Hiya, I’m Froggi and this is my multifandom side blog for anything that I feel isn’t particularly relevant to my main, as well as some of my own writing, particularly x reader fics. I mostly post about COD but there’ll be the odd few other fandoms here and there
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Hello!!! May I request s/o comforting DS after him having a bad nightmare 🥺
(Gender neutral reader)
He never screams when he wakes up. He doesn't lash and convulse. He doesn't wake with tears in his eyes. He always awakens perfectly still. His eyes shoot open wide and he's always completely aware of his surroundings in mere seconds - he's trained himself to be this way.
Move your fingers.
Move your toes.
Feel the gun under your pillow.
Breathe.
Count to ten.
Breathe.
Ignore the still lingering of screams in your ears.
Look down. There is no blood on your hands.
He's dealt with this for over thousands of years, he's got the practice down path that's its basic instinct at this point... still didn't make it any easier. He has to rub his face to wipe off the layer of sweat on him. He can still smell the odor of death that in reality he knew wasn't there, it wafts over him randomly sometimes and its always the worst after waking up.
Going back to sleep is a hopeless endeavor, never works, what he barely manages are blinks of rest before his body jolts him back awake again from the flashes in his mind. Waste of time. He's better getting and suiting up, using his gained awoken hours productively at the end of a shotgun.
ACTION UNAVAILABLE.
ACTION UNAVAILABLE.
He gives the Mission monitor a couple more slaps to the side of the screen before fustratedly tapping away at the touchscreen controls that would bring up demonic invasion status reports, only for the message to keep flashing on the center screen:
ACTION UNAVAILABLE.
"My apologies but the Transporter is ongoing scheduled maintenance." VEGA's voice suddenly rings out through the entercom. "You won't be able to set out for another - 7.3 hours."
He gives it another slap.
ACTION-
Shit.
He feels his whole skin craw, anxious, fists drawn at his sides, teeth gritted in his mouth. Blood lust flickered at him, gnawed at his gut, made his fingers twitch. Killing demons is the one true way to make him feel better, storm of violent ways to end their cruelty, to see to it personally each one never has the chance to hurt somebody innocent as he's seen so many uncountable times before. Standing here makes him feel stuck. Trapped. He could - and should - be out there doing something. Lives being lost while he's just standing here. Unable to do anything.
ACTION UNAVAILABLE.
He feels the urge to punch a hole through the screen but it wouldn't do anything, actually would just make his predicament worse as he'd still be unable to leave and repairs would probably taken even longer, the Fortress' drones and VEGA's systems can only work so fast. But still. He can't help feeling helpless to do anything.
...he just... needed to find something else to do.
His second choice was to go to the Rippertorium to clear his head but was ultimately hit in the face with the fact from VEGA that given the Fortress' current energy capacity and the Transporter requiring a substantial amount of it to update that the lower dwellings of the Fortress have been disconnected - including the Rippertorium and its elevator. The Ai imposing the fact they weren't expecting for him to be awaken during this time maintenance would occur. To be fair, he wasn't either. Still didn't change the desire to bash his head into the nearest wall.
Reading, he tries reading. He can't recall the last time he's just sat down and read a comic book or novel... but as he sits there and stares at the pages, his mind just can't focus on the words, they blend together, disappear, his mind conjurs up bloody flashes much more clear than the stories he's trying his best to follow along in his hands.
He sits at the head of the long dining room table, long, made of ancient regal Sentinel stone, couple of various books around him he's tried to look through - he's here and not in his room because he can't even bare being in the same room as his weapons without the urges and desires he can not currently fufill. It gets to a point where its all overwhelming, even for him, then one moment he's sat there with comic in hand and the next he's stood up and the entire table is flipped on its back. His whole chest rocks with panted breath as clarity washes over him, staring down at the scene he's made, millenia old stone upside down and cracked in two. Jesus you ate off that. And he ruined it. Like he ruins everything else. He collapses back into his chair and holds his head in his hands.
"...Flynn?" Your voice, while softly spoken, eventually startles him - makes him slightly tense before slowly easing back, but not by a whole lot.
He doesn't look at you, still holding his head. He supposed the commotion of the dinning table would be loud enough to wake you, another thing he feels bad about, but can't voice. The knot stabs in his throat he can't force himself to answer your call, even when you quietly make your way to his side, practically tiptoeing.
"Did something happen? Are you alright?"
He remains silent. His eyes covered by his hand. But he can feel yours on him and his whole state of being. He can't hide from you, he knows this, and a part of him is... grateful for that - another shameful. He didn't have to say anything, you'd already figured it out but... honesty with you is something very important to him. He doesn't deny his struggles, they're just... difficult to manage, to bring up, to discuss, to expose and be vulnerable. But with you...
He shakes his head. And that's all you need to hear.
You sit on his lap, his arms wrapped tightly around you as you cradle his head against your chest so that he can physically feel your each and every breath, and you run your fingers through his hair gently. You provide a calming, soothing air to him, like you being around his mind can just shut up for once and he can actually hear his own thoughts again. He likes it quiet but he doesn't mind you talking about whatever, anything really, he can listen to you as much or as little as you like but it's about you being here right now with him.
"Do you want to come to my room?" You do eventually ask, it makes his tongue dry, nervous he has to think about it but after a long considerate moment he is swayed - gently nodding his head. You slip off his lap and take his hand, tugging him to stand and leading him to your bedroom. He doesn't look at you as you guide him, just following your footsteps while looking towards the floor.
You sit him down on the side of your bed, the mattress heavily dipping with his weight, before walking over to dim the lights in the room a bit - making his eyes relax in a way he hadn't realized the strain he'd put on from squinting. You pad back on over and carefully caress at pieces of his armor, he had put on his suit expecting to go on a mission after all then never really had the strength to take it back off because... what if he suddenly needed it? What if by some miracle the Teleporter kicked back on and he could leap back into action as soon as he could? Unlikely. Very unlikely at this point. So when you lightly tug at the dull green plate to silently offer to help him strip out of it does he finally lament, you take apart one piece at a time except for the helmet that'd been pulled off and sat aside in the dinning hall, completely baring himself to you.
It's not too long after your nuzzled into his side, gently patting along his chest. He looks down at you from the corner of his eye at how you had your eyes shut, not pressuring him to speak at all, just relax. You're not completely asleep yet as he can feel you rub soft, slow, deep circles and other shapes into his skin, massaging him almost that feels really nice. Tracing over his scars and rough patches of calloused warborn skin, he can't help but to lowly hum in approval. He sits there with you until finally you shift away from his side, tucking in and crawling back properly onto your bed to lay down, all while dragging your hand along in order to invite him to lie next to you.
He hesitates. His relaxed state of mind crumbling fast to rush back to his previous anxieties. He can't sleep. He can't. He'll close his eyes and feel bloody fur in his hands. He'll close his eyes and smell familiar stench of rot and brimstone. He'll close his eyes and hear so many tortured souls begging for it to end. He'll close his eyes and see the faces he couldn't save - the faceless he can't save right now sitting here and-
"Flynn?" You are back to properly sitting up, looking concernedly at him, hand gently placed on top of his. Clarity washes back over him.
...
He strips. Slowly strips out of the dark thin layered bodysuit to where he is naked and most vulnerable as he then makes his spot crawling under the blankets with you, wrapping his arms tightly around you and brings you close, burying his face in your neck. Knowing, feeling, you were there eases him back. He could fall asleep, wake right back up in blood red flashes, but you would still be there alive, breathing, ready to chase his darkened thoughts away and he's eternally grateful for that. You make it easier for him to close his eyes again, loosing in the relaxation of your warmth. There's possibly a good chance you can even change the nature of his dreams, wipe the blood and death from them and turn them... warm and loving. Your love makes him feel protected, a feeling he doesn't get to experience often fighting to save others the way he does but you make him feel safe, truly comfortable.
Millions upon millions of lives are lost each day to demonic invasions, a very cruel fact. But there's one person he knows he can and will save; its you - he makes damn sure of it. Hell will face total utter annihilating extinction if otherwise, he promises that.
I KNOW I JUST SENDED NOT SO LONG AGO BUT UR WRITTING GOT ME IN A HEADLOCK (blaming u/jk keep doing it)
i promise to shudup after this ✋️
Week's been tiring (ik stuff been hard on ya hope u get sum rest too) and that tiredness basically brings me to scenes about things reader does for the slayer
Them cleaning the base. Putting stuff away, mopping, washing dishes. They know he litteraly holds the world on his shoulders, keeping the place nice and tidy as a way to repay him for letting them stay.
Cooking. Something u mentioned in ur drafts, I kinda get the idea reader doesn't know that eating isn't much needed for the slayer anymore till later in their relationship, I doubt the slayer minds tho reader's cooking filling both his stomach and heart. Besides he finds it absolutely adorable seeing you giddy when he eats your cooking (😭🙏💕)
I just know my guy gets cuteness aggression when he sees u in a apron, sweetest smile on you face as you tell him food's ready.
Him just wanting to squish you so bad. Basically fighting his demons to NOT hold ur face and smooch it billions iydtudruidttixixtiyy
PLS DRINK WATER AND THANKS FOR LETTING ME RAMBLE
Hrnhgg brain cogs got going like Patrick thinking for the first time so have a drabble answer! Keep supplying the ingredients (rambling) and I'll keep cooking Chief!
In the fic reader cleans cause of this exactly! His "man-cave" is pretty orderly on average from his military training still drilled into him (getting yelled at by CO if anything's outta place) but have you ever been around stone buildings? Them things dusty as hell. Especially if they've been uninhabited for a long time.
Also, goofy video game logic is goofy and there's totally room in the fortress for another set of stairs and intended Sentinel living quarters. Plot hole plugged with duct tape!
Tw: None save for very slight angst (pls correct me if I'm wrong) Fem!Reader (she/her)
Word Count: 1490
The first time she cooked it was strange.
Strange because he didn't need to eat post divinity machine. Strange because he hadn't eaten a proper meal in he-couldn't-remember-when. Snacks, sure. But not a real meal. She'd tapped him on the shoulder as he played whatever game fit his interest at the time. His headset was moved from his ear as he looked up at her beside him.
"I used the kitchen, I hope it's okay," There was a kitchen here? "I made enough for... Well, a while, and I made you a plate. If you want it." She offered him a ceramic plate with some meal on it. The name escaped him at the moment, but it sure smelled edible. His hands reached before he could think too much on it, giving her a hesitant nod.
And she smiled. Small, a little nervous, but a smile nonetheless. That was the first one he'd seen from her since he found her. It made his heart thump harder in his chest. He was frozen holding the plate and fork for a moment, looking between where she now sat in his throne and the plate like she'd just given him some kind of puzzle to solve.
The fork felt foreign in his hand as he finally registered that this was food in his hands. Food she made. Food she shared with him. The first bites were slow, letting the taste fill his mouth. It was a warm meal, old memories of easier times coming to mind with the flavors that danced across his tongue. So long since he had real food.
"You ate that pretty quick," she was beside him as he all but shoveled the last bite into his mouth. He didn't need to eat but damn if there wasn't hunger there now.
"Do you want seconds?" He nodded, hand not holding the plate bracing against the other arm to stand.
"No," he froze and blinked at her. Her hand was on his shoulder as she tried, and failed, to push him back down, "Let me. It's the least I can do," she paused before another small smile graced her face, "Please?"
How could he say no?
He sat back down with another hesitant nod and handed her the plate.
"Be right back." And she was gone. What to do now? Would it take long? He wanted more. How much had she made? Was she planning on eating that for several meals? Where did she get the ingredients? Where was the kitchen-? Before he knew it, another steaming helping was sat on his desk.
"Eat up!" she seemed delighted, actually, as she set it down. Boy, he hoped she'd keep doing that- well she needed to eat, would she keep sharing?
"If you don't mind I uh, know a thing or two more than just this. I could start setting some aside for you? If you’d like? As repayment for saving me. Allowing me to stay. And all that." She rocked on her heels as she stood beside him. She didn't need to do that. He didn't need repayment. He wanted to help her. But, and so help him god for this, he nodded eagerly. He wanted more.
"Good. Um, okay! I'll portion it out in the fridge from now on so you can grab ‘n’ go." That smile was clearly stifled as she rubbed her cheek. He nodded dumbfounded again.
"Okay. I'll go clean up. Enjoy!" Gone again, her footsteps barely out the door as he chowed down. The plate was cleared in what he could swear was record time. When did he eat like this last? With the Sentinels? They did have some pretty lavish feasts. But even then he was dealing with so much for the first time. And he actually ate somewhat regularly then. Now it felt like he suddenly couldn't get enough.
When he was finished he stood, plate in hand, and hunted for this elusive kitchen. All this time he'd spent exploring these stone halls and he never noticed a kitchen. Then again he was never really looking for one or... Anything really. Look, his man cave had a good view and that's what mattered at the time.
Eventually he found a stairwell leading further up into the higher areas of the fortress. He followed it. These walls were dustier, but more well carved with detail. Stained glass windows lined the stairwell. A star system was the main subject, each panel featuring a different planet front and center until he reached the top. Argent D'nur. The last planet. He tried not to dwell longer than a slow look down the depiction. A silent mourning of those he'd known.
He moved on.
The hall at the top of the stairs housed several doors. Rooms or quarters with beds so dusty even the act of opening the door made particles fly into the air. He continued, a lavish stone archway leading into a small dining room type area and to the left, through another arch was, Her. A chandelier of wrought iron lit the kitchen in bright warm light as she wiped down the stone counter. Dishes rested on a rack above what looked like a sink. Huh. He really should pay more attention to his surroundings more. Like now.
"Hey? How was it?" She asked, leaning back against the counter.
His eyes scanned the counter tops, not spotting more of the food. Had... Had he eaten the rest already? How big had her portion been? Her plate was smaller, for sure. Wasn't it? She was smaller than him- No, those women from Argent could out eat him any day. Then again they were warriors. He gave her a thumbs up, still looking around distractedly.
Her brows furrowed as she stepped closer. He had seen the kitchen before, right? Her hands were held out, trying to take the plate. He pulled it back, looking down at her in surprise. Like he wasn't done yet.
"Do you... Want another serving?" He was a big guy. And he fought demons for a living. Big guy had to eat, she guessed. He looked guilty for a second, like he'd been caught red handed in a candy jar. Then nodded, not meeting her eye.
"Here," she said, placing her hands under the plate again. This time he let her take it. Over to the odd fridge and she unpacked a ceramic container's worth onto it. She thought as she put it together, him taking a seat at the table she'd dragged in and cleaned off.
"You know," she began slowly, "This kitchen was pretty dirty," She held onto the plate as she stood across the table from him, "Like it hadn't been used in a hundred years."
He looked away from her stare.
"You have been eating stuff besides snacks... Right?" Her brow raised.
No response besides a turn of his head away from her.
"You," she paused, hoping she wasn't asking too many questions, "You don't... Eat demons, do you?"
He grimaced and shook his head harshly.
"Do you need to eat?" She was about to be thrown out, she could just feel it. His brow raised and a hand lifted towards the plate. Somehow that didn't fill her with much relief.
"Fair enough," she put the plate down in front of him and watched him start chowing down like this wasn't his third plate.
"However you were surviving, at least you won't have to worry about it anymore." She turned away, not catching the way he paused.
And she was right. Whether she was awake to make something or not, there was always food for him. When she did cook, he at first tried to help. A swift smack to his knuckles with a spoon and he resorted to at least being nearby to get her things should she need them. The Sentinels were tall people. She wasn't quite there. It was cute watching her try to reach for things. Balancing high on her toes and stretching her fingers like it mattered.
Now she asked and he delivered, sometimes standing a little too close to watch over her shoulder after the fact. The urge to wrap his arms around her and cling to her so he could feel involved in some way baffled him. Eventually, after a long night spent with her, he let himself do so. She practically melted in his arms, leaning back against him as she stirred whatever she was making. He couldn't keep his hands off her after that. Wouldn't, even with the threat of being smacked with a spoon the few times he got in the way.
"Alright, alright it's ready, go sit," She would try to shoo him. He wouldn't go, making her plate just as she made his, a quick victorious kiss on her forehead as they traded plates and finally went to sit down. Bastard. Always having to equal the playing field.
