misunderstood and unhinged @1overgurl - Tumblr Blog

sixxels-deactivated20260420-dea

sex with a stoner

fratboy!choso x bestfriend!reader

wc: 16k

smut with so, so much plot.

choso kamo is the kind of boy people notice without realizing they’re staring. he’s not loud, never one to demand a room’s attention, but something about him pulls you in, the lazy grace of someone who’s always just a little bit stoned and completely at peace with himself.

he throws the best parties on campus, the kind that aren’t just about getting drunk or high, but about the vibe. incense burning in the corner, led lights set to red or purple, trap playing softly over speakers. and yet, you’re the only one who really knows him.

you, the sweet girl who never misses a single one of his parties. the one always curled up next to him on the couch with a red solo cup of something you can barely taste, your legs draped over his lap, your cheek pressed to his shoulder. it’s always been like this. ever since freshman year, when you met him during that stupid icebreaker event on campus that neither of you wanted to go to.

somehow, you’d ended up next to him. not even talking at first. just being. and then he’d pulled one earbud out and offered it to you without saying anything, and you’d heard frank ocean’s “ivy” playing soft and crackly from his phone. you’d smiled at him, and he’d smiled back. just a little.

after that, it was like something clicked. you didn’t have to try with choso. you just existed in each other’s space like you were meant to.

you’re sweet, outgoing, a little flirty, always the first one to compliment someone’s outfit or remember their birthday. people love you for your light, your laughter, the way you make everyone feel seen.

but when it comes to closeness, to real comfort? that’s reserved for choso.

oaksgrove

Can you make one for Mother's Day? I love your writings!🤍

Mother’s Day

Pairing: John Price x Reader, Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader, Kyle “Gaz” Garrick x Reader, Johnny “Soap” MacTavish x Reader, Gary “Roach” Sanderson x Reader, Nikolai x Reader

Warnings: soft domesticity, parental exhaustion, implied past absences/deployment, pregnancy (Soap), sign language use (Roach), lots of fluff, tears (happy and aching), and unconditional love.

John Price:

The sound of tiny feet and hurried whispers woke you before the sun had fully stretched into the room. A scuffle. A thud. A muffled “Shh, you’ll wake her up!” followed by a giggle and a hissed, “You put the jam on backwards!”

You didn’t even need to open your eyes to know what day it was.

The door creaked open slightly—too slowly, like they were trying very hard to be sneaky, which only made it more obvious—and then your youngest, your daughter, was scrambling up onto the bed with a triumphant little squeal.

“Mummy!”

You opened your eyes to see her clutching a homemade card, glitter smudged along the corners and crooked hearts drawn in shaky lines. Her eyes sparkled as she shoved it into your hands, already wriggling beneath the blankets beside you. “I made it! It’s us. You and me and Daddy and the boys and the dog and the bird that lives outside the window!”

Your heart swelled, impossibly full. You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped, warm and already teary.

Then came the boys—your middle child balancing a tray with suspicious toast and juice (jam definitely on backwards), your eldest walking behind him, holding the backup tray with a single rose in a chipped mug and a lukewarm cup of tea.

“Happy Mother’s Day,” they chorused awkwardly, as if they hadn’t rehearsed it twenty times.

You were still blinking back tears when you looked past them—and there he was.

John stood in the doorway, leaning one shoulder on the frame, arms crossed, his beard a little more silver than last year, his eyes softer than you’d ever seen them. He didn’t say anything, just watched the chaos from a distance like it was the most sacred thing he’d ever witnessed.

And maybe it was.

He was home. Home for Mother’s Day. No deployments. No sudden calls. No “I’ll try, love, but no promises.”

Just John. Right there.

“Budge over,” he murmured eventually, walking in as the kids all piled around you, half on top of one another. He kissed the top of your head, fingers brushing your cheek before he disappeared again—to the kitchen this time.

And you stayed, surrounded by jam-covered toast and bent paper flowers and glitter now stuck to your pajamas, smiling so wide it ached a little.

Later, after the whirlwind of morning and mid-afternoon quieted, the house finally asleep, you found him in the kitchen.

John stood by the sink, sleeves rolled up, hands still damp from washing up. The window was cracked open, letting in the cool night air. He didn’t hear you come in at first—but when your arms wrapped around his waist, he dropped the dish towel immediately and turned, pulling you into his chest.

You rested there for a moment, breathing him in. Soap and tea and home.

He kissed your hair and held you tighter.

“I was never any good at this,” he murmured. “The family thing. Thought I’d just mess it up. But then you—” His voice cracked, just a little. “You gave me everything. These kids. This life.”

You didn’t speak. Just held him closer.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “for all the times I couldn’t be here. When it was hard. When you carried it all alone.”

You tilted your face to his, eyes glossy. “You were always with us. Even when you weren’t here.”

He kissed you then. Slow. Full of the years and the weight and the gratitude he could never quite put into words.

In the quiet hum of the kitchen, surrounded by a house built on laughter and long nights and second chances, John Price held you like a man who knew exactly what he had—and would never stop being thankful for it.

Simon “Ghost” Riley:

The house was quiet in the way only early morning could bring—soft, still, and tinted with pale light breaking through the curtains. You stirred to the sound of a faint hum, low and gravelly but warm, almost like a lullaby wrapped in gravel.

Simon.

Eyes blinking open, your gaze found him across the room—sitting in the rocking chair, the one you’d placed beside the crib for late nights and early mornings. He looked enormous in it, knees high, shoulders hunched slightly, arms wrapped around your daughter like she was something too fragile for this world.

Her little head rested against his chest, lost in the black fabric of his hoodie, her tiny hand curled into the material. And Simon… he had his cheek pressed to her crown, humming something soft and broken that you’d only ever heard him mutter in sleep. A tune from another life, maybe. A lullaby no one had ever sung for him.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t move.

Just watched him—this man who once swore he’d never bring a child into a world like his—hold the very reason he woke up every morning a little softer than the last.

Eventually, you rose, careful not to startle them, and padded into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. The smell drifted between rooms, warm and grounding. You sat on the couch, mug in hand, legs folded beneath you—and within a few minutes, Simon appeared.

Your daughter now slept peacefully against your chest, her cheek squished against your shirt, mouth slightly open. You brushed your hand along her back in slow, soothing strokes.

Simon knelt beside you.

It startled you, honestly. Seeing him—Ghost—on his knees like that. But his eyes never left yours as he reached out and touched your hand gently, like he might break you too.

“You do the hard work,” he said, voice hushed and frayed at the edges. “Every bloody day.”

You shook your head, trying to smile. “You do too.”

“No.” He squeezed your fingers. “I… I missed her first steps. Her first word. I was gone.” His voice cracked, barely audible now. “But I notice, even when I can’t be here. Especially then.”

Tears welled in your eyes before you could stop them. His thumb brushed them away without hesitation.

“She says ‘Dada’ now,” you whispered, and watched something in him shatter gently—grief and pride folding together into something sharp and warm.

“Yeah?” he rasped.

You nodded. “She says it when she sees your picture.”

Simon blinked hard, jaw tight. Then he leaned in and kissed your forehead—slow, lingering. One hand rested on your daughter’s back, the other still tangled in yours.

“I’m here now,” he said softly. “And I’m not going anywhere today.”

You believed him.

So you sat together on that couch—coffee cooling, baby breathing slow and steady, the world spinning outside your window.

And for once, Simon Riley allowed himself to feel the weight of home. Not as a soldier, but as a father. As yours.

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick:

You heard the chaos before you saw it.

Whispers — or what the kids thought were whispers — filtered down the hallway in a flurry of giggles and shuffling feet. A crash, a yelp, someone hissing “Shh! You’re gonna wake her up!” followed by a thud and a very clear “Oops.”

You blinked your eyes open just in time to hear the softest tap of little fists against the bedroom door. Then it burst open — your son, covered in flour from hair to socks, and your daughter, face painted in crooked butterfly wings, proudly carrying a tray.

The tray shook dangerously with every step, burdened by what looked like very burned pancakes, a nearly-toppling glass of orange juice, and a single, half-wilted flower stuck into a mug.

Behind them came Kyle.

Hair slightly ruffled, shirt smeared with batter, expression both proud and very, very guilty.

“Happy Mother’s Day!” the kids chorused.

Your daughter scrambled up onto the bed beside you, tucking herself under your arm with glitter still stuck to her cheek. Your son followed, dropping crumbs with every bounce, clearly thrilled with the surprise.

Kyle followed more carefully, setting the tray on your lap like it was a bomb he wasn’t sure wouldn’t go off. Then, without saying a word, he knelt at your side, eyes soft, fingers brushing against your flour-dusted knuckles.

“They adore you,” he said, and his voice was low, reverent, like he was speaking the truth of the universe. “So do I.”

Your heart ached — a good ache, the kind that came with being seen and known.

He kissed your hand, lingered there.

“I know it’s not easy,” he continued, looking up at you with something broken and full of love behind his smile. “Not with me gone so much. But you hold it all together.”

He looked around at the crumbs, the glitter, the warzone of a kitchen probably waiting behind him.

“I don’t know how you do it.”

You swallowed thickly, blinking away sudden tears.

“Because I have you,” you said simply, your hand cupping his cheek. “Even when you’re not here.”

Kyle leaned into the touch.

And for just a moment, as your daughter offered you a pancake shaped like absolutely nothing and your son tried to spoon-feed you syrup, you let yourself sit in the chaos. In the love. In the life you’d built together.

The breakfast was a disaster. The kitchen was likely worse.

But your heart — your heart was full.

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish

You woke up already exhausted.

Your back ached. Your belly felt impossibly heavy. Your toddler — your sweet, wild little boy — had claimed your leg like a koala and refused to let go. Every step was a shuffle, every breath a bit more effort than the last. Your hands rubbed over your belly instinctively, murmuring little nothings to the baby growing inside you, half a whisper of you’re okay, Mama’s okay, even if you weren’t entirely sure you believed it this morning.

But then the bedroom door creaked open.

Soft music filtered in first — your favorite playlist, turned low, just enough to fill the silence. Then the scent of something warm and sweet: cinnamon, coffee, buttered toast.

And then Johnny. Standing in the doorway, hair still damp from an early shower, wearing that stupid apron he swore made him look “chefy,” holding a tray with wobbly pancakes shaped like hearts and a tiny vase with two daisies in it.

One flower had already started to wilt.

“Happy Mother’s Day, bonnie,” he said, smiling so wide it crinkled the corners of his eyes.

Your throat tightened immediately.

He made a show of entering the room like a server at a five-star restaurant, placing the tray beside you with a dramatic flourish and a wink at your toddler, who squealed with delight and promptly faceplanted into a pancake.

Johnny chuckled and set him back upright without missing a beat, then bent to press a kiss to your swollen belly, then your lips, and finally your nose.

“You’ve outdone yourself,” you whispered, voice thick. You felt the tears coming before you could stop them. Damn hormones. Damn exhaustion. Damn how seen you felt in this moment.

You didn’t even try to fight it. The tears fell, quiet and unashamed.

Johnny’s smile didn’t falter. He just climbed up beside you, pulled you gently into his arms, and held you as you cried into his shoulder.

“No teasing,” you warned against his shirt.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

His hands rubbed slow, calming circles into your back. Your toddler babbled happily beside you, focused entirely on dunking pancake pieces into his cup of juice.

“I see how tired you are,” Johnny murmured against your hair. “How much you carry every day. You don’t have to say it — I see it, love.”

You closed your eyes. Let yourself breathe for the first time that morning.

“I’d carry it all if I could,” he whispered. “Your aches. Your worry. The weight of it. All of it. I’d take it in a heartbeat.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face.

“You’re everything to me,” he said, voice thick with conviction. “Everything, bonnie.”

And in that quiet little room, with pancakes cooling, a toddler singing his own breakfast song, and a bath already drawn just for you, you believed him. With your whole heart.

You didn’t need anything more than this.

Just Johnny. Just this love. Just this messy, beautiful, hard-earned happiness.

And maybe one more pancake.

Gary “Roach” Sanderson:

The door slammed open with the force of a small stampede.

“HAPPY MOTHER’S DAAAAY!”

Two small bodies launched themselves at you like missiles — one aiming for your stomach, the other for your head. You barely managed to shield yourself before a flurry of arms, legs, giggles, and blanket-stealing chaos swallowed you whole.

You were tired — so tired. It felt like you’d been tired for years now. Motherhood never stopped. The days blurred together sometimes, a steady rhythm of lunchboxes and laundry, bedtime stories and tear-wiping. You never resented it — not really — but some mornings hit harder than others.

Today could’ve been one of those days.

But Gary was home.

Your husband stepped in behind them, quiet as ever, a cup of coffee in one hand and that familiar warmth in his eyes. His smile was soft, crooked, sleep-lined. He placed the mug on your nightstand and mouthed, Happy Mother’s Day, before pressing a kiss to your forehead.

The boys were still bouncing on the mattress like caffeinated jackrabbits.

“Okay, okay,” you groaned with a laugh. “Give your mother a minute to breathe!”

Gary chuckled silently and wrangled them off the bed with practiced ease, tossing them both over his shoulders like sacks of flour. They shrieked with laughter, arms flailing, already asking for cartoons and cereal.

A while later, you emerged from your room to the sight of a full blanket fort consuming the living room.

Pillows everywhere. Fairy lights strung haphazardly between chairs. Your sons sprawled on their stomachs with markers in hand, carefully doodling smiley faces and rocket ships all over Gary’s bare arms.

You opened your mouth to protest the mess, the markers, the inevitable chaos — but stopped.

Because Gary caught your eye and signed something quick but deliberate:

Rest.

I’ve got them.

So you did. You curled up on the couch, wrapped in a throw blanket, listening to your boys laugh and your husband play along with everything — even letting them crown him “King of the Fort.” You drifted off somewhere between their giggles and the steady rhythm of quiet love filling the house.

That night, after dinner and sticky hands and two boys tucked into bed, Gary helped you beneath the covers. He kissed your shoulder, then your temple.

And then he knelt beside the bed, fingers moving slowly in the lamplight.

I know it’s hard when I’m gone.

But you’re never alone.

You’re the strongest person I know.

Your throat tightened.

You reached for his hand and held it against your chest, right where your heart ached and loved and beat just for him.

“I’m strong,” you whispered, “because I have you.”

He smiled.

You were tired. You were messy. You were real.

But you were loved — wholly, deeply, without condition.

And tonight, that was more than enough.

Nikolai Belinski:

The day began with giggles.

Soft, conspiring whispers outside the bedroom door. Tiny shushes. The clinking of porcelain. A near spill followed by a frantic “It’s okay!” in a little voice you knew too well.

You stayed still, smiling to yourself, playing along.

The door creaked open slowly. Your two daughters tiptoed inside like the floor might betray them — the oldest balancing a tray with tea and toast (and far too much jam), the youngest clutching a painting that looked like a sun with your smile and hearts all around it.

Both wore lopsided flower crowns, petals already falling off, but they glowed with pride.

“Happy Mother’s Day!” they shouted, abandoning all stealth at once.

Nikolai followed behind them, hair tousled, eyes soft and bright. He carried a single flower — a tulip from the garden — and wore a crown of his own, clearly handmade with too much tape and a generous helping of glitter.

“My angels made something for their mama,” he said, voice rough with emotion, thick with sleep and something deeper. “And I helped. Mostly by staying out of their way.”

You laughed through the lump in your throat, sitting up to welcome them. Little arms wrapped around your waist, your shoulders, your neck. Kisses on your cheeks. Tiny hands patting your face like you might vanish if they didn’t hold on.

The tray wobbled but made it safely to your lap. Toast and a slightly burnt muffin. The tea was lukewarm. The painting was already smudged.

It was perfect.

Later, Nikolai kept the girls busy outside. You heard their laughter from the garden while he patiently showed them how to water the tomatoes, letting them dig their hands into the earth. The kitchen filled with the smell of fresh bread and wild honey. Every now and then, he peeked in on you, checking if you were still resting, still warm, still smiling.

He didn’t say it outright, but you could see it in the way he touched your shoulder in passing, the way he kissed the girls’ foreheads, the way his voice softened when he said your name.

He knew how hard it was when he was away.

He knew how much of yourself you poured into keeping the house, the children, your love intact across miles and months.

And today, he gave all that care back.

That night, after bedtime stories and one more glass of water and a chorus of “just five more minutes,” the house finally settled.

You curled up beside him on the couch, warm and content.

His arm came around your shoulders, pulling you in close. He kissed your temple, slow and lingering.

“They have your heart,” he murmured, eyes fixed on the quiet hallway where your daughters now slept.

“And it’s the best gift I’ve ever had.”

You laid your head on his chest, feeling the steady beat of home beneath your ear.

And for the first time in a long while — you let yourself rest, truly rest.

Loved, seen, and cherished.

taglist: @honestlymassivetrash @pythonmoth @kittygonap @rainyjellybear @anonymouse1807 @twoandahalfdimes

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