FUCK DEATH.

* pet sematary prompts  (ACCEPTING)

“or what? next time you’ll say please?” she, a zealot to the forces of evil (angry, black and heavy looming over her heart) ... has all the stubbornness of a toddler being reprimanded by their mom. kyra’s mouth has begun its curve into a wicked, mocking grin, before placing her (rightfully, thank you) stolen goods into her pocket without further care.

* pet sematary prompts  (ACCEPTING)

these eyes don’t look like much during the day — besides their dazzling color, thank you very much leticia hardin. at night they are better than any gps on the market, the moment the stars brighten and dazzle the black tar sky. there’s no way she’s getting lost unless someone takes from her what has been rightfully stolen.

@crowsteal​  Dean stops spray-painting the devil’s trap on the floor to look over his shoulder at a woman who has evil written all over her. “What the hell would you know about demons?”

inky lips curl in a snarled smirk. she’s no demon (technically. there are a lot of testimonies that’ll beg to differ.) the only dark aura here is man made and stubbornly attached to that shriveled and black heart of hers. 

platformed boots that match the rest of her midnight attire rub their heel over the fresh paint job:

               Her answer seems to satisfy him; words are a little hard to form at the moment, so all she gets is a woozy smile. The James from five years ago would be horrified at the state he’s ended up in, but right now, he’s too out of his mind to care. ❝ You mean that, babe? ❞ His eyes flicker briefly from the television to Kyra, although even keeping them open at this point is a struggle. It’s only two in the afternoon, James.

               ❝ You’re so beautiful. ❞ He says, seemingly out of nowhere. At least, in this state he still remembers that compliments will keep her appeased. ❝ Come here— I just wanna lay my head in your lap. ❞

the sigh she swallows down is repurposed as a nasal exhale. ohh ... why not? throw the doggie a bone every once in a while, and he’ll worship you for it. james isn’t good for much now, but he is in a mood to kiss-up. her nail file is set someplace where it won’t be lost, as kyra forsakes her seat to join james on the couch. 

he can’t help a scoff, never great at even attempting to look on the bright side of something. “you can’t fight for everything,” some things, he’d even argue, should be let go because it’s better that way… but that’s a whole other set of thoughts altogether. “and sometimes shit just happens. i’m not saying it’s great or anything… it’s just the truth.”

she’ll give him partial credit: of course you can’t fight for everything. who the fuck wants to? but a fight for what you want is the best reason there is. the only smart reason ... if you go about it the smart way. 

— unfortunately, most people are as dumb as the fuckin’ rocks that sit in their damn heads.

@crowsteal​

               ❝ Kyra, darling, tell me somethin’. ❞ The doctors told him not to mix alcohol and his pills, but James has never been in the business of listening to doctors. He guards his painkillers jealously, because they’re the only thing that make him feel normal or somewhat close to it these days. He’s sprawled on the couch; something mindless is on the telly and he’s not paying any attention to it because he’s too out of his mind to care. ❝ Kyra— do you love me? ❞

goddamn, he’s pitiful. no, worse yet — he’s gone too low for her to pity. kyra wears an obvious grimace, though she doubts james even notices in this state. with a heavy sigh (as if he is now pressing all the weight of the world on her shoulders), kyra looks up from her nail file.

once upon a time, johnny church used to ask her a question just like that. never quite phrased like james but she knows how to fake an answer. johnny used to obsess over a foreign diva in horror films; kyra could act circles around that neurotic bitch.