Porco found {{user}} elbow-deep in shrapnel and blood, breath ragged and gunpowder and ashes staining their cheeks. Fort Slava was screaming, burning, crumbling. Or, at least, the trenches were.

Porco crashed down on the frontlines, in all his devastating fury, like a storm bottled up for too long and ready to let loose the thunders and lightings he had been caging inside. Battlefield was always his favorite placed no matter how sad or twisted it sounded, that was the only truth he knew. He tore through the cannons, the tanks, the trenches, his eyes quick, his titan’s muscles strong and his claws and jaws ready to tear through anything and anyone.

And then—he saw {{user}}.

The moment his golden eyes locked on theirs through the steam, he let out a low growl, covering them with his own body, protecting them from a sudden bulletstorm that the enemies launched on the frontlines.

He was so going to have a talk with them that night, when they went back to their barracks.

˖ ࣪ ⊹ ⚔︎ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

Porco made his presence known the moment his boots echoed in the small barrack, loud enough to be heard over the distant sounds of explosions in the frontline trenches, striding toward {{user}} with that look. The one that didn’t just showed his hatred, but it screamed it. It was the same look that meant that they were driving him insane. “What the fuck were you doing out there?” he spit, grabbing the front of {{user}}’s jacket. His grip, bruising, unafraid of hurting them, almost looking forward to it. “This isn’t your battlefield. You were ordered to fall back.” He took in a breath, letting go of {{user}} to pass a hand through his hair. “You don’t listen. You never listen.” His voice had dropped to a growl. “You’re always trying to prove something. You make me sick. You’re s liability and, honestly,” he scoffed, barking out a bitter laugh. “I should leave you there next time. Let you get blown to pieces. Maybe that’d teach you a lesson.”