archived.

givenchester relocation ;

#repeatin' a lie don't make it queue.

this blog and hillsidegravestone are being archived.

most connections we’ve written with are being retconned. if you have questions regarding this, message one of us. we won’t be running with assumptions you have concerning our muses. please don’t expect followbacks right away — we’re still in the process of moving things over, we’ll be slow with following.

if you’d like to find deanna, i’ll be over here.

if you’d like to find raylan, he can be found here.

*important; considering we’re retconning a lot of relationship / interactions, we ask that if you have either deanna or raylan on your relationship pages, to wipe them out. clean slate, guys.

Careful of the guns, knives, and everything in between that were resting on the bed, Deanna moved up onto her knees. The crawl over to Raylan took only seconds. Half a second more and she was positioned in his lap. The whetstone that had been resting against his thigh was scooped up in the process.

“Says the dorkiest man I know.” Idly, her right thumb traced over one of the flames to the anti-possession tattoo on his chest before jumping to run along the scar just beside it. “Go back to what you were doin’ with your knife. I’ll watch.”

The sensations her touch evoked dismissed an aimless drift of thoughts. Raylan let his following breath come in slower, enjoying the faint scent of soap on her skin from their shared bath. He had a feeling Hidalgo was still playing in the water that sloshed out.

"Should I feel flattered -- ?"

howling moon drives on,

“Yep,” her voice strained with the stretch of her body; the concentration thrown into familiar habits was the same amount she cast on Raylan despite not looking over to him. “Sadly, there’s squat we can do about that but be ready for him if it happens. At least chalk ain’t a bitch to clean up like paint. Small victories. Right, babe — ?”

Shifting her weight from the front of the chair to the back, it tilted with her weight to let her angle herself further along the arc she was chalking into the ceiling.

“His banshee’s all nice ‘n bloody in the bathroom. He’ll sniff her out before he’s even in this dump.” Another shift of the chair and she moved from the wooden one to the back of the lounge one to stand. “I know it’s a gamble to bank on him bein’ irrational about her bein’ dead.” Vampires mated for life; whether that’s what Cat meant to Freddie or not, Deanna didn’t know. She didn’t even know — or care — if that applied to creature crossovers either. “But, if he’s a younger sonuvabitch he might not focus on much else outside of bein’ pissed someone ganked his girl.”

The hunter hopped off the chair with a grunt, using her body weight to help her push the furniture further down the line she needed without using her hands. It took momentum and a few runs of her shoes over the tracks left in the carpet. Once back up on her makeshift ladder, it was easy for her to spot where she’d left off and continue on. Chalk dust fell onto her lips when they parted into a smile. It was then she tossed a glance in the direction of his voice.

“— I’ll kiss your knuckles twice.”

#myturntocarve #howling moon drives on.#thread.#arc: got a bullet in the chamber

"Right," realization soured his tongue and pinched his mouth. "He'll smell the blood on you... --"

Raylan knew for a fact, sadly, that Deanna could endure a hell of a beating. He had seen the aftermath of hunts gone amiss back when she was ' just passing through. ' ( It felt like a lifetime ago now -- ) Taking up to standing a slight distance behind her, albeit shortly, his feet soon led him towards the nearest wall to lean against. With his arms folding across his stomach, right below the curves of his rib cage, the round of his right shoulder pressed flat into off-white plaster. It wasn't going to feel good knowing she's being hurt and, no matter how much he will want to, he can't focus solely on her. Both of them were sure going to look rough for a few days.

They'd have memorable wedding pictures, at least.

"Got another piece, van Gogh -- ?" all this standing around was giving him too much time in his own head. "I can put one in the laundry room."

limbplay-deactivated20160705

Of course Brian meant for his gesture to be showy. Every maneuver he made, every twitch of his body, was calculated beyond what was necessary, even for a man who did not grovel to societal norms but pretended to anyway. Eventually, his arm fell at his side, but his long neck craned his head in the direction of the crime scene for a trice longer. Just like all of the parasites gawking at his display, Brian lingered on it.

Finally, his gaze fixed back on the Stetson-flaunting stranger, a rejuvenated smile splitting his even lips. “You’re probably right. This”—he blindly motioned toward the scene again—“is new, though. I can’t understand for the life of me why someone would drain all the blood out of someone. Must be a demented artistic statement or something.” Brian grimaced, as any ordinary man would, at the notion.

Brian sighed, extending his hand. “Never mind that. I’m Rudy. You?”

#born a hundred years too late.#favorite.#blood cw #repeatin' a lie don't make it queue.

' Demented ' wasn't the descriptor Raylan would have personally used. He didn't let his focus get pulled this time, all the same. Sunglasses -- Rudy was center stage now.

"... -- Raylan."

There was plenty about him to even the weakest observer that said he was an outdoors type or, at the very least, an active person; his hands, they were not without their share of calluses and scars, being one of them. ( Even though he could handle a gun with either his left or right, Raylan was predominately right-handed, ergo consequential markings on the trigger finger and skin between index and thumb weren't as noticeable on that side. ) Miami's sun winked something playful off the silver band on his ring finger.

"So, tell me, Rudy. That your usual kind a' icebreaker," his grip around Rudy's hand was firm like the gut feeling refusing to abate. "or did'ja decide to run with it -- ?"

#dislimbing

nyggmas

Justified Challenge One shooting - Bulletville (1.13)

His smile, though appreciated entirely, didn’t distract her from her mission. Brow furrowed, Deanna scooted forward again. A huff preluded her final foot stretch whilst she bumped Raylan’s hip.

”Gotcha.”

The ribs around his heart creaked in his ears. Her smile made Raylan's chest feel tight. She got him, alright, in more ways than one; that could never be argued.

"... -- goofball."

howling moon drives on,

Deanna’s ill-timed amusement was cut short with a wince at the impact of Raylan’s knuckles to Kyle’s head. Not on behalf of Kyle; she didn’t give a shit about what happened to him as long as by the end of all of this he was cuffed and in Raylan’s Lincoln. Eminem, Raylan had called him. The arch of her brow gave way to the creep of a small smirk along the line of her mouth.

”I’unno how his bunk buddies didn’t eat him by now… — m’good,” her hand flexed out, the biting sting from Cat’s nails rearing its head only to be shoved from Deanna’s mind again. She’d dealt with worse. This was all the easy part. There was still a demon, a vampire, and a mystery guest to bring down. “M’not the one that just decked a Rap God ‘n all."

The warmth in her voice was inevitable, matching up with the softness in his gaze. It was like night and day, she mused, the shift in him. A snap second and she saw the side of Raylan Kyle never would. What most people never would.

Green eyes, shadow-cast but focused, shifted from Raylan up to study the ceiling above them and further to the right. Ideally, and with the simplicity of a rug not available, the living room would be the biggest space to work with. Cornering the demon prevented vampires from breaking the seal in angles her and Raylan couldn’t cover. At the left inside pocket of her jacket this time, the flask was dropped in exchange for chalk. Normal everyday kids-draw-on-the-sidewalk chalk. White, which incidentally almost matched with the color of Cat’s ceiling. Almost.

Shrugging out of said jacket, Deanna side-stepped Kyle’s unconscious form to drape the material across the back of a wooden chair before grabbing it to move it into the living room. Raylan would be able to stand on it and reach the ceiling, but to start off, Deanna had to pull off a cushion from the lounge chair, set the wooden chair up in it, and then climb the both of them. Balance and time were on her side for the moment.

”If we got time,” she began to draw an arc of the trap, “I wanna put one up in the laundry room. And I wanna look at your knuckles.”

#myturntocarve #howling moon drives on.#thread.#arc: got a bullet in the chamber

You're the one who looks like she got into a scrap with an alley cat.

Of course, it wasn't a thought he felt like sharing. He just glanced at her knuckles, sighed a soft laugh lasting half a breath, and then returned his attention to the man at his feet. They couldn't lay waste to time. Time crunches were frustrating, as is; time crunches involving creatures was on a different realm of irritant. How many times had he learnt that the hard way -- ? Whilst hefting Kyle up into his arms, a wry smirk hooked the corners of the gunslinger's mouth.

"Let's hope it's the black-eyes comin' home first. Don't vampires got super vision -- ?"

This question was thrown at Deanna from an angle. Raylan stood in front of the hall closet door, his boot acting as a wedge to keep the rickety thing open. "Freddie gets in through that door 'head of time, shit's gonna get a whole lot rowdier faster'n anticipated."

To his credit, he didn't shove Kyle into the cramped space -- tempted as he might have been to, seeing how he thought little to nothing of the pain in the ass -- and slam the door on his head. It could have done him some good; knock a couple pennies worth of common sense in. The handle was tested once the door was closed. Assured it would keep shut, an answer, delayed due to obvious reasons, for his betrothed was then cheekily given. "My hand's fine... -- 'less you wanna give it a kiss in which case, yeah, it hurts."

Where does the #born a hundred years too late. tag come from?

off-duty. ’ you and your big six-shooter — born a hundred years too late. you ever get married again? ‘

it’s part of an art quote from the ’ fire in the hole ’ short story.

#white noise.

frontseat

#born a hundred years too late.

“Do what — ?”

Oh-so-subtly, she scooted up on the bed, stretching out her foot further.

"... --"

It was a good time to oh-so-subtly move the knife before she nicked herself.

Moving her gun from where it was resting against her thigh, Deanna stretched out her leg in attempt to bump him back.

“You gonna attack me with them tree limbs of yours now — ? I see how it is.”

"... you can do it --"

“Nyeh.”

He used his stretched out leg to bump her hip.

"Right back at'cha."