#Metal Gear Acid 2

[foone]

so there was a Metal Gear game (Metal Gear Acid 2) that came with an add-on that let you clip it onto your PSP and then use it like a VR headset, with no motion tracking or anything, but it rendered the game twice on each side of the screen so that this add on (called the Solid Eye) made it have stereoscopic 3D

what the hell, Kojima?

[they-have-the-same-va]

Bad Girl from the No More Heroes series shares a voice actress with Venus from Metal Gear Acid 2.

Voiced by Kathryn Fiore

[hastvic]

Metal Gear Acid 2 Solid Snake ver. Req from a while back 💃

[devileaterjaek]

[hardcore-gaming-101]

Metal Gear Acid 2

In a welcome surprise, Snake’s card battling experiment wasn’t just a one off event. The team followed up with a new game a year later, expanding and adding more. It differentiates itself with a new cell-shaded style, expands upon the eclectic mix of trading cards and turn-based strategy, and it features a unique, if impractical accessory to give the game a more ‘solid’ look. The more well-rounded offering of Acid 2 improves upon the original, and helps highlight what works, while also making Acid‘s deficiencies more obvious too.

Read more...

[the-bar-sinister]

6 for whoever you like

6. --where it doesn’t hurt.

acid 2!Snake x Revolver Ocelot

Snake was rehabilitating in secret after the mission under the name that Agent Dalton had helped him purchase. There was almost nobody who knew he was there; certainly there should be no unexpected visitors.

The stranger who walked through the door looked like an old cowboy  in a long tan coat and a red scarf. He had a weathered look to him, and his mustache was white, but his eyes were clear and bright, and Snake couldn't be sure if the man was in his 50s or his 90s. 

He was carrying a bouquet of bright blue flowers.

"Who the hell are you?" Snake demanded. There was no way he could get up quickly with the amount of bandages and IVs on him.

The cowboy held up his free hand as he swaggered over to the bedside and put the flowers in the empty vase. "A friend of the family. I'm not here to kill you; promise."

"Forgive me if I'm not convinced; I've had a lot of people try to kill me lately."

"No surprise there." The cowboy smiled at him, and his bright gaze swept over Snake's prone form on the medical cot. "You look like you've been through hell, boy."

"Who are you? what do you mean 'a friend of the family'?"

"Just what I said," he grinned. He leaned down and his red gloved hand brushed over Snake's cheek. "I see you still got the eye for now."

Snake was reaching to buzz for the nurse when the man leaned down and kissed him suddenly. First on each eye, and then the mouth.

Snake didn't understand why it suddenly put him at ease. He dropped the call button.

Maybe it was genetic.

ao3 link

kiss prompt list

[g4zdtechtv]

THE PILE PRESENTS: X-Play - Serpent Muncher | 11/17/04

What a thrill, indeed.

(Original G4ZDTechTV Air Date - May 26, 2017)

(4GTV - STREAM WHAT YOU PLAY! WATCH NOW!)

[grrl-bubble-acid]

Metal Gear Acid 2 Retro Commercial Trailer 2005 Konami

[thegarlicgoblin]

A bit of what I'm gonna do about my MGS ✖ DMC mod

Well, I'm bored, so chuckle up, buckle-nuts cause I'm gonna talk a bit about my mod project

I'm sure You've seen at least the small slice of a whole that is the first part of my mod pack which is this

Well, as I said, that's only *part* of the project.

What I plan on doing as a whole is quite a bunch more of suits that spread throughout the whole MGS series, and not only for Dante, I plan on doing a few intended for Vergil firstly too, and perhaps something for Lady as well (who knows? < :^] )

I'm gonna list now just a few of them, so as to bring out enough interest while keeping some as surprise

for Dante we have: - The MGS: The Twin Snakes sneaking suit, shirtless version included; - The MGS3 sneaking suit; ~ The MGS Portable Ops CQC enhancer suit; - The MGS Peace Walker battle dress.

for Vergil we have: - The MGS: The Twin Snakes cyborg ninja suit; - The MGS: Portable Ops Plus Raiden suit; - The MGS: Portable Ops Plus Tengu Soldier uniform;

now for some totally unrelated pictures *wink wink nudge nudge*

[the-whatcherof-89]

Xisumavoid Aka Ih-Soo-Mah Shaahwambam

CR 20 C XP 307,200 (if used as npc for encounter)Aasimar(Angelkin) Bloodrager12(Celestial Bloodline) Draconic Disciple(Void)8 NG Medium humanoid (Aasimar) Init +3; Senses darkvision 60 ft., low-light vision, Perception +36 AC 40 (+3 Dex, +5 deflection, +10 natural, +11 armor, +1 Intuition) Touch 19 Flat-footed 37 HP 210 (20d12+120) Fort +24, Ref +15, Will +24 Speed 30 ft

Melee Adamantine keen brilliant energy falchion+34 2D4+16 Critical 17-20x2, Spells. Ranged Returning javelins+22 1D6+12, Spells

Racial Celestial resistances 5(Acid, Cold, Electric), Darkvision 60ft, +2 on Knowledge Planes and Heal. Traits: Ear for music, Foul brand.

Class features Greater blood rage (+4 Str Con +2 Will saves), Blood sanctuary, Bloodcasting, Improved uncanny dodge, Damage reduction 2/-, Fast movement, Eschew materials, Dragon bite 1D6 Piercing+1D6 cold, Blood of dragons, Natural armor increase +5, Ability boot(STR+4 CON+2 INT+2), Breath weapon 3/day(Con of cold 30ft 8D6 DC23), Blindsense 30ft, Dragon form 1/day.

Bloodline powers Bonus feats (Dodge, Improved initiative, Iron will, Cleave, Blind fight, Power attack) Bonus spells: Bless, Resist energy.

Spellcasting CL 18th, DC19

4th (4/day)-dragon’s breath, telekinetic charge, stoneskin, monstrous physique II, Ghost wolf.

3rd (4/day)-haste, heroism, draconic reservoir, Force punch, chain of perdition, resinous skin.

2nd (5/day)-mirror image, molten orb, see invisibility, glitterdust, blood armor, ablative barrier. 1st (7/day)-jump, mount, shield, thunder stomp, magic missile, burning hands.

Str 32, Dex 16, Con 24, Int 12, Wis 16, Cha 28

Base Atk +18; CMB +28; CMD 32

Feats Strong personality, Craft wondrous magic items, Improved sunder, Spell penetration, Greater spell penetration, Improved critical, Weapon focus(Falchion), Raging vitality, Angelic blood, Quicken spell-like ability(Dragon form).

Skills Acrobatics+12, Climb+15, Craft(Stone and metal)+24, Escape artist+13, Diplomacy+13, Fly+11, Intimidate +13, Knowledge (Arcana)+10, (Geography)+24 (The planes)+10 (Nature)+5, Perception +26, Perform(Cord)+13, Profession(Composer)+11, Spellcraft +20, Survival +11, Swim +15.

Languages Common, Celestial, Draconic.

Combat gear Mithral spell storing banded mail of greater cold resistance+4, Ring of protection+5, Amulet of natural armor+5, Ioun stones(Deep red sphere, Dusty rose prism), Adamantine keen brilliant energy falchion+5, 2 Returning javelins+1, Belt of physical might+6(STR, CON), Cloak of resistance+5, Headband of mental Prowess+6(WIS CHA Geography), Sandals of quick reaction, Bag of holding type I, Potions:(4) Cure serious wounds (4)Haste, Wands(Blink, Enlarge person), Tome of leadership and influence+2(Used), Manual of bodily health+2, Manual of gainful exercise+5(used), Masterwork guitar, Bloodrager kit, 508GP.

Xisumaviod Aka Ik-soo-mah the Ender caller.

CR 20 XP 307,200 (if used as npc for encounter)Aasimar(Ember-kin, Fallen one) Oracle(Void)20

CE Medium humanoid Init +5; Senses Perception +38

AC 33, touch 17, flat-footed 32 (+1Dex, +5Deflection, +5 natural, +11armor, +1intuition) HP 141 (20d8+48)

Fort +17, Ref +12, Will +28

Speed 30 ft. Melee Adamantine keen brilliant energy scythe+26 1D10+11. Ranged Distance light crossbow+18 1d8+2 +1D8 Cold.

Racial Celestial resistances 5(Acid, Cold, Fire), Darkvision 60ft, +2 on Knowledge Planes and Spellcraft, Lost promise. Traits: Ear for music, Foul brand.

Class features Curse: Tongues, Mystery: Void, Revelations: Absence of body, DR15/force, Armor fo the void 20 hours/day, Body of the void 20 minutes/day, Commune with the void, Creature of the void, Summon the void, Stare into the abyss,Touch of the void, Visions of the void, Wisdom of the void), Final revelation, Bonus spells: Chill heart, Darkness, Ray of exhaustion, Curse of magic negation, Passwall, Gateway, Banishment, Maze, Overwhelming presence.

Spellcasting CL20 DC21 Spells per day 9/9/9/8/8/8/8/7/7 Spells known: 9-Miracle, Portal, Implosion. 8-Earthquake, Cloak of chaos, Greater planar ally. 7-Scrying(greater), Resurrection, Blasphemy.

6-Word of recall, Heal, Blade barrier. 5-Planar shift, Break enchantment, Flame strike, True seeing. 4-Summon master IV, Freedom of movement, Divine power, Inflict critical wounds. 3-Water breathing, Cure serious wounds, Protection from energy, Dispel magic. 2-Restoration(lesser), Cure moderate wounds, Find traps, Sonic blast, Hold person.

1-Cure light wounds, Shield of faith, Bless water, Sanctuary, Divine favor. 0-Detect magic, Create water, Read magic, Purify food and drink, Mending, Light, Detect poison, Virtue, Guidance.

Str 22, Dex 12, Con 22, Int 12, Wis 20, Cha 32

Base Atk +15; CMB +21; CMD +22

Feats Craft wondrous items, Improved initiative, Divine interference, Extra revelations(4), Weapon proficiency(Scythe), Strong personality, Quicken metamagic.

Skills Craft(Stone and metal)+24, Intimidate +13, Heal+10, Knowledge (Arcana)+24, (History)+5 (The planes)+24 (Religion)+5, Disable device+24, Perception +28, Perform(Cord)+15, Profession(Composer)+10, Sense motive+10, Spellcraft +20, Survival +11, Swim +15, Use magic device +24.

Languages Common, Celestial, Abyssal, Draconic, Aklo.

Combat gear Mithral spell storing banded mail of greater electric resistance+4, Ring of protection+5, Amulet of natural armor+5, Ioun stones(Deep red sphere, Dusty rose prism), Adamantine keen brilliant energy scythe+5, Distance light crossbow+1, 50+1 Frost bolts, Belt of physical might+6(STR, CON), Cloak of resistance+5, Headband of mental Prowess+6(WIS CHA Planes), Slippers of cloudwalking, Glyphbane gloves, Bag of holding type I, Potions:(4) Cure serious wounds (4)Gaseous form, Tome of leadership and influence+2(Used), Manual of bodily health+2, Manual of gainful exercise+5(used), Scrolls(Cloak of chaos, Reverse gravity, Orb of  the void, Blood mist), Masterwork guitar, Oracle kit, 87GP. 

Background: Xisuma lives in a faraway land famous for the various buildings that defies possibility and his hermits that build them. While it is true that he is one of them, Xisuma is not only a music composer but also an admin/steward figure of the place, ensuring both the stability and functioning logistics of the land between the various hermits. Xisuma however, has a secret: for some reason he has a connection with the Void hence, his full name Xisumavoid. Although people do not bring up his full name often, Xisuma always feels the strange call and stares at the vast sky of the Overworld or the endless depth of the End. While there was no exchange of words, he always felt something or someone calling for him, pulling, inching forward from the dark depths but he could never reply or understand, until one day he was overseeing the land from a vantage point and saw some kind of light on the horizon engulfing the world. The land was disappearing. Xisuma panicked for a moment, but then he heard a call: ���My chosen. To stop this advent embrace me. I shall give you the power to save the land. Look upon me.” Xisuma looked around but saw no one, until he looked up and saw IT. His two eyes reflected his being into two and cast the now divided Xisuma in two beings in another land. Separated, the two heard again the voice: “Upon you i now bestow my powers and a prophecy:”

Swift as the wind the ground rumbles

Burn the bubble when they stumbles

With blazing storms forward they dash

Cold hearts engraved in ash

One light and secrets will be hushed

Four shadows always clashed

Ring the bell falls the hammer

Sparks dance under the burnt banner

Clad in white we slowly fade

For in twilight’s hour we were remade

“When the prophecy is resolved, come find me. And you will return to your land untainted.” The two Xisuma were separated, one in the Overworld, the other in the End but they both knew what had to be done and no one would stand in their way.

(Image made with Heroforge.)

[thecreaturecodex]

Stegon

"Stegon render" © deviantArt user SuperSamYoshi, accessed at his gallery here

[Stegon is a Return of Ultraman kaiju that seems to be an homage to original Ultraman monster Seabozu. Both are skeletal dinosaur kaiju that are treated sympathetically, and Stegon uses a modified version of Seabozu's roar for a sound effect. This is somewhat striking because Stegon definitely kills people. Like, we see construction workers get melted. So I wanted my flavor text to pay homage to that, and to be a technically-against-the-rules-in-PF1e neutrally aligned undead. I'm also including a reference to a thematically similar kaiju who appears in the same series that I'm also intending to stat up in this project.]

Stegon CR 17 N Undead This creature resembles the skeleton of an oversized reptile, its stance quadrupedal. Its skull has a pointed snout and projecting teeth. Its bones are embedded in a tarry mass, giving the creature a bulky body.

A stegon is a chimeric undead creature made out of the bones of dinosaurs and other ancient megafauna. These bones are suspended in a black tarry mass, something like asphalt. When a bone bed is disturbed, not to uncover its secrets and learn about its former inhabitants, but in order to exploit the land, a stegon may rise to avenge the desecration of its grave. These grave sites are sometimes those guarded by an oxter, which can lead the two monsters to collaborating in their destructive vengeance. Once it has avenged itself, stegons tend to roam widely and target land developments, strip mines and other massive construction projects that devastate the land. As such, stegons are among the few undead creatures that are respected in druidic traditions, although a druid would be likely to try to lay the animal souls to rest after they have completed their mission.

Stegons typically attack their targets using their breath weapons and trampling feet. They can breathe a cloud of acidic mist. This acid is much more potent against flesh and bone than metals and minerals, and the gear of stegon victims may litter its lair. If creatures fight back, or attack it, it fights with its teeth and tail if cornered, but is just as likely to try to walk away, trusting to its natural armor and resistances to shrug off attacks.

Stegon CR 17 XP 102,400 N Colossal undead Init +4; Senses darkvision 60 ft., Perception +24, scent Defense AC 31, touch 2, flat-footed 31 (-8 size, +33 natural) hp 300 (24d8+192) Fort +17, Ref +8, Will +16; channel resistance +2 DR 15/magic and bludgeoning; Immune acid, force, undead traits Offense Speed 50 ft. Melee bite +27 (2d8+16/19-20 plus 4d6 acid), tail slap +24 (3d8+8) Space 30 ft.; Reach 20 ft. Special Attacks breath weapon (60 foot cone, 18d6 acid, Ref DC 29, 1d4 rounds), trample (Ref DC 38, 2d6+24)  Statistics Str 43, Dex 10, Con -, Int 2, Wis 10, Cha 25 Base Atk +18; CMB +42 (+44 bull rush); CMD 52 (56 vs. trip) Feats Awesome Blow, Blind-fight, Great Fortitude, Improved Bull Rush, Improved Critical (bite), Improved Initiative, Iron Will, Multiattack, Power Attack, Skill Focus (Perception), Toughness, Weapon Focus (bite) Skills Climb +22, Perception +24, Swim +19 SQ organic acid Ecology Environment any land and underground Organization solitary Treasure incidental Special Abilities Breath Weapon (Su) When a stegon uses its breath weapon, the cone of acidic mist condenses into a 20 foot radius cloud at its origin point. This cloud obscures vision as a fog cloud spell and deals 2d6 acid damage every round to creatures and objects in the area (no save). This cloud lasts for 1d4+1 rounds before dissipating, and can be dissipated with strong or stronger wind. The save DC is Charisma based. Organic Acid (Ex) Acid damage dealt by a stegon’s breath weapon and bite deals minimum damage to creatures or objects made of stone or metal. It ignores the hardness of creatures or objects made of organic materials, such as wood or bone.

[thesilliestrovingalive]

Updated: November 22, 2024

Reworked Character #2: Tarma Roving

POTENTIAL TRIGGER WARNING: Viewer discretion is advised due to references to underage drinking, crime, an unhealthy romance, death, and torture.

Real name: Tarmicle Ignacio Roving III

Alias: Mister Nice Buddy

Occupation: Captain of the P.F. Squad

Retirement plans: Open a motorcycle shop, develop reliable cybernetic prosthetics for hospital use, and start a family

Special skills: Proficiency in Slugs, heavy duty firearms, and resource management, robotic engineering, weaponsmithing, mechanics, and bivouacking

Hobbies: Customising motorcycles while listening to rock music, drawing detailed blueprints for weaponry and vehicles, collecting action figures and scale models of military machines, looking for cool bugs and rocks, and camping

Likes: Beautiful women and men, hugging people he cares about, solitary journeys on his motorcycle, spending time in the great outdoors, and the toy version of SV-001 that Marco gifted him on his 22nd birthday

Dislikes: Social isolation, his frequent nosebleeds, shallow and rude people (such as Gimlet), feeling powerless when preventing his friends from getting injured, and insults that feed into his insecurities about his academic intelligence

Favourite food: Rice prepared with fermented soybeans, mustard, boiled eggs, and scallions

Sexuality: Sex-favourable, straight-leaning bisexual

Gender: Male

Age: 17 (in 2022), 23 (in 2028), 25 (in 2030), 27 (in 2032), 29 (in 2034), 36 (in 2041), 38 (in 2043), 39 (in 2044), and 42 (in 2047)

Blood type: AB+

Weight: 227 lbs. (102 kg)

Design: He’s a 5’ 11” (180.34 cm) Japanese endomorph of American and Mexican descent with a partial beer belly, rigid muscles, broad shoulders, and sienna skin. He has sunburst green-hazel eyes and fingernails that are painted a dull gold. He has maroon hair with medium-length parted bangs, featuring two distinctive ahoge cowlicks in the centre, alongside sideburns, a neatly trimmed goatee, and subtle curls. Like Marco, he bears nasty battle scars: badly burned flesh from the right side of his neck to the left deltoid; multiple lacerations crisscrossing his back, forearms, and thighs; his left ring finger is partially severed; a couple of bullet wounds are visible just below his left lumbar region; and a scar snakes down from the right side of his forehead to the middle of his left cheek. He has a horizontal scar in the centre of his neck, a result of a sleepwalking incident involving Marco, who nearly slit his throat with a kitchen knife.

His right forearm was replaced by a cybernetic prosthetic, crafted from ultra-durable, lightweight metal plated and reinforced with tungsten nanotubes. Vein-like fibres of superconducting nanowire mesh enable seamless integration with his nervous system. The prosthetic features a retractable plasma cannon that fires two types of projectiles: yellowish-white ionised energy blasts that deliver intense electrical discharges; and metallic purple-green goo, a highly corrosive and acidic substance capable of burning through virtually any material. Beneath the plasma cannon, a nanotech-enhanced, razor-sharp blade retracts seamlessly into the cutting-edge prosthetic. Forged from a nearly indestructible alloy, the gilded blade is micro-serrated for optimal tissue and armour penetration.

His military gear consists of red-tinted sunglasses, a metal dog tag necklace with his name, a walnut brown T-shirt with ripped sleeves, a rusty orange fingerless glove on his left hand, and a burgundy leather belt with a snap-on gold buckle. He wears a saffron-yellow vest with four pockets, featuring an embroidered logo of the P.F. Squad on the back. He also wears citron army cargo pants tucked under burgundy paratrooper boots, a sheath for his combat knife, and a gun holster for a handgun he rarely uses. He once ripped the right knee of his cargo pants, but Fio mended it with a patch of butterscotch-hued fabric. The pockets of Tarma’s vest carry around an old cigarette box, a silver lighter, the key to his first customisable motorcycle, and a toy version of SV-001.

Over his T-shirt, he dons a Soldier Plate Carrier System (SPCS) with a MultiCam pattern, which carries around his walkie-talkie and ammo for other firearms. His forearms are wrapped in dirty gauze, and he wears two dark brown bandoliers: one drapes over his left shoulder, holding sticks of dynamite, while the other wraps above his belt, holding bullets for his handgun. Tarma carries around a citron load-bearing backpack that contains camping equipment, tactical explosives, portable ammo boxes, a canteen full of water, mechanic tools, a flame shot, two machine guns, an enemy chaser, and a laser gun. He has three piercings: a gilded septum as well as a silvery vertical curved barbell and a ring adorning his left eyebrow.

Tarma acquired a stolen katana called Murasame, renowned for its unique ability to self-cleanse its blackened steel blade, allowing it to remain razor-sharp. The katana features a distinctive wave-shaped hamon, a tangerine-hued handle wrapped in gilded cord, and a hexagonal silvery guard. The katana's crimson hardwood sheath features a golden straightened carp design, while the blade itself bears the Japanese inscription “血液洗浄” (Ketsueki Senjō), meaning "blood washing" in English, elegantly written on the right side.

His beloved motorcycle, built at just 15 years old, is a custom black and flame-coloured Harley-Davidson 42WLA. The bike's gas tank showcases a stunning design: an azure Japanese dragon wrapping around a bronze eagle with outstretched wings. He extensively modified his first motorcycle, integrating a missile-firing launcher between the handlebars and installing two 12.6mm calibre Vulcan cannons (similar to those found on the SV-001) towards the front. Additionally, he fitted a bulletproof carrier at the rear, coated in a durable silvery dark grey paint, which houses a shotgun and thirty corresponding shell holders.

Character summary: He often pokes fun at the overly serious Marco, much to his annoyance, yet still holds him in the highest esteem as a heroic soldier. Whenever he's away from Marco and can't contact him, he starts to worry about his safety. But when Marco returns safe and sound, he's instantly relieved and overjoyed to see that he's okay. The idea of Marco going missing or dying an untimely death would leave him feeling deeply melancholic, empty, and lonely. Tarma is fiercely loyal to Marco, willing to put his life on the line for him and offer comfort during his darkest moments. They share a remarkably harmonious relationship, rarely engaging in conflict or brotherly banter, as Marco is thoughtful of his emotional sensitivity.

As a flirtatious and affectionate individual, he frequently tries his luck with women and men who catch his eye, regardless of their faction affiliation. Although his advances often end in rejection, he doesn't let it discourage him and won't pursue them aggressively, viewing them as minor setbacks. Although his advances are rarely reciprocated, when they are, the encounters tend to be brief and sexually intimate, and he’s comfortable with that.

He has very strong romantic feelings for Fio, but struggles to express them. He enjoys spending time with her, sharing stories about his day and telling jokes. However, he occasionally comes across as a bit awkward in her presence. Once he and Fio enter into a romantic relationship, he exudes greater confidence in his feelings for her, leading to a deepening of their emotional connection and a profound level of intimacy and supportiveness. He adores it when Fio showers him with kisses, praise, and loving compliments, and he happily returns the affection. He sometimes gets into debates with Fio over what they should or shouldn’t do, but he always remains calm and tries to find a mutually beneficial solution that they can both agree on. He holds Marco dear as his queerplatonic partner, a bond that strengthens when Marco joins him and Fio in a polyamorous relationship. He feels at ease sharing his dorky side and vulnerable emotions with Fio and Marco, finding comfort and acceptance in their presence.

He genuinely cares about Eri and strives to treat her with kindness and respect. However, her tendency to socially withdraw from him, coupled with her constant belittling and physical confrontations, makes it challenging for him. Fortunately, Marco and Eri's team of Ptolemaic defectors frequently intervene to stop these confrontations. Due to Eri's animosity towards him, he harbours a deep-seated fear of her and tends to distance himself from her, particularly when she's intoxicated or near Fio. He wants to tell her that he ended their relationship years ago because she was using him as a distraction from her own problems and to fulfill her own self-centred needs, but he's hesitant to express his feelings, fearing it might escalate her hatred of him.

He's a loyal, clumsy, and fun-loving hothead with an adventurous spirit and a readiness to put up a good fight when necessary. He has a breezy and slightly sarcastic attitude, paired with a great imagination that shines when designing innovative weapons and vehicles. He has a clever talent for stirring up distractions and sparking moral self-reflection in those around him. He’s emotionally intelligent, going to great lengths to ensure the happiness of his friends, comrades, and loved ones. Tarma has a great sense of humour, often cracking jokes that span various comedy genres to diffuse tension in most situations, but it can become annoying at times. He has a hearty appetite, which becomes particularly evident after completing gruelling missions involving intense combat. Due to his strong sense of justice, he’s a vigilante at heart with protective instincts. If someone he loves is harmed, he will stop at nothing to ensure they receive the justice they deserve, showing no mercy to those responsible.

He has mild ADHD, which sometimes leads to spontaneous and curious thoughts and questions that he openly shares with those he trusts most. He feels deeply hurt and frustrated by Gimlet's mocking comments about his neurodiversity and physical differences, which escalate into intense confrontations. The mere mention of the Great Morden War triggers severe anxiety, culminating in violent panic attacks, vivid flashbacks, and haunting night terrors that disrupt his sleep. However, beneath his nonchalant and optimistic facade, he struggles with insecurities about his intelligence and mental slowness. Despite his enjoyment of being lively and a tad mischievous, he can't shake the feeling that he's a nuisance. Whenever he feels like he's about to cry, he quickly runs off to find a hiding place, fearing that others will mock him for his sensitivity. Tarma will only cry in front of others when he's feeling completely overwhelmed and people are aggressively yelling at him.

He's very patient, but sometimes his patience wears thin, and he snaps when he's feeling reasonably irritated. Although he isn't hesitant to assert himself respectfully when misunderstood, threatened or emotionally hurt, there are times when his approach comes across as rude and crass, leaving him feeling remorseful. He's incredibly passionate about vehicles, weaponry, and cybernetic prosthetics, often enthusiastically sharing his knowledge when asked. However, he's also fiercely protective of his interests and can take offence when someone criticises or disrespects them, particularly if they're models he's personally built or repaired.

He’s fiercely protective of his friends and comrades, willing to stand up to bullies and threats with a serious and intimidating demeanour. However, his strong sense of loyalty can sometimes lead to physical confrontations when pushed beyond his limits. He's generally humble and becomes slightly flustered when praised for his work and being a good friend, but occasionally exhibits overconfidence in his tactical abilities and creative projects. He can be quite reckless on the battlefield and during stealth-oriented missions, which occasionally puts his friends in potentially perilous situations, yet he always manages to keep them safe and unharmed. He strongly opposes racism, fat shaming, and the stigma surrounding mental health issues, viewing them as dehumanising obstacles to equity and healthy relationships.

He's surprisingly gentle and exceptionally kind to children, going to great lengths to rescue them from harm, ensure their emotional well-being, and provide companionship. When sleeping, he snores loudly and often talks in his sleep, uttering fragmented sentences during his most terrifying nightmares and pleasant dreams. He likes to drink with his friends after a long mission, but he often gets wasted and becomes silly, jovial, overly affectionate, and short-tempered.

He holds that morality is shaped by a combination of factors, including parental guidance, cultural influences, universal moral laws, and the capacity to establish ethical principles. He believes that everyone has inherent dignity that encourages them to follow ethical rules that are morally sound and logical. He thinks it's best to avoid contradictions and hypocritical behaviour by not following rules that are irrational and morally wrong. In his view, the morality of an action is determined by the action itself, rather than its consequences. Interestingly, despite being a soldier, he's a pacifist who believes that individuals can confront threats to peace in any way they deem necessary, even if it means compromising their personal morals. Furthermore, he sees life and death as fundamental opposites that are perpetually in conflict with each other.

Backstory: Tarmicle Ignacio Roving III was born on May 1, 2005 in Hokkaido, Japan. He was born into a large, diverse family. His father, Fabriclus Cristóbal Roving, is a distinguished Mexican-American military man. His mother, Koharu Nakabayashi, is a Japanese miniature painter and a retired army nurse who formerly served in the Regular Army. He has several siblings: Ildefonso, a firefighter and his older half-brother; Milagrosa, the lead singer of an alternative rock band and his older half-sister; twins Daisuke, a biochemist, and Ryōsuke, a medical engineer, who are his older brothers; and Calpurne, a fighter jet pilot who serves in the Regular Army and his younger sister. Fabriclus named him after his great-great-great-grandfather, Tarmicle Ignacio Roving Jr., to keep his legacy alive.

He often tells Tarma stories about the heroic actions of his namesake, who saved the lives of millions of innocent people from corrupt regimes and criminal exploitation. He also likes to tell Tarma stories about his experiences in the military, often mentioning a man named Alessandro Germi and describing the wars he had fought in. He taught his children to speak both Spanish and English and imparted valuable life lessons that they all embraced, including embracing failure and cultivating optimism. Tarma vaguely remembers Fabriclus sharing that he considered retiring after his first wife passed away from breast cancer complications. However, it wasn't until he met his second wife, Koharu, while she treated his injuries he sustained during a battle against high-risk criminals seeking to spark global anarchy, that he officially retired and started a new family with her.

He has a cousin named Achilles, who lives in Missouri, United States and owns a motorcycle shop. Achilles is notable for his habit of constantly combing his light orange pompadour and for sparking Tarma's strong passion for motorcycles. In contrast, his father fostered his interest in tanks, fighter planes, and the great outdoors, while Milagrosa ignited his love for rock music. He thoroughly enjoyed playing, exploring, and causing mischief with Calpurne, who matched his lively energy and vibrant imagination. However, their playtime wasn't without its challenges as she would occasionally take his toys without permission—though this rarely seemed to bother him.

At the age of 3, he met his childhood friend Tabomba when Tabomba's Filipino family moved in next door. Surprisingly, Tabomba sparked Tarma's interest in trains as well as cool bugs and rocks. Although they rarely see each other nowadays due to Tabomba's work as a marine biologist, they make an effort to meet up whenever they're both off work and on vacation.

His family frequently travelled across Japan, the United States, and Mexico, especially during summer and winter breaks, to visit relatives, enjoy the outdoors, and have fun. During a trip to Hiroshima at the age of 7, he met a girl named Chizuko, who was wearing an olive green bandanna. They quickly became friends after building a sand castle and finding worms under a large rock at a local park near the orphanage where Chizuko was staying. Sadly, they couldn't spend much time together because Tarma's family had planned to stay in Hiroshima for only two weeks and wanted to explore every attraction the city had to offer. Fortunately for the two, his family returned to Hiroshima a few times, once during a summer break and again to care for a sick relative.

At the playground and in elementary school, he faced bullying, responding in one of two ways: either he would remain oblivious to the taunts or burst into tears and rush to the safety of his parents or seek the teacher's intervention. He was bullied a lot at school because of his mental slowness, hyperactivity, and perceived "annoying" nature, and for not fitting traditional Japanese physical standards. Like him, Tabomba faced both racial and size-based discrimination, but found unwavering support in Tarma, who cherished their friendship. To combat Tabomba's isolation, Tarma would often keep him company, whether completing homework and assignments together or spending time together after school. Their favourite activities included playing video games, visiting the park, and watching action and comedy movies.

He had a couple of girlfriends and boyfriends in high school, but they didn't last very long. In high school, he started fighting back, engaging in fistfights and enduring street beatings as he struggled to cope with the constant bullying. He also began experimenting with building custom-made motorcycles as a way to initially impress those he was romantically interested in, and later found that it helped to calm his nerves.

Tragically, the bullying escalated to the point where Tarma felt overwhelmed and feared that reporting it to his teachers or parents would only create more problems and burden them further. So, he made the desperate decision to run away from home on his motorcycle, heading towards Hiroshima. Once there, he encountered Chizuko again, but she was different from the last time he met her. She was now the leader of a notorious street gang. Chizuko coaxed him into hanging out with her at their rundown hideout, where they drank beer and vodka stolen from a local alcohol shop. Tarma reluctantly agreed, but was thrilled to reunite with Chizuko after 8 years.

At the hideout, they caught up on each other's lives as Tarma had a couple of beers and Chizuko drank vodka from a bottle. Things took an unexpected turn when Chizuko got physically close to him, complimenting his appearance in a seductive manner. Their friendship evolved into a sexual relationship, which was Tarma's first. They spent many nights together, and he even participated in a few crimes with her, including theft and drug sales. Tarma would also start to develop a nicotine habit and, more positively, learn effective coping mechanisms and assertiveness skills to manage stress and stand up for himself.

However, their relationship was short-lived. Tarma ended things and returned home after discovering that Chizuko had been using him to fulfill her physical desires and distract herself from her trauma, while also advancing the interests of her gang. He would later reunite with Chizuko, now going by the name Eri, but she had become bitter, socially withdrawn, and aggressive, pushing him away.

After graduating from junior high school and enjoying the first week of his summer break, Tarma immediately enrolled in the Officers Academy of Special Tactics and Battle. In addition to his impressive engineering and mechanical skills, he achieved a notable feat at the age of 20 by rescuing President Marx, the CEO of a prominent defence contractor that supplies the Regular Army with weaponry, tanks, and other essential equipment. The Peregrine Falcons Squad took notice of this achievement and invited him to join the team, which he happily accepted.

Here, he met and befriended a lonely Marco after discussing their interests, reminiscing about their childhoods, and enjoying a couple of beers together. He would slowly develop a queerplatonic relationship with Marco, built on a deep appreciation for his company, a genuine desire to ensure his happiness and well-being, and a strong attraction to his physical beauty and intellect. He would also befriend Tequila, who imparted valuable mechanic skills to him and taught him specialised painting techniques for sheet metal, ensuring a durable finish that wouldn't chip, a lesson Tarma would always treasure. During the Great Morden War, he learned that Marco, alongside Tequila, was selected for the counteroffensive against Morden and quickly volunteered to join him, wanting to support his best friend.

During the Great Morden War, Tarma, Marco, and other members of the P.F. Squad, S.P.A.R.R.O.W.S., and Regular Army were ambushed by General Morden and his soldiers. They subjected everyone to rigorous torture, leaving them with lasting mental and physical scars. The Rebel soldiers and Allen O'Neil mercilessly taunted him, exploiting his sensitivity during the torture. Like Marco, Tarma was forced to witness the brutal slaughter and torture of his comrades and friends, which was emotionally painful to watch. However, he devised a clever escape plan by distracting the guards holding the key to his prison and appealing to their conscience. This unexpectedly worked, allowing him to overpower them, rescue Marco, and help his best friend thwart Morden's plans for world domination.

During his escape, Tarma received an unexpected gift from a Rebel soldier known as Guil, designed to aid him in future battles: the mysterious katana Murasame, renowned for its self-cleansing properties, which the Rebel Army had seized during their invasion of Japan. Touched by Guil's kindness, Tarma expressed his gratitude, and this brief encounter challenged his assumption that all Rebel Infantrymen were ruthless and loyal only to Morden's ideology. Rumours suggest that the cleansing properties of Murasame may be attributed to the Martians or the advanced technology of the Tuatha Dé Danann. However, Tarma remains skeptical and dismisses such claims as mere speculation.

After the end of the fearsome battle against General Morden and the Rebel Army, he rose through the ranks to become Captain of the P.F. Squad. He played a key role in the suppression of the second coup, getting a chance to fight alongside Fio and Eri. Notably, he saved Marco from a laser blast by the Hozmi that could have been fatal, earning himself a reputation as a hero and the true linchpin of the P.F. Squad. During the conflict with the Arabian Infantry, Tarma bravely rescued a baby and several children who had been orphaned by Rebel soldiers. He subsequently facilitated their adoption, providing them with an opportunity for a safe and nurturing upbringing. He lost his right forearm during a fight against Allen O'Neil, which was later replaced with a cybernetic prosthetic that he designed and built with the help of Regular Army scientists and Pupipi.

Tarma's exceptional talent for building motorcycles, rivalling that of professionals, had led him to consider retirement. However, these plans have been put on hold due to the persistent and desperate pleas of his spineless superiors to continue his service in the military.

[silvrash-797]

Thanks to @webhead3345 for the idea!

Echoes of the past (pt 1)

Febuwhump Day 4+7: Obedience/suffering in silence

Part 2

Read on ao3

The newly dubbed Legend sat at the edge of the camp, watching anyone with a knight’s title or wearing armor or chainmail warily. Warriors, Time, Wild, Sky, Twilight…over half the group, he couldn’t bring himself to trust them. Sure, the knights of his time weren’t actively chasing him anymore, but nothing could change the fact that they had, and now the sound of chainmail triggered about a dozen fight or flight responses.

Speaking of…Legend flinched as the Hero of Warriors approached, shoving the memories of rattling chainmail, gleaming weapons, I’m just a kid I didn’t do anything wrong I swear to the side.

“You okay, Legend?” Warriors asked, face apparently full of concern, though why a knight would be concerned for him he couldn’t fathom.

“Fine,” he muttered, trying not to curl into himself. Make yourself small, hide, they’ll go away pounded through his head, but he was the Hero of Legend, the Veteran of the hero business (an average nobody, his little rabbit-heart whispered traitorously). He’d been at this for nearly a decade so why is this still an issue? Stand up straight, face your fears, they’re heroes just like you. Don’t let them know you’re suffering, you’ll never hear the end of it.

The knight touched his shoulder and Legend jerked back violently, subduing a hiss at the last moment.

Warriors froze, hand half extended. “Vet, are you sure you’re okay –”

“I said I’m fine, Captain,” Legend sneered, putting as much acid in his voice as he could manage. “I just don’t like being touched, okay?”

Warriors withdrew his hands, raising them placatingly. “Okay, Vet. I understand,” he gave a charming smile. “I’m just trying to help us all come together better so we can take on whatever called us here.”

Warriors tilted his head, eyes suddenly filled with some emotion Legend couldn’t be bothered to place. “You’d…tell us, if something was wrong, right?”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever. Just leave me alone, okay?”

The Captain's eyes narrowed – was that sincere worry? – and he frowned a bit, but relented, turning and leaving Legend with his knight-free safety bubble at last.

-----

A few weeks later, Legend was sleeping peacefully when someone roughly shook his shoulder. He groaned, slitting his eyes just a bit to see who was bothering him in the middle of the night, it’s not even his night for watch, so why…

Firelight glinted off a metal pauldron; Legend's heart nearly stopped with fright.

The figure shook him again. “Vet, come on, we need to go!” The Captain’s voice was urgent but collected.

Legend shoved Warriors’ hand from his shoulder, groaning again as he sat up. “Captain, it is the middle of the goddess-forsaken night,” he snapped, “What in Din's name is so urgent it can’t wait for morning?!”

“Twilight just returned from patrol with Wolfie. They found a horde of infected monsters, moving this way fast. We’re splitting up camp to catch them in a pincer movement.”

Legend grumbled, but started gearing up. “Who's in which group?”

“I have the most experience with hordes like this, so I’ll be taking a small group to deal the worst of the damage to the monsters,” Wars explained. “You have the most versatile arsenal while Sky's our best swordsman, so you two will be with me. Time and Twilight will help coordinate the others.”

Legend froze in the act of adjusting his belt, blood rushing from his head and fingers turning numb. Me. Alone with knights that I still don’t trust. Against a horde of infected monsters? The mere thought filled him with such panic he was afraid he’d faint.

Legend forced himself to move again, attempting to wrangle his nerves into submission, pushing past the knot in his throat to plead for a different arrangement. “Rulie has just as much versatility with his magic as I do with my items – why don’t I go with the others and you take him instead?”

The only knight in the other group was Wild, and he didn’t remember much about it. He could work past his fear of Time's armor and Twilight’s chainmail if it meant fewer trained knights to keep an eye on.

Warriors shook his head, and Legend’s hope fell. “He needs to stay with the others in case one of them gets hurt. They don’t have as much experience with large groups of monsters as we do; it has to be the three of us.”

Warriors stood, and the percussive rattling of his armor set Legend’s nerves on fire. “Let’s go,” he was using his Captain voice, the one that brooked no argument and all but demanded total obedience.

Legend hated that voice.

Resigned to his fate, Legend shoved his fears into a box deep in the confines of his mind before following Warriors and Sky into battle.

[paperanddice]

Eater of Dust

A terrible creature that resembles a knight wearing plate armor made of calcified resin. Its helmet has no eye slots or mouthpiece, or hinge to be opened, and its weapon is a glistening greatsword that consists of a great mouth. This is an eater of dust, a strange being from some lost dimension of nightmares, now wandering the planes without a true home. Known by the name yakat-shi in ancient texts, they most often associate with demons, devils, and other such fiends, acting as mercenaries. Seeking out new meals, they can devour nearly anything with their mawblades, from dust to diamonds, from flesh to metal. Offerings of unusual or previously unheard of flavors can draw in yakat-shi, ready to operate in small but deadly military units.

The armor they wear is actually a secreted resin as hard as steel, which binds to the skin and cannot be removed. When cracked, it seeps ichor that glistens like a nautilus shell and quickly seals the wound. Older yakat-shi have networks of mother-of-pearl scars on their armor, marks of battle survived. Lightning disrupts this rapid healing however, leaving cracks open longer and the eater of dust vulnerable to death, so enemies that utilize lightning are usually targeted first. In general those who engage in mercenary work seem to have nothing but contempt for other life forms, even their own allies, devouring those they kill and their equipment. In particular, they seem to enjoy devouring and destroying powerful magical gear, hunting for intelligent weapons especially.

Completely silent, eaters of dust communicate only through telepathy. They stand a bit taller than most humans, at around 7 feet, and tend to weigh between 350 and 400 pounds.

Inspired by the Tome of Beasts 1. This post came out a week ago on my Patreon. If you want to get access to all my monster conversions early, as well as access to my premade adventures and other material I’m working on, consider backing me there!

Pathfinder 2e

Eater of Dust Creature 9 Rare, Medium, Aberration Perception +19; hearing (precise) 60 feet Languages Aklo, Chthonian, Common, Diabolic (can't speak any language); telepathy 100 feet Skills Athletics +20, Intimidation +18, Occultism +15, Survival +17 Str +5, Dex +2, Con +5, Int +0, Wis +2, Cha +3 AC 29; Fort +20, Ref +15, Will +17 HP 130 (regeneration 10 (deactivated by electricity)); Immunities blinded, poison; Resistances acid 10, cold 10 Speed 30 feet Melee mawblade +20 (magical), Damage 2d10+11 piercing Occult Innate Spells DC 26 ; 4th harm (×3), heal, translocate, unfettered movement (×3); 1st sure strike (×3); Devour Any time the eater of dust scores a critical hit with a mawblade Strike, it picks one of the following effects: it also deals the same amount of damage to the target's armor, bypassing any Hardness lower than 10, like adamantine; or the target must succeed at a DC 28 Fortitude save or become drained 1, or increase its drained value by 1. Weapon Bond The eater of dust's mawblade is treated as if it were made of any solid precious metal for the purpose of ignoring resistances or immunities, or exploiting weaknesses. The eater of dust always knows the direction and distance of its mawblade, as long as it's on the same plane of existence.

13th Age

Eater of Dust Double-strength 5th level troop [aberration] Initiative: +9 Mawblade +10 vs. AC (2 attacks) – 20 damage. Natural 14+: The target takes a -1 penalty to AC (save ends). Natural 18+: The target loses one recovery. Regeneration 10: The eater of dust heals 10 hit points at the start of each of its turns. It can regenerate five times per battle. If it heals to its maximum hit points, then that use of regeneration doesn’t count against the five-use limit. When the eater of dust is hit by an attack that deals lightning damage, it loses one use of its regeneration, and it can’t regenerate during its next turn. Dropping an eater of dust to 0 hp doesn’t kill it if it has any uses of regeneration left. Resist Acid 16+. AC 21 PD 18 MD 15 HP 130

[devileaterjaek]

[loveandpeaceanddoughnuts]

For my insomniac: Erwin Smith x Reader [Ch. 3]

(Ch. 1-2 here) Erwin keeps vigil at your bedside as you fight through vivid nightmares in the infirmary and tries to keep you safe in the waking world. The feelings rising in you both are growing too strong to ignore, and too dangerous to admit.

an: ongoing fic originally posted on ao3! // cw: canon-typical violence/gore/horror

Your maneuver gear is dead weight, the last of the gas used up in a pathetic little puff that sent you hurtling toward the ground. You were always bad at gauging what you had left, and right now you don’t have the luxury of mourning the loss. You hit the ground hard, a wet snap somewhere below your waist. Another thing you can’t afford to care about right now. 

You drag yourself to the relative safety of a stand of trees, sliding your blades out with a grating schhhck before shrugging off the rest of the gear. Your body is on fire, only the deepest of impulses still pulsing in your brain, to survive survive survive. You can feel the incoming titans before you see them, the ground shaking under their mindless steps. There are too many. There are always too many.

Your frantic eyes land on a smear of blood in the clearing to your left, following it to the pile of steaming viscera that was once your comrade. You bend double and dry heave until acid trickles past your lips, coating your teeth. You don’t have time for this. There is never enough time.

You force your eyes back up to scan the area, searching for any signs of life. You can’t be the last one left alive, you can’t be alone out here- there. A human figure is lying face-down in the clearing. You run for them, momentarily forgetting the titans as you flee the shelter of the trees. Lightning bolts of pain spike up your leg from whatever you broke in your fall, but you ignore it. Getting out of here with most of your limbs intact would be a blessing. 

“Hey! HEY!” You shout and wave your arms frantically as you run, stumbling and picking yourself back up over and over until your good leg gives out. But you have to keep moving. You claw yourself forward over the battleground, your splintering nails a drop of discomfort in the agony that has become your body. You can see now that the figure is clad in a shredded Scout jacket, the wings of freedom in tatters on their twisted shoulders. As you near them, you’re hit with the overwhelming smell of rot: sun-baked decay and hot metal blood. 

Your stomach seizes again when you see the shock of blonde hair, recognizable even through the layers of matted dirt. “Commander?” The words tear through your throat but leave your lips as a strangled whisper, a fist squeezing your lungs. “Commander! Can you hear me?” You try to flip him over, desperate to see his face. 

His body moves much too easily, light as kindling. A cloud of flies engulfs you as you turn him, disturbed from their resting place in the slick pool of Erwin’s blood. You look around wildly for someone, anyone else to help, to witness this, but you’re alone. The corpses of your comrades litter the field like stones. Your eyes skip over his body each time you try to look, your mind fighting to protect you. You force yourself to stare down, to see him- and immediately turn and retch into the dirt. 

Erwin is gone. Most of Erwin is gone, that is. His face is somehow intact, but everything below his shoulders is a sickening smear of torn flesh and open wounds. Turning him over seems to have disturbed whatever trick of gravity had managed to hold him together. The ropy pink of intestines slop over his abdomen, and you wonder hysterically if you could push it all back in, put him back together.

You drag your gaze back to his face, your mind going blank in an effort to keep you sane. You’re staring at him, shock-numb and frozen, when his eyes open. “Erwin…? Commander!” You lean over him, heart racing. “I’m here, I’m here. I’ll get you out of here…” Again, your voice is squeezed and warped on its way out of your mouth. Your reassurance twists into a ragged groan, an inhuman noise.

The Commander’s feverish eyes lock on you, their sky blue clouded with mists of blood. His features distort into a mask of absolute horror. You watch in shock as he tries to scrabble upright with a pulpy mess of limbs that are no longer there, flinging himself backward in an attempt to get away from you. Utter terror propels his broken body, and he makes it a few feet before you reach out, trying to soothe him, to stop your Commander from smearing his own cooling corpse across the battlefield.  

A titan’s hand reaches for Erwin, coming from behind you. You spin around, readying your blades, but there’s nothing there. You whirl back to him, increasingly panicked, incoherent pleas spilling out. “Please, Commander, calm down, we have to get you out of here, I’ll stop them, I swear, just stop fighting…”

The huge hand stretches out once more, almost as if it were trying to stroke his cheek. Erwin screams, and you wish that you had died before you had to hear the sound. He’s reaching blindly with the fingers he has left for blades that aren’t there, ready to die fighting. You move to cover your mouth, to hold in the scream that’s building. The massive hand of a titan swings up and presses over your lips. Your hand. 

No, no, no, this can’t be- you squeeze your eyes shut and suck in a breath, then look back down at your hands. The huge, obscene hands of a titan. You look back to Erwin, propped on his elbows now and staring at you with searing hate, panting through the foamy blood at his lips.

“Erwin…” your whisper dissipates. Your voice is forgotten. You raise your ODM sword, the ultrahard steel glinting dully in the vast expanse of your grip. “Have mercy,” you can’t say. “Forgive me,” you can’t think. You reach back and slash the blade across the nape of your neck, falling forward, the Commander’s name a prayer that flashes across the last synapse of your dying brain.

You bolt awake with a strangled scream. Oxygen pours into your lungs, your hands flung out in front of you, somehow still responding to your severed spinal cord- no, not severed. Your hands are your own, raw-bitten nail beds and old scars. Nausea floods over you and you hang over the edge of the cot- an infirmary cot, you’re in the barracks?- to vomit your empty stomach into a bucket.

A strong hand is at your back, another holding back your hair as you gag. The contact makes you shudder, whip around defensively, teeth bared for a fight, but the adrenaline leaves you in a rush as you see the Commander. He’s pale, but the fear in his eyes is for you, not of you.

“You’re safe. You’re safe,” he rumbles, his hand squeezing yours. All you can see when you look up at him is the vision of his torn body on the battlefield, his corpse trying to escape you, the blood, the gore… you shudder, tears spilling over your lashes. 

“Erwin… Commander!” You’re fully back to yourself now, horrified that you whispered his first name. The guilt mixes with your relief to be back in reality.

The Commander doesn’t reprimand you. His eyes, blessedly clear of blood, remain on you as you stare at your entwined hands, confusion and exhaustion written across your face. His heart is pounding madly in his chest, the sound of you whispering his name echoing in his ears, though he doesn’t show it. He stays quiet for a moment, letting you get your bearings as he grounds himself. 

He finally speaks, his voice low and steady. “You had a nightmare, Captain. I tried to wake you,” he swallows and looks away, his hand squeezing yours. “You were calling for me.” 

You move to pull your hand away, trying to distance yourself from the impropriety. “Please forgive my boldness, sir.” Erwin’s grip tightens, refusing to let you go.

“Forgive you?” He echoes. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You were dreaming, in pain, disoriented. Do not apologize.” There’s no anger in his gaze, just concern and something softer. He speaks slowly, choosing his words with care. “Captain, I am aware that you have not been sleeping. I had my suspicions based on your recent performance, but the medic informed me that you are severely deprived. Is this why? Do you often have these dreams?”

Your face crumpled, the weight of keeping the secret suddenly gone. “Yes,” you whisper bitterly. “Every night, sir. There are some differences, but the horror of it- that’s always the same. Sometimes I’d rather stay awake than face it, weak as that makes me.”

Erwin nodded. “I understand. And it doesn’t make you weak.” His voice is firm. “You aren’t the only soldier that fights this battle, Captain.” You look up at him, glassy-eyed. 

“...sir?”

His tone is gentle, but his words sting. “Do you imagine you are the only person in this regiment with nightmares? The only one with memories pushed so far down that they surface the moment sleep strips your defenses? That you’re the only one who sees them?”

You squeeze your eyes shut in a vain attempt to hide the faces of the Scouts lost on your last mission, conjured by his words. “No, sir.” His thumb traces patterns on the back of your hand. 

“You can’t shoulder this alone, Captain. You owe your soldiers more than that. You owe yourself more than that. I…” he catches himself and looks down, uncharacteristic conflict on his face. “The Scouts. We need you.”

Your breath catches, not just from your fractured ribs. “Yes, sir.” 

Erwin nods firmly and stands up, suddenly all business again. “It seems the medication caused you to sleep, but the nightmare kept you from truly resting. I will speak to the medic about alternative treatment.” He slides his hand out of yours without comment, but you see a shiver run across his broad shoulders. 

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate your concern.” You try your best to match his professionalism, still reeling from the moment of vulnerability. You have the fleeting, wild desire to make him stay, but can’t think of anything to justify it. He’s wasted enough time with you.

The Commander inclines his head to you and straightens his jacket as he prepares to leave. He’s halfway to the door when he says over his shoulder, “Don’t forget what we have spoken about, Captain. I wish you a speedy recovery.” Then he’s gone. 

Erwin strides out of the infirmary, keeping his face perfectly composed until he’s safely behind the door of his quarters. As soon as the door is shut and locked, he presses his forehead against the thick wood. “Goddamn it.” That was a mistake. He should have waited to see you, let the medic handle your recovery and send another officer to check on you a week from now. Anything but spend hours at your bedside, holding your hand, watching you breathe. He closed his eyes, but still saw you lying on the cot, tossing in your sleep. Still heard the sound of his first name on your lips, your sweet voice pleading for him, ragged in fear. 

A dull headache settled at the base of his skull. How long had it been since he had stooped so low? Had shown such weakness in front of a subordinate? Whatever it was, it had to stop here. It was far too dangerous to feel what he was feeling for you, this soft-edged burn in his chest.

Three days passed in relative peace. There were no casualties from the missions currently outside the walls, and the soldiers within the barracks were civil and productive. Erwin was kept busy with his usual duties, but while his body was occupied his mind was filled with thoughts of you. He badly wanted to check on your recovery, but was afraid to encourage what was blossoming inside of him to grow.

For your part, you had been largely dead to the world. A fever had taken hold of your sleep-deprived body, leaving you indefinitely confined to the infirmary. You were almost grateful for the illness in your lucid moments, able to push away the mess of thoughts and feelings that your last encounter with the Commander had brought about. The longer you languished in your cot, the more fuzzy-edged the memory of his hand in yours became. Had you imagined it all? A fever-dream?

But you couldn’t have dreamed up the way the memory made your heart race. The way the thought of his steel-blue eyes made your vague, ever-present nausea coalesce into butterflies. Your nightmares used to cycle through the many faces of your comrades each night, the same plot reenacted with different victims. Since your encounter with Erwin, however, the broken figure on the battlefield was always him . He was always the victim of your monstrosity, and you didn’t dare to dwell on what that meant.

Erwin had been immediately informed of your condition. Though he was determined to keep his distance, he had ordered the medic to send him regular updates, and was anxiously waiting to hear that your fever had broken. He was signing death notices in his office when a soldier ran in, breathless with news.

“Commander, the Captain is delirious and combative. The medic is requesting your immediate intervention. They can’t handle her, sir.” Erwin is already out the door, the soldier trotting at his side to keep up.

“Have they administered the medication we discussed? Something non-sedating for sleep?”

The soldier shook his head, looking scared to answer. “N-no, sir. I heard them say she was too unstable for it.”

Erwin swore under his breath. “Understood. You’re dismissed.” The soldier gratefully ran in the other direction of the Commander’s war path. Erwin stormed into your infirmary room, clenching his jaw as he absorbed the scene of overturned furniture and strewn bedding.  

You were struggling against the medic who was manhandling you into bed, all flailing limbs and teeth. They had a syringe aimed at the inside of your left arm and slammed the plunger down just as Erwin made it to your side. The medic stepped back, unapologetic as they met the Commander’s fury. “They were out of control, sir.”

“It’s your job to handle that, is it not?”

“My job is to run this infirmary and patch up your soldiers, sir. I can’t do either with your Captain trying to kill me and my team.” Erwin clenched his fists but gave a curt nod.

“I see. Please excuse us.” The medic silently left the room. 

The Commander’s figure swam in and out of focus, backlit in a halo of candlelight as you stared up at him woozily. You smiled softly, not recognizing him through the fever-fog. 

“You’re so beautiful. Are you an angel?” You reach up to cup his cheek in one clammy palm. “Am I dying?”

The angel trembles, his calloused hand gently prying yours away. “Captain. You’re sick, but you’re not dying. I won’t let you.” 

You try to sit up, reaching for him again, but your body fails you. You collapse against the bed, gasping at the pain that knifes through your chest. The angel leans forward, pressing against your shoulder in an attempt to keep you still. “Try not to move. That’s an order.”

The sound of the grim directive allows your brain to name the angel, a flash of duty-bound recognition. “Commander…” You look up at him in awe, only coherent enough for the truth. “I’m so tired. It hurts.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry.” He brushes sweat-soaked hair off your forehead with the back of his hand, the other still holding your shoulder firm. “I told you that I wouldn’t let them sedate you again, and I failed.”

Your chest aches at the look on his face, and you offer what you hope is a reassuring smile. “It’s okay. I feel all warm and floaty.” You try to remember what could be wrong with the fuzzy-headed medicine, and frown. “But I can’t sleep. If I sleep I’ll have bad dreams…”

“I know,” Erwin says again. He stares down at you, the fever blushing your hollow cheeks as you meet his gaze with heartbreaking trust. He steps back, the weight of your faith in him suddenly crushing.

Your eyelids start to close against your will. You’re too weak to resist. All you can do is keep your eyes on your Commander as you’re pulled under, trying to carry the image of his unbroken body into the nightmare that awaits you.