I may say so. Oh, may I, sir?”

He raises a bored eyebrow, before begrudgingly jutting his chin at you, signalling for you to continue.

You let out a delighted sigh, before leaning forward in your seat, “Well,” you excitedly say, cheek dimples deepening. “It is actually proven that people can remember coloured information better than black-and-white. And isn't black-and-white so terribly boring? I mean, it is so unproductive, sir. It certainly makes me feel that way. Doesn’t it make you feel that way?”

His eyes bore into yours, and something small was sparkling in there. Perhaps a glint of amusement as he gazes at you, “No, it does not,” he dryly comments.

“Oh, how lucky we are that you don't represent all of humanity,” you brightly chirp. “Humans are drawn to colour. That’s also proven. What is life all about if we don't have a little bit of colour? What is your favourite colour?”

Mattheo tilts his head to the side, “I do not have a favourite colour, Y/N.”

“Everybody has a favourite colour,” you roll your eyes at him, impatiently tapping your long nails on his desk. You shift in the chair again, placing one leg over the other, and you can feel his eyes dart to the motion. For a mere second, the office is quiet, and his eyes linger on your bare legs. You awkwardly tug at the hem of your skirt, “So?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Tell me your favourite colour.”

He’s biting back the urge to snap at you now, mostly because this entire conversation is childish. His eyes dart back to your face, he stays quiet, and you don't dare utter a single word, for you have just rambled on and on about colours in front of your boss, the same man who hates you with his entire being. Finally, he clears his throat, “Red.”

“That is so cliché!” You let a laugh burst out of your throat, before slapping your palm in front of your mouth, swallowing the rest of the obnoxious sound you allowed to slip. “Sorry. I like red as well. Shall I do my next PowerPoint in red, sir? It would work well with the line graphs. Oh, I could do the annotations in black! And the diagrams could—”

“Red will do just fine,” he easily interrupts, swiftly rising from his seat, posture a bit slouched as he gazes down at you. “I have a phone call to make. You can see yourself out, I'm sure?”

“You don't have any phone calls,” you tell him as you stand up, quickly smoothing down your skirt and reaching for your laptop that’s still resting on his desk. “I know your agenda. In fact, I make it for you every morning. Did I miss an important call that you had scheduled? I’m terribly sorry, sir. It wasn't with an author or agent, I hope?”

“A personal phone call,” he steps toward the door anyway, opening it, and holding it wide for you. “And Mattheo will do just fine, Y/N. No need for such formalities.”

“I’ve been calling you sir ever since I started working here,” you say as you usher past him, before spinning in a half-arsed circle to look up at him. Although you are above average height for women, he still towers over you by a bit. “Calling you Mattheo would feel weird.”

“For Christ’s sake.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll go now. Have a great da—”

The door slams shut in front of you, your mouth still hung wide open, only just managing to form the letter ‘y’. “Oh, quit gawping, love,” Katie laughs from behind you, taking you by the arm and slowly leading you back to your desk. It’s not further than fifty metres.

“He’s so rude, Katie,” You frustratedly drop your laptop on your desk, plopping down in your stiff chair. “I don’t understand what the matter is with him.”

“He’s just moody,” she pats your hand, and then leans closer, her voice low and full of laughter. “And a prick.”

Your lips twitch up in surprise. Katie’s never been the kind of woman to bring another person down, not even Mattheo, which is a shocker, since he deserves all the hatred he can get. Katie and Zacharias work directly alongside you in the office, all three on the same floor, next to that excruciating office. You’ve bonded over it by now, all is well, as long as you have your two colleagues by your side.

Your new PowerPoint ends up being in a dark-ish red colour. A cheeky smile plastered on your face, voice sounding immensely proud like you know what you're doing, and really, you do. You don't get any sighs in return nor does he complain even once. When you’re packing up your stuff, his eyes are locked onto your figure moving around. Once you’re out of sight, he lets his head slump forward with a slight smile.

Turns out you were right, after all. Colour is, indeed, so much more intriguing than black-and-white.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

5 May, 2004

Begging made people seem weak, in Mattheo’s eyes, you hesitantly started to realise. How, one may ask. The story is rather simple; you had politely inquired of Mattheo that you could, perhaps, write one column in the next paper that was coming up. He denied your request, which by now had turned into something familiar, something you (although not positively) expected each day you came into the office.

Every idea you had was brushed aside, so you gradually started slipping them to Katie before meetings. Oh, how awfully surprising that all your ideas have suddenly become a reality.

Whenever Katie opened her mouth during meetings, starting with, “Hm, maybe we could—” Mattheo knew you had slipped her yet another note before she entered the meeting. He couldn't help it, not exactly, he loathed you tremendously, yet you were very creative, even he had to admit.

You have an insanely big mouth, always blabbering away, never sitting still, speaking before thinking, head lost in possibilities and fantasies that would never become a reality.

That brings us to the present. His cousin had come in, which is something he should've told you beforehand so you could have written it into your agenda. You have an obsession with the thing, detailing every small appointment with utter precision and care. Long story short: he never mentioned it to you, and now you're yelling. Well, not exactly at him, but—

“You are a sleazebag!”

“Bloody hell,” Lorenzo breathes out, eyes slightly wide and the barest hint of panic visible as he gazes at you. “All I said was that you look like you could poke my eyes out.”

“I definitely could,” you hiss back, letting out a scoff as you scan him from top to bottom, the judgment as clear as day. “You pig. We had an entire conversation and you were only staring at my breasts.”

“I wasn’t staring at your—”

“Lorenzo,” Mattheo interrupts in a firm voice, steering his cousin into his office, making sure to ram the door shut behind him. He almost rests his forehead against the office door while still standing in the hall, and for a moment he second-guesses himself, but he ends up turning around anyway. “Are you all right?”

“Not like you care,” you mutter, fingers fiddling with your fountain pen, repeatedly taking the cap off and placing it back on. “But, yes.”

“I do care,” he immediately says. The words, unfamiliar albeit comfortable on his tongue, make you both pause. The tips of his ears flush a little, the barest hint of it, and it still manages to make you feel warm inside. “My apologies for not notifying you of my cousin’s visit today.”

You nod, eyes flickering between your closed laptop, fountain pen that’s now dripping ink over your notebook, the bowl on your desk, and then the safest part of the room: his office door. Just enough to see him out of the corner of your eye, and just enough not to put your entire focus on him. “It’s a personal visit, so it doesn't exactly fit in the agenda.”

“I suppose that is true, yes,” he quietly muses, eyes trained on your rigid form. “You can be honest. Regarding my cousin, I mean.”

“Thank you. I don't necessarily dislike him, but he's rather rude. He barged right in, disrupting people from their work due to his loudness, and insulted Katie while walking past. Red’s totally her colour, so he doesn't have the right to tell her it’s not. Who even says something as silly as that to another person?”

“I am confident they are dating.”

You gasp, whipping your head around to look at Katie, who unashamedly grins in response.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

“You could have all the guys in the world,” you tell Katie as the two of you walk home together later that night. The leaves fall from the trees, leaving a colourful path in front of you as you continue at the comfortable pace you're going at. “And you’re telling me you're dating our boss’s cousin?”

Katie shrugs, adjusting her overly bright red hat on top of her head, a sweet flush concealing her cheeks. When she scratches her nose you can see the dark red nail polish has been slightly chipped off, “He’s really sweet! I promise. You swoon for the entire arm thing, trust me, if you could see his biceps when he has me a—”

“I don't want to know,” you’re fast to interrupt with a chuckle, hands raised in front of you, head shaking from left to right. When she giggles, you hook your arm into hers, tugging her impossibly closer for warmth, and she leans into it without hesitation, “If you’re happy, then that’s great. I genuinely thought he was insulting you earlier today when he walked into the office. I guess that’s why I was so hesitant.”

“No,” she laughs, rolling her tongue over her front teeth, which are somehow always blindingly white. “He got me this jacket, actually. He was teasing, I believe. I haven't been in the dating scene at all, lately, which you know. It’s been tricky, but very lovely at the same time. Trust me, you don't want to know what he whispered after he said it wasn't my colour.”

You bump into her side, a big smile concealing your face, and the cold momentarily disappears, the sun coming to life due to the simple happiness on your face, “That’s great. If he hurts you, though—”

“You’ll be the first to know,” she promises with a pat of her hand. “You’ll be able to let out all that anger. Let’s go back to your place?”

“Oh, sure.”

“Please don't make me watch The Sound of Music this time,” she goes on to say, which makes you laugh. “I have somehow memorised Do-Re-Mi. Have I entered my own personal hell?”

You speed up the pace a bit, the colourful leaves adding cleverness to the conversation, “Let’s start at the very beginning—”

“Enough, love. For Pete’s sake.”

⊹ ࣪ ˖

15 June, 2004

“I am aware I'm just your assistant,” you tell Mattheo in a rush, nervously entwining your fingers, cracking your knuckles, before you let go and push them into your pockets instead. “But could I, possibly, write essays of some sort on the side, please?”

He blinks at you, which you take as a sign to continue, “I want to write more, to be blunt. It will not interfere with my work, I promise. Only in my free time, outside of work.”

“And why, pray tell, are you asking me?”

“You’re an incredible writer, and I would love for you to review it.”

He finally tilts his head to the side, biting on the inside of his cheek, before flattening his tongue against his bottom teeth, and then he lets go with a tsk, “If that is something you wish for, then we could look into it.”

“Thank you!” you squeal, not bothering to lower your volume. Sunshine in the flesh, the embodiment of sunshine, you've heard it all before. “You don't understand how much this means to me. Goodness, I could kiss you right now! Okay, bye!”

⊹ ࣪ ˖

“You told him you could kiss him?” Fay manages between her fits of laughter. Her cup of tea is wobbly in her shaky hands as she finds her seat on the couch in your flat. “I’m sorry, babe, but that’s just—”

“For crying out loud,” you drag out into a pillow, tugging it as close to your face as possible, meanwhile you kick your leg down onto the couch in humiliation. “Fay, I'm going to die out of embarrassment,” You suddenly sit upright, pillow falling into your lap with a soft thump while you shake your head. “This cannot be happening. Why do I just— blurt things out without thinking them through? I’d say I have to quit, but considering it was so unprofessional he might as well fire me.”

The laughter coming from your friend doesn't disappear, not even when she shuffles closer to you, legs tucked beneath her butt as she reaches for your hands, thumbs caressing your knuckles, “It’s just a saying. You were excited and blurted it out, I'm sure he’ll understand.”

“For a moment— one of weakness, trust me— I wanted to kiss him,” you moan in utter despair, allowing your head to pathetically slump into your best friend’s neck. You wrap your arms around her slim waist, “Fay, who does something like that? Who falls in love with their boss? The same man who hates my entire existence?”

“Not you,” she flicks your forehead, giving you a shove. “Remember how much you hate him? He’s a prick, he dismisses you, he doesn't deserve your attention.”

“You’re right,” you firmly nod, pulling your head up, jutting out your chin in a confident manner. It only lasts a second, because your thoughts slip, and you fold, like you always do. “But he’s oh-so-charming! And his arms, Fay, you haven't seen his biceps. They’re awfully huge, it’s bizarre.”

She seems to consider your words for a moment, weighing the two options causing the dilemma. She can either snap you out of your love-sick haze or listen in for a second longer. “All right,” she hesitantly starts. “How big are we talking here? ‘Oh, I go to the gym every day and work hard’ big or ‘I take steroids and call it a day’ big?”

“Big enough to turn heads,” you say instead, tightly squeezing her hands. “If a man would see them, a typical gym rat, oh, think of your last ex, right. He’d turn around and say, ‘Mate, the gym is paying off!’”

“That big, huh?”

“Mhm!”

She intently looks at you, eyebrows furrowed together in concentration. Her dilemma disappears, and the answer is clear now, “Fine, let me go grab the ice cream. Get ready to talk about your annoying but very sexy boss all night long.”

As she gets up from the couch, wanting to make her way into your cosy kitchen, she looks over her shoulder, “And I want every little detail on those biceps as possible.”

⊹ ࣪ ˖

16:38 — 23/06/2004

[Subject: Essay 1, #Draft 1. Constructive Criticism Instead of Destructive Criticism: A Guide.]

[From: [email protected]]

[To: [email protected]]

Dear Mattheo,

I will attach my draft at the end of this e-mail. Thank you again for helping me out with this, it means the world to me! I’ve also printed it out, just in case it’s too difficult to look over this way.

Kind regards,

[Your Name]

(attachment:Constructive_Destructive_Criticism_Draft_v1.docx)

⊹ ࣪ ˖

How to Spread Constructive Criticism Instead of Destructive Criticism: A Guide by [Your Name].

Destructive criticism is negative feedback that can be harmful to the recipient. Sometimes people may think they're helping someone by giving destructive criticism, but in reality, it can hurt their work, accomplishments, and reputation.

Constructive criticism, on the other hand, is intended to help people improve and grow. This sort of criticism provides actionable recommendations for change and improvement without any judgment, which ultimately leads to a more positive outcome and a better working environment.

Having criticism thrown at you is never easy, but it’s an important part of personal and professional growth. Constructive feedback can help you improve and reach new heights. Learning how to give and receive criticism can make you a better employee, friend, and team member, which makes for a great and comfortable work environment!

Here are 8 tips for giving constructive criticism:

1. Do: Use “I” statements:

“I” statements are a way to express your opinion by focusing on the situation rather than the person you are speaking to. “I” statements start with the following:

“I feel like…”

“I think…”

Instead of —> “You said that,” or, “You did…”

Using “I” statements in feedback can depersonalise the situation and focus on your experience. When you start each sentence with “I” it emphasises that you are expressing your thoughts and opinions, rather than presenting indisputable truths. This approach can minimise the natural defensiveness that stems from criticism and lead to a more constructive feedback exchange.

2. Don’t: Use the sandwich method

You’ve probably heard of the sandwich method before. If you haven't heard of the name, you will however recognise the method itself.

This is possibly the best-known criticism strategy. With this specific method, you start with a positive comment, continue with constructive criticism, and end with another positive comment.

Despite its raging popularity, the sandwich method is not an effective way to provide helpful, constructive criticism. The theory sounds good enough, but this is what’s happening:

You’re building in constructive criticism —> there’s little opportunity to make said feedback actionable or brainstorm the next steps.

Instead, use your time to make your feedback as specific and helpful as possible.

3. Do: Provide actionable feedback

The purpose of giving constructive feedback is to give the person something they can work on. When you provide feedback, don't forget to make it clear that you are open to discussing or brainstorming it further if that will help the person you are giving feedback to.

Good constructive criticism ≠ only pointing out what can be improved

Good constructive criticism = pointing out what can be improved but also including ideas and the next steps the person can take to further develop their skills

Feedback ≠ actionable? Don’t give it!

Without actionable advice, your feedback comes dangerously close to destructive criticism rather than constructive help.

4. Don’t: Give your feedback publicly

Even the best-worded criticism wrapped in the most gentle hands can be difficult to accept, especially if the person you're giving feedback to has spent a lot of time and energy on the job.

Making feedback constructive & helpful —> open dialogue about how the person can improve

This type of dialogue is not possible when you give your feedback publicly. Instead of starting a conversation, the person feels embarrassed, ashamed, or personally attacked. They may react defensively or simply move on without internalising the feedback.

Sit down —> a comfortable, slow, nice chat = creating the best setting for a productive conversation

5. Do: Include positive comments where appropriate

Not using the sandwich method or not recommending using it doesn't mean you shouldn't give positive feedback.

Constructive criticism = more than just negative feedback

Telling someone what they did as well is just as useful. This way, they can spend time honing their strengths while strengthening their weaknesses.

Win-win!

6. Don’t: Force positivity

Avoid contrived positivity. The goal of providing constructive feedback is not to offer hollow praise. Rather, it is intended to facilitate growth and development.

Important: it is always crucial to approach it thoughtfully and genuinely. Insincere feedback can be unproductive and hinder future feedback sessions.

7. Don’t: Give feedback without thinking it through

Before you schedule your feedback session, ask yourself the following:

Is this feedback something that helps them improve?

Do they need to hear this feedback?

Am I willing to brainstorm with them about how they can improve?

What steps, if any, can the person take?

8. Do: Maintain a friendly tone and body language

Your ultimate goal is to help the person improve, even if the feedback is tough to deliver. If you’re unsure about giving constructive criticism, consider practising what you want to say and how you want to say it.

Pay attention to your tone and body language. Avoid frowning, staring, and crossing your arms, as these signals can increase defensiveness and hinder the feedback process.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

To be completely honest, Mattheo is the managing director (a CEO, if you will) of the company for a reason. This leads to the conclusion that he isn't unintelligent by any means. He had a twinkling feeling when he skimmed over the first sentence you wrote, but he was a hundred per cent sure the essay was about him when you wrote ‘if your feedback isn't actionable, don't give it.’

What a clever, clever girl.

“She wrote an entire essay about me,” his deep voice tells Theodore the second his friend picks up the phone. “Do you want to know what it is called?”

“Yes, please. I would be delighted.”

“How to spread constructive criticism instead of destructive criticism.”

Theodore has always been remarkably laid-back, more so than his other friends, or their mutual ones. Relatively quiet, he doesn't say much, preferring to listen more than anything else. He does laugh this time, deep and genuine, “She despises you so much, mate.”

Mattheo’s eyes scan the words in front of him again, his computer screen lighting up the dark office. He skims them again, “I think it’s cute,” he snorts. “She wrote an essay about me, a guide, that is. I believe it is flattering, no?”

“She wrote an essay for you to change your shitty behaviour, it isn't directly about you. And it definitely isn't a compliment,” Theodore corrects with a raspy chuckle, clicking his tongue, some rustling on his side of the line. “I don’t see how it’s flattering, Matt. I’m a bit lost, really. Maybe you should listen to her guide, after all. You’re absolutely terrible at giving constructive criticism.”

“Theo, not you too.”

“I’m sorry, mate.”

⊹ ࣪ ˖

18:02 — 24/06/2004

[Forwarded: Subject: Essay 1, #Draft 1.]

[From: [email protected]]

[To: [email protected]]

Dear Y/N,

I read your essay, and it is very fascinating, I must admit. Quite educational, too. I’m deeply displeased that you've been hiding this talent from me for so long.

Learning how to give and receive criticism can make you a better employee, indeed. I wholeheartedly agree, and I'm beyond delighted we see eye to eye on this. So, here I am. I will propose a deal, yes? I focus on getting better at spreading constructive criticism, and you focus on getting better at receiving any sort of criticism.

A small heads up, this is not going into the column, nor will it ever be published. Perhaps if you write about something slightly more purposeful, it will see some sort of daylight. Here are some ideas: assertiveness vs aggression, solution-oriented vs problem-focused, growth-mindset vs fixed-mindset.

Don't be afraid to reach out to me for more insight or ideas.

My kindest regards,

Mattheo Riddle

⊹ ࣪ ˖

25 June, 2004

Dropping your heavy bag onto your desk the second you walk into the office has become a bit of a routine. A brand new day, you just had an amazing cup of coffee, extra sugar, and Katie wants to go out for dinner later this evening.

Once you feel his presence, your head snaps up within a millisecond, your eyes clashing towards Mattheo’s as he walks by. “Good morning,” he tells you, a taunting smirk tugging at his lips, brown strands of hair falling messily onto his forehead.

“Good morning,” you loudly say, voice screeching throughout the entire office, which makes a few people nearby give you an odd look. You don't hesitate to politely smile at them in return, a silent apology, before swiftly lowering your voice, “About your e-mail. Look, I—”

He halts, glancing over his shoulder, eyes focused on yours, “Your words were loud and clear. I proposed a deal. Do you accept this deal… yes or no?”

“Fine,” you grit out, glancing down at your desk and noticing a stack of papers. You had also given him the printed version of your guide, and he very neatly placed it back onto your desk when he came into the office this morning. “Maybe you should take my essay back, though. You might forget what I wrote, since I know you delete e-mails after reading them.”

“I don't think I will,” he smoothly says, rolling his broad shoulders back while sending you a snappy, charming smile. “Have a great day,” and without another word being shared between the two of you, he turns around and leaves.

When he makes his way back into his office, settling down on his chair, he stares at the copy he made of your essay. Sticky notes are piling up on the papers, since he gracefully went through every sentence you wrote and accompanied your thoughts with his. A scribbled ‘:)’ here, and a ‘how clever’ there.

A small, private smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he places it into a drawer beneath his desk.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

13 July, 2004

“I’m a lot of things, just not a nerd, Fay,” you fold your arms across your chest, which automatically pushes your breasts up, scarcely spilling over the collar of your top. You take a big gulp of your drink, a confused, very small pout tugging at your bottom lip. You direct your vision onto another friend of yours, “Ernie, tell her.”

“Sorry,” Macmillan replies with a broad grin, bumping his fist against your shoulder while actively passing you to reach for the beverage he ordered. The words he utters are ridiculous on their own, considering the only true nerd at this table is him. Ernie Macmillan, the same man who is delicately shaped like a Greek God. The dozen freckles of paint from his recent artwork are still sticking to his face, and even that adds to his endless charm. A yellow fleck beneath his nose, and a blue one on his sharp cheekbone.

“Ye’re a nerd. Eh, maybe not so much of a nerd, ye just fit into that category,” he snaps his fingers, glimpsing at the table. “Could ye pass me that card, Hannah? There we go, thank ye, love.”

“How?” you confusedly ask.

“You dressed up as Marty McFly for Halloween, first of all,” Fay starts listing, holding up three fingers. “You begged Zacharias to dress up as Dr Emmett Brown. When he said no, you asked your dad.”

“What’s the Clone Wars again, darling?” Hannah asks.

“The Galactic Republic and the—” you slap your hand across your mouth, realisation dawning on you. “Not fair, Hannah!”

“Ye’re a bit of a nerd,” Ernie chuckles, light-hearted, soft, and minimally raspy due to the alcohol. He’s always been the most dramatic and pompous of all your friends, but his loyalty cancels it out, and so does the alcohol, apparently. He looks spent, yet undeniably gorgeous. He drags his pale hand through his wavy brown hair, making it appear more messy than presentable. “So what? Wear the title well, love. Ye’ve to honour it, so ye do.”

The conversation drags on, the music playing in the pub adding more ambience to it. Your ears block it all out as you look to the other side of the pub, where, unfortunately, Mattheo walks in. For once in his life, he's not dressed in a prim and proper suit. There are a few people behind him, and you faintly remember Theodore, having seen him around the office before. Lorenzo, his bothersome cousin. An exceedingly pale blond-haired male, a girl with pitch-black hair, and a tall dark-skinned male also follow. You don't recognise them.

Throughout the rest of the night, you try your very best to keep your unlimited focus on your own table and companions. Your eyes have a mind of their own, since they often wander towards one specific male, at another table.

“We need to get you over your boss. This is becoming pathetic,” Fay mumbles, passing you another glass of alcohol. “What are the odds of him even being here? Ah, hold on,” she leans forward, and after a full thirty seconds, her eyes slowly wander back to yours. “Now I get the entire arm argument. Totally valid on your side.”

“Huge, am I right?”

“Yeah. It’s a bit terrifying, actually,” she snorts. “Good for you. Is that what gets you so distracted at work?”

“Sometimes,” you shamelessly admit with a shrug, the alcohol loosening up your honesty. “Most of the time I think about ways I could bash his head in, though. My most original and thought-out way is sneaking up behind him and grabbing his hair. Do you think I could hold onto those curls of his?”

Fay immediately bobs her head up and down, bangs falling in front of her eyes, before she drags it all together and puts it up into a bun, “Definitely. Hey, you could hold onto his hair during other situations as well.”

“I’m not having sex with him.”

“That’s not what I was implying at all,” she winks. “But it’s always nice to know where your priorities lie.”

⊹ ࣪ ˖

Correctly recalling how it exactly happened is impossible, but here's the moral of the story: you’re absolutely pissed. One drink turned into two, a few more drinks followed, and then something stronger was thrown into the mix. You’ve always been relatively adequate at handling your alcohol, you just needed a getaway tonight. Turning to the exact opposite of sobriety is not very healthy, but for tonight, only tonight, it will do.

“I’ll take her home,” Mattheo’s deep voice speaks up from behind Fay. Louder than usual due to all the noise in the pub, and maybe your sensitive, slightly tipsy ears are making things appear differently.

Fay turns around, still holding onto your arm so you don't wander off. That’s the moment she supposes she gets it, why you're so smitten with your boss. Although her type is vastly different from yours, admitting to seeing an objectively handsome man in the flesh right before her eyes isn't something she necessarily struggles with.

Messy curls, which somehow still seem neat, perfectly coiled, a few strands falling in front of those deep brown eyes, which are intense, and not once waver from your drunken form. He’s lean but muscled. You know the type, looks lean, yet has a defined six-pack hiding beneath the shirt they're wearing. For him, it isn't exactly a guess, since his biceps strain against the material of his shirt. One look at him, and Fay can confidently say he definitely has an insane attitude. For your sake, she's trying to look at the layers beneath it, hoping to find some gentleness safely tucked away.

“I don't know,” she softly says, tugging you slightly closer to her. “I do have an early shift tomorrow, but she's my friend. I’m not leaving her with a stranger.”

“I’m not a stranger, I'm her boss,” he deadpans with a swift movement of his hand, briefly glancing at her, before his gaze settles on you again. “I still need her, it’s not like I would bring her to harm. Quite the contrary, actually.”

I still need her, eh?

Fay bites back a smile. How can two stubborn people be so oblivious? Two clever, ridiculously smart people, goodness— the entire situation is beyond silly. “Right,” she slowly nods. “You still need her. I wouldn't want to stand in the way of that, of course.”

“Work-wise,” Mattheo says, eyes snapping to hers, fierce and unwavering. If he stares hard enough, he might as well be able to snap her in half.

The blond-haired male you noticed walking into the pub with him earlier walks over. He places a hand on Mattheo’s shoulder, muttering something in his ear along the lines of ‘leaving’. You catch a few other words, such as, ‘brunch’, ‘tomorrow’, ‘in-laws’, and a male name you cannot comprehend from where you're standing. A minute later he's gone with the black-haired girl.

Fay does allow Mattheo to bring you home, considering she has to drive approximately forty minutes to her flat, and it is already past midnight. It took some convincing on your part as well, and she's more than aware you wouldn't get into a car with someone you don't trust. That settled her nerves. A kiss to your cheek, and a soft, “Text me when you're home,” before she, too, left.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

Mere moments later Mattheo is leading you into a taxi. “I thought you had a fancy car,” you mumble, slumping down into the strangely comfortable seat, roughly pulling on your seatbelt which blocks your advances due to the aggressiveness. He easily takes it from you, before buckling up as well.

“I do have a fancy car,” he says.

“Then why are we in a taxi?”

“My cousin drove me here.”

“You are such a wanker.”

“How does that make me a wanker?” he dryly questions, tilting his head to the side to look at you. You look beyond pretty in the dark light, only the passing street lights making your face light up. Warm orange shades cover half of your face before it goes dark, and the motion repeats for the entire drive. Something about this setting— cosy, quiet, relaxed… it feels oddly intimate.

It makes him feel warm, somewhere in his chest, a little beneath his heart. He can't directly explain that feeling, what it means, why it’s so dead set on staying, or why it only happens when you're near.

Thump thump thump.

“Well, you have a fancy car,” you slur out, pointing a shaky finger at him. “But you go to a pub with your cousin. You’re using up his fuel. Oh, for fuck’s sake, you really are a wanker.”

“Really?” his lips twitch. He straightens his shoulders and stares ahead of him, “Silly argument you have there, doll. In my book, that is called saving fuel.”

“I hate you.”

“Do you really?”

You let out an annoyed sigh, throwing your hands up in the air, a pure moment of frustration, before you let them fall in your lap, “Yes, I do.”

“Perhaps you could write about it in your next essay,” he suggests quietly. Charming, only a little hesitant, but it’s impossible not to miss the teasing tone that is attached to the sentence.

Falling for the bait, you speak up, “My next essay will be called…”

Everything sort of blurs together, and coming up with a single intellectual thought while being taken over by your drunken mind is hard, seemingly. You suddenly gasp, letting out a laugh, and while you're leaning forward, positioning one leg beneath your butt, you place a hand on his thigh to stabilise yourself. “How an annoying boss can affect your work mood.”

“Mhm,” he hums, though his eyes are trained on your hand. The same hand that is currently placed on his muscular thigh. A blink, and he's forcefully dragging his intense brown eyes upwards so he can look at you instead. How undeniably difficult it is, since your hand feels extremely warm, “You seem to be touching me a lot for someone who supposedly despises me.”

Your eyes stare into his, and maybe it’s the universe clashing together, but the taxi makes a turn, which automatically seats you closer to Mattheo. “I do hate you,” you tell him, glancing back at your hand. Staying focused on one thing solely never works out for anyone, since he had discreetly taken your hand off his thigh, without you noticing. So gently, and so smoothly, and now your fingers were entwined with his.

He squeezes your hand.

“I hate you,” you repeat.

He squeezes again.

“Maybe not as much as I want to.”

He squeezes one last time.

“Fine, I don't hate you.”

“There we go,” he breathlessly whispers, a private smile gracing his lips. When one smiles, their skin automatically stretches, it can make a person look entirely different. Younger, as an example, or in this case, more approachable. Mattheo’s entire face changes, and it’s a blizzard sight if you aren't used to it, which you most definitely aren't. It’s admittedly a very pretty view, his brown eyes softening, not appearing as sharp as they normally do.

Colours— there are so many colours complementing his face. Brown for his eyes and hair, red for the tip of his nose thanks to the cold, and a pink-ish shade for his upper cheeks. “Red,” you say. “Your favourite colour, right?”

“Not anymore,” he shrugs, tipping his head backwards.

“Uh, all right,” you awkwardly clear your throat, peeking down at your entwined hands again. They’re surprisingly warm, and they enclose around yours with an unpracticed ease. “What’s your favourite colour then? Also, stop changing colours. Normal people stick to one. Maybe two.”

“My apologies,” an amused breath flies past his lips, the fog visible due to the freezing air outside having crept its way into the taxi. “I’d have to say green.”

“I love green,” Your entire face lights up. “Why is green your favourite colour?”

Mattheo doesn't say anything, he doesn't feel the need to, so he simply looks at you. He allows his facade to drop a moment, and he looks even softer than before, if that were to be possible. When his smile turns into a smirk, the realisation hits you like a fucking truck. Green is his favourite colour because it’s yours.

You huff, “You can't steal my favourite colour. You’re my annoying boss, you already make me so disgruntled, don't take this away from me.”

“I wouldn't even dare.”

“You can't like it just because I like it.”

“That doesn't seem fair, doll.”

“It is! Why would you even like it? You told me you like red, first of all, and based on your personality,” you gesture towards him. “You like black and everything depressing in the world. Such a prick, is what you are.”

He gives you a lopsided grin in response, slight dimples deepening in his cheeks, “You wore a pretty green dress once.”

“Pardon?”

“That green dress you wore for Zacharias Smith’s birthday, about a week ago?” he lets his fingertips graze your knuckles, a barely there touch, yet it leaves fire in its wake. “I liked that colour, and the dress. Or maybe I just like y—”

“That was a fern colour,” you argue.

“Still a shade of green.”

“It’s an entirely different colour.”

“Okay, fine,” he grits out, shaking his head. “Then fern is my new favourite colour.”

It goes quiet after that. Mattheo is generally a patient person, but he too has his limits. He’s not in the mood to argue with you any further, even if it’s light-hearted, for it does not have any positive consequences. While he looks out the window for the rest of the drive, you keep your eyes on him. Trained, studying his every move, every time his eyes twitch or when he scrunches his nose up from the cold.

Everything he does is calculated. From the intake of his breaths, to his blinking rhythm and the number of times he breathes out in the span of a minute. God forbid he's spontaneous for once in his life, but you're almost certain that even his last-minute plans are dotted out to the last detail in his agenda.

“Did you truly like my dress?” you finally break the silence, voice barely above a whisper. Uncertain, hopeful, eyes sparkling. If it had been any quieter, he wouldn't have been able to hear you.

Mattheo nods, humming, but it takes a while for him to finally gather his thoughts and answer. “I did,” he admits. “You looked beautiful. You always do, after all.”

⊹ ࣪ ˖

17 August, 2004

You have been wooed, and in your defence, no one will hear you complaining anytime soon. It’s not what you envisioned, surely, you’d rather be in your flat this time of day, huddled beneath thick and fluffy blankets, ice cream in hand, while a film plays in the background. Hair in a messy ponytail, droopy eyes focused on the television as you rewatch The Sound of Music for the fifth time this year, acting like it’s your first time seeing the classic. Maybe it’s nice to be out for once after all.

Which brings you back to the main discourse: you have been wooed, by your boss, Mattheo Riddle. You’re neatly dressed up, a pretty green dress clinging to your curves in a rather obscene manner. Hair freshly done, having washed it yesterday, but the green dress remains the focus. It looks eerily much like the one he took a liking to. What a coincidence, huh?

The restaurant you're in is way too luxurious for your appreciation. It’s not something you often see, nor is it something you're used to. A night out is great, a small diner, cosy lights, some fast food, and you're good to go. This? A restaurant that practically screams: ‘we have three Michelin stars’ is objectively absurd, and the prices show too many zeros to your liking.

“The Truman Show?”

How you got to the topic of films will forever remain a mystery. One thing you've noticed about Mattheo, something that truly interests you is that whatever you do or say, he adapts to it. He moves on from what he was saying earlier, and he delves into your questions or opinions. It isn't too embarrassing to admit you're fond of that sort of undying attention.

He straightens his cutlery, before reaching for his wine glass, finally nodding, “Must be my favourite Jim Carrey film. And yours?”

“The mask,” you instantly respond, not hesitating for a minute. You scoop up some of your Crème Brûlée, “S-s-s-s-mokin’,” you drag out, swallowing your dessert. “What’s your favourite part about The Truman Show? Everyone must have a favourite part. I suppose mine is where Truman starts to realise something is off about the people around him.”

“I don't necessarily have a favourite moment,” Mattheo notes, tapping his fingers on his thigh, wine glass set back onto the fancy clothed table. He shifts in his seat, leaning forward so he can see eye to eye with you under the darker lighting. “All I know is that he wanted to go to Fiji.”

You laugh, heartfelt and genuine, “Right. I hope he got to go, he deserved that much, at least.”

“Sure did.”

“The Breakfast Club?”

“Not a fan.”

“Me neither, honestly. I was just wondering. I’m sure this would upset many people, though.”

⊹ ࣪ ˖

When he gets home later that night, his mind still lingering on your beautiful green dress and even more gorgeous smile, his heart feels fuller than it ever has. The way your eyes sparkled, how dimples appeared in your cheeks when you either smiled or laughed, the way your cheeks flushed red at simple compliments.

He’s sitting at his desk, with most of the lights already turned off. He’s going over his emails one last time, considering there was an issue with a publisher yesterday. No mail from the publisher, but there is one from you, sent five minutes ago.

As much as he tries, he's physically unable to wipe the ridiculously wide smile off his face.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

22:49 — 17/08/2004

[Subject: Essay 3, #Draft 1. The Truman Show: missed opportunities.]

[From: [email protected]]

[To: [email protected]]

Dear Mattheo,

Need I spend any more words on this… it speaks for itself, no?

Here are reasons why Truman deserved to go to Fiji, and I added additional reasons as to why we deserved to have that as an extra scene. In all honesty, I hope he's there, and I hope he's happy!

Forward this back to me with your thoughts, I'd be more than thrilled to know if you agree or disagree with me. Sitting at the edge of my seat, ahh!

Warm Regards,

[Your Name]

P.S. Thank you for dinner. I had such a lovely evening. X

P.S.S. Good morning! ;-)

(attachment:Truman_Show_Fiji_Draft_v1.docx)

⊹ ࣪ ˖

23:16 — 17/08/2004

[Forwarded: Subject: Essay 3, #Draft 1. The Truman Show: missed opportunities.]

[From: [email protected]]

[To: [email protected]]

Dear Y/N,

I’m pleasantly surprised to see you emailed me so soon.

You are totally correct. It seems that it does speak for itself.

I liked the part where you mentioned he deserved to go to Fiji to pursue true love. I personally think Sylvia also played a part in this. I noticed you didn't mention that, so get back to me and be free to share your thoughts.

I’ve left comments on the document you shared with me, so this email won't be too lengthy. If you're logged in with your email on Word, you should be able to see it. Let me know if that works. I’ll share the document again, just in case.

Sincerely,

Mattheo Riddle

P.S. Don't thank me. I too had a lovely evening. I will call you in the morning. X

P.S.S. Oh, in case I don't see you, good afternoon, good evening, and good night.

(attachment:Truman_Show_Fiji_Draft_v1.docx)

⊹ ࣪ ˖

19 September, 2004

“Singin’ in the Rain?” you ask while covering your mouth with the back of your hand, swallowing the popcorn you all but practically shoved into your mouth just before speaking.

“A classic,” Mattheo smiles.

“You like that one?” you probe, concentrated entirely on him, not the TV. You hand him the empty bowl of popcorn so he can place it back on the coffee table, considering he's sitting upright and you're partially lying down. “That’s grand. I think I would've lost my mind if you uttered some ‘eh, actually–’ rubbish.”

He shamelessly laughs, curls falling in front of his eyes. He places the bowl on the table before settling against the back of the couch. “I like classics,” he confesses.

“Me too,” you agree, voice lowering as your eyes get droopy due to the comfort of both his couch and flat. The lights are dimmed, the audio from the telly precisely loud enough to be considered murmured background noise. “Footloose?”

He lets his head slip backwards, leaning it to the side so he can stare at you. No shame visible in his soft, brown eyes. They used to be sharp, often intense, and even though they're still the latter, you aren't aware when they began getting so soft while looking at you. “Dirty dancing,” he adds. “Grease.”

“I somehow cannot believe you, of all people would like Grease.”

“What does that mean? I have a feeling you're insulting me.”

You burst into laughter, completely obnoxious but equally contagious, the kind of noise that would make a room full of tense people relax. It fades into the air after a while, gradually, apart from his own chuckles and your swallowed giggles, the room turns silent. Not as uncomfortable as one might think, it's surprisingly peaceful, and not once does his gaze waver.

You look back at him, still smiling, you cannot seem to stop or hold it back, “You just don't seem like the type.”

“All right,” he lets his eyelids flutter, before opening again, and diverting them to the television. The film that’s playing is long forgotten, and he can't seem to remember the title. Neither can you. “Your favourite film is The Sound of Music. What’s mine? Three guesses.”

“How do you know my favourite film?”

“You mentioned it a while back.”

Your cheeks flush bright red, starting at your upper cheeks, the tip of your nose, and your ears follow. You mentioned it during a meeting once, multiple weeks ago, you think, you can't even recall. Zacharias had an idea for the newest paper that was about to be published; somehow, the topic formed into cinema, and you had blurted it out. Luckily the meeting had come to an end, considering you had gone off into a ten-minute ramble about the musical.

“Okay,” you clear your throat, shifting on the couch so you're sitting on your knees, body turned to his, thighs barely touching. “My three guesses. Let me think, ehm, ah, okay. Hmm. I think I got it. Are you ready?”

“More than ever.”

“The Godfather,” you list with a proud nod of your chin, fully convinced you're right. “Casablanca. Dracula. Tell me one of them is right.

He nudges his tongue against the inside of his cheek, desperately trying to hide his smile. He fails miserably, because the corners of his lips tug up almost immediately. “Casablanca is my favourite film, yes.”

“You keep surprising me!” You push your hand against his bicep. “I truly didn't peg you as a romantic. I only said it because you mentioned Dirty Dancing and Grease earlier.”

He chuckles. Husky, eyes hooded, curls messy, red lips shiny.

While the silence passes by, and the moonlight brightly shines into the spacious living room, covering half of his face, you speak again. “We’ll always have Paris, huh? I know the airport scene made me cry. Did you?”

“Mhm.”

Mattheo doesn't think he’d ever outright admit that the airport scene, or generally the last twenty minutes of Casablanca made him weep when he watched it for the first time. It’s a memory with his mother he holds very dear.

He was in Spain, one of his cousins was getting married, and later that same evening, when most people had already gone back to their rooms, his mother was watching her favourite film of all time, as she always called it. He never denied her company, so he sat down next to her and watched the entire 102 minutes in silence. She shed a tear, and he laughed while discreetly wiping away his own.

“Do you think in that moment, when Rick said, ‘we’ll always have Paris,’ that he considered it more a symbol than an actual place?” you ask softly. “A symbol of freedom, where everything was possible?”

Mattheo blinks in bewilderment. Your thigh is still touching his, and he reaches out, his pinky looping through yours. “Yes,” he whispers. “They had something real, did they not? They couldn't ever relive it, but it could also never be taken away, because it would always be theirs.”

⊹ ࣪ ˖

5 October, 2004

“What are the two of you bickering about?” Zabini flatly comments while walking into Mattheo’s office, posture eerily straight, like it always is. His suit is shining, not a whiff of dust detectable, the man is a fashion icon, there is no denying it, for everybody knows it’s the truth.

The two of you don't converse a lot, but you've grown fond of him while working here. He says what he thinks without caring about anyone else’s beliefs. Don’t get it twisted, he's a compassionate man, merely distant to most. Unless you, in some strange and unheard of manner manage to waltz your way into his heart.

“Blaise,” you sweetly perk up, shifting your body sideways on the chair so you can look up at him. “Mattheo told me he isn't a big fan of The Maltese Falcon, which I find a disgrace. Isn't every film with Greenstreet, Lorre and Bogart in it pure cinema?”

“Tsk-tsk-tsk,” Zabini lets out beneath his breath, loud enough for you to hear, and you don't miss the cocky smirk on his face. It’s always in place, never twitching, never wavering. “A disgrace indeed, sweetheart. I suppose he isn't a big fan of seeing one man slap another man and say he’ll ‘take it and like it.’”

“Thank you for your valuable input, Blaise,” Mattheo deadpans, eyes thoroughly unamused, lips pressed together. He takes the folders from his friend’s hands and places them on his desk. “It is a good film,” he says, fingertips skimming your arm, before dropping it. “And I would watch it again, for sure. I simply think there are better films out there.”

“Blaise, I'm curious,” you squint your eyes, patting his hand. “What kind of films do you like?”

“No rom-coms,” he immediately declares, tone never hesitating. There is something strangely alluring about how he is always so sure of everything, like he's thought of every question in the world and has an answer ready no matter what. “Unconventional, possibly tragic, complicated,” he lists while leaning against the doorframe. “Give me that, oh, and add horror too. I am sat.”

“You just described Dracula’s Daughter, no?”

A smile coats his face, long gone is the cocky smirk from earlier. He looks more approachable this way. “Indeed, I did,” he murmurs. He winks at you then, “I am a cynical man, sweetheart. What can I say?”

“I admire your weirdness a whole lot, I hope you're aware of that.”

“Thank you very much. I will see myself out now.”

⊹ ࣪ ˖

12 November, 2004

A lot of your friendships withered after graduating from school. You moved away from home, some of your friends moved out of the country, and others remained where they were. Sometimes the path you take doesn't align with your past, and there's no shame in that.

Growing up with Hermione Granger had always been a blessing in disguise. You made a pact with her on the night of your graduation, to have dinner once every two months, and you've been going strong for a few years now.

You take off your coat, press two kisses to her cheek, and sink into the chair. From that moment on, the conversation flows easily, acting like the last time you both texted was to wish her a happy birthday roughly three months ago.

“How did you know you were in love with Ron?” you eventually ask, neatly cutting your steak into tiny pieces.

“Oh, love,” she softly speaks, placing her hand which has quite a few freckles dusted over the flesh, on top of yours. Her wedding ring sparkles dazzlingly under the low lights that are spread across the busy yet quiet restaurant. “Love isn't something you’re able to… how do I explain this? You can't pin it down to one exact moment. It isn't the same as making a list, for whatever task you haven't finalised yet, since it happens when you least expect it. It creeps up on you without even realising it.”

“No fireworks like they always say?” you chuckle, squeezing her hand.

Her lips tug up in a gentle, easy-going smile. Ever since she settled down, built a full-filled life with Ron, she's been calmer, though her clever mind never contemplated fleeing. “No fireworks,” she confidently decides. “You’d see me, and he'd be right there as well. I assume that’s how I knew. Or why everyone knew before we did, really.”

“I’m afraid I'm not following.”

She tucks a curl behind her ear, voice quietening, eyes turning soft, “Life made more sense with him than without him. Even when we argued, which we did quite a lot, especially when we were only friends, I still wanted to eat my lunch beside him. It felt wrong if I didn't. The thought of him not being near me, or the other way around, became unbearable, bit by bit.”

⊹ ࣪ ˖

22 December, 2004

“You brought up a while ago that she loves films,” Theodore adds to the ongoing conversation from where he's sitting at the dining table in Mattheo’s flat. Zabini on his left, Malfoy on his right (with Potter attached to his side), and Berkshire is attempting to make himself a coffee while miserably failing at doing so. They must look exceedingly absurd and silly from an outsider's perspective, think of that group of friends you have during your first week of school, exactly that. “Get her one for Christmas.”

“Does that send a signal?” Mattheo stupidly asks, glancing at the faces sitting at the table. “I don't even know what we are, not exactly, anyway. I held her hand a couple of times, and we often speak about cinema together. She still writes essays, no longer about constructive criticism, more so my lack thereof, but about the things we discuss.”

“You are a grown man, by the way,” Draco exaggeratedly rolls his eyes, bringing the cup of tea to his mouth, lightly blowing on the hot liquid before taking a small sip. “Get her a bloody film for Christmas.”

Harry, who’s leaning his head against Draco’s shoulder, suddenly opens his eye, “A film, definitely. Oh, maybe you could get her something vintage,” he suggests in a questioning tone. “Or biographies of—”

“Angel,” Draco sighs, patting his boyfriend’s thigh in response, letting his hand rest there for the time being. “What have I told you about putting crazy ideas in his head?”

“What would it cost for you to be nice? He’s just in love.”

“He doesn't have to make it everybody else’s problem,” the blond-haired male grumbles in response.

“Mhm, children, please,” Lorenzo calls out from the kitchen, peeking his head out the doorway with a proud grin. “Didn’t she tell you which films she still had to watch? Get her those.”

“You’re absolutely brilliant, mate,” Mattheo breathes out. This proves that the situation is drastic, and that he would go to extreme depths for you, because normally he would never willingly utter those words to his cousin.

“All right,” Blaise interrupts his thinking process, snapping his fingers as he hands Theodore a notepad and a pen. “Name the films, we’ll write them down for you.”

Mattheo briefly closes his eyes, thinking back to his last conversation with you. Rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fingers, he starts listing the films, and Theodore’s neat, cursive handwriting fills up the page.

Christmas present ideas for Y/N

Roman Holiday

Mary Poppins

Nosferatu

The Americanisation Americanization of Emily

The Sound of Music ???

“Is The Sound of Music not her favourite film?”

“Yes, but—”

“She never gets tired of seeing it,” Theodore finishes as he writes down the last name on the piece of paper. “We know. All you do is talk about her.”

⊹ ࣪ ˖

23 December, 2004

⊹ ࣪ ˖

25 December, 2004

A kiss is placed on your cheek, nose, where the soft lips linger, before they move up to your forehead, and then your other cheek. Ultimately, they connect to your own lips, soft and lovely.

“Happy Christmas, doll,” Mattheo’s deep voice connects to your ear. His voice is, on average deeper than most people’s, but in the morning it’s extra hoarse and raspy.

“Happy Christmas,” you whisper, hiding a gigantic smile while pushing your face further into his warm chest. He’s able to feel your lips tugging up against his bare skin, and it makes his chest rumble with a deep laugh beneath you. “I have to go,” you tell him, shifting so you can glance at the alarm clock. “My parents are expecting me, and it’s quite a long drive.”

“I was thinking,” he slowly draws out, feeling hesitant and a tad bit pushy. He uncomfortably clears his throat, pressing a quick kiss to your temple, “I could come with, if you'd—”

“Yes!” you practically pounce on him, wrapping all your limbs tightly around him, squeezing him until he's gasping for air. You press a dozen kisses all over his face, which results in his cheeks flushing, “I cannot wait for my parents to meet you. This is so exciting. Quick, we have to get ready, we don't have a lot of time. Also, Fay always spends the holidays with my parents so you’ll see her family there as well. My favourite person is meeting all my favourite people formally.”

Your eyes go wide, and you whip your head back around to squeeze his cheeks with your thumb and forefinger, squishing them together, “They will know you as my annoying but sexy boss. You’ll have to work hard to get them to like you.”

“Your annoying but sexy boss?” he repeats, downright perplexed, eyes sparkling in amusement and subtle apprehension. “Have you been describing me—”

“Did you not hear me?” you interrupt, pinching his chin, before you roll yourself out of his bed. “There is no time.”

⊹ ࣪ ˖

His Christmas present to you does end up being the five films. All the DVDs are neatly wrapped in wrapping paper, with a tight bow on top, and your name in the corner written in cursive.

“This is the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me,” you had whispered as you energetically lunged at him, a sweet kiss being pressed to the corner of his mouth. “I will forever remember this, thank you.”

If he rang Theodore later that night to tell him both the idea and the presents were a total success, voice slightly laced with nerves, then that would be his secret to keep.

#ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ @ loreshonour writes ་༘࿐#mattheo riddle x reader #boss x assistant #boss x employee #harry potter #mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle x you #boss mattheo riddle

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