The Vampires Are Rotting My Brain Yall

└ mikko in the handshake line with some old friends | round one, game seven: col vs. dal | 5.3.25

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moving into a house together after college wasn’t exactly the smooth transition you’d hoped for. the idea sounded nice in theory: both of you finally out of the chaos of dorm life and finding some semblance of normalcy in the real world. you quickly realized that your expectations had to shift. everything about this new chapter in your lives felt different from what you imagined, and not in the easy, carefree way you’d hoped. it was messy. in more ways than one.

the first sign things wouldn’t be a walk in the park was when you both arrived at the house, a modest two bedroom tucked away in a quiet neighborhood. the previous owners had left behind remnants of their lives, old furniture, strange smells, and more dust than you’d care to acknowledge. it was the kind of house that had potential, sure, but needed a lot of work. you could already see michael’s hesitation as he stood by the door, scanning the space with that distant, unreadable look he always wore. he didn’t say much, as usual, just shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged. "it’ll do," was all he muttered. and that was that.

the first day of unpacking was a mix of frustration and awkward silence. you both had a lot of stuff, old books, clothes you probably should have thrown out years ago, random trinkets and mementos that didn’t make any sense. michael didn’t say much, just quietly took boxes from the car and brought them inside. you tried to talk, tried to make small conversation, but his replies were short and detached. when he did speak, it was almost like he wasn’t really speaking to you at all. the words were more of a distant observation. "this stuff’s not going to fit in here." "we’ll need to fix that." he wasn’t unhelpful, but he wasn’t exactly engaged either. it was like there was this invisible wall between the two of you, and every time you tried to climb over it, you realized it was sturdier than you thought.

and then came the furniture. or, rather, the lack of furniture. michael had picked out the couch, a ragged, secondhand thing that seemed like it had been through at least two decades of college parties. but the rest of the house was bare. you went to the store together to pick out a few pieces. it should’ve been a fun experience, but it turned into a disaster. michael was overly picky about everything. he didn’t want anything too “fancy” or “flashy,” and while you understood that, you started to get frustrated by his refusal to even consider anything that might bring a little color into the space. every time you found something you liked, he would shoot it down with a single look, a soft grunt of disapproval, or, worse, silence.

"what about this one?" you’d ask, holding up a throw pillow that was soft and vibrant, the exact opposite of everything he usually gravitated toward.

"it’s fine," he’d respond, barely glancing at it, like it didn’t matter at all.

"you don’t even like it, do you?" you would press, your voice a little sharper than intended.

"it’s a pillow," he’d shrug.

you knew better than to push too hard. michael wasn’t someone who took kindly to being told what to do. so, you tried to pick your battles. but the mess kept piling up, and the tension never quite dissipated. on days when the house seemed especially chaotic, when the boxes were still scattered across the floor, when the furniture still hadn’t found a permanent place, when it felt like nothing was in order, he’d retreat into his own space. it was like he couldn’t deal with the noise, the mess, or the feeling of being trapped in this house that wasn’t quite "home" yet.

the first real argument came on the third night, when the kitchen was a disaster and you were tired of cleaning up after him. you hadn’t even meant for it to escalate, but something in the way he carelessly left his things all over the counter, again, broke something in you.

“michael, seriously?” you asked, your voice low but edged with frustration. “you can’t just leave your stuff everywhere.”

he turned to face you, his expression unreadable, a mix of annoyance and something deeper. "i’m not the one who’s making a big deal out of nothing," he said, his voice quieter but sharp.

"it’s not nothing! it’s about respect!" you snapped, your hands gesturing wildly toward the mess. "this house is a mess, and we can’t even get anything done because you won’t help with anything!"

the silence that followed was thick, suffocating. michael’s eyes darkened, like he was suddenly somewhere else, his thoughts miles away from the moment. "i’m doing the best i can," he muttered under his breath, but it was almost like he wasn’t talking to you at all.

you didn’t know what to say after that, and you both just stood there in the kitchen, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air. you knew he wasn’t the type to open up, to tell you what was going on in his mind.

after that fight, things were quieter for a while. you both settled into a routine, kind of. the dishes still piled up, the boxes still went unpacked, but somehow, the house started to feel a little more like home. there were still awkward silences, still moments where michael would disappear into his own head for hours, but there were also moments of calm. times when he would sit next to you on the couch without saying anything, but you knew he was there.

ask

“Someday there’ll be a celebration throughout Oz that’s all to do with me.” 💔

NEVERMIND!! DO NOT SHOOT ME!!

ready for this to get zero likes!!! yayyb!!¡¡!!¡!!!

Starting 2025 by drawing about my comfort movie

bf/husband!bucky is SO old fashioned

bro grew up in the 1920’s/1930’s/1940’s

he thinks bouquets of flowers are very romantic

he bought a second-hand phonograph for you two to dance

he pays for the dates at the restaurant

a real gentleman 😔

also he forgets to wear a condom when you don’t remind him

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you’ve been walking for hours.

the snow crunches under your boots, soft and stubborn. it’s early, not quite morning, not quite night. that weird blue hour where the trees blur together and everything looks like a painting. ellie’s a few feet ahead of you, rifle slung over her shoulder, her other hand jammed in her pocket. she’s humming something under her breath, low and tuneless. probably doesn’t even know she’s doing it.

you’d followed her out this morning for patrol. well, you offered. she didn’t say no, just raised her eyebrows and said, “hope you’re not squeamish." you’re not. mostly.

but now, hours in, no infected in sight, she’s kneeling in the snow next to a fallen log, flipping through her beat up sketchbook. her gloves are hanging out of her pocket, her fingers red from the cold as she shades something in with a pencil. you awkwardly hover behind her, “what’re you drawing?” you ask, voice soft like it might break something.

ellie glances up at you, a smudge of graphite on her cheekbone. she shrugs. “just saw a rabbit earlier. figured i’d get it down before i forgot.”

you lean over her shoulder, watching the strokes of her pencil. the sketch is rough but careful, ellie’s kind of careful. like she’s scared of getting it wrong but doesn’t wanna show it.

“you’re really good,” you say.

she makes a face like she doesn’t believe you. “sure.”

you chew your lip, glancing at the empty space on the corner of the page. “can i… try?”

ellie blinks. “seriously?”

“yeah.” you shrug, trying to act casual. “i used to doodle stuff. nothing good.”

she hesitates, like she’s about to make a joke. then she just passes the sketchbook to you and says, “don’t fuck it up.” but her tone is warm and teasing. safe.

you sit down next to her on the log, your thighs brushing, the cold seeping through your jeans. the pencil’s warm from her hand. you look at the blank corner and freeze up a little.

“shit,” you mutter. “how do you even start?”

ellie leans in, her shoulder pressed to yours. “just find the shape first. don’t think about the details.”

you glance at her, and she’s already looking at you, her mouth half quirked up in this lopsided grin that makes your stomach do something annoying.

you try to draw a bird. you saw one earlier—a little brown thing that darted through the trees like it had somewhere important to be. your lines are shaky, clumsy. your rabbit looks more like a lumpy sock. you scowl. ellie snorts.

“okay, rude,” you say.

“what? i didn’t say anything.”

you nudge her with your elbow and she laughs, low and scratchy. “nah, it’s not that bad,” she adds. “here, lemme…”

she takes the pencil from you and lightly draws over your lines, fixing the shape, softening the angles. her hand rests over yours, steady and sure, and you swear you forget how to breathe for a second.

you look up at her. she’s close. too close. but you don’t move.

“see?” she murmurs. “not bad.”

you nod, eyes still on her, and for a second, the snow stops falling and the cold doesn’t matter and the whole world feels quiet.

ellie blinks down at you. her voice, when she speaks, is barely above a whisper.

“you, uh… ever come out here just to hang?”

you smile. “maybe i will.”

she grins, it looked crooked and nervous, but it was cute.

you stay like that for a while. shoulders touching, breath clouding in the cold, sketchbook balanced between you. maybe the hunt wasn’t the point after all.

JASON- JASON- JA-

me after getting my appendix removed: omg. stigmata.