it's time
it's time
hyunseung/hyuna; r; angst
warnings: character death
they're entangled in each other; cheek to jowl, limbs twined, a beautiful disaster. heartbeats racing, lips pressing to lips to neck to pulse.
she's beauty personified, he thinks, all matchstick limbs and sultry eyes and eager lips.
he runs his palms over her small frame, delighting in the shift of bones jutting out from under her skin. fingers trace the loops and curves of the tattoo inked into her shoulder, a series of touches speaking more than words ever could portray. she's so very fragile, glass-like, he's afraid that she might just fall apart in his arms.
the wail of sirens somewhere outside, far yet near, breaks his spell of thoughts.
it's now or never, he thinks as he clicks the safety off on his pistol, pressing the muzzle to her temple.
you ready? he asks, feeling the cold metal against the side of his head.
it sends a shiver down his spine, he's not sure what exactly he is feeling. anticipation, fear, melancholy.
yes, she whispers against his adam's apple, lifting her eyes to meet his gaze. yes, i'm ready.
she's always been fearless, he smiles bitterly, a trait that had both its pros and cons in their line of work. yet, fearlessness also showed a sense of insecurity and desire of control, did it not?
he slides an arm around her waist to bring her closer, closer, so that their hips are flush against each other, so that there is not an inch of space between them.
i love you, he murmurs, gently stroking her hair.
deep breath, calm down, don't fear.
on the count of three. she nods.
one.
sharp intake of breath, shoulders shuddering almost unnoticeably.
two.
thoughts flash through his minds, questions of the afterlife, angels and demons, heaven and hell. he can feel her trembling ever so slightly.
three.
goodbye.
they fall, arms still hooked together, foreheads pressed together; crimson bleeding into crimson. fingers slacken, pistols clanking to the ground.
rosettes bloom across the polished wooden floor. they are smiling.
hyunseung/hyuna; r; angst
warnings: character death
they're entangled in each other; cheek to jowl, limbs twined, a beautiful disaster. heartbeats racing, lips pressing to lips to neck to pulse.
she's beauty personified, he thinks, all matchstick limbs and sultry eyes and eager lips.
he runs his palms over her small frame, delighting in the shift of bones jutting out from under her skin. fingers trace the loops and curves of the tattoo inked into her shoulder, a series of touches speaking more than words ever could portray. she's so very fragile, glass-like, he's afraid that she might just fall apart in his arms.
the wail of sirens somewhere outside, far yet near, breaks his spell of thoughts.
it's now or never, he thinks as he clicks the safety off on his pistol, pressing the muzzle to her temple.
you ready? he asks, feeling the cold metal against the side of his head.
it sends a shiver down his spine, he's not sure what exactly he is feeling. anticipation, fear, melancholy.
yes, she whispers against his adam's apple, lifting her eyes to meet his gaze. yes, i'm ready.
she's always been fearless, he smiles bitterly, a trait that had both its pros and cons in their line of work. yet, fearlessness also showed a sense of insecurity and desire of control, did it not?
he slides an arm around her waist to bring her closer, closer, so that their hips are flush against each other, so that there is not an inch of space between them.
i love you, he murmurs, gently stroking her hair.
deep breath, calm down, don't fear.
on the count of three. she nods.
one.
sharp intake of breath, shoulders shuddering almost unnoticeably.
two.
thoughts flash through his minds, questions of the afterlife, angels and demons, heaven and hell. he can feel her trembling ever so slightly.
three.
goodbye.
they fall, arms still hooked together, foreheads pressed together; crimson bleeding into crimson. fingers slacken, pistols clanking to the ground.
rosettes bloom across the polished wooden floor. they are smiling.