Miguel O'Hara x Reader [one-shots]

CRUSH [S/F] (P.IV)

I REALIZED HOW weird it felt to not be cared for after sex. It's not like every man does aftercare, but with Miguel, I just got so used to be cared for. To be loved.

It's kind of taken a toll on me. You never know when it's your last day enjoying something until it happens. And when it happens, that can ever make or break someone.

And for me, it broke me.

I've stopped coming to team meetings, I've distanced myself away from my friends. I've tried to resolve the problem on my own— trying to comfort myself, give myself a self-care day, but it's not the same.

It'll never be the same.

I feel so uncomfortable in my own skin. Like my skin's on fire and no amount of water could burn it out.

I spend my days doing absolutely nothing. I've lost all motivation to do anything. I just stay in my bed for most of my day, hoping to wither and decay.

As I hug myself, my knees against my chest as I lay on the side, a knock suddenly sounds on my door. I've grown pretty used to these knocks, most of them coming from my friends.

I don't respond, but another knock sounds.

I groan. "Go away!"

A minute passes and I don't hear anything more, which I assume would mean they left.

What brings me to the conclusion that I was wrong is when I hear my door open. My eyes widen, and I'm confused as to why my spider-sense didn't warn me.

...Until the person responsible for breaking into my house opens my bedroom door. Then I have my answer.

I look up and groan, pulling my hoodie over my head in hopes that he would disappear.

"Get up," he orders.

"No," I say childishly, hugging myself tighter.

"It wasn't a request, Y/N," he opens the bathroom door, and I hear the water begin to run. He comes back out, his arms crossed as he leans against the wall, so annoyingly beautiful. "Get up, or I'll make you."

I sit up, slapping my hands against the mattress in frustration. I look up at him in defiance, "I didn't ask you to come, Miguel. Turn off the shower, and get out of my damn house."

He shrugs and takes a few steps towards me until he's right at the edge of the bed, standing in front of me. "Suit yourself."

He suddenly picks me up, throwing me over his shoulder. I gasp and begin to hit his back with my fists. "Let me down!"

He doesn't pay attention and walks to my bathroom and closes the door before setting me down.

I glare at him, my hands on my hips. "You're an asshole."

"And you're a mess," he retorts, finally stopping the water from running. He turns and moves to my cabinet, grabbing soaps and whatnot.

He places it next to the tub, and turns around, raising his eyebrows.

"What?" I question rudely.

"You're getting in there," he says as if I had no say in the matter. "Take off your clothes."

I cling to myself harder. "No! I don't want a fucking bath, I want peace and quiet. I want you gone; out of my head, and out of my fucking house!"

His jaw clenches and he looks down at me, his expression stoic. He takes a deep breath and takes a step forward. "You were right. I don't deserve your love. But right now, no matter how much you protest, I'm gonna give you mine. I swore I'd protect you, and I'd take care of you, and I failed on both of those things. So let me love you and protect you tonight, and let me care for you."