She appeared in the air ten feet up beside him and fell, landing hard. Blood burbled up out her eyes, her ears, her mouth, her body bucking, muscles seizing and bleeding beneath her skin. He clambered atop her, straddling her ribs as he dug a hand under her head and lifted, digging their foreheads together, smelling the iron on her breath. Her hand reached up to mirror his, forcing them tighter with painful jerks, her other hand digging so tight in his side; he brought his other hand down and dragged his thumb along her pulse with absent strokes.
“Liz, asshole, stay with me, stay with me,” he said, watching red bloom around her iris like a sick rose. He closed his eyes. “I dedicate all my kills to you,” he intoned, “I dedicate all my deaths. I am yours, but you are mine and that means you stay, damnit.”
One handed, he pulled a gun from between them, pressed the barrel flush to the base of his skull and squeezed.
Under a dead weight, she gasped, blood sinking back and dissipating without a trace, nails clawed deep in bloody brown hair. Licking her lips, she rasped, “…Ew, you got brain matter all in my mouth you jackass.” The body twitched, hand flopping in something that almost looked like an eagle salute (if you squinted). She snorted. “Save your responses until your cerebrum grows back,” she said, and pushed his body aside.