I’m Tille, I’m 21 and an artist. I’m from Denmark. I love drawing, although I barely have time due to work… I work a lot, like… a lot, a lot.
I’m a bit of a rotater between my favourite characters from COD, both from Ghosts and Modern Warfare. No, I have never played the games - I’m operating purely off of fandom wikies and I'm not ashamed. My attention span is short and I have very little free time.
Ask me anything, seriously, I want to yap! ☆
I’m looking for mutuals, I'd like to share interests with someone :)
My blog is a safe space, I don’t want no bashing, no slurs or hateful language of any sort. You will be blocked!
Was driving with my grandmother and in broken English she says “no eyes… no nose… no face. Don’t trust.” To which I looked around wildly in search of this omen of ill portend.
quarterly reminder that if i reblog something ai-generated it is 110% and always an accident and for the love of god please tell me so i can delete it from my blog
sorry to be a broken record every month but christ menstruation is a stupid concept. oooooh excuse me for not getting pregnant, why the fuck is there goo falling out of me about it? grow the fuck up and reabsorb that shit for nutrients.
Thinking about control issues!gaz and reader who...simply...doesn't care?
Gaz wouldn't say he has control issues, because that implies his need to control things isn't good. Sure, whenever gaz is in a relationship he wants to pre-pick the date options and the housing arrangements and the schedule. But that's not because he has issues.
Gaz is just realistic. He's seen couples going about their day suddenly stopped dead in the middle of their lives by a bullet, or a bomb, or whatever fucked up thing they didn't expect to happen in such a normal and public space. Gaz likes to think he has the advantage, that he knows what could really happen, and having control over the variables keeps him and his partner safe.
...people don't seem to share that sentiment, as he's learned.
He expects you to be the same. To grimace when he tells you to grab a different pair of shoes, or to argue about his choice of restaurant. Gaz expects the same argument, the same hasty break-off.
Except...you don't? You don't get upset with kyle despite him choosing when you shower or when you go to the movies. You just smile, offer him a "sure thing, kyle." And amble on to do whatever he instructed.
It's weird. Unique. Dangerous if he doesn't understand the intentions.
Only, when gaz asks you why the hell you put up with it, you shrug and say "I'm comfortable, aren't i? You handle all the stressful decisions, and I sit here and enjoy things and look nice. What's not to love?"
"independence?" Gaz offers, sure there must be something you don't like.
"babe, c'mon." You snort, looking down at your cozy pajamas and the game console in your hands "if I had independence I'd be choosing to do the exact same things I do now. You're not trying to make me miserable, so I don't see the harm."
Gaz settles into it, after that. He really lets his tendrils spread, takes over the things you prefer not to deal with happily.
Others might think he's pampering you, or that he's keeping you trapped. If anything it's the other way around. Gaz has never been happier in a relationship, and he's not sure he'd be willing to part with you after growing so attached.
On the side, gaz starts planning your wedding together....He'll tell you eventually.
Thinking about control issues!gaz and reader who...simply...doesn't care?
Gaz wouldn't say he has control issues, because that implies his need to control things isn't good. Sure, whenever gaz is in a relationship he wants to pre-pick the date options and the housing arrangements and the schedule. But that's not because he has issues.
Gaz is just realistic. He's seen couples going about their day suddenly stopped dead in the middle of their lives by a bullet, or a bomb, or whatever fucked up thing they didn't expect to happen in such a normal and public space. Gaz likes to think he has the advantage, that he knows what could really happen, and having control over the variables keeps him and his partner safe.
...people don't seem to share that sentiment, as he's learned.
He expects you to be the same. To grimace when he tells you to grab a different pair of shoes, or to argue about his choice of restaurant. Gaz expects the same argument, the same hasty break-off.
Except...you don't? You don't get upset with kyle despite him choosing when you shower or when you go to the movies. You just smile, offer him a "sure thing, kyle." And amble on to do whatever he instructed.
It's weird. Unique. Dangerous if he doesn't understand the intentions.
Only, when gaz asks you why the hell you put up with it, you shrug and say "I'm comfortable, aren't i? You handle all the stressful decisions, and I sit here and enjoy things and look nice. What's not to love?"
"independence?" Gaz offers, sure there must be something you don't like.
"babe, c'mon." You snort, looking down at your cozy pajamas and the game console in your hands "if I had independence I'd be choosing to do the exact same things I do now. You're not trying to make me miserable, so I don't see the harm."
Gaz settles into it, after that. He really lets his tendrils spread, takes over the things you prefer not to deal with happily.
Others might think he's pampering you, or that he's keeping you trapped. If anything it's the other way around. Gaz has never been happier in a relationship, and he's not sure he'd be willing to part with you after growing so attached.
On the side, gaz starts planning your wedding together....He'll tell you eventually.
Reader who loves to yap and ghost who loves to listen...
You recently got your hands on a field guide of animals in your area, one you've been waiting months to arrive, and couldn't stop yourself from barging into ghosts room to show it off.
"It's perfectly set up for quick identification, too–" you ramble, showing ghost the pages while he pulls you into hid lap with a grunt. He's never been one to chat idly if it's not for a joke, but ghost loves hearing you speak.
"See, you look at the silhouettes and follow the page number and— oh!" The hand slipping under your waistband makes you freeze, warmth pooling low and face heating all at once.
Ghost gives your sides a squeeze, chin hooked over your shoulder "ahm' listening, keep going. What after the page number?"
...you keep talking, stuttering over your words when ghost really starts working at you. He grumbles something about you being too damn hot for him not to touch, but always directs you to keep talking about your book.
Ghost loves listening to you, but his favorite sound is the delighted little hum you make after and orgasm, right before going back to your talking.
you're allowed to draw. draw badly even. draw and then delete it. draw and rework it and then delete it anyway. draw only half of it and the other half three years later. in one style or another. in different styles in the same week. traditional or digital. you're literally allowed to draw however you want
Wholesome!Gaz who has been excitedly planning your birthday party for weeks and is constantly asking about which foods to order and running decoration ideas by you, like an overbearing-but-well-intentioned wedding planner. You're aglow in all the attention, falling more in love with each thoughtful question he asks. Best of all, he insists that he loves this. "I never get to do low-stakes, feel-good planning," he explains. "It's always tactical shite on a heli, 10 minutes before we touch ground, with my captain's body odor making it hard to think."
But then a few days before the party, you overhear him on the phone with his new military friends. "Can't come out and drink this weekend," he tells them gruffly. "Nah, I wish." A pause, then his laughter. "Yeah, the old ball and chain. Y'know how it is."
The words don't just devastate you - they anger you. You've never known this man to be dismissive of your relationship, let alone to spew blatantly sexist platitudes.
You're icy with him for the rest of the evening as he begs you to tell him what's wrong. You finally relent after going out for a drive to cool off. "How could you talk about me like that?" you ask him, mortified that tears are welling in your eyes. "I never asked you to plan this party. You know I wouldn't have cared if we celebrated my birthday on a different day so you could hang with your friends. I just - is that really how you feel about me?"
Gaz's unfairly adorable puppy dog eyes widen as he takes in what you're saying. "Oh, sweetheart, no no. Please don't - you're so right. I shouldn't have said that." He sighs, sounding disappointed in himself. "I was just selected for a new task force and I'm the least experienced one. I know the captain, but not the other blokes. And us military types? We're dogs, love. Awful. It's either locker room talk and rude hand gestures, or silence and grunting." He tentatively sits on the couch and opens his arms to you, hoping you'll cuddle up next to him. You acquiesce, but not without a frown to let him know you wish his earnest apology wasn't working on you.
"You're better than that, Kyle," you tell him quietly.
"I am. You make me better than that." He kisses your hairline. "The promotion to this task force is the best thing that's happened in my career, and I am terrified about fucking it up. But that shouldn't come at your expense. Tomorrow at work, I'm showing everyone the photo of you I keep in my vest and letting them know how much I love you."
A gasp escapes you. "What! Don't show them that."
He smirks. "Oh no, the one in my vest is from Joanie's cookout. The one I keep in my cap is what you're thinking of."
He's true to his word, boldly sharing his relationship status and bragging about your brilliance the next time he's with his team.
And that's how Gaz learns that Johnny has a common law marriage with his high school sweetheart, Simon has been in a long distance Internet relationship for multiple years with a bird he's never met, and Price is currently wooing a single mother he is determined to make his third wife.
====
If you're in the mood for something longer, may I interest you in 36,000 words of Gaz x f!Reader enemies to lovers? 😳
or how you and Kyle fell in love over doing his hair
kyle “gaz” garrick x reader
a/n: is this entirely self-indulgent? yes. is it my personal belief that if kyle garrick joined the military at 16, like canon suggests, this man would’ve relied on two-in-one for most of his young adult life? also yes!
You know as soon as the door opens.
Kyle stands in the entryway, duffle bag slung over his shoulder, boots heavy and worn, whistling as he drops his keys into a bowl.
The hat is what gets your attention.
He freezes when he sees you on the couch. Kyle has never performed guilt well; his mom claims he learned how to charm his way out of anything by the time he was speaking full sentences.
“No,” you say.
“I didn’t say anything.”
You narrow your eyes and a smile flashes across his face before he forces his face into something serious.
“Which is how I know you’re up to something. You have that look on your face.”
“What look?” he asks, crossing his arms.
“The one that says you did something that I’m going to be pissed about.”
His face goes even guiltier, and you stand up.
“It’s not that bad, I promise.”
You sigh.
“Just show me.” you say, and he lifts his hat up.
His hair is gone.
His hair is tapered low to his head, buzzed until only a faint stubble remains, and you try not to gasp.
He rubs a hand over his scalp, grinning.
His hair is also faded, which lets you know he stopped by his barber after work rather than impulsively grabbing some clippers during his lunch break.
“It’ll grow back” is the first thing he says after your prolonged silence.
You wish you could say you hated it. It would be so much easier if you hated it.
However, this is Kyle and somehow the low cut brings out the contours of his face, highlighting sharp cheekbones and an angular jaw, further proving your theory that there’s nothing in this world that could make Kyle Garrick ugly.
“Love,” he says, shifting on his feet. “You’re kinda freaking me out.”
“You cut your hair,” you say.
“Yes.” he sighs, as if he’s relieved that his decision didn’t also end his relationship.
You lift your hand before stopping. He grabs your wrist, lifting it to his head and the short black stubble tickles your palm. Your nails lightly scratch his head out of habit, and his eyes flutter.
“You’re so spoiled,” you mutter and he grins.
“Got you to blame for that.”
You suppose he did.
But how were you supposed to let him walk around using two-in-one shampoo?
You had seen it during the first time you slept over at his place, popping your head out of his shower to show him the bottle.
He looks over from where he’s standing at the sink, toothbrush half out of his mouth, as his eyes slowly move over your body before focusing on what’s in your hand.
“Yeah?” he asks, leaning over to spit out his toothpaste, towel low on his hips.
“Is this what I think it is?” you ask, and he continues brushing his teeth.
“It’s shampoo.” he shrugs.
“Kyle, how is your hair not dry?”
He rubs a hand over his hair, looking at himself in the mirror above the sink.
“Looks fine to me,” he says and you blindly reach your hand out.
“Let me feel. I don’t trust you after seeing this,” you say, and he smiles around his toothbrush, leaning his head over so you can feel his hair with your soapy hand.
You hum thoughtfully, and Kyle can almost see the pinched look you get on your face when you’re thinking hard about something.
“It’s not the worst,” you decide, and reach your hand back inside the shower. “But you should really use a leave-in.”
“Not a ton of time for a wash day when you’re doing surveillance in Lebanon, love,” he says.
Your stomach twists, lips pressing into a tight line as you stand underneath the running water.
Kyle’s told you the bare minimum about his job. His friends call them “first-date” stories. The ones that leave a girl impressed just enough that she’ll want to see him again.
But you’ve never thought about what it must mean to join the military as a boy and learn how to become a man.
“Come over to my place on Sunday,” you say, turning the shower off and grabbing the towel he brought for you. “I have some products for you.”
“Yeah?” he says round his toothbrush, pulling you to stand in his arms. “Gonna make me pretty like you?”
You laugh.
“You don’t need any help with that.”
It becomes a routine after a month.
You start at the kitchen sink since that’s easier with his height, a towel wrapped around his neck and your nails scratching over his scalp as you clarify, condition, and work a hair mask in while you both catch up on a TV show.
You’ll then shift towards the couch, candle burning and music lowly playing through some speakers.
You’ll part his hair, layer on creams and oils until his scalp tingles pleasantly from the herbs and he can barely keep his eyes open.
It’s at that lazy, content smile that you realize Kyle Garrick loves being cared for.
Even if he refuses to admit it.
But after a few weeks of studying your hair products and watching as you do your own hair care routine every night, he shows up at your front door with a grocery bag full of products and big eyes.
You smile.
“Did you get a spray bottle?“
He scoffs.
“Of course. What do you take me for?”
For whatever reason, that makes you laugh, and you open your door wider to let him in.
“I’ll clear off a shelf.”
“Kyle Garrick!” you shout from the bathroom, and he freezes.
He says a quick prayer to whatever god may be listening that you all you need is help killing a bug and that he hadn’t forgot about a date you two had scheduled.
You suddenly appear at the door of the bathroom.
“Have you been using my conditioner?”
Oh.
Oh shit.
In your hand is your favorite conditioner that leaves your curls softer than a dream and smells so good that Kyle would linger in hugs just to sniff your hair.
You’ve only caught him once or twice.
It’s also become his favorite; he chooses that conditioner on the nights he washes his own hair, which are truly few and far between.
“Just once or twice,” he says, rubbing a hand across his curls. While he’s been prone to fidgeting with his hair when he’s anxious or bored, he’s almost constantly putting a hand through his hair since you’ve altered his hair care routine.
“It’s almost halfway gone. This is like fifty dollars, and I bought it two weeks ago,” you whine, and he wraps his arms around you.
“I’ll buy you a new one,” he says, placing a kiss to the top of your head.
“Buy yourself one too. I’m not sharing anymore,” you grumble and he laughs against your head.
“Whatever you want, love.”
Kyle becomes spoiled quickly, trusting you to style his hair and even letting you braid his hair when you’re bored or find inspiration somewhere.
“Hold still,” you say and he shifts under your parting comb.
“You’re so heavy-handed,” he says, and you sigh, zooming in on the photo of the back of Lewis Hamilton’s head on your phone.
“You’re the one who said you liked his hair.” You begin braiding, and he shifts one more time.
“Only because you wouldn’t stop bringing it up!”
You roll your eyes, scratching his head gently and he shuts his eyes, leaning into your palm slightly.
“We’re almost done,” you say, parting his hair into three more sections.
He nods, wrapping his hand around your ankle, rubbing a lazy circle on your skin.
He couldn’t stop looking at himself for the next few days.
It was only after he had mentioned needing a haircut and you had looked at him with big eyes that he drew the line.
“You are not coming near me with clippers. I have a barber for that,” he says immediately and you laugh, kissing his cheek.
“It was worth a shot.”
You really shouldn’t have been so surprised that he was going to get it cut.
“How long until you leave again?” You sigh, and his gaze softens.
“Should fly out in a few days, and the helmet’s bad enough without all the creams and oils in it,” he says.
“It’ll grow back?” is what you say, but something else lies underneath it.
The apartment had gone unbearably quiet after he yelled.
Not the comfortable kind of silence either. Not the kind Simon liked after long missions where the world finally stopped demanding things from him.
This silence was wrong.
You stood by the stove with your back turned, shoulders tense, blinking rapidly like if you just tried hard enough the tears would disappear before he saw them.
Too late.
Simon stared at you like he’d just watched himself pull a trigger he couldn’t take back. His chest rose once. Heavy.
“...Fuck.”
The word came out under his breath, barely audible.
You wiped quickly at your face. “It’s okay.”, you whispered , hurt and embarrassment blooming in your chest.
It wasn’t okay.
And Simon knew it immediately because your voice did that tiny shaky thing it only did when you were trying very hard not to cry.
He felt sick.
The kind where the person you love looks hurt because of you.
Simon took one cautious step forward. Then another.
“Love.”
You shook your head without turning around.
That hurt more than the tears.
Usually when he came home, you gravitated toward him automatically. Hands on his chest, arms around his waist. Soft little smiles like he was something worth waiting for.
Now you were standing as far away from him as the kitchen allowed.
Because he yelled.
Because he came home carrying all his anger and dropped it right at your feet.
His jaw clenched hard enough to ache.
“Don’t do that,” he said quietly.
“Do what?”, you mumbled, trying to smoothen your voice.
“Stand there acting like you deserve that.”
You finally turned a little at that, eyes glossy. “Simon-”
“No.” He scrubbed a hand down his face harshly. “No, don’t excuse it.”
You went silent. He looked wrecked now. More wrecked than when he first walked in.
Rainwater still clung to his jacket. His shoulders sagged with exhaustion, but guilt sat on him even heavier.
“I came home to you,” he said, voice rough. “Warm flat, food on the stove, you waiting for me.” He laughed once bitterly at himself. “And first thing I do is bark at you like some miserable prick.”
Your lips parted slightly.
Simon looked away, jaw flexing.
“Spent two bloody weeks thinking about getting back to you.” His voice got quieter. “Then I walk through that door and make you cry inside five minutes.”
The tears you were trying to stop spilled over again.
The second he saw them, he looked genuinely devastated.
Not angry. Not frustrated.
Devastated.
“Oh, sweetheart…”
He crossed the room immediately then stopped himself halfway, hesitating.
Simon Riley, who would walk through gunfire without blinking, suddenly looking uncertain about whether he was allowed to touch his own wife.
“You don’t have to comfort me,” you whispered.
That nearly broke him, his eyes shut briefly.
“Christ.”
He finally stepped closer carefully, like approaching a wounded animal. His hands settled lightly on your arms, almost tentative.
“I’m sorry love,” he said again. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. Ever.”
You looked down, vision blurring, “I know you’re tired.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
“I wasn’t trying to annoy you-”,you huffed ,choking slightly on the tears.
“I know.” His voice cracked slightly then steadied. “I know you weren’t.”
The guilt in his expression got worse somehow.
“You were taking care of me,” he murmured. “That’s all you were doing.”
You tried to look away again but Simon gently caught your chin before you could.
“Look at me.”
You did. Big mistake.
The second he saw how hard you’d been trying not to cry, his entire face softened into something painfully guilty.
“Didn’t mean to scare you.”, he murmured ,gently cupping your face.
“You never yell at me.”, you sniffled.
That one hit directly to the ribs.
Simon actually flinched.
His thumb brushed carefully under your eye, wiping away a tear with absurd gentleness for a man built like a concrete wall with emotional constipation.
“I swear to you,” he said quietly, “the second it came outta my mouth, I wanted to take it back.”
You could hear how honest it was.
Simon wasn’t good at pretty apologies. He wasn’t poetic, wasn’t smooth. But guilt made him painfully sincere.
“I hate that you looked at me like that,” he admitted softly.
“Like what?”
“Like you were trying to figure out if I was angry with you.”
His voice nearly disappeared on the last part. Because that was the thing eating him alive now. The fact that for even one second, you’d looked at him uncertainly instead of safely.
Simon pulled you against him suddenly, firm and desperate, burying his face into your h.air.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated quietly against your temple. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
You felt the way he held you tighter after every apology, like he was trying to physically make up for it.
“I missed you,” he admitted in a low murmur. “Missed you so bad it felt wrong sleeping without you there.” His arms tightened. “Then I come home and act like that.”
Your hands slowly curled into his shirt. Simon exhaled shakily at the feeling.
“There she is,” he whispered, relief and guilt tangled together. “Thought I fucked this up properly for a second.” he mumbled ,inhaling the scent of your hair.
“You didn’t.”
“Nearly did.”
And judging by the way he kept pressing little apologetic kisses into your hair like a man trying to repent for his crimes against domestic peace, he was going to spend the rest of the night making absolutely sure you knew he regretted it.
Includes; Reader tending to their garden, Neighbour!Gaz keeping them company with casual conversation. Gaz at war with his own feelings, and a bit of pining. Small acts of service, attention to details.
“Downpour it says, all weekend.”
Gaz commented from his lounge stool, sat in your garden as he flipped through the newspaper that had come in this morning. He often kept you company when he was home, although you insisted he should be out with his mates, he insisted himself that he was much more comfortable lounging about by your side.
You sigh, leaning back on your ankles after trimming your flowers, wanting optimal bloom this upcoming summer. “Aye again? Hopefully not heavy, my tomatoes barely survived last time ‘round.” You sigh, eyes glancing at your droopy, yet barely surviving, tomato plants.
He can't help but chuckle, shaking his head as he folds the newspaper, flicking it onto the table next to him. “How about we cover them this time, I'll lend a hand, can't have the tomatoes dying on us now.” He stands up, taking languid steps towards where you're seated.
It makes you smile, you can't help it, his presence overall always made you feel at such ease. “You're a gem Kyle, honest.” You exhale.
He squats down next to you, looking at the collection of massacred flower buds, a confused expression following. “I thought you liked your flowers, Bumble. Care to explain why you're beheading the bunch?” He asked with a chuckle.
To anyone, it may seem like you're ruining the flowerbed. “Peonies need their first blooms removed to have a stronger root system, making them bloom much stronger and more beautiful.” You explain, motioning to the stack of buds lying on the plant bed.
He felt a blooming in his chest, a warmth that circulated in his system as you explained your flowers, your techniques. There was nothing more endearing to him.
In his profession there usually wasn't space for the domestic. And truth be told, he'd missed it terribly. As you continued to drone on, his focus was only on your face, your lips, the sun on his skin and the gentle breeze. He would've asked you out ages ago, but it felt entirely too selfish to bring you into his chaotic world.
But by the heavens did he want to.
“Kyle, if I'm being a bore, I'd prefer if you'd stop me. I don't mind, really.”
Your gentle words broke his trance, and he quickly shook his head, scratching the back of his neck, “Got lost in thought, sorry. Bumble, you never bore me. Love listening to you, honest.” He wanted to assure you, listen to your words forever. For these short moments to last forever.
You hushed him, nudging his shoulder with yours. “Such a silver tongue on you, unbelievable.” You spoke amused, wiping off your hands and using disinfectant. “Sure have.” He agreed, grinning to himself, eyes lingering on your face.
You exhaled, knees creaking as you tried pushing yourself up and off the ground. You'd been sitting for a good couple of yours, your back and knees most definitely proof of it. “Careful old timer! Here, let me help…” Kyle, ever the gentleman, stood up much faster and immediately aided your creaky movements. “Mocking me, are you now?” You mused, yet not ungrateful as you took his aiding hand, his other assisting by gently holding and supporting your lower back.
He didn't let go once you'd stood up, much to your surprise. A wind passed his nostrils, a huff of laughter as he smiled. Something much softer than usual in his eyes.
“Never, only caring for my darling neighbour.”
He spoke softly, squeezing your hand in his.
It left you a bit speechless, a small change in attitude from him. Although friendly and near, there was a specific and unique change within him as of this noon. And admittedly, you quite liked it.
His thumb brushed over the back of your hand, eyes soft and yet distant for but a moment, as if he was considering.
Thinking.
And thinking he most certainly was. Outweighing the odds, predicting possible futures. The more time he spent with you, the more he realised, he couldn't stand thinking of moments without you. Without your presence and company, that snippet of sanity you provided when he returned from long missions abroad, he wasn't sure he could function without it.
“Bumble–”
As if a mocking testament from nature itself, fat droplets fell against the two of you, not a moment later hail followed, deafening his loud thoughts.
“Hold that thought!”
You yelped, tightening your grasp on his hand as you made a quick bail inside, seeking shelter.
The rain was heavy, dramatic almost as the two of you watched it pound on the windows. “Goodness. Sorry, what were you saying?” Turning your head, his gaze was already deeply locked onto yours.
It was a selfish thought. You didn't even know what he truly did, what his career entailed. That he wasn't just some soldier. He did something much more dangerous, sacrificial almost.
“Mind if I stay over, Bumble? Do a movie night, perfect weather now.”
He couldn't get himself to ask you out. To make you into a sacrificial lamb to his chaos, if you agreed. So he returned to your usual schedule on a rainy day. If only to keep you selfishly closer.
“Of course, I'll ready the pull out couch.”
He gave a nod. His eyes drifted back outside, a small shake of his head.
“I'll secure the tomatoes.”
He assured you. Even if he wasn't a fan of the rain, he'd do anything to see you pleased. Even if it was saving your bloody tomatoes. Every year he saw your joy when you harvested them, and until hell freezes over, he'd make sure they'd have a yield every year.
It made you happy, and there was nothing he adored more.
