#hauntologics

[brothersgrim]

from liz. she WOULD leave if paul was around but she wants to beat paul to death so badly that it didn't feel right marking that down.

He's staring at the paper with his usual stoicism, all six-foot-ten of him, dark and tenebrous...

Which is why you would never know that mentally, he's kicking his feet. He is well and truly smitten. He folds the paper up, tucking it in his coat pocket, before pulling her close enough to kiss the top of her head.

"Always said you were perfect."

[brothersgrim]

from kenny for a wild card. he doesn't DISLIKE fire necessarily and he's skilled at learning new languages ... but he would cry about kane eating a squirrel sorry

"Four bingos isn't bad. But you'd have to get used to squirrels."

"I'm trying to get him to cut that shit out, too."

"You eat hamburgers! It's the same thing!"

"I eat 'em cooked, Kane, not when they're still damn mooing-!"

They'll be at this for a while.

[brothersgrim]

FRUIT HEADCANONS

@hauntologics​ asked: 🥝  :    does my muse have any  ‘  unusual  ’  habits,  interests,  and  /  or talents?  do they hide it,  or are they proud of it?  —  for taker! father-son bonding with them both being really good at something. like. mini golf.

He himself is pretty unusual, so it's pretty hard to say what would be 'weird'. Like– is it weird he hangs out in graveyards? He’s an undertaker, it’s his job. Is it weird that he likes drawing? He has to make his own blueprints. He does all the carving and stuff himself. … He does draw a lot, though, in his free time. You know, when he’s not training, working, or fixing his bikes. … Or napping. 

But he is more than happy to teach Mox how to draw, even if it’s just so they can work on painting bikes together. … Barring that, he’ll teach him the Hell’s Gate. Now THAT’S bonding.

[archivedrpblog1234]

Send from @hauntologics

[ 𝐓𝐑𝐘 ] ― sender gives receiver a taste of what they’re cooking / baking for their opinion ― from liz to laurie & micheal

Michael is eight years old, and he sits on the living room rug watching Cynthia color. She lays on her stomach, legs kicking, and little hands clenched in tiny fists, manipulating the stubby, waxy crayons to masterfully create her picture. She's drawn a tree with green leaves and red apples, and a bit yellow dot for a sun. In the past year her art had changed from random scrawls and squiggles to the creative, colorful ideas of a child. She speaks in full sentences now and reads small books. Next year she'll go with Michael to school.

Under the tree she's drawn some people in pink and red. There's three little people, two with hay colored hair and a third with red. Two big people stand by them, one with really big with black hair and long scratches for a coat, and one a bit smaller with brown. They're primitive humans with blocky bodies but colorful clothes. Even with the crude skills of a four-year-old, Michael can tell what Cynthia is trying to depict. Their 'family.'

The Undertaker and his wife, and the kids: Michael, Cynthia, and Jon. Except, this wasn't right at all. It should be their parents and Michael, Cynthia, and — it's interesting how blood is the same color as the apples on the page. The same crimson hue, dyed, and smeared across his skin. Everything is all broken and screwed-up. Cynthia doesn't know that these people aren't their family. She doesn't know that this isn't their home. Michael doesn't know how to tell her.

There's a clatter in the kitchen. The Undertaker isn't home. He left earlier that morning after ruffling Michael's hair and telling him to, 'be good.' That meant Liz was around instead. She had kept an eye on them as she shuffled through papers at the kitchen table or read a book on the couch. Now, as the afternoon arrived, and the sky had clouded over, threatening rain, she was in the kitchen.

Michael stands, leaving Cynthia to her art, and walks over to the doorway. Liz has set up a stand mixer and arranged various bowls of ingredients on the counter. He's not tall enough to see what's in the bowls but he recognizes the yellow Tollhouse bag of chocolate chips. As Michael watches, she dumps sticks of butters into the running mixer, followed by sugar, and eggs. It's only as she's preparing to add in the flour that notices Michael.

"Hey, bud!" She greets, grinning at him.

Michael stands there and stares.

Unperturbed, Liz kept working. Sifting flour into the mixer bowl so that puffs escape from the whirling whisk. The sound of the mixer scratching along the sides of the metal bowl sounds good. Michael liked how rhythmic and predictable it was. He wanted to scrape his nails on the metal. He wondered what would happen if Liz got her hand stuck in the whisk.

Red. It's okay, the therapist told him, to have thoughts like that. It's okay to be wonder about pain, and injury, and hurt, and death. People do that. Michael is people.

Sometimes, Michael didn't feel like people. Except when he watchs Cynthia color, or she wraps her hand around his while she sleeps. Most of the time though he was pretty sure he was something else. Something not people.

He walks over and Liz presses a teaspoon filled with vanilla into his palm. He's just big enough to reach up and dump the teaspoon into the bowl. 'The fun part,' was next Liz declared. She hooks an arm around his waist, lifts him up, and let him turn the bag of chocolate into the bowl as the mixer whirled on the slowest setting. The chocolate chips studded the brown, sticky dough. Liz let Michael sit on the counter as she turns off the mixer and pulled the whisk out of the bowl.

She runs her finger through the dough stuck to the metal tines of the whisk. Sticks it in her mouth and groans, stamping her foot with joy. "You shouldn't have raw egg but, what's the point of life without uncooked cookie dough?" She says as she hands Michael the whisk.

If Michael loves one think it was sugar. He cleans up the whisk, working his fingers through the tines. The dough is rich and eggy, with sugar and chocolate. It tastes perfect. Liz scoops the cookie dough on to a sheet and put it into the oven to bake. She cleans up, Michael returns to Cynthia in the living room. She's putting her finishing touches on the crayon family: a big house that looks a lot like the funeral home.

This isn't their home and it isn't their family, but it's what they have, Michael realizes. It's what Cynthia knows. And if she's okay with it here, then, he guesses he is too.

[perditos]

Sent by @hauntologics from the “They Look like People” meme

"don’t mess with me." — from mox but it's very "she made fun of me for buying capri-suns and then drank all of my capri-suns" energy

She sat on the kitchen counter, perched-up by a blue box of ‘Capri-Sun.’ A man surfed along the side of the box, escaping the crash of a wave by the skin of his teeth. The little packets of juice inside were advertised as ‘Fruit Punch’ flavor. Which according to the ingredient list included: pear, grape, orange, and pineapple flavors. 

Xion stabbed the pointed straw through the packet side and Mox’s physically flinched. He hovered by the dining room table, hands flexing by his sides. Like he might actually do something. Xion took a long sip of the capri-sun. It did not taste like juice. It tasted like sugar and the idea of fruit if she only described the flavor of fruit to somebody. In a few seconds she had drained the entire thing, leaving it dry. 

She picked-up the next one, she stabbed, she made eye contact with Mox. 

Xion drank.

Until the straw scraped obnoxiously due to a lack of juice, only sucking-up air. 

“These are lame,” Xion said as she stabbed, made eye contact, drank. “I mean, it’s so little juice. What’s even the point?’

She took the straw from between her lips. Xion narrowed her eyes at Mox. 

“Oh, do you want one?" 

[brothersgrim]

TO, KANE: NAME: "Cody." AGE: "Don't remind me that I'm closer to my forties than I am to my twenties. It hurts." DO YOU LIKE TO CUDDLE?: "Oh, come on. You know it. It's always nice, but it was something else when I was goin' through physical therapy." CAN WE MAKE-OUT: "Whenever you want, big man." A NIGHT IN OR A DINNER OUT?: "It's up to you. I like spoiling you by taking you somewhere nice and showing you off, but a night in's nice, too. We could watch Star Wars." ICE CREAM OR CHOCOLATE COVERED STRAWBERRIES?: "Chocolate-covered strawberries are more romantic and classy, aren't they? Have to go with ice cream, though. I'm not gonna pretend I'm that sophisticated. I have the Lego Millennium Falcon in our bedroom." WHAT MAKE YOU A GOOD VALENTINE?: "I don't know. I dress nice. I'm good arm candy. Is that conceited? Yeah. But I have Pharaoh, too. He's got credentials than I do. And him and Mewchine playing is preeeetty cute." WOULD YOU COOK FOR ME?: "Yeah. You're a great cook, better than me, but I like doing things for you. And I can grill a pretty mean steak. Yeah, so can you, but I'm the grill master here. You have fire. Unfair advantage." WOULD YOU LET ME COOK FOR YOU?: "You cook all the time. You deserve to take the night off. Let me take care of you. ... But I'm not gonna say "no" to your cooking." I TRULY, DEEPLY, LOVE YOU, CODY

VALENTINES APPLICATIONS

Oh, he can't respond. He's speechless. Not in the bad way - not in the stolen words way.

No, it's just hard to talk because he's in the process of burying his face in Cody's hair, holding him close. Safe to say, he's enamoured. Truly, completely wooed. There are a few points that stand out, that keep echoing around his head.

Showing you off.

Let me take care of you.

Words that just... Stuck with him.

Cody knows him too well.

"You're right." He eventually says, muffled though it is. "They are pretty cute."

[brothersgrim]

TO, ADAM, NAME: "Liz." AGE: "20." DO YOU LIKE TO CUDDLE?: "You're always so cold, I have to warm you up. I run hot, too, so we're a good match, big man." CAN WE MAKE-OUT: "Do you want to? I always want to." A NIGHT IN OR A DINNER OUT?: "A night in's nice, but I might have some money to treat you to the nicest spot in town, if you'll let me. Let me spoil you." ICE CREAM OR CHOCOLATE COVERED STRAWBERRIES?: "Chocolate strawberries. Oh, does sorbet count? I think you'd like sorbet, it's not too sweet. I should buy some." WHAT MAKES YOU A GOOD VALENTINE?: "That's not really for me to decide, is it? I'm pretty sweet, though. Really only to you, but that's what makes it special." WOULD YOU COOK FOR ME?: "I love cooking for you. Remember that one time I poured way too much pepper onto those omelets I made? It was bad. We both couldn't stop sneezing, there was just this big ol' pepper dust cloud. But you still said it was great. I'd cook for you any day of the week, baby." WOULD YOU LET ME COOK FOR YOU?: "If you want to! But I'd wanna help you. I like it when we cook together. Maybe we could try making something together?" ALWAYS YOURS, LIZ

VALENTINES APPLICATIONS || ACCEPTING

Always yours.

Always yours.

Always yours.

He's been reading those words over and over and over again. ... Of course, the other things sound nice, too.

"Nicest spot is with you." He says, pressing his face into her hair.

"But we can go to this new place, too."

[perditos]

MOM APPLICATION ?

Name: "Elizabeth Moxley. I usually just go by "Liz," though."

Age: "Thirty-six."

Height: "5'8". But I am 5'9" with shoes, and that is very important."

Preferred Dad Title: "Just whatever you're comfortable with. "Mom," "Dad," "Liz," "Lizard," no bad choices here."

Dad Credentials: "I have a son. Raised him by myself, I was the mom and the dad, so "dad credentials" do fit here, actually. He's an absolute hellion, but I raised him right. He's a good kid. You might know him, actually. Also gave him brass knuckles when he was around twelve years old. Maybe questionable, but I taught him how to use 'em right. And look at him now."

Best Dad Joke: ""You know Orion’s Belt? Big waist of space, huh? Didn’t like that joke? That’s okay… it’s only got 3 stars." Totally stole that, but it's a good one, and it doesn't say I have to make one up myself. Play smarter, not harder."

If Xion Brought You A Dead Animal What Would You Do With it?: "I'm going to be honest. I've been around the block. I've seen some things. But I don't know what I'd do about that. I guess I'd ask where you got it from, and what you're planning on doing with it. Go wild, kid. Just do something with it before it starts to rot, 'cause that kind of smell's never getting out of your clothes."

"This sounds great, Lizard."