#there's something so self-indulgent about writing h/nc horror

[queenie-ofthe-void]

Married Platonic Stobin

EVERYTHING UNDER THE CUT IS HURT/NO COMFORT EXPLICIT:

cws: dead dove, main character death, steve harrington dies, body horror, blood, gore, open wounds, grief

~~~

There’s a small band of gold on her left ring finger, with his initials engraved on the inside. 

Each and every morning, she presses the inside of the ring into the soft pad of her thumb, branding his letters into her skin. She smiles. 

Holding out her thumb to him, and he hers, they line up the indents, proof of their everlasting devotion. He smiles back at her. 

She wears flame retardant work gloves during the apocalypse, so she keeps the ring on. He holds his weapons with bare hands, so he slips his on a chain around his neck.

When her gloves are off, she twists the band around and around and around, repetition a small comfort in the face of faceless monsters. His shoulders relax when the glint catches his eye. 

He always drops the bat after a fight, and she always turns to watch him pat his chest, pushing the small circle into his sternum. They rest their foreheads together and sigh. He loves her, and she loves him.

Her bare hands are braced over his exposed chest, and their rings being so close to one another should fill her with sweet, sappy relief. 

But the ring with her initials on a chain wrapped around his neck disappears into a gaping wound between his protruding ribs.

The ring on her finger engraved with his initials is slippery with his blood, flowing under her hands, between her fingers, and up to her elbows. 

She presses hard. He screams and spasms, and she feels the ring slip off her hand and nestle inside him.

Really, it's always belonged next to his.

Red seeps between his teeth when he gasps her name. She watches it trickle out the sides of his mouth into his matted hair. Her ears ring with the memories of their vows as she breathes the familiar words into his temple. 

They are alone under a red streaked sky. He’s pale and shaking beneath her.

More red gushes from a wound on his side, coating her jeans where she’s knelt next to him. She is wet with him, drenched in him. 

Snot drips from her nose onto his opened bones, her tears soak into his chest next to his heart and he is drenched in her. 

Each and every night, hidden under the safety of their blankets and wrapped around each other like two halves to a whole, he presses the inside of his ring into the soft pad of his thumb, branding her initials into his skin. He smiles. 

Then he holds out his thumb to her, and her to his. They line up the indents, proof of their everlasting devotion, and she smiles back at him.

Now he uses the last of his strength to lift his thumb. There is no R.B. for her to see, but she sobs, and he knows she sees it anyways. His S.H. isn’t branded into the pad of hers, but she presses it to his, and he feels it anyways.

He loves her, yet he stops breathing.

She loves him, and she screams.