Can you do a Matthew Gray Gubler scenario where he is working really hard on writing and directing an episode of criminal minds, and hasn’t been taking care of himself. And so you/reader have to take matter into your/readers own hands, and you/reader treat him a little like a baby. Yeah. so… lots of fluffiness please. Oh and I really love all your other works. 😉
Thank you so very much!…and yes I can, @adorabledorkling! Thank you so much for being patient with me, and I hope you enjoy this. Here is your one-shot, comin’ ‘atcha!
Knocking on Matthew’s door, you bounce from foot to foot as you hold two giant coffees in your hand.
You had found a text from Matthew on your phone at 5 am this morning, asking your opinion on a particular plot-line for some bad guy he was writing in a script or something.
It was all hazy since you had fallen back asleep.
Furrowing your brow as you tuck one of the coffees between your arm and your chest, you jiggle the doorknob, only for the door to flail open.
Walking into his home as you squint to see, you fiddle along the wall until you feel a light switch.
Flipping the light on, you see Matthew on the couch, his hair a tangled, greasy mess as he chews on the back-end of a war-torn pen, his leg bouncing up and down as he sighs heavily.
“Wow…that helps,” he murmurs, jotting something down as you slowly close his front door.
“Matthew?” you ask tentatively.
Shuffling over to him as you sit down, you watch as his eyes flicker over his piece of paper, his eyes darting between ideas as you set the coffees down on the table.
Taking a different colored pen from the pile in front of him, you circle a prompt he has written out as his head jerks over to you, his eyes wide as you smile softly.
“My vote goes to that one,” you say.
“Y/N,” Matthew says breathlessly as his eyes flicker over to the coffee.
“Figured you could use some,” you state.
Watching a smile cross his face as he grabs his coffee, he leans back into the couch as you stand up, going into his kitchen as you rummage around for something to eat.
He didn’t have a damn thing in his fridge.
“Matthew? What have you been eating?” you call out.
“Uh…” he stammers, his mind only half-heartedly pondering your question, “I-I…I don’t know. Hold on,” he says.
Finally finding an apple at the back of his fridge, you find a dull knife and do your best to peel it quickly, feeling around for your keys as you thrust the apple into his face from behind him.
“What’s this?” he asks, crinkling his nose as he tilts his gaze back up to you.
“Your breakfast,” you say flatly.
“I’m not hungry,” he says, trying to brush you away as you begin to run your fingers through his tangled, matted hair.
“If you don’t eat this apple, I’m slinging you over my shoulder and dragging you outside,” you threaten.
“Uh huh…” he acknowledges, engrossing himself into the script in front of him as you sigh, your hand reaching down for his as you turn his palm up, placing the apple in his hand and curling his fingers around it.
“Eat,” you state, grabbing your coffee and heading for the door.
It was time to grocery shop.
2 hours and a fully-stocked kitchen later, you find Matthew in his room, a heavenly scent coming from his bathroom as you inch the door open, finding his body slumped down in a vat of bubbles, his pen between his teeth as his furrowed brow scans over what was probably one of many drafts of his script for his show.
“How was your apple?” you ask, leaning against the door-frame and crossing your arms as his eyes flicker over to you momentarily.
“Good,” he states, going right back to his script as he jots down an idea, his eyes lighting up as a smirk travels across your face.
“Well,” you start, pulling up a small stool beside the tub as you grab a cup, dipping some of the warm water into its opening as you hold it over Matthew’s head.
“…close your eyes…” you whisper.
Hearing him sigh, you watch his script slowly lower itself, his hand meandering the paper out to the side of the tub as his arm drapes over the edge, his eyes fluttering closed as you begin to massage the bubbles into his scalp.
“…I have honey-basil chicken cooking in the crock-pot for dinner, and I’ll make some garlic mashed potatoes to go along with it,” you finish.
“But I don’t…I don’t think I-”
Hearing him groan lightly as you begin to work down his neck, your fingers massaging his shoulders as he flops his head forward, you smile kindly to yourself as you say, “You have one now.”
Slowly rinsing the suds from his hair, you reach for his conditioner as you run your fingers through his locks, your fingers swiping over his forehead every so often so that it doesn’t get into his eyes.
“How much more time do you have to work on the script?” you ask.
But you were only answered with a groan.
Washing your conditioned hands off in the tub, you help Matthew ease his body back, his neck and head balancing on the indention in the tub as you get up and look for a towel to wipe your hands off.
“I have until Monday,” he murmurs.
“Ah, alright,” you muse, your eyes twinkling as you look over at a relaxed Matthew, his eyes closed and his body floating amongst the lavender bubbles.
And as you go to leave the room, you hear Matthew shift momentarily, your head whipping back to look at him as you shake your head, his body lifted out of the tub as his fingers wiggle and stretch for the script on the floor.
This man was an absolute mess.
While he continues to sit in his bath, his feet surely wrinkling to those of a 90 year old man, you begin to pick his clothes up off of the floor, putting his wacky stuffed animals back in their rightful places as you pick up scattered red-solo cups and mismatched socks.
Throwing the clothes into the laundry, you pour a massive amount of detergent over the smelly material as you crank up the water temperature, your hand reaching for the febreeze as you go and attack his sitting area, no doubt lingering with the smells of Matthew’s showerless stench.
Fluffing the cushions and making his bed, you peek around into the bathroom once again as you see him sitting there, an hour later, all of the bubbles basically popped, the conditioner still in his hair.
Sighing as you grab a towel, tossing it into the bath as you take him by surprise, you grab the script from his hand and toss it onto the bathroom counter.
“Hey!” he protests.
“The conditioner, Matthew,” you state.
Watching the realization cross his face, you realize that he truly had forgotten that it was on top of his head still.
Dipping the cup into the, shockingly, still-warm water, you start pouring it over his head, the water trickling down his neck and face as he closes his eyes, the towel sinking into the tub over his naked body as you slowly begin to work the contidioner out of his hair.
“At least your hair’ll be really soft,” you murmur slyly.
Reaching for a smaller towel and drying off his hair, you slide over and reach into the water, your shirt getting wet as you pull the plug on the bathtub drain, your eyes flickering up to Matthew, his eyes watching your every move.
“Am I gonna have to help you out, too?” you ask playfully.
“No,” he chuckles, a grin flickering over his face.
“Good,” you snicker, shaking your head as you pull your arm out of the water and shake it furiously.
“Dinner’ll be ready in about-”
“Y/N?” Matthew calls out.
Hearing a huge slosh of water, you whip around, your arm still damp as you take in Matthew’s tall form, his hand holding the sopping wet towel around his body as he steps out of the tub.
“Yeah?” you respond.
“Thanks,” he says.
“Not a problem,” you smile.
“No, really. I-I-I…get so lost in scripts sometimes, and before I know it it’s been three days since I’ve bathed and an entire weekend goes by before I eat and it-”
Watching him run his fingers through his wet hair, you see him reach out and grab the script from the bathroom counter, your eyes studying him closely as you try not to rake your eyes across his body.
“Just…thank you,” he says, his voice steady and reassuring.
“Really…it’s not an issue,” you say, shaking your head lightly as you back out of the bathroom, turning your back to him as you follow the smells wafting in from the kitchen.
Dinner was almost done, and you hadn’t started the potatoes yet.