sometimes i forget the banner (for stats in apex) i use on some legends is actually drawn by youâit's just amazing how your art has been spread to so many ppl i wish they knew more of your amazing work :3
omgoodness this is so sweet, thank you!! đ
Honestly I still have to pinch myself every time I see them pop up on screen - it's so surreal to think I got to make something that's actually like...in my favourite game! I'm just really happy people liked them; the response has been more than I could've ever imagined đĽš
I hope I can keep on making art and sharing it with people who love these characters as much as I do! Thank you for such a nice ask, it made my day â¤ď¸
Can you write about Wraith tasting Elliott's cooking for the first time (he made pork chops and made 'extra' so he invited her over)
So I probably won't share any actual writing on here - sorry! I do write fic sometimes but I like to keep it under a pen-name and separate from my voidwrth/art stuff. đ
This is a cute idea though and it might just weave its way into a fic one day! I know it's not quite what you asked, but I do have some cooking HC for you instead â¤ď¸
Elliott is a genuinely good cook - he's a lil bit of a foodie and he loves to host. He has fond memories of big Sunday dinners as a kid and it's something him & his mom made an effort to stick to, even when it was just the two of them. They still get together like this at least once a month - their table is a lot more crowded these days đĽš
Wraith will hang out with him in the kitchen and help in small, quiet ways - plating up, chopping veg, stirring the food while he serves drinksâŚ.reminding him when he's left something in the oven a lil too long...
He definitely cooks based on 'vibes' and eyeballs the herbs and spicesâŚwhich lead to the infamous cloves incident (iykyk!) When she's there he talks like he's hosting a cooking show the entire time.
He has a whole bunch of family recipes passed down through the generations and he shares those with Wraith, who has no such traditions of her own.
Wraith has started to memorise some of the dishes, not because she plans to cook them herself, but because it feels like learning a part of him.
If she does try and cook, she'll follow the recipe to the letter but somehow hers will still turn out worse than Mirage's, who just kinda wings it. He always makes a stupid comment like, 'the missing ingredient is love' and suffers the consequences.
He knows she often won't bother to cook for herself so he always sends her home with leftovers and acts like she's doing him a favour by taking them.
Thank you for the ask, I love domestic Miraith đĽ°
With these two having known each other for so long, I don't know if I see them having a 'first date' as such - I think one of them confesses and then they are just likeâŚimmediately relationship level lol
I think their dates would just be a continuation of the stuff they already do - hanging out at the Lounge, cooking a meal together, grocery shopping, watching a movie - just really mundane stuff. I think they would both find a lot of comfort in that stability.
If there was a first date scenario, I thinkâŚMirage would definitely be the one who asks. But he still does it in a jokey way that gives him plausible deniability. It's something small and low key, that wouldn't be out of place for them to do as friends. Sort of like:
M: Hey I saw this new ramen place opened on e-district, wanna go try it out?
W: Sounds good
M: It's a date! But not a date, dateâŚunless đđ '
W: ...
Wraith would deny it but she absolutely makes an effort for the occasion - nothing fancy or occ but Mirage is still floored. đ¤ It would be little awkward at first but they'd soon settle in to their usual dynamic. They both open up a little more than they expected and before they know it they've spent the whole night talking and the place is closing.
I can totally see Mirage having a huge internal dilemma at the end of the date outside her door like 'is she expecting me to kiss her? Is that too much for a first date!?' Meanwhile Wraith's like 'are you coming in or not?' lmao
I definitely think they would date in secret for a while before telling anyone - but when they do announce it literally no one is surprised.
It hadnât meant to come out. And it wouldnât have, if sheâd been honest with herself so long ago and acknowledged the feeling, rationalised it, buried it. Learned to live with it.
But sheâd run from it.
And that was why, with the burn of the line wire cutting into the tender skin of her inner elbow and down her forearm, slicing open her palm, her fingers, tearing through the fabric of her combats and into her leg, biting deep into the ankle twisted around the wire for an anchor, with his head thrown back to look up at her with those eyes, every feature of his face blown sharp with shock and panic, his fingers bruising her wrist with the crushing strength of his grip â that of a man thrown clear over the edge of the world with no hope of rescue-
It had just. Come out.
Suspended, in time as they were in the dead air above the endless chasm, the words were all that existed.
And the moment was gone, and sheâd kicked the handle with her other foot and rocketed them to the sanctuary of solid ground. Blessed be Pathfinder, who had wrangled them both with one sweep of his arm and swung them across the death of open ground to shelter.
Sheâd stitched her own leg, a long winding laceration that snaked nastily from ankle to mid-thigh, and pulled on combats to match, Mirageâs fine stitch work a good sight better than her own handiwork.
Pathfinder had to pull her from the floor, her weight heavy against him, not that anyone would have known, and guide her in a limp to the bundle of her bunk kit so she could rest. Sheâd known before he told her that her wrist was badly fractured from their squadmateâs grasp. Catching dead weight falling at that speed, it wasnât a surprise.
Pathfinder fussed, and Wraith was too sore and too exhausted to even make an attempt of waving him off. The high-grade painkillers put her halfway out, and fatigue took her the rest of the way. Even if it hadnât, the vial from the medkit that was regrowing and knitting her bones would be too taxing to stay conscious.
That save was all anyone could talk about when the Game was over. She lost count of the number of suits who approached her for authorization and signatures for Promo footage and other dull self-promotion she could never be bother to care about.
The Hub was buzzing with excitement over it, the Rec rooms playing re-runs for days. There was real, long-lasting hype over what was quickly being acknowledged as the âSave of the Centuryâ. Every Elite and any lower ranker with the courage to speak to her had congratulated her on it. Even Pathfinder, who was usually shockingly astute when it came to Wraithâs disdain for systematic breakdowns or reminiscence about their matches - outside of how they could improve - had mentioned twice how impressed he was.
It seemed she was one of only two people who wasnât talking about it. The other had been notably absent from her vicinity, which was unusual these days. Sheâd long since lost the ability to shrug him off effectively, send him off with his tail tucked low between his legs. And sheâd grown used to his presence anyway. One does, when the nuisance is persistent and frequent.
Maybe that was why she was here. Maybe sheâd subconsciously sought him out. Not that she couldnât survive the month until their next game without his God awful chattering. Not that she missed his noise and his flirting and his jokes.
But she noticed, alright?
It wasnât as if her days felt sluggish and her mind wouldnât focus.
It wasnât like she was lying at night with sleep escaping her, feeling like some phantom piece of her was missing.
It wasnât as if the nightmares had grown bold and fierce as though tasting weakness.
She spent afternoons in the library alone. Dusks, wandering in the quiet of the town without a shadow. Meals, uninterrupted, in the cafeteria.
It had taken her two days to notice his absence, and assume heâd gone home to visit his mother as he sometimes did.
That was before she saw him across the courtyard beside the window of her quarters. Before she watched him turn down a street with an almost perfect performance of not spotting her.
Before she passed him at the library entrance slipping through the door he held open for her as he avoided her eyes. Sheâd come so close to brushing shoulders with him, but heâd ducked away.
Heâd never done that before, and that was what had her recalling the words, the ones that werenât supposed to exist even in thought, yet had sprung from her mouth from somewhere unknown when sheâd dropped from the seam between worlds and tumbled into a hasty Zipline with not a hairâs breadth of room for error and shot her arm out for him.
Wraith drew the mug closer to her chest atop the dinged wooden table, guarding it almost, as she could do nothing else but watch him. The bar was sparser than it had been in the weeks following the last Elite match. Those whoâd left the Hub for home, travel, visiting friends and relatives in the lull between matches, had thinned the herd.
Karaoke night was usually a satisfying way to be invisible, cloaked in low lighting while live performances drew away any unwanted attention. It was a near perfect compromise between solitude and social interaction. Even if she wasnât chasing the way alcohol would lift the weight from her. Elliotâs bar was the one place she could be sure to get a good cup of coffee at any time of day.
The old-timey lights lit strands of pink and green in the curls spilling over his forehead in the dimmed room. The stage was framed by hot white lighting, just enough to spotlight whatever poor fool dared step up for drunken renditions of songs so old Wraith had never heard most of them in their correct key. His eyes glowed like fireside whiskey as they swept the room.
Not that sheâd ever tell him, but Elliotâs singing voice... Well. It had qualities she found... Appealing. Singing was the only time she never heard him stumble over words or unwieldy syllables, where his pacing was even and each word clear and pure. His range had long since stopped surprising her, but every now and then he could still impress.
Elliot could nail almost anything he tried. He twanged just enough for country, sang almost like silk for those strange Spanish love songs. Octane sulked, when those came up. Competition would break out as an inevitability and the entire evening would be eaten away with Spanish ballads, one after the other, testing the patience of other patrons.
That night, Elliot sang with a mournful ache that stirred something secret in her chest. He hadnât seen her come in, busy with a group of fans and his friend behind the bar, already at least a few drinks in and his usual loud, playful persona fully in place. Sheâd slunk to the bar when he was busy elsewhere, found a table in a corner furthest from the lights, and slowly nursed a coffee as she let the atmosphere she was so removed from wash over her.
She hadnât been sure he was going to take the stage, so busy being social, signing the odd autograph, dancing and drinking and looking for all the world like the Game theyâd played two weeks ago had never happened.
But then he did, and he grinned at a rising wave of wolf whistles and cheers, and heâd given some droll little speech about satisfying his fans as the sharp staccato notes of an intro started.
And it wasnât until right before he drew breath and sang the first word that Wraith even noticed the change that had come over him. His hands stilled around the microphone stand. His shoulders settled back. Something shifted in his expression. And a Voice whispered uneasily right as his first note rang out across the room.
Remember when you said you loved me?
Remember when you said that it would all work out?
Wraithâs throat had gone dry.
He was... Alien, standing slope-shouldered in the shock of the spotlight, his skin like caramel and his voice carrying across the new hush with an almost desperate note.
And Iâm swirling, softly, drifting like the cream in your coffee.
And then- And then his eyes flickered over, and she knew he was looking at her. A shiver, the realization, like prey spying the hunter that already knew they were there.
And youâre talking, calmly, but Iâm scared-
Raw, the sound bending, almost breaking. Her heart rate picked up.
To be on our own, when the thrill is gone.
Her chest lurched, constricted. Elliotâs gaze burned into her, unflinching even as he bared his soul, even as his face showed trace of just how true it was.
Heâd avoided her, been avoiding her, and it had been because of that moment. The Save of the Century. The moment everything in existence had shifted from the impact of words she hadnât even known she was going to say. The adrenaline had waned, the Game had kept them in tandem until it was over and-
And then heâd just... Vanished.
And Wraith realised that he had run away from it, too.
Voices were arguing, interrupting each other and overlapping in the back of head but all she could hear was him.
Wraith couldnât even escape, locked into place, the chill of the Void ghosting her skin. The air was thin and hot in her throat. His gaze flashed in the strobe lights, unnatural shadows rising and falling across the face she knew so well, and every stroke and curve and edge told her everything.
Baby can you keep your promise?
Unbelievable, to be doing this. For anyone to hear and understand, the stools and the dancefloor full of bodies, of fans, of people who- who could know, could know something so intimate sheâd never breathed it to anyone. That theyâd sworn their lives into each otherâs hands every single time theyâd stepped onto that drop ship. That theyâd shed blood, their own, the othersâ, that somehow, somewhere, the one thing sheâd striven for every game for years had recalibrated. Survival looked different, now.
Somewhere along the line, it was only survival if he lived to fight beside her another day.
Wraith had to get out of there. She couldnât fill her lungs, couldnât feel her fingers, like the Void had taken hold.
Only she was burning up from something other than-
Thereâs nothing in the sky above me,
Nothing strung below us baby if we fall-
Weâre caught between a spark and lightning-
Wraithâs wrist twitched under the memory of crushing fingers, of sparks and heat flash.
On the stage, somehow too close and yet far enough away to be in another world, Elliot tilted his chin, eyes flickering away as though afraid, his voice softening and breaking and the surge in her own abdomen, flooding from her toes, aching with it.
Iâm sorry, I love you, but even those words are getting see-through...
All at once, a thousand moments, a thousand memories, screamed in her head, flashing hard against her skull as though torn up by the Voices.
Promises, light-hearted comments, over-the-top declarations, flirty innuendos delivered with all the levity of bad jokes, jabs, compliments sheâd growled at, shoved away, arms slung over her shoulders that sheâd jabbed him in the ribs for. Furtive looks after particularly dicey situations, protein bars handed wordlessly to her before she even knew she needed them, tired glances of exhaustion when they spent comfortable hours of silence recovering in front a screen playing movies she couldnât even remember. Moments in places she canât even recall, brief seconds of feeling like the world was unbalanced before he said something that didnât sound like what he meant, and flashed her that smile and it all righted once more and she was sure sheâd imagined that she wasnât in her own timeline.
Heâd been telling her for two years. Maybe longer. And, as he always did, as if heâd heard, Elliot found her again, tucked far across the room in a corner dark with shadow.
When you say you love me, are we ever really gonna feel safe?
Like heâd stolen the words right from the depths of her own soul, a fear sheâd never even spoken to herself. A thing he couldnât ever, possibly know about her. And yet she couldnât tear her eyes from him, couldnât convince herself that he didnât know it.
Wraithâs blood flushed hot with... With fear, with flight, with- with- She didnât know, she couldnât name it, couldnât bear to think it.
She knew who Mirage was. She knew the level of facade he had built, an almost unshakeable act. Intricacies upon riddles almost futile to unpick.
But in that moment, every inch of his face bore Elliot as his eyes slid closed. He almost howled as the music swelled, melancholic, painful, transfixing. The lights danced dangerously down the smooth exposure of his throat, and it stirred in Wraith.
Is it better if I walk away?
The revulsion snapped fast across her nerves, lighting like battle. No, it isnât. Not now. Not him.
Wraith yearned, suddenly, fiercely, with a depth that terrified her even as it swept her over.
Cause Iâm scared, to be on our own.
And Iâm scared, thinking what weâve done.
Baby can you keep your promise?
Baby can I keep you honest?
When he looked to her again, Wraith knew what her path had to be. His voice was a whisper, the music dropping away to leave him alone and small on the stage, his words pure, true, piercing even as they faded.
Cause Iâm scared.
And though the room exploded, cheering and whistling and screaming unintelligibly, his gaze never wavered.
It seemed only right to Wraith that she shouldnât either.
The sun wasnât too far from rising when the place finally emptied, the last of the voices calling goodnight and talking far too loudly for the time as they filtered away, out into the pre-dawn.
Elliot was dragging a rag over the bar top, the dishwasher running almost comfortingly behind him as he hummed absently along with it. The main lights had been shut off, the coloured strobes too, and he worked under the gentle yellow of a solitary desk lamp whose neck draped down from one of the shelves.
Wraith hadnât stopped buzzing with the unfamiliar cocktail of emotion once in the hours since Elliot had sung. It had been excruciating to wait, to find other shadows to lurk in, too afraid that her next words might be overheard to risk him coming over.
But now, she was almost nauseous. It was deeply unsettling, feeling so rattled. Like a rookie on the field for the first time, her footing uncertain, her heartbeat irregular.
She made it almost to the raised bar door before he must have sensed the movement.
Wide, startled eyes found her, stealing her breath for a second.
âHey.â he finally breathed, his expression smoothing into neutral.
âHey.â
He polished the rail along the inside of the bar top, the dishwasher punctuating the stilted air by beeping and falling silent. Elliot glanced back at her briefly, a nervous glance, furtive. She swallowed.
How was it, that they killed so swiftly and so confidently in battle when there was clearly a risk of death, yet they stood now in fragile silence?
âElliot...â she dared, and he turned towards her again.
âI thought I saw you, earlier.â he tried, gentle and light and neutral once more.
It would be on her, then.
âYou did.â
Elliot nodded.
âThought so.â
Impatience sparked along her fingertips.
âI hadnât heard that one before.â
Elliotâs arm stilled.
âHad- heard what before?â
Soft, skipping over the problem word as it raised its head. Emotion swelled in her chest. Breathtaking, forceful, impulsive.
Wait-
It doesnât end here-
Be careful!
Wraith-
Itâs worth the exposure-
Wraith tensed, moving into his space as his head lifted to look at her properly in question.
âWrai-?â
He tasted like raspberry, and the heady burn of bourbon. The initial squeak of surprise melted into a querying hum, but he didnât move away. If anything, Wraith was sure heâd leaned into the kiss.
A further step and they were together to toe, her hands shaking as they found his jacket, curling hesitantly into the dark leather.
Without thought, without plan, she tipped her chin up further to meet the next press of his lips, terror a tornado in her gut. Feather light, something brushed her cheek, nudging her gently back into him as she made to pull back.
Something akin to a sob tumbled in the back of her throat. And then his palm sealed against her cheek, his hand pressed firmly against her lower back, and her hands were sandwiches between their chests. And all the tension just fell away.
An endless, sweetly torturous moment, an endless, sweetly torturous kiss, and she was tearing away with a startled gasp, her diaphragm unsynced as her heart jackrabbited and her lungs seemed to forget their function.
Inches from her face, Elliotâs eyes shot open. His pupils blown wide, his chest heaving hard, his lips slack with shock.
Her tongue felt heavy in her mouth as she swallowed.
Panting like theyâd raced the Ring, they stated at each other for a second, then two, and five others.
âWell that was- unep- inexp- un- a surprise.â
Endearing.
Someone whispered.
Tiresome.
Said another.
Wraith choked on the unexpected humour of it, warming further under the lopsided tilt of his lips that replied. His eyes twinkled, like a storybook hero.
It was a hopeless battle.
âYes," her breath hitched over the sound, âYes, it was.â
Elliot gave a hitching laugh, gaze flittering over her as he regarded her curiously.
âWarn a guy, Huh?â
His grin was familiar and yet it felt like it took her knees out from under her that time.
âNo.â she eventually answered, her voice sounding much more like her usual wry repartee.
Elliot laughed again.
âOkay, then. Donât warn a guy.â
And while she was rolling her eyes and formulating a response to the cheeky tone of his words, Elliot pulled her face towards his own and kissed her back.
When life gets too touchy-feely with her soul, Wraith yearns for the rooftop of the warehouse in the deserted part of town.
In the Arena, sheâs forced to settle for those snatched moments, the ones when nobody wants to pick a fight; when survival is balanced on a razorâs edge and everybody left alive is clutching at a moment to breathe.
Dusk has fallen, the night has crept in, and her squad are denned in whatâs left of a shack on stilts. At least all the doors still close. She cannot scale to the rooftop, not this late in a Game, even if she feels safer cloaked at height in the dark. She dares not even leave her squad to steal a moment on the warped wooden platform high above their heads.
To be taken down at this point, would mean no beacon her squadmates could risk. She canât justify, even to herself, leaving them short over her need to centre herself. Too many open lines of sight to risk, especially when sheâs all but certain thereâs a squad holed up just as they are, up the incline in the shallows.
If nothing else, they wonât be set upon any time soon. Not unless someone else breaks the peace of the night. There is not one Elite left alive who is cocky enough to think they can sneak up on Wraith while wading through the swamps. So theyâre safe, for now. Bunked almost civilly, indoors in a standing structure. Mirage might be making jokes about playing house, if he werenât sleeping off the near-fatal injuries of their last encounter.
So, she makes do. She settles herself in a corner next to the door to the balcony, reminding herself that an attack isnât imminent - she can stretch her legs out flat and rest. Pathfinder is powered down to sleep until her watch is over. His chest screen glows softly as a nightlight in the far corner, his rifle loose but ready in hand. Mirage, theyâve line against the thickest wall between them, on the best of a battle bed they could source from rags and packs and a long plank, his bunk kit blanket tucked over him to keep away the chill of the air.
His face is lax and smoothed in sleep, because Wraith has allowed herself the indulgence of dosing him at regular intervals with her abundant score of low-grade painkillers. His hair is a tangled snare of yellow highlights and dirt, and a smile ghosts Wraithâs lips at the certainty that the first thing he will do upon waking is rectify the less-than-camera-ready state of his appearance. Soot has dried and caressed his cheekbone, a nick on his chin has dried dark and scabbed over. Dust and sand have settled in every crease of his face. He shows the story of their last fight, right there on his skin. His lashes flutter and a soft hitch mars his breath. Wraith finds (as she does increasingly often these days) that she hasn't the will to stop her own eyes from mapping every smudge, every line, of the face she knows better than anyone will ever know.
Her ribcage is tight with knotted things she hasn't acknowledged.
She breathes the night, as much as she can in a cramped, claustrophobic room with no view of the vast dark above her, and coaxes it into her lungs, her blood. Far across the Arena some unknown creature howls to the sky, and the stillness of it all falls like snow upon her as she watches him sleep.
It wonât be long. Until the pause is over and it all begins anew, she knows that. First watch is something theyâve rotated between them since their early days, because they all know how unlikely it is theyâll get a second, or a third, and Wraith is already fully prepared to be running on little sleep when the guns start up again. They rarely argue with her when she calls it, even though she knows they must know it falls on her more often than is fair.
But sheâs used to making do. She always has been. It keeps her sharp. Itâs a luxury, even now, to have squad who share the burden as best they can. And awake alone in the tense darkness of the Canyon, or the Swamps as the case is this time, she watches over them, assured that any foolish attempt to kickstart the day early will be met with swift retaliation. She wraps the shadows around herself like welcome blankets, feels the intangible warmth of Pathfinderâs glow, and listens to Mirage breathe; deep and even and restful, and for an hour or two, - or four if theyâre lucky â she will welcome the balance of peace in her soul.
When the guns begin again, as they always do, that glow will flicker bright and aware, her feet will find the split wood beneath her, and Mirage will stir. Until then, Wraith will sit in the darkness of the night and watch the steady rise and fall, her eyes will trace every twist and knot and curl across his forehead, and a secretive Voice in the back of her head will mourn, just a little, when waking snatches the smooth from his brow and the quiet of the air.
It waits for dawn, a savoured pleasure. High, far enough away that the life prowls back into their den at an almost leisurely pace. Wraith stretches languidly, Pathfinder powers up steadily, and Mirage wakes with a yawn and a murmur of "Already?" that punctures the air gently with mirth.
His eyes are open and bright regardless, alertness in every angle of his jaw and the ridge of his nose as he sits, and yawns again, and combs one hand through his hair with a playful disgust on his lip.
"Couldn't rinse when you were giving me a makeover?"
Despite herself, Wraith's lips twitch as she slings her pack over her shoulders.
"You must not have packed your hairdryer." he adds, cheeky - flirtatious, even - and grins widely at her eye roll.
An explosion rocks the ground close enough to pay attention to, and their respite is officially shattered. Peace melts away, slinking into the cracks between the floorboards and withdrawing into the shadows left forgotten in the corners.
With one glance between them, three are ready and positioned by the door. The moment it opens, Pathfinder will send forth a yellow cord, and in seconds they'll be under another roof.
Mirage's elbow grazes hers. He meets her glance with a smirk and it passes between them briefly; one look, one plan, total understanding.
And though the air and the Arena and her blood have lost it, one small strand of peace coils deep in Wraith's soul.
