๐๐๐ฝ๐๐๐๐๐๐ โ๐ข๐ญ ;ย ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ผ๐๐ย [TOUCH STARVED]
a submitted request from a03 <33 think this couldโve been better really. my take on it ๐ด๐ผ
warnings ;; angst, possible mild language, mentions of gore and injury, pre-relationship, technically assisted murder/suicide, not too sure etc.
by qtipcottonbuds 2023. do not repost.
๐ฅ๐๐ฉ๐๐ก๐๐ก๐ง ๐ซ ๐๐ก!๐ฅ๐๐๐๐๐ฅ;
Revenant can be gentle, is what he tells himself. He is more than capable of being gentle. Yet, the hiss he lets out over the comms is anything but - a harsh dismissal, that heโll deal with it. The majority of the time, regardless of his randomised teammates within the games, take the bait immediately. He is more than capable (and he hates it). Ash more often than not looks at him blankly, milky white receptors unfaltering, but it's a look of concern, pity. He hates that too; heโs glad heโs not stuck with her this time. Too little questions and too much noise.ย
He knows you're staring at him, up from where youโre slumped into his chest. The reddish HUD infographic is ever present in the corner of his eye, picking up your heart rate, erratic and jerky. It used to unsettle him, the automated monitoring of a steady heartbeat, only to be snuffed out within seconds. It wasnโt so much of the visuals that bothered him, but the soft, rhythmic beeping - not loud, but audible enough if you took the time to focus and tune into it.
He isnโt sure though, when this started to happen. To become a habit. Youโd never admitted openly that you feared death - you didnโt relish in it either. It was something to be done, a natural stage of the life cycle; but the Apex Games would force your hand. Kill or be killed. But, he found himself actively seeking you out, observant on who had been eliminated. Most Legends would draw out the kill, often tapping into repressed parts of themselves. And Revenant understood that, more than anyone. If emotion was fueling the motive, it made it all the more satisfactory. This was a blood sport for money, though. Not grudges.ย
A hand curls around his wrist (receptors whirring at the sensation, because he is not used to kindness, not then, and not now, even as-) carelessly, no real regard and too soft for the given situation, yet youโre staring up at him, smiling weakly, bloody teeth and all.
โ...Youโll be quick, right? Like, like last timeโฆ?โ The words are forced, rattling around and out with harsh wheezes.
Youโd probably caught onto his gaze occasionally flickering over to your watch, the expiration timer decreasing by the second.
He doesnโt answer immediately. He doesnโt have to, thereโs no obligation - and thereโs a weight on the tip of his synthetic tongue, uncomfortably heavy; heโll do it anyway. You deserve that.
So he settles for a short nod.ย
You beam at him, weakly rubbing a thumb, albeit coated in drying blood, over his wrist. A silent thank you.
Lanky fingers, metallic and cylindrical, graze across your wrinkled shirt, matted with fresh blood. He then places his palm flat against your ribcage, just short of where your heart is, waiting. Alive - even if itโs for a little bit longer. The thrum of the muscle is there, muted, struggling to supply blood to where it was needed most. Revenant found something about that awfully endearing, and at times, times like this, he wishes he were human. Flesh against flesh.
You don't stop him either, even as you wince against the slight pressure. Instead you smile warmly, sometimes unknowingly, as you watch on. Watch him. Youโd mentioned in passing, that he made death a little easier to handle, especially if it was that quick.ย
He prefers not to look at you during your final moments.
His hand trails up towards your jaw, cradling it with limited tenderness given his capacity, vacant eyes glancing at the weak rising and falling of your ribcage before harshly jerking your head to the side - everything else reducing to static - the weight of your head crumpling in his grasp.
A part of him questions if itโs fitting to punish himself like this.
