#this is random ik i just had a like. moment of self doubt abt the direction we're taking our stuff in

[themissingnumbers]

[not to talk randomly for a second but sometime i could really go on an essay style rant about my beliefs in pokepastas as a perfect childhood trauma metaphor and that would immediately explain like 90% of every narrative decision made for our parts of this blog. it would be an awesome essay i feel very strongly about this]

[scoobysnakz]

heyy girl i think if u haven’t what abt u write a dbf miguel x reader ik i see so many but theyre so gd to read they get me so invested every time🤷🏽‍♀️

summary: you’ve just come home from college for christmas but there’s a stranger in your bedroom

a/n: dbf as in dads best friend or dad boy friend? 😭 i’d do either but for this i’ll do dads best friend bc… yh. also tysm for the request it means sm 😚😚😚 also I guess this is a fic now? Bc I kinda hate one shots bci can never cut down on lore and stuff.

❤️

You hadn’t realised how easily college had managed to seep its way into every aspect of your life, pulling you away from both your family and social life, until you came home for Christmas.

Everyone looks so different, your mum is more colourful and chirpy, your father is healthier and your brother is surprisingly mature. But what takes you most by surprise is the lack of silence that has taken them by storm. When you had come home for the summer most of your stay had been filled with an uncomfortable but unfortunately familiar silence following you around but now, you can’t shut them up.

The entirety of the drive home from the train station is full of chatter, and for once they include you. They seem so genuinely invested about you that you don't even question the randomness of their questions, ranging from the journey home and the local shops that surround your campus.

“I heard that there's one of those pretentious, hipster coffee places nearby,” your dad claims from the driver's seat, not bothering to look around at you.

“Vegan?” you offer dryly, unsure of it he knows you work there or not.

“That's it!” he clicks proudly, resulting in both you and your brother sharing a sigh.

Part of you hopes that it’s because of you; that maybe they realised how much they loved you while you were gone and now feel overjoyed at your return. There’s a feeling of doubt floating around in your mind, telling you that this is just a random occurrence, but you push it to the side, wanting to focus on the positive and unrealistic.

***

Your brother helps you lug your suitcase into the house claiming, ‘It’s the least I can do’ which is surreal coming from someone who hasn’t written to you the entirety of your time away. You hand him your antler clifton all the same, glad you didn't have to carry it across the drive as well as up the stairs.

The warmth from the house welcomes you in, the softness of the heated air a stark difference from the harsh bitterness from outside. The sweet smell of cinnamon and gingerbread candles lures you in so soothingly that you don't even notice the extra pair of shoes neatly paired together with the rest by the front door.

“I'll leave it here,” your brother mutters before sliding across the floorboards towards the living room on the heels of his feet- not as mature as you presumed. You smile half-heartedly with a small nod, jealous of how easily he can dismiss himself.

And suddenly you’re alone again, left to your own devices as your parents go start dinner and your brother now yelling into his mic from the living room. It hurts slightly, moments ago they were all over you, so invested in you and your life that you forgot what they're truly like. It's the way it always been and you're a fool for thinking otherwise.

You scold yourself for being so naive as to believe that they'd changed, that they weren't as self-absorbed as they used to be, before pulling yourself away from your sea of negative thoughts.

You stare at your suitcase, bright white light shining on it from the lamp hanging above your head, and decide to leave it there, too tired to carry it upstairs to your room.

The steps creak under your weight as you slouch up the stairs, one hand idly dragging across the chipped bannister. You can't count how many times your dad’s tried to repaint it, how much money he's spent on overpriced glosses and varnishes, how many hours he's spent sanding the thing down.

As you cross the landing, thick carpet dampening the sound of your steps, you the bathroom door left ajar and the soft heat emanating from it. Which is… weird because both your parents and your brother are downstairs. But you shrug it off, too fed up to care, and drag yourself over to your bedroom, head drooping downwards with fatigue.

Casually, you push your door open, expecting the room to be empty and your bed freshly made as it often is when you come home for the holidays. Except it isn't.

Soft jazz music hums throughout the room, playing from a speaker you can't quite place, and the smell of an intoxicatingly strong aftershave clings to the air. Your walls are still decorated with the wallpaper you had when you left but it's covered in various posters. Some are boring and presumably scientific based on the array of symbols, whereas others are insanely niche but you don't really put too much effort into trying to understand them- you're too distracted by the man standing in the middle of your room, half naked and dripping with water.

He's tall, intimidatingly so, but the soft dimples that form in his cheeks as he smiles down at you soothe your nerves- slightly.

“Hey,” he grins down at you, head now cocked to the side and pats his ear causing water droplets to drip onto your carpeted floor.

You blink at him, completely dumbstruck and unsure of what to do. “What the fuck?” you breathe shakily, palms clamming up as your brain desperately flickers between arousal and fear.

The man’s brow furrows at your anxious tone and his smile falters slightly. “I think I should be the one cursing here,” he jests, tone annoyingly light, “you’ve just walked into my room without knocking or anything.”

“You're room?” you scoff, arms folding across your chest. “You're the stranger here, not me.”

He grins at your attitude, those dimples presenting themselves again. “I’m offended, has it been that long since you've last seen me?” he questions, large hand splayed across his chest feigning offence.

You pause for a moment and let your gaze scan him for a moment. He looks familiar, dark slicked back hair and mahogany eyes that are simultaneously scrutinizing and sympathetic.

“A la mierda, querida, have you really forgotten me?” he teases.

And then it clicks. You feel so embarrassed now, for not recognising him. Miguel, your dad’s best friend who you haven't seen for years, is finally visiting again.

He does look different now, though. He's still tall and his face is as chiselled as ever, though there are creases in his skin from when he's smiled too often or squinted too hard at the sun, but he's bulked up a considerable amount. His biceps look bigger than your thighs, tensing and relaxing with every slight movement and shining with the shower water in the yellow light of the evening sun. In fact, his entire body is covered in muscles, and what you can see of his lower half is toned, covered in dark tufts of hair, yes, but the curvature of each muscle is still visible.

He clears his throat and you realise that you’ve been staring longer than intended, shame burning hot on your neck.

“Sorry,” you mutter, “about not recognising you.”

He shrugs off your apology, which irks you slightly but you push past it, and smile once again. “I look different, old age is catching up on me.”

That's definitely what's different.

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