okay, so ages ago i found an an utterly gorgeous piece of fanart by @monsuta127 depicting a truly fascinating headcanon created by @imagine-darksiders that the mark on War's head is actually a brand given to him by older Nephilim for his more angelic looking features and it's an idea i've been so obsessed with for so long that i finally wrote something with it
a teeny angsty that ends sweetly but gosh i love all the creative ideas in this community 😭❤️
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The constant scratching of pencil on paper was the sole sound to punctuate the stillness of the room. You were tucked, rather comfortably, on the far end of your sofa. Legs crossed and sketchbook placed atop your lap as you idly sketched away, filling the pages with whatever struck your fancy. You hunched over, darkening the lines around a serious pair of eyes that glowered back at you. Your lips quirked upward as you looked away from the drawing to your muse that sat just across from you.
The Horseman, War, absolute behemoth of a Nephilim, sat with you in quiet contemplation. You weren’t embarrassed to admit that most of your drawings gravitated toward the youngest of the Four. He made it so easy to fill pages with his impressive figure, as he had no qualms about sitting still for hours at a time.
His siblings occupied some of your sketchbook, but nowhere near the quantity that War dominated. It wasn’t for a lack of trying. Strife had issues sitting still, always fidgeting and turning. Fury had no patience, content to remain motionless for a few moments before restlessness eventually claimed her. Whereas Death, while possessing the capacity to sit still for as long as needed, seemed uninterested in having his visage recorded by your hand. He humored you at times, but the opportunity came rarely.
War was none of those things. Still as a statue and quiet as the dead, he posed the most for you with no apparent qualms. You’d spent so many hours drawing the youngest that every detail could be re-created on memory alone. It was hard to pick a favorite.
Hair, white as snow, spilled from the crimson hood as glowing blue eyes regarded anything and everything with an intense heat. Jaw always set in a frown, a scowl; never looking pleased and far too serious. An impossibly large build, towering and imposing, made for his namesake and living up to that expectation. War was a curious one. His life revolved around fighting and killing and yet, for how fierce he was, his features were oddly delicate. He appeared so human-like despite belonging to a near extinct race of otherworldly beings.
But perhaps most curious of all, was the mark etched into his flesh. Displayed brazenly across War’s forehead, appearing like nothing more than a typical scar. You’d, however, witnessed it catch ablaze during the youngest’s most heated moments. If the mark glowed, you knew he was agitated, angry, heated in some manner. It mostly lay dormant beneath the shadows of his hood, rarely peeking out on fleeting occasions. You’d managed to recreate the mark through pencil a handful of times, always curious about its nature.
His siblings carried no such scars. They were scarred, obviously, but the one you noted on the other three were more indicative of battle earned. Jagged and messy; delivered from quick swipes of demonic claws or the swing of angelic blades. War’s facial scar was too clean. Too meticulous. As if purposefully placed.
“Have you finished with your incessant scratching?”
You perked up, regarding War with a curious blink. A lazy smile tugged at your lips. “I can be.” You sat up and set the pencil within the gutter of your sketchbook before snapping it shut and putting the book off to the side.
War grunted, turning away once more. The usual scowl, ever present on his face, deeper than normal. “I do not think I will ever understand your fascination with me.” Tone always rough, coarse and deep, but with a very distinct edge to it not normally present.
You leaned to the side, feigning a curious tilt of the head as you unfolded your legs and stretched out. The mark on War’s forehead smoldered a faint orange. You watched him carefully. Years of artistic training and practice made you quite perceptive. Strife boasted that your eyes were nearly as sharp as his, a compliment you held with high regard. You rubbed the bottoms of your bare feet against the carpeting of your floor. Playing innocent. Many assumed that War was brutish. That his sheer strength equated an overall lack of intelligence. But you knew better. He possessed the mind of a tactician, cautious and attuned to another’s shift in demeanor. “Mmm…what’s that supposed to mean? I happen to think you’re quite lovely to look at.”
War’s jaw drew tight as he sighed. The mark flickered; bright enough to cast away the hooded shadows for only a moment. You eyed him carefully. War wasn’t particularly talkative. Most of his intent was delivered through body language and subtle shifts in tone. You’d been around the Nephilim long enough to piece together his secret language. Knew that you were staring down a clearly agitated War. The fact that he refused to meet your eye was indication enough something was amiss. He’d never been particularly shy. You’d been drawing him for months without issue, but as you pieced together past interactions, a common thread began to form between them all. Now that you really thought about it, this wasn’t the first time he’d shown hints of agitation toward your renditions. Like he might have been uncomfortable with your fascination with him but he lacked the words to tell you otherwise.
“War, what’s wrong?” you asked, scooting to the edge of the sofa cushion. You adopted a frown, feeling discomfort worm its way into your chest.
He grunted in your direction, still refusing to look at you. “Why is your first instinct to always assume something is wrong?”
He was deflecting. You knew your insatiable curiosity could be irritating at times (goodness knows the friendly angels and demons had no shortage of comments on that particular human quirk), but for the youngest to so quickly be adverse to your inquisitive nature so clearly born from worry set a little alarm off in the back of your head. War was so painfully blunt. To fault. Naturally adverse to lying with a penchant for meeting obstacles head on and bulldozing through them with little tact. It deepened your frown and wrought anxiety upon your heart. Like you’d crossed some unseen line.
You leaned forward, clasping your hands together as you laid your arms atop your legs. “You’ve never gotten huffy with me before. I thought you didn’t mind me drawing you?” you asked, careful to structure your questions. The last thing you wanted to do was step on a proverbial land mine and be on the wrong end of War’s gnashing teeth and cutting words. You watched him carefully, mindful of the exits just in case you needed to make a hasty retreat on the high chance your foot happened to make its way into your mouth.
He grumbled in your direction once more. The metal of his battle regalia clinked as he shifted in his seat. The cushion protested. Human furniture was so ill suited to support his large frame. War dipped his head just enough to hide his eyes, but the glow of his mark - a reflection of his inner state - betrayed the attempt and made it easy to see him grit his teeth. He bared his fangs to the floor below.
Your brows furrowed. Against your better judgement, you stood and slowly padded over to War until you stood just before him. Even when seated, the youngest still sat taller than you.
“War?” you asked quietly. You swallowed and brought your hands before you, wringing them with anxious energy.
He offered no reaction, still refusing to meet your eyes. His shoulders sagged, just a touch, as he remained deathly quiet. Contemplating? Or lost in thought? It was hard to say as you bit your lip and weighed your options.
You reached a hand forward, pausing momentarily, almost frightened at the potential outcome. You gathered the scraps of your courage with a deep breath before resting your hand atop his gauntlet. The second joined the first, both pressing lightly into the metal. The gesture was enough to pull him from whatever daze he’d found himself in as War finally met your eyes. You desperately tried to read his expression, but the swirl of emotion in his eyes made it difficult to decipher. He looked troubled. Such a foreign look that formed a pit deep in your stomach.
“If…if you don’t want me to draw you anymore, then I won’t. You know I hate drawing people without their permission,” you offered, voice so soft it was nearly a whisper. Your heart clenched with a deep ache. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable if it’s upsetting you.”
War sighed. A deep, rumbling sound you felt more than heard. He closed his eyes for a moment before opening them once more. Expression more composed, less uncertain. You offered your best smile, patting his hand before moving away. The assumption that he was fine spurred your distance. War halted you with a large hand on your wrist, keeping you in place.
“No.”
You looked up at him, eyes wide and heart in your throat. You searched his expression. Tried to find a meaning.
“Huh? W-what?”
“You may keep drawing me. I know you enjoy it,” War said. The grip on your wrist, once firm, began to relax. Always so worried his boundless strength would cause you harm.
“I, but…okay, well, it’s obviously bothering you?” You tilted your head at him, brows scrunched together as you puzzled his words. Frustration curdled in your chest. “I’m not going to do something that very clearly–”
“It’s not you.” War’s tone was as sharp as his sword. You jumped in his grip as it cut down your budding irritation. He pulled away, hands laid on his knees once again as he drew up his shoulders, avoiding your eyes in a somewhat aggravating repetition.
This was not your Horseman. This was not War. This was unnerving, his behavior. His aversion, so unlike the Nephilim you’d come to know. But through it all there was a nagging sense of familiarity. Like you’d seen this behavior before. Not on him, but elsewhere. You watched him meticulously. Studied the well memorized features of the youngest as you watched them bend and contort in such an unusual way. Several awkward and tense moments passed before the realization finally struck you like a bolt of lighting. You inwardly seethed, turning your prior frustration against yourself for not piecing it together sooner.
“War,” you began hesitantly. You laid a hand atop his, bargaining for his attention. “Are you…are you self-conscious?”
His head snapped up, eyes smoldering with contempt. “What? What are you on about?”
The well familiar sting of self-consciousness wormed its way into you under the youngest’s scrutiny. You pulled away from him, wrist slipping from his now lax grip as you nervously rubbed at your arm. You found it difficult to look at him, but pushed through the discomfort in order to chase the answers you so desperately sought. “You know like…like you don’t like how you look? Or maybe there’s one thing you really can’t stand?” You scrambled for explanations, eyes watching War with a nervous intensity. Waiting for a change. “It’s a pretty common feeling in humans, especially the younger ones as they come of age.”
A muscle in War’s jaw jumped as he grit his teeth and you briefly wondered if you’d accidentally insulted him. Maybe it hadn’t been the smartest thing to compare his sudden behavior with that of young human’s. You tried to smile. An awkward quirk of the lips becoming a poor attempt at alleviating the tension as you swallowed the growing lump in your throat. War sighed. The sound harsh and biting as he gripped his knees tighter. It was sudden and made you jump.
His eyes fell to the carpet. An awkward silence blanketed you both. You began to fidget.
“No one has ever looked upon me with such…fondness before,” War admitted. The edge in his voice had dissipated. His shoulders dropped as he spoke, the tension bleeding out from his hunched form.
“I…really?” you asked in a stupor.
He lifted his face, familiar scowl present. But the expression didn’t quite meet his eyes. It dissolved your lingering frustration as you attempted to pin the emotion. Discomfort? Unease?
Embolden by his admission, you stepped toward him, reaching small hands up and cupping his face in your palms. War grasped at your wrists, not to stop you, but rather just to feel you. “But…you’re so beautiful,” you said softly, eyes searching his own.
“I am a Nephilim. Built for war. We are not meant to be beautiful.”
You frowned, lips turned downward as a crease formed between your brows. Your hands traveled up, meeting no resistance as War relinquished his lax grip. The hood hiding his face was carefully removed, exposing his features to the light as you ran your fingers through snow white hair until they came to rest on his jaw once more. “Says who?” you said, idly running a thumb over his skin.
War closed his eyes in response. He breathed deep. “There was no other that looked like me. Delicate. Angelic.”
He grasped one of your hands in his and moved it further up his face until the pads of your fingers touched the mark you were so achingly curious about. The skin was coarse and jagged beneath your touch. You traced the far too meticulous lines, growing intimately familiar with its anatomy. War remained silent, allowing you the time to memorize his most hidden feature. You’d never seen the mark so openly on display, let alone touch it.
“They branded me for my crime.”
You locked eyes with War, expression morphing from curiosity to horror. Mouth agape, you struggled for words. “W-who?” You swallowed, tongue thick in your mouth.
“The Nephilim.”
“Your siblings?” you asked, voice hitching and chest twisting tight.
War grabbed your hand and removed it from his mark. He held it in his own, running the thumb over the back of your hand. A comforting gesture you weren’t sure was meant more for you or him. Or both, given the gravity of his revelation. “No. Not them. The ones we rode against eons ago. Far before your time.”
“Oh…oh, War.” You looked down before settling your eyes on his mark once more. “I’m so sorry.”
He furrowed his brows at you. “Why do you apologize? You were not the one to brand me.”
You scoffed, heart aching for War. “Because…because it was a horrible thing to go through.” You looked up at him, concerned and incredulous as your eyes filled with tears. “I can’t believe you were put through something so barbaric. All over something so…so…” You grit your teeth as the words failed you. The unbelievable torment War had been put through ages ago and carried with him into the present was so raw and painful to you, you struggled to voice it. Tears fell down your cheeks as your body shuddered with each breath. “If I had known what you’d been through…how it bothered you, then…then I never would have drawn you. I’d have stopped forever ago. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
War cupped your cheek. He practically held your whole head in the palm of his oversized hand. You leaned into the touch as you cried for him, chest tight and twisting and agonizing over your Horseman. Over his long carried pain.
“No. I want you to continue drawing.” War paused, watching you sniffle in his hand before eying the discarded sketchbook. He glanced back at you, features finally softening. The tension easing as the mark lost its glow. “When I see myself through your eyes, it…eases the sting. I forget their words.”
You nodded into his palm with another sniff. A wet, wavering laugh burst from your throat at your Horseman’s brutal honesty. His usual self returned before you, bit by bit. The relief was immediate as your chest lightened. “Okay,” you said, patting his hand, “if that’s what you want, War, then I’ll keep doing them at your behest.”
“Good.” He wiped away your tears. “Such an emotional creature. Eagerly feeling pain for others when it is not yours to feel in the first place.”
You laughed once more. No doubt looking as shitty as you felt as you nuzzled into his hand before grabbing his face. “Sorry. My heart’s too big for my tiny body.” You pressed your lips to his in a tender kiss. Admiring his warmth as it eased your grief born of his truth.
War reciprocated the gesture, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you into his lap. He held you close, enveloping you in his bulk. The kiss was broken as War pulled away to press his face into the crook of your neck. Your flesh grew hot as he inhaled your scent and planted another kiss to the delicate skin. “It is what I admire most about you,” he murmured.
You shivered at the heat of his breath. The vibrations of his voice. He kissed once more before you felt the familiar nip of his sharpened fangs against your softer skin. His most intimate form of affection. “I thought it made me ‘too soft,’” you quoted. You smiled through the tears, fondly remembering the teasing and exasperated remarks of he and his siblings in moments past for your more delicate nature.
“It does. But I like that you are soft.” War proved his point but tucking you deeper into his body. Thick arms kept you caged against his chest, not that you were complaining. You nuzzled into his armor, fingers running through his long, white hair.
“And I think…you’re beautiful. My favorite muse. Maybe if it’s not too much trouble…you could ditch the hood around me when it’s just us?” you asked tentatively, looking up at him through long lashes.
He was quiet for a moment, regarding you and your request. War curled tighter around you, sighing into your neck once more. “Very well. Just for you.” The growl of his voice almost sounded possessive. It was comforting, to be desired.
You closed your eyes with a gentle smile as you eased into him. “Thank you,” you sighed in content.
You could never undo the scars War carried. Couldn’t quite erase them, no matter how desperate you may have been to do so. But you were hopeful that, at the very least, you could color them in a new light. A brighter one. One born of love and affection.
War was so near and dear to you and oh how you hated to see him struggle, just as he loathed seeing you in danger. You two made quite the pair.
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Like there is a difference between "My trauma creates impulsive urges and has changed my instinctive reactions to be irrational, I need to relearn shit." vs "I'm traumatized so I Can't Help It and you're not allowed to expect better of me"
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okay so. as a Fallout Blog or whatever. my take on "new fallout game in development at obsidian!" is that there genuinely doesn't need to be new fallout games, really, and the circumstances in which we're getting one -- amidst layoffs and the cancellation of all of obsidian's original IP projects in-development -- suggests that microsoft is holding obsidian at gunpoint and demanding them to print money above all else, which doesn't really inspire me with confidence even if this game is made by two or three of the same guys who made the last good fallout game so many years ago that new vegas could be going to senior prom soon
my bnha oc that i made years ago. i gave her a slight adjustment to her design and finally have a solid hero costume for her. her quirk is basically turn into a big bird dinosaur and fly because saurischan is the scientific term for the link between birds and dinosaurs 🥰
she has her own fanfic im working on too right >>here<<
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like Asuka and shinsou are already good friends and intended to be best friends...but they'd also work super well as romantic partners. and I kind of latched onto that little detail at the end of the series that tokoyami and shinsou hang out at night a lot lmao
thinking about this more because shinsou is literally her day 1 supporter. he's always been there from the start and i have so much in mind about how he's still relevant in her life well before he gets transferred
like both options are really good and im still die hard for her to be with tokoyami but man her relationship with shinsou is also so incredibly important to me wheezes
my bnha oc that i made years ago. i gave her a slight adjustment to her design and finally have a solid hero costume for her. her quirk is basically turn into a big bird dinosaur and fly because saurischan is the scientific term for the link between birds and dinosaurs 🥰
she has her own fanfic im working on too right >>here<<
the reason i don't have patience for people anymore is because there is a concerning amount of customers that come into my bakery that look at a sign that says 'chocolate cake' and they are so utterly baffled when i tell them that yes, there is chocolate cake inside of that cake labeled 'chocolate cake' i do not know how this is confusing to you but here we fucking are i guess
signs at stores? émail? menu ?? instruction ? post online ? caption with andswer to question ? group hand outs ??? street sign ??? no. The Written Word Is The Enemy
#The number of compliments i have gotten for reading a thing
The ability to occasionally Read A Thing will make you a hero in your workplace, especially if it is for example an error message that tells you what you need to do differently, or instructions on unjamming a printer.
I work in tech, and much of what I do is support sales reps within the company by resolving errors with the software they use.
There is one sales rep who, every single time I send her a message or email with extremely specific instructions that will resolve her issue, does something completely different from what I tell her. Every time. Without fail. It is so glaringly obvious that she has never read even a single word that I have written to her.
So one day, she sends me a message that says little more than "(software) is broken, help"
So I do my standard song and dance of asking her what she's trying to accomplish, and what specifically is stopping her from doing that. And eventually, after much unnecessary back and forth, she tells me there's an error message. I ask her to send me a screenshot of the error message. She does.
The error message basically says, "these two required fields are blank. To resolve this, please fill in these two specific fields, and then click save."
So I take a few deep breaths.
Then I lie to her.
I message her back, saying "hey yeah, for some reason it's not loading that screenshot on my end. Could you type out the full text of the error message for me?"
Client is reporting that Some Thing Program doesn't work. I ask if there's an error message with further information about what's not working. Client says "no". I go over and ask Client to open Some Thing. Client double-clicks on the icon for Some Thing, it starts to boot, an error message dialog flashes up on screen, Client closes error message before I can read it, Thing closes after the error.
"What did that error message say?" I ask.
"What error message?" asks Client.
I tell Client to open the Some Thing again and then not click anything else. Client opens Some Thing, error message appears, Client clicks it away again.
I tell Client to stand up, step away, and give me physical control of the computer. I open Some Thing, start looking at the error message without closing it, and Client says "You should close that." I tell Client that I am reading the error message. Client is apparently accustomed to treating error messages as a kind of spam email that should be deleted as fast as possible, and gets agitated that I'm reading it.
I read the error message. It tells me what the problem is. I fix the problem. Some Thing works now.
---
Later, I start thinking about how such an error message might perhaps be engineered to be more attention-grabbing and close-resistant as a way of making people read it. It's not important for some random program here, but there are more important systems (medical, etc) where it would be reasonable to demand the user's attention because people's lives depend on paying attention to the error message.
But then people with a perverted intellect would still be thinking about ways to avoid reading the message, like dragging it off edge of screen or hiding it behind another window. So maybe the dialog box could have an always-in-front feature to override other windows, and the alert could use the computer's hardware "beep" functionality that can't be switched off by muting the regular sound system, and keep beeping... shit, I realize I'm reinventing pain, and get philosophical about it.
I've found myself realizing I failed to Read a Thing on occasion. On other times, I was typing it into Google when I realized I already knew the answer.
I've solved this problem in the past in some creative ways.
My favorite was a recurring issue where, in an accounting system, there were two reports. One displayed the running summary of all cash in all accounts. The other one did that, but also ended the quarter, cleared the ledger, and started a fresh new quarter.
One user in particular kept running the second report too early, when they intended to run the first report. Then they'd call in a panic, wondering "where did all the money go?!"
It already had an ARE YOU SURE? prompt in front of that report. But the user blindly clicked YES without thinking. Every time.
So we added a second ARE YOU REALLY SURE? prompt after that, and moved the YES button someplace else. The user quickly adapted to that.
The final thing that worked? We replaced the ARE YOU SURE? prompt with a requirement that they type out the phrase YES I REALLY WANT TO CLOSE THE QUARTER into a floating text box then click OK.
The first time they encountered that they called us.
Asked us about "the weird new error" and what they had to do to get around it. We asked, "it's not the end of the quarter. Do you REALLY want to run that report?"
After thinking about it for two seconds they said "nope" and hung up.
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