lover girl @drspencr - Tumblr Blog

Sep 11, 2025

professional | mgg x fem!reader

pairing: matthew gray gubler x fem!reader summary: you’ve been rivals from day one, but now every glance and every touch makes it hard to hate him. the line between enemies and lovers is disappearing. 5.2k content warnings: slight angst, swearing, oral (f receiving), fingering (f receiving), penetration (p in v) masterlist

The briefing room was quiet now, the rest of the team off for the night. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting harsh shadows on the floor, but all you could focus on was Spencer. The way his curls fell so perfectly, the way his brown eyes were fixed on yours. He leaned against the table, arms crossed as you approached him.

“You know,” he said, teasing but with an edge, “we make a pretty good team.” He smirked, stepping a fraction closer.

“Professional… sure.” His hand brushed against yours as he reached for a folder on the table—just a light touch, but it lingered longer than necessary.

You swallowed, aware of how close he was, aware of how your pulse had jumped. “Spencer… we shouldn’t—”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly, searching your eyes. “Shouldn’t what?”

Spencer’s hands stretch out to your waist, and you let them. You want him more than you care to admit, but a quiet voice in the back of your mind keeps you from falling completely. His brown eyes are deep, soft, and dangerously inviting. Your eyes dart from his stare to your hands on his chest, which are slowly traveling to his neck.

“Shouldn’t…” Your voice trails off, heart hammering, as your eyes scan his face – his eyes, his lips, the feeling of his hair in between your fingers.

Spencer filled the gap between your bodies, and for a heartbeat, the room disappeared. Inches. Inches between your lips. The world felt like it had condensed into the tiny space where your faces hovered, your breaths mingling.

“I…” you stammered, words catching in your throat.

Spencer’s smirk softened. “You don’t have to say it,” he whispered.

You blinked, ready to lean in. Finally ready to feel his lips against yours—after years of longing, after all the hints, all the stolen glances—he was right there. So close you could feel the warmth of his breath.

Ding!

You both froze, letting out a breath you didn't even know you were holding in. Spencer stepped back, though only slightly, wiping his sweaty hands on his pants. “We… we should probably—”

“Yeah. Definitely… professional,” you managed, your voice betraying a little more than you intended.

His brows furrowed in disappointment. “Professional,” he repeated, as if he was trying to convince himself.

You smiled gently at him. “Well... gotta go. Duty calls.”

You turned to leave the room, but a hand grabbed your wrist—first firm, then gentle. Soon, you were face-to-face with Spencer again, his eyes dark with determination, full of desire.

“—And CUT!”

The word sliced through the tension like a knife. Matthew’s face fell the instant the director’s voice echoed through the set. He pulled away, as if looking at you had physically pained him. Disgust flashes in his eyes before looking over at the crew and smiling.

You leaned back, waving your hand in front of your face like you could clear the taste of his breath out of the air. “You could’ve brushed your teeth a little better, Gube.”

He stuck his tongue out at you, childish as ever, and sauntered away toward the snack table, tossing a wink at a passing camera operator on the way.

Classic Matthew. Always performing.

It wasn’t just today, it’s always. Ever since you’ve met him, he has been the golden boy on set, the one who remembered everyone’s names and coffee orders, who cracked jokes loud enough to make the entire crew laugh. Always friendly, always magnetic.

Except with you.

With you, he was different. He never remembered your coffee order. He didn’t bother with your name half the time, just tossed out a casual “Hey, you” like it was an inside joke. He’d charm the extras, thank the makeup team, but when it came to you, it was nothing but eye-rolls and jabs.

And then there were the improvs. Little touches he slipped into scenes just to throw you off—an unscripted hand on your waist, a whispered line the director loved. Everyone praised his “creativity.” But you knew better. It was so subtle that it seemed like nobody else noticed.

And out of all people, somehow, you were stuck playing his love interest. Every scene was a battlefield of tension, sarcasm, and tiny provocations, and you had no choice but to act like you liked him… while secretly wanting to strangle him.

But by the time you'd changed out of your costume, a production assistant was already herding you toward the press room. Rows of lights, cameras, and chairs filled the space, buzzing with energy and anticipation for the behind-the-scenes of the season finale.

You sank into the only empty chair, next to Matthew, noting just how close the seats were. He ignored your presence and continued to smile and wave to the press.

“Welcome, everyone!” The interviewer began, microphone in hand. “We’re so excited to have the cast of Criminal Minds here and ready to answer some burning questions. First, we have Matthew Gray Gubler playing Dr. Spencer Reid.”

An applause erupted as Matthew once again flashed his movie star smile.

“And…” The interviewer glances at his cards, though you knew he didn't really need them. “And Y/N.”

Your name. Always the afterthought.

Before you can say anything, let alone wave to the crowd, Matthew leans into his mic with a wide grin. “Oh, she’s the real star. I just make sure she doesn't trip over her lines.” Laughter fills the room.

Your smile froze. He always knew how to make you look small without ever sounding cruel. But that was his trick: loud, funny, charming, and impossible to ignore. The worst part is that you never get to defend yourself without looking like the uptight one. The second you snapped back too hard, the tabloids and fans would spin it, and the “magic” of the growing on-screen couple would crack. So you sat there, lips pressed into a smile that didn't reach your eyes, letting him steal the spotlight again.

The interviewer chuckled. “Well, from what we saw on set, the chemistry is undeniable. How do you two make it look so effortless?”

You opened your mouth, but Matthew beat you to it.

“Honestly? She makes it easy.” He casually draped an arm over the back of your chair for the cameras. “Even if she does complain about my teeth.”

You rolled your eyes, smile tight but camera-ready. If you didn’t let something out, you’d burst.

You tilted your head toward him, smiling sweetly enough for the fans to eat it up. “Well, I’ve had plenty of practice carrying our scenes.”

The reporters burst into laughter, louder this time. Matthew’s grin didn’t falter, but there was a flicker in his eyes—sharp, calculating—before he recovered it with that practiced charm. The cameras flashed, eating up the banter like it was scripted. But you knew better. Every smile was a battle, and every word a jab hidden beneath sugar.

The interviewer moved on to the next costars.

Matthew’s hand slid casually to your shoulder, squeezing just firm enough to make your pulse jump. He leaned in, voice low enough for only you.

“Carrying the scene, huh? That’s a lot of responsibility. Hope you don’t drop me.”

You shot him a quick glare, keeping your lips curved for the press. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll make sure you look good. Just don’t get used to it.”

His squeeze lingered a second longer before he pulled back, grin wide and dazzling for the press. To them, it looked like chemistry. To you, it felt like a challenge you refused to lose.

You felt his daggering eyes at you for the rest of the interview.

–

Later that night, you packed up your script and made your way down to Matthew’s trailer. As much as you hated being around him and how he made you feel, you loved your job, and you liked to be good at it.

You knocked on Matthew’s trailer door, your stuff clutched to your chest like armor. He opened it, damp hair sticking to his forehead, T-shirt clinging just enough to make you resent noticing. The door clicked shut behind you, and the trailer suddenly felt too small, too warm.

“Wow,” he said, smirking. “Didn’t think you’d be dying to see me this soon.” He ruffles his hair with a towel, turning away.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I just think we should… practice tomorrow’s scene,” you said flatly. You find a spot on his tiny couch, noticing his knick-knacks on the windowsill, how the room smells faintly of vanilla-pumpkin spice candle and musk from his deodorant. It all screams him. You fold in on yourself, trying not to notice how little room there is for you here, the same way there’s never room for your voice when he’s in front of the cameras.

He raised a brow. “Finally admitting you like spending time with me off set?”

“Keep it professional,” you snapped.

He leaned against the edge of the table, arms crossed. “Professional,” he repeated, mock-serious. “Because that’s been going so well between us.”

“I’m just trying to do my job, and I suggest you do the same.” You rolled your eyes. “Can we just rehearse?”

Matthew clears his throat and sits on the opposite end of his small couch. You flipped to the scene, perched on the edge of the bed like you were ready to bolt. “Fine. Let’s just get through this.”

You straightened your back and turned your body towards his, getting into character. Your voice softened as you read the line: “We’re partners. That’s it. That’s all it can ever be.”

Matthew didn’t even glance at his script. His tone shifted, soft yet deliberate: “Then why does it feel like it’s already more than that?”

The words landed too heavy, too real. You blinked at him, caught off guard. “That’s… not the line.”

He smirked, leaning in just enough to crowd your space. “Maybe not. But it’s better.”

You shot him a glare, gripping your script tighter. “Or maybe you just can’t help yourself. Always improvising, always making it about you.”

He chuckled under his breath, unbothered. “Maybe I just like watching you squirm.”

“Just read the correct line. We need to hit the beats the director wants.”

He laughed softly, that easy, infuriating charm lighting up his features. “Right… so now you’re my coach?”

Your pulse spiked, and you slammed the script in your lap in frustration. “Is this a joke to you? Can we just practice normally? For once?”

Matthews’s grin softened, just slightly. “Fine. Start from the beginning.”

He straightened, this time delivering the scripted lines as written. No interruptions, no improvisation. But he was closer now, knees brushing yours. Heat shot through you, but you forced your gaze down, pretending it meant nothing. Be professional, you thought.

Taking a deep breath, pushing yourself back into character– in love and full of desire. “We’re partners. That’s it. That’s all it can ever be.”

Matthew leaned just a fraction closer, eyes locking on yours as his hand finds a way to rest gently on yours. His thumb grazes your knuckles ever so lightly; you almost wonder if he did it on purpose.

His voice was low, carrying both the character and something devious beneath. “What happens if we don’t stop here?”

Your pulse spiked. You gripped the script tighter, forcing yourself to stay focused. “…If I cross that line with you, there’s no going back.” The words come out thinner than intended, not your character’s voice but your own.

The scene is supposed to hover at the brink of a kiss. Instead, you can feel his breath ghost against your lips, minty, warm, and intoxicating. Heat creeps up your neck. His knee presses against yours, just enough to make you aware of every inch of him. You tilt forward an inch, without meaning to– your noses touch. And for a heartbeat, his lips are almost brushing yours.

When you open your mouth for the next line, nothing comes. Blank. Empty.

You’re caught in his gaze, pulse stumbling. It’s infuriatingly hard to hate him when he plays the part this well. You try to convince yourself it’s just his character bleeding through—that the hunger in his eyes isn’t real, that the heat sparking in your chest is just good acting.

“I… I—”

Matthew’s grin widened, sharp and teasing. “I-I-I-" he mocks. "Forget your line, sweetheart?” His thumb skims your knuckles, enough to make your breath catch.

Before you can even process what's happening, he continues, voice low and deliberate. “You’re trembling… you call that acting?”

Heat rushed to your cheeks. “Shut up,” you hissed, pulling your hands out from underneath his. “I think we’re done here.”

You put your guard back up, straightening your posture and forcing your voice steady. But underneath it all, you can’t help but feel the hint of uncertainty, and the faint sting of disappointment in yourself. You hate that you can still feel your heart pounding from the scene.

“Done already? I thought you were supposed to be the professional who carries our scenes,” Matthew grinned, pleased with himself.

You grab your things and turn towards the door. “Save it for tomorrow, Gube,” you snap.

The last glimpse you get of him, he’s leaning back, smirk tugging at his lips, watching you stomp away like he’s won some private victory. And maybe… he has.

You were fighting with yourself as you walked to your trailer, caught between the butterflies in your stomach and the nagging bad feeling his presence always gave you. Mad at yourself for even feeling this way—after all the times he’d pressed your buttons, made you flustered, and pushed you to the edge.

You forced yourself to take slow breaths as you reached your trailer, trying to shake off the lingering heat from the day. One day at a time. One scene at a time. You just needed a good night’s sleep to get through tomorrow.

And yet… the thought of facing him on set again made your stomach twist with both dread and something you weren’t quite ready to name.

The morning arrived too quickly. The set was buzzing with crew members getting ready for the next scene. But your focus was elsewhere, pinned on him—Matthew. The memory of last night, the teasing, the close proximity in your trailer, made your pulse jump every time he glanced your way.

You clutched your script a little tighter, forcing yourself into character. “Professional,” you muttered under your breath, trying to banish the butterflies. You closed your eyes, taking deep breaths, grounding yourself in the persona of someone else; someone who wasn’t grappling with the confusing feelings for a co-star you swore you hated.

A set of hands landed heavily on your shoulders, breaking through your focus. Your chest tightened instantly at the familiar presence.

“Ready for round two?” Matthew’s voice whispered in your ear, low and teasing, the same one you’d spent all night replaying in your head.

You shook his hands off, smoothing your clothing, forcing your pulse to steady. “Ready,” you said, voice tight, controlled, but your heartbeat said otherwise.

As the cameras rolled, the scene unfolded like yesterday, but everything felt heavier, more charged. Every glance, every accidental—or maybe not so accidental—brush of his knee against yours sent a jolt through you. You felt it in the way he held your gaze, teasing and deliberate, daring you, challenging you, as your mind flashed back to last night.

It was always easy to separate your personal life from your work—but this time, you could barely focus. A tiny shift in his shoulder pressed against yours, and heat pooled in your stomach. His fingers brushed your script as he adjusted it, lingering just a moment too long. The faint scent of him: shampoo, musk, something uniquely him made it impossible to think about anything else.

You forced yourself to take a deep breath, grounding yourself in the scene. You reminded yourself to be professional, to not let the reality of your feelings mess up your acting on set. You were supposed to be in love and scared, not confused and fueled with hate. And yet, every subtle movement, every intentional glance, made your pulse spike and your thoughts scatter, whether it was acting or not.

“—Y/N? Y/N?”

“Huh?”

Heat rushed to your cheeks as you realized you were standing in the middle of the set, staring at Matthew.

“It’s your line, Y/N.”

“S-Sorry,” you stammered, embarrassed. “Sorry… let’s do that again.”

“Pull yourself together,” Matthew teased—but this time, his hand found yours, squeezing it gently. Shocked, your breath hitched, but the touch grounded you somehow. You drew in a deep breath, forcing your mind back into the moment as the director yelled, Action!

His squeeze lingered just long enough to give you a spark of courage. You started the scene with renewed focus, letting the tension fuel your performance, every line landing with conviction, every glance between you carrying the weight of both your characters—and a little of your own unspoken emotions.

Matthew starts the scene, “What happens if we don’t stop here?”

You froze, pulse spiking—not just because of the words, but because you remembered the electricity of last night. “…If I cross that line with you, there’s no going back,” you said, steady in voice, though every fiber of you buzzed with anticipation.

Your breath hitched in your throat as his lips brushed yours, soft at first, teasing, before pressing further—harder, more demanding, more desperate. Your body responded instinctively, leaning into him as if it had always known this moment would come. Your hands tangled in his curls, gripping, pulling him closer, while the strength of his arms wrapped around you, pressing you against him. You could feel the seams of his clothes, the solid weight of him anchoring you, and every nerve in your body screamed with awareness—every touch, every motion, filled with longing and hunger.

“Cut!” the director’s voice snaps you out of the haze. You barely move, still pressed against him, lungs burning as you try to catch your breath. The room feels smaller, the air heavier after what just happened. “That was perfect, we don't need any more takes. Good job, guys.”

Matthew straightens just enough to look down at you, smirk tugging at his lips, and murmurs, “Guess I carried that scene better than expected… again.”

Heat rises to your cheeks—not from the kiss this time, but from irritation. Your jaw tightens. “Really?” you hiss, shoving slightly at his shoulder as you stand up. “Some things never change, huh? Still the show-off, still trying to steal every damn scene, even with me right here.”

He raises a brow, mock innocence in his gaze. “I’m just… confident. You could learn a thing or two.”

Your hands clench at your sides, and you take a shaky breath. “Confident? Or insufferable?” you snap. “You’re impossible.”

And just like that, the butterflies and tension from the kiss clash with the old frustration you’ve always felt around him—the reminder that, no matter what, he’s still Matthew, still your irritating, infuriating costar.

He stands up and steps closer to you, not enough to be threatening, but enough that the warmth of his body is felt against yours. “Oh, come on,” he murmurs, teasingly, “don’t tell me you’re still mad at me. You were the one leaning into me half the scene.”

You blink at him, heat and irritation mixing. “Leaning in? That’s called surviving your constant… theatrics,” you snap, stepping back just enough to create space, but not enough to completely remove the pull between you.

He smirks, tilting his head, eyes glinting with mischief. “Surviving, huh? Maybe… or maybe you just like it.”

Your pulse spikes, and you grit your teeth. “Don’t flatter yourself,” you hiss. “Some things don’t change. You still know exactly how to get under my skin.”

“Good,” he says softly, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “Wouldn’t be any fun otherwise.”

And in that instant, you realize it’s true—no matter how infuriating he is, no matter how much he teases and pushes, part of you can’t ignore the pull, the electricity that’s always been there… even in the middle of hating him.

“I need air.”

You headed back to your trailer to clear your head.

–

A knock rattles your door.

Matthew strolls in, a smirk tugging at his lips, leaning casually against the doorway. “Thought you’d need some space after that little scene,” he teases, eyes glinting with mischief.

“What do you want from me, Matthew?” you snap, crossing your arms, cheeks still warm from the set.

He raises an eyebrow, mock innocence in his expression. “Oh… I don’t know. Maybe just to see if you survived that kiss without running off screaming?”

You groan, burying your face in your hands for a moment. “Maybe if you weren’t such a show-off, you’d notice how hard I’m actually working here.”

Matthew tilts his head, grin widening. “Jealous of me?”

“Jealous? Are you kidding me?” you hiss. “How do you always manage to do this? Make it about you, make me flustered, make it impossible to focus!”

He steps closer, careful, deliberate, letting his presence press into the small space. “Do what?”

“You know exactly what,” you snap. “Push, tease… make me feel like I can’t even think straight around you.”

He pauses, smirk softening slightly, tilts his head as if weighing his next words. “Maybe I just… like seeing you like this.”

You blink at him, exasperation breaking through. “Why do you do this to me, Matthew? Why do you hate me?”

For a beat, he looks caught off guard, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Then he scoffs, “You’re good at everything, always prepared, always perfect. And I… I don’t like how much I notice it, how much it gets under my skin. Ever since I’ve met you, you've been so flawless, so calculated, like you don't even need to try. Meanwhile, I’m standing next to you, working twice as hard just to keep up. It intimidated me. It pissed me off.”

He exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his curls, his eyes darting away as if saying the next words costs him something. “And then I caught myself looking forward to it. Watching you, waiting for you to slip, just once, so I wouldn’t feel so—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening.

His gaze snaps back to you, heavier with a hint of defeat. “You don’t know what that does to a guy’s pride. To want to hate you, but… not being able to.”

You stare at him, chest tightening. “So… you act like a jerk because you’re jealous?”

“Maybe,” he admits quietly. “Or maybe I just like pushing your buttons.”

You shake your head, half exasperated, half something else. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet… you’re still here,” he murmurs, leaning just slightly closer before stepping back, letting the tension linger.

“It’s my fucking trailer,” you scoff, crossing your arms tighter.

Matthew chuckles, tilting his head, amusement in his eyes. “Yet… you’re not kicking me out.”

You replay his words in your head, something tugging at you. Has it all been some twisted, miscommunicated rivalry? Did he actually… admire you, all this time? The thought makes your chest tighten, and you quickly turn away before he can read it on your face.

When you finally speak, you turn your head, voice sharp, smug—the only shield you have. “Maybe I just like having a front-row seat to your ego in action.”

He tilts his head, grin softening, eyes locking on yours in a way that feels less like a jab and more like a confession. “Then why do you stay? Do you even notice how close I am?”

You shift without realizing it, turning your body a little more toward him—and that’s when it hits you. His chest nearly grazes yours with every breath. His hand rests at his side, but close enough that if you moved even an inch, your fingers might brush. His body was nearly flush against yours, and the air between you buzzed with the kind of pent-up energy you’d been pretending wasn’t there.

Your throat tightened, words catching before they could form. You hated the way your body betrayed you—how your pulse quickened, how you leaned the slightest bit closer, as if pulled by something magnetic.

“Matthew…” you started, but his name left your lips softer than you intended, laced with warning, want, and something in between.

Your back hits the trailer wall before you even register that Matthew’s hand is on your waist, pulling you in, his breath hot against your cheek. There’s no trace of the character in his eyes now—no script, no scene. Just him. Raw. Hungry.

“Fuck…” he breathes, jaw clenched like he’s been holding this in for far too long. His forehead presses to yours, his breath hot against your lips.

Your heart slams against your ribs, every nerve in your body screaming to run, yet you find yourself clutching fistfuls of his shirt, desperately pulling it off his body.

“We can’t,” you cautioned, though your voice cracks with need.

“Tell me to stop… and I will,” he growls, helping you with ridding his shirt.

Your hands roam his skin, exploring each crevice and muscle. “You’d hate me if I did.”

His lips ghost over yours, barely a breath apart. “I already hate how much I want you.”

The words punch through your chest like both a confession and a sin. He presses you against the wall, holding you close, and you instinctively wrap your legs around him. His kisses are urgent, tracing from your jaw to your neck, down toward your collarbone, each one making it impossible to think of anything else but him. Every brush of his lips, every heat-charged movement, leaves you trembling in his arms.

His mouth crashes against yours, mind-numbing and urgent, lips fighting with yours in a heated, hungry rhythm. You’re pushed down on the tiny couch in your trailer, while Matthew is on his knees, tugging your pants down. “You have no idea how many times I've thought about this moment,” he murmurs.

“Matthew…” you whisper, half a warning, half a plea.

He leans in between your legs, so close that his warm breath fans over your wet panties. “Stop… or not,” he teases, letting the words hang in the air, knowing you can’t resist the pull.

“Just be gentle,” you breathe, closing your eyes in anticipation.

He nods assuringly and slides down your underwear with ease. You watched as he marveled at your glistening pussy. Without a word, he dives in between your thighs, his tongue desperately flicking your clit as if he'd been starving for this moment, and it was the only thing that could keep him breathing.

You arch your back in bliss, taking in a sharp breath and letting it out in soft moans. His hands skim your legs, slow and teasing, a contrast to the hunger in his mouth. He squeezes and caresses your thighs, enjoying you– the way you taste, the way you sound, the way you look when he’s making you feel good.

A finger slides inside you, moving in and out, perfectly timed with the way his tongue works magic on you. Your mind goes blank—you can’t even form a sentence, not that you could speak over the moans and curses escaping your lips. Every touch, every motion makes it impossible to think of anything but the burning pleasure coursing through you.

“Matthew,” you moan. Your hand runs through his hair, tugging it ever so slightly whenever he hits your clit in just the right spot.

He pulls away from your pussy, his mouth and nose, glistening with a mix of your liquids and his saliva. “Say my name… louder.”

“Matthew!” you scream. He speeds up, and you can only squeeze your eyes shut, focusing on how well he's treating you right now. “FUCK, please.”

He stops and pulls out two digits, taking a moment to admire his work before stuffing them into your mouth. You’re a mess, but instinctively take them in, swirling your tongue around his skin, tasting yourself.

He smirks, low and commanding. “Don’t move… not yet. Stay right there.”

Not that you were planning to—your body is still trembling, lungs catching, muscles melting into the couch as you come down from your climax. Your eyes widen as he pulls down his jeans, the wet spot on his boxers and the large bulge beneath making it impossible to look away.

“Shit,” you say under your breath.

Matthew chuckles, “Yeah. Shit.”

He pulls down his last piece of clothing as his cock springs out. He swipes his tip up and down the wetness between your legs, letting your juices lubricate his length as he slides into you slowly. You both moan in ecstasy.

“Fuck. Fuck me, Matthew,” you stammered.

“Do you even realize what you do to me?” he growls, voice low, dragging just enough to give you goosebumps.

You bite your lip, heart hammering. “You’re the one who keeps pushing me, Matthew.” You moan, voice trembling with frustration and need. “You’ve been doing it since day one—pissing me off, stealing the spotlight, making me… want things I shouldn’t. Making me hate you and want you at the same time.”

He smirks as he thrusts into you, kissing your lips. “Oh, so it’s my fault now? I thought you hated me.”

“I did,” you whisper, shaking your head. “I thought I did… until you made it impossible not to notice you. Until now.”

His eyes are dark yet full of desire, watching your face contort and scrunch in pleasure as he fucks you into the couch. “Funny… I’ve been doing the same thing. Trying to make you hate me, trying to keep you off balance… and yet here you are, letting me in.”

His grip on the cushions tightens as he moves faster, his moans blending with yours. Skin slaps against skin with each thrust, sending jolts of pleasure through your body as you scream in euphoria.

The air is thick with ragged curses and gasps, your names tumbling from each other’s lips in a heated rhythm. Every touch is electric. Skin slapping against skin, lips colliding, hands gripping and roaming. Even in the frenzy, the old tension flickers between you: the teasing, the bickering, the unspoken rivalry that’s turned into something far more dangerous.

“You feel too good,” he hisses, half accusation, half confession, as if he can’t decide whether to be angry or grateful.

“You started this,” you gasp back, voice trembling, clutching at him as much as at your own self-control. The line between hate and want is razor-thin; every movement, every press, a reminder that the walls you’d built around each other are crumbling.

You feel his body tense, hips stuttering for a moment, and yet every movement drives you wild nonetheless. Matthew buries his face in your neck, a breathless, “I’m close,” is whimpered in your ear.

With one last grunt, he releases into you, then collapses beside you, both of you crammed into the tiny couch. You lie there, chests heaving, letting the heat of the moment linger as you try to catch your breath and process what just happened.

Bodies tangled but slowly coming back to reality. Matthew turns and brushes a strand of hair from your face, smirking like he’s still got that mischievous spark.

“You act like you hate me,” he murmurs, voice low, teasing—but there’s a glimmer of something softer in his eyes, “but your body tells a different story.”

You glare at him, cheeks burning, but instead of snapping at him, a reluctant smirk tugs at your lips. “Oh, please,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Careful, Gube… your ego’s getting dangerously full again.”

He chuckles, shifting so he’s sitting upright beside you, still close enough to feel the warmth radiating off your skin. He grabs your hand, rubbing his thumb across your knuckles. “So… friends?” he asks quietly, letting the question hang between you.

“Friends?” you echo, eyebrow raised. “After all that?”

He shrugs, grin softer now. “Yeah… after all that. Doesn’t mean I’ll stop pushing your buttons.”

You roll your eyes, but your smirk grows, a mix of exasperation and something warmer. “Fine. Friends it is… for now.”

———

a/n: hiiii guys im back (?) hopefully hehe this is my first piece of writing after years and i wanna get back into writing so if there's still ppl out there reading cm fics pls interact loll also my requests are open!! i'll try to get to them but i just want to ease into it :) anyway hope yall enjoyed!!