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ch0wen · 10 months

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Single mom reader x tangerine!!! They meet on the train and he protects the baby and her! Happy ending please 🙏🏼

“Please, Char-Char. Eat something other than those chips,”

You plead with your six-year-old as his stained fingers reach into a bag of barbecue chips. His hand blindly dodges the pre-sliced apples and celery sticks on the table. A divider that separates your seats.

You attempt to move the bag away from him after he ignores you, and this causes him to whine. His tiny hand swats at yours from taking the junk food away. You’re quieting him as you glimpse around the train car. Worried you both will disturb the other passengers on this late-night trip or that this may lead to an outburst of his.

You feel helpless when it comes to managing him. You’re young, on your own, and unsure how to tackle half of the maternal responsibilities. You continually give in to avoid making things worse or because of the pleading looks he makes with his big brown puppy dog eyes. A trait he gets from his father. Unfortunately, they’re both good at using the shared feature to their advantage. Your ex using it for more manipulative means. And you know you need to stick your foot down, or Charlie will never learn. He’ll end up just like his father.

You attempt to sound authoritative, “That’s enough for now.”

Charlie drops his iPad as he grasps for the bag. The tablet tumbles and bounces onto the ground, yanks his earbuds out of the headphone jack, blasting the Spider-Man cartoon he was watching.

“Stop it," He cries.

You're stronger than a child, so you get the crisps out of his hold. You twist it closed and slide it into your tote bag on the empty seat next to you.

“Eat some apples, and then you can have a bit more, okay?”

You lean over to pick up the iPad still lying in the aisle. Breaking the eye contact with your disobedient toddler. A hustling man nearly trips over your arm, but he catches himself. He’s careful not to step on you or the device. After a pause to assess what he narrowly sidestepped, he bends down to meet your hand and pick up the iPad.

“Careful,” his eyes flit around your face. “Here you go, love.”

You feel your cheeks warm at his stare, “thanks.”

You have a moment before hearing the thunderous sound of rushing footsteps. He seized the iPad in both hands and swung it around to slam into the hurried man’s face. With the force of his action, he falls messily into the seat next to Charlie. The other guy is dazed but retrieves a knife as he clambers off the floor. The now-seated, friendly stranger kicks the knife out of his hand. Then punches him in the face in one swooping motion.

Not even seconds after the pursuer fell to the ground, another man ran up the aisle. He scoops up the now unconscious man and gives the seated stranger a salutation before dragging him off.

Now what the hell was all of that? Do they know each other?

With a few blinks, it feels like you just imagined that entire scenario because the car has been cleared out, and the other passengers remain quiet and sleeping. Except that friendly, handsome stranger is still seated across from you. He’s looking sheepish as he tries to steady his breathing,

“Mind if I hang around for a second? Need to catch my breath,"

You confirm he can stay with a bobblehead-type nod.

"That git started shit with us in the front of the train. Pardon my French.”

He jerks slightly in the seat when he finally notices Charlie gaping at him with wide eyes.

“Oi. Sorry mate, I didn’t crash into you, did I?”

Charlie, unbothered and unharmed, continues to stare at this man. You watch his eyes flick down to glimpse at the stranger’s bruised knuckles. Then your boy seemingly recalls the heroic act of violence he witnessed seconds earlier as his eyes dart to the now-empty passageway and back on Tangerine,

“Are you a crime fighter like Spider-Man?”

Tangerine’s lips spread into a smile as he adjusts to face the intrigued child.

》》》》》》》》》》》

He spent a half hour describing to Charlie these wondrous tales of the adventures he’d been on with his brother. Who, you both learned, is nicknamed Lemon.

Lemon joined in on the storytelling, and sat in the seats across the aisle, halfway through, adding in amusing ad-libs. Charlie laughs at their narrations, and you ponder what happened to the man's body from before.

Thankfully, they censored most of the violence and gore from their tales that they probably got up to. You notice the wonder and amazement lighting up Charlie's eyes. He gazes at what he believes to be the human embodiment of a superhero.

》》》》》》

“Hey, treat your mum right, chap. She’s got a long journey with you,” he ghosts his hand over Charlie’s face to mimic the action of pinching his chubby cheeks. He earned a playful squeal from Charlie as he threw his body back into his seat. You beam down at your boy before looking up at Tangerine, who is staring at you ardently before locking eyes. His hand self-consciously rubbed over his flushing cheeks.

He glances towards the doors. Probably expecting that Lemon was going to come barreling in any minute.

“Miss-“

“Y/N.”

“Oh, Y/N. Y/N, listen, why don’t you give me a ring once you’re settled at your destination. I'd like to know if the rest of your trip with Charlie goes well. Without any goons like me bothering you.”

Tangerine leans over and looks to Charlie for permission before tearing off a small piece of his ditched coloring page. He scribbles out a number using a purple crayon and skates it across the table to you.

“If you'd like, of course," He smiles bashfully before rising and smoothing out his suit.

You grin back, now craning your neck to maintain eye contact with him, “I will.”

#aaron taylor johnson #tangerine #request #bullet train 2022 #tangerine x reader #tangerine x fem!reader #asks #tangerine and lemon #bullet train

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topguncortez · 1 year

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Ghosts | Prologue

materlist | next part

♰ synopsis: Word has traveled about the events at the Seresin wedding.

♰ pairing: Bob Floyd x female!Reader

♰ word count: 1.3k

♰ warnings: death, cursing, mentions of gun selling

Ireland, 3 years ago

It was one of the surprisingly nice days in Dublin. The thick dark gray clouds had rolled back to let the sun shine through. You had woken to the sound of the birds and little hands gently hitting your face. Your eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the bright light of your bedroom. Sitting in bed next to you was your little boy, enthralled with a book in his hands.

“Morning, my love,” You said, your voice still thick with sleep.

“Morning, mummy,” Cian said back to you.

You wrapped your arms around his little waist, and pulled him down to lay next to you. He let out a squeal followed by those precious giggles as you pressed kisses all over his face and tickled him lightly. You let out a sigh in content as he settled in next to you, laying his head on your chest. He picked up his book again, a beat up copy of ‘Where the Wild Things Are’, flipping through the pages as if he understood the words. You hummed a lullaby as you ran your fingers through his soft sandy brown curls that matched a very familiar head of hair.

It seemed as though every day the little boy looked more and more like his father. Cian had almost bleach blonde hair until he was about a year old, and then it slowly started to turn darker. His ocean blue eyes and strong nose were almost identical to his father. The way he talked, already sophisticated for a three year old, sounded just like him too. You were certain that if you had stayed together and raised Cian with him, Cian would’ve developed a southern twang in his speech. Cian was a constant reminder of what you had left behind.

“What do you want to do today?” You asked your son.

“Go to the park?” Cian asked softly and you nodded.

You gently detangled yourself from him, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. Cian crawled off the bed and followed you into the bathroom. The two of you booth stood at the sink, Cian on his stepstool next to you, as you brushed your teeth. Occasionally you would send a goofy smile over to him, making him giggle. His giggle was a sound that could play forever and you’d never tire of it. When you were finished brushing your teeth and washing your face, you walked back into your room, heading for your closet, Cian right on your heels.

“Mo scáth beag,” You said to him and he just smiled. You helped Cian get dressed, he insisted on his dinosaur shirt today. You listened as he rattled off facts about dinosaurs as you finished getting yourself ready.

The two of you walked hand in hand down the grand staircase of the house, smiling at the butlers and maids as you passed. Cian always greeted them, knowing some of them by name. It made you smile having such a kind, soft boy. Another inherited trait from his father.

The second that Cian’s foot crossed the threshold of the dining room, he was sprinting towards his uncle, your older brother, Aidan. Aidan picked him up and twirled him around in a circle. You glanced over to your father, Galen, seeing him deep in conversation with someone over the phone. You trained your ears to try and listen to what he was saying, but he was speaking quickly in Italian.

“Oi! Aidan, put the boy down!” Your mother, Maeve, scolded.

Aidan obeyed and set your son down on his feet, “Look what you did, ceann beag,” he said, “Got us in trouble!”

“No, Uncle Aidan!” Cian shook his head, a bright smile on his face. He skipped over to the other side of the table, where your younger brother, Cillian was sitting, scrolling through his iPad, more than likely checking the stock market. Cillian’s favorite thing in the world was watching stocks, which was what made him so good at his job with the family. He ran all the marketing reports, took care of the stocks, and made sure that the family was making a profit off of selling guns. Aidan was the businessman, the sweet talker, the one who set-up the deal, while Cillian was the one to secure it.

You smiled at your family, watching as your mother placed various plates of food down on the mahogany table. Despite having chefs to cook for her, she always insisted on making breakfast. Pancakes, muffins, bacon, eggs, you name it, it was probably on the breakfast table.

“Who is Da talking to?” You asked, noticing that your father had started to pace the floor. Maeve sat a plate of muffins and fruit in front of Cian, and the little boy quickly reached for one, “Eh! Let Uncle Cillian help you,” You scolded. The little boy wrinkled his nose and sat back in his chair.

“Call from the Brits,” Maeve said, taking a sip of her coffee, “Something happened at the Seresin Wedding.”

Your heart stopped at the mention of the last name. You knew of the wedding that was happening, everyone in their world did. It was a big deal that Rafael Santiago had trusted another man to marry his daughter after everything that had happened. You were always on high alert when the last name was mentioned, knowing that a part of their family was living in your house. You looked over at your son, who was happily munching on a muffin, and then to Aidan.

“I-is he. . .”

“Not sure,” Aidan said, “It was an attack on Jake and his bride, Athena, I think they call her.”

“Oh god,” You said, feeling nauseated. Suddenly the weight of all your decisions felt like it was crashing down on your shoulders. Your knees started to shake as you gripped the chair in front of you. Maeve noticed your face grow pale, as she moved over to you quickly.

“Let’s take a seat,” She said. You nodded and let her pull out a chair for you to sit down in, “Deep breath,” She handed you a glass of water, “Drink. Calm yourself, you can not let Cian see this side of you.”

There was an unspoken rule when it came to being a parent, and it was to never let your child see you become weak. The life you lived was not an easy one, and it certainly wasn’t normal. There was no room for weakness, especially as a parent. You had to be on alert all the time. You never knew what monsters lurked in the dark, waiting for the chance to get their revenge.

Galen had joined the family, a look of worry on his face as he approached you and your mother. His face held no emotion, but his eyes always told the story. He placed a hand on his wife’s shoulder, gaining her attention.

“Is everything alright?” Maeve asked her husband, rising to her feet.

“No,” Galen sighed, “The Santiago girl is dead, and so is Jake.”

The room went silent, all eyes looking at Galen. Even Cian, who had been munching away on some eggs, set his fork down, noticing the sudden tension in the room. Without word, your nanny walked over and grabbed the little boy, whispering a promise of lemon cake as they left. When Cian was out of the room, Cillian and Aidan joined around you and your parents.

“I don’t know much,” Galen started off, knowing his kids well enough to know they had a thousand and one questions to ask, “The details were fuzzy, but Athena was killed during the ceremony, and Jake took his own life after.”

“Rafael? The boys?” Maeve asked.

“Unharmed,” Galen answered, “They caught the assailant, he’s dead.”

“And Bob?” You asked, not even thinking as the words left your lips.

Galen clenched his jaw, setting his hands on his hips, “He’s the head of the family, now.”

taglist: @cherrycola27 @bradleybeachbabe @dtownclown93 @itsmytimetodream @babybabygrogu @angelbabyange @endofdays56 @indynerdgirl @thedroneranger @happypopcornprincess

♰ taglist form | pinterest moodboard

Translation: (this might not be perfect cause I used google)

‘Mo scáth beag’ - my little shadow

‘ceann beag’ - little one

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maxphilippa · 8 months

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ough.....

#the daily object show #tdos #tdos fanart #the daily object show fanart #object invasion #oi osc #object invasion osc #tdos skull #skull tdos #object invasion ipad #oi ipad #ipad oi #tdos daily dads au #ii daily dads au #tdos skullpad #oi skullpad #ALSO compupad and skullputer implied #tdos skullputer #max does art

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thairishslag · 1 month

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(actually story for once!!) (may refer to calico jack as jack throughout just cuz easier)(human au)Calicos kitchen:

The first thing Kwazii did when he walked through the door was sniff the air. the next thing he did was vomit in his mouth, the house reeked of burnt, just burnt.He ran to open the oven and was met with a charred lump of …well something.

“oi!” *smack*

“OWW!” Kwazii yelped as he leaped back rubbing the spot on his head we’re his granddad had hit him with a tea towel. “THE FUCK!”

“I’m cooking that for dinner.”Jack said taking the lump of char out of the oven

“I think it’s done.”

“Don’t be cheeky with me,i’m doing this for your boyfriend.” jack snapped

“Why do you want to kill Peso?”Kwazii narrowly dogged the tea towel that was flung at him.

“awk” jack scowled at him “I just thought i’d better reheat it before cutting it up.”

Kwazii skimmed the recipe that was displayed on the cracked iPad on the kitchen counter,it became clear what the mystery lump of char had once been, and why calico jack had insisted that they save the beef broth from Sunday’s roast.

“Good God please no.”Kwazii whispered in horror

“Oh don’t be a dick Kwazii,i think i’m a fairly decent cook,I made all your meals for you growing up and you lived.”

“Oh i lived.” Kwazii scoffed at the bar on the floor

“Kwazii i am perfectly capable of following a recipe.I just want to show peso that I accept him as part of the family.” He lingered on “family” and looked up at Kwazii questioning.

Kwazii stated back at him for a few seconds before it clicked what he was being asked “OH FOR FU- NO how many times do i have to tell you.”

“I’m just saying by the time i was your age i was married and i had had your father.”

“Granddad” Kwazii sighed exasperated “it’s too soon,besides peso is going to leave me if you give him that.”

“Don’t be stupid Kwazii why would he leave you over food?”

“Oh I don’t know ,You could accidentally call him Colombian BY MAKING A COLOMBIAN DISH!”

“This is chilean ajiaco.”Jack interrupted pointing at the recipe’s title on the screen “chilean ajiaco see.”

“ok well ,You could insult his country ,culture and cuisine with your cooking,or you could oh i don’t know kill him.”

“Just be quiet i’m making it and that’s that.”

This is my first time actually writing a fanfic.and🥳🥳 some actually story to go with all the info dumps about my au

#octonauts #humanization #octonauts above and beyond #human au #above and beyond #kwazii #octonauts peso #octonauts calico jack #kwazii x peso #the octonauts #octonauts kwazii #octodad #octonauts fanfic #fanfic #octonauts human au #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #ao3 link #ao

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wallwriterstuff · 2 months

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Fault lines ||FosterDad!John Price x Teen!Simon Riley|| Part 5

Warnings: This is a fairly accurate representation of a Child Planning Meeting used to assess need and put supports in place for children who are struggling at home and/or at school. Swearing. Trauma responses. Mentions of violence and mental, emotional and physical abuse. Discussion of child services. Mentions of mental health and learning disability diagnoses.

Words: 4836

Summary: As John tries to put support in place to get Simon into school (and back to some sort of normalcy), the push back he gets shows just how much Simon is bottling up.

<-Part 4: Paint Over The Cracks

John hasn’t been in a place like this for decades, but the place smells familiar. The varnish on old wood and the faded, aged paint chipping off the wall in places throws him back to a time that he knows he lived through but feels separate from. John Price knows he went to secondary school, but the Jonathon Price who excelled at being mediocre in his classes feels very far away from the grizzled SAS Captain whose best asset was always his mind first, his weapon second. There’s this hum of noise that occupies the building, rumbles through the walls, a vault of stories waiting to be told and lives waiting to be lead that’s bursting at the seams. John remembered that feeling well; the feel of being confined by four walls and a test grade was etched into his marrow, fed that itch that had spurred him into the military when his parents had pushed for a University application.

It was the feel of a prison cell.

“Mr Price?” The receptionist is middle-aged, smiles kindly, is overly polite, but her eyes scream at him to fuck off and let her work in peace. The documentation required to transfer Simon to this school had been a pain to collate and fill out, but John had painstakingly triple-checked every detail before handing it over to her for processing today. Simon’s about as settled as he’s going to get right now and the school’s have taken a while to get back to him about his application for a place, so Price considers himself lucky that he’s only had to wait a little over a month to enrol Simon. Old instincts flare when a sudden flood of people enter the corridor with him. Pupils spill from classrooms as he’s lead along a corridor and up some stairs, the loud chatter and laughter of raucous teenagers gossiping and laughing and loving and hating keeping his head on a swivel. It’d be easy to disappear in a crowd like this.

I can’t let Simon slip through the cracks.

“Oi Robocop! Gi’us your hat yeah?”

“Andrews! That’s not how we talk to visitors. Grow some hair and you won’t need someone else’s hat.”

“Ooohhh!”

“Mr McKay that’s well savage.”

Price shakes his head, ignores the little snotter and follows the receptionist into a meeting room. A tall, lean man with tired eyes and a cornflower blue tie stands to greet him and shake his hand. He’s got a laptop open in front of him and the lady across from him has an Ipad open in her lap. She’s blonde, bobbed hair and cappuccino eyes set in a young face that he thinks Simon’s demons will eat alive if given half a chance. The only other person with them is an older gentleman with laughter lines deeper than a canyon and the kind of gentle smile Price has learned to distrust over the years. He’s too cynical to believe everyone’s good at heart anymore. He tries to be more open-minded.

“Afternoon Mr Price, it’s good to meet you face to face. I’m Owen Croft, we spoke on the phone.” Price is glad when the head teacher finally stops shaking his hand – the clamminess was starting to irk him. He gives a polite nod to the two other members of staff in the room before taking his seat, pulling off the beanie and ruffling his hair a bit to let it settle. He’s been in a Child Planning Meeting before but, well, the last few kids he’s fostered haven’t had quite as large a history as Simon does. He pulls his own notepad and papers from his backpack and watches the way the older man’s eyes flick to it briefly. He can almost sense the relief in them, like the fact that their sitting there with someone who has actually has a clue is a rarity. Price gets a sneaking suspicion it is.

“Right, we’re going to start off by introducing ourselves and then we can talk through a plan to help integrate Simon into the Littlewood Academy family.” Owen Croft is far too cheery for the subject matter he thinks. “I’m Owen Croft, and I’m the Headteacher here at Littlewood Academy.” He turns his eyes next to the blonde woman who gives another one of those friendly smiles that his cynicism hates. He tamps down the irritation and mentally prepares himself for whatever the next hour might bring. He’s hoping it brings the biscuits down from the shelf behind Owen Croft.

“I’m Michaela Morris, and I’ll be Simon’s form tutor this year.” Price gives a nod of acknowledgement.

“I’m Thomas Edwards and I’m Support for Learning at Littlewood.” The older man tips his head towards him and Price gives another nod, feeling his own gut tighten.

“John Price…Simon’s foster carer.” It feels strange to acknowledge it out loud. He’s known from the start of course, but he’s been so busy being in the thick of it with the kid that he’s never really took the time to acknowledge his role in Simon’s journey. Owen smiles encouragingly and Price resists the urge to roll his eyes at him. He’s no unruly teen that needs a guiding hand anymore. The years haven’t been kind, and he sits before them now an assertive and grizzled old man ready to fight on a different kind of battlefield, the bureaucratic kind. Just you try and stop me helping this kid, just try.

“Okay. What we’re trying to do in this meeting today is establish a plan for enrolling Simon to our school. Today’s meeting is going to be focused on creating an accurate profile of his needs so we can support him the best way possible. So, John, can we start with a bit of background about how Simon came into your care and what’s been going well for you at home so far?” Owen has his hands folded near the laptop, poised and ready to type but giving the impression he’s fully listening. Price weighs each word in his mind carefully. There’s a lot to tell since Laswell’s last visit and he’s not really sure where to start with it all. Maybe the phone call that brought Simon to him?

“Simon has a younger brother, Tom. He took on a caring role and it was his wish for the boys to remain together but…welfare concerns don’t permit it. Simon found their mother. He’s seen a lot in the last 24 hours.”

Owen takes diligent notes, as does Thomas, and Price finds the feeling addictive. It’s a lot, to hold someone else’s trauma, and it spills over one edge into the next like a champagne tower cascading from him to them. Perhaps it’s the not the phone call he needs to start with but everything leading up to it. Maybe he needs them to know Simon starved to feed his younger brother when poverty kept food on store shelves and not in their kitchen cupboards. Perhaps they need to know of the level of abuse his father subjected him to, from bringing dangerous animals into the house to making him witness overdoses in seedy bathrooms at concerts a young boy should never have been at. Maybe it’s the manipulation of his relationships with Tommy, a brother he loves so dearly doted on by their dad until Tommy became just like him and bullied him to.

No, no the separation of the siblings is another issue. Price’s head spins with it all. They only need to know the labels, not the specifics, he thinks.

“He er, he found his mother after she was murdered. Dad was taken into custody for it and the boys got placed into foster care. Simon came to me, his younger brother was placed with another carer. Investigation since has turned up evidence of a lot of mental, emotional, and physical abuse towards both boys, but mainly Simon.” His answer is polite, professional, but inside he’s straining under the weight of holding it all in. They don’t need to know everything, just the challenges and working supports, he reminds himself. Simon’s story is compelling to tell and he wants to shout it from the rooftops, condemn Thomas Riley for everything he ever did to his sons and make the entire damn country wake up and realise what’s happening to its kids behind closed doors. It’s not his role or place to do that though. His job is to advocate for Simon, not use him as some moral fable or example of a failing system to force change.

“He has a younger brother?” Michaela, is tapping at her Ipad to and the clacking of keyboards pounds like war drums in his head. Simon would hate having these strangers know all of this but it’s the only way to get him the support he needs. It still feels like a betrayal and it makes Price’s gut clench.

“He does.” He confirms.

“Is there a family plan in place? Visits?” Owen questions, eyes probing. Price slowly shakes his head, mind drifting back to Laswell’s recent visit and the meltdown it had caused. He thinks it would have probably been easier to tell the President World War 3 had been declared than it was to tell Simon that he wasn’t able to see Tommy again for a while. He’d not seen Simon as the emotional type before that night; the boy kept his emotions neatly tucked away, all compartmentalised with a daily rota of which emotion he could display and when. Laswell telling him he couldn’t see Tommy had a similar effect to tectonic plates slipping against one another, the grinding friction building and building until it exploded into an earthquake that shook his whole house. Well, the doorframe perhaps, after Simon slammed the door hard enough to crack the wood. Maybe the floorboards to from where he’d thrown the furniture about.

“No. Social services have decided it’s in the boys best interests to remain separated for now.” Price said.

“Of course they did,” Thomas shook his head, looking pitying, “It’s ludicrous how many siblings get split when there’s evidence that shows siblings have better outcomes when they’re kept together.” Price feels his face pinch and before he can stop himself he’s on the attack, a vicious guard dog coming to Simon’s defence. He’s only 8 minutes into the damn meeting. It’s a new record.

“Unless welfare concerns stipulate otherwise. Their relationship was completely pathologized. Tommy was favoured by their dad and became exactly like him. Simon took on caring responsibilities for Tommy and was so blinded by that side of their relationship that he couldn’t see his brother was abusing him just as much as their bloody dad. So no, it’s not in their best interest to keep them together. Simon needs a chance to be a kid, not a carer, and he’s done his time as a moving target.” There, that should set the record straight. Thomas is silent enough that Price thinks the point definitely hit home. It feels almost cathartic to have someone take the brunt of his anger, and he is angry, so angry, that Simon had to live through any of this bullshit.

“The night we picked them up Simon was trying to keep Tommy away from their father, but the kid wouldn’t leave him be, talking about how “the bitch had it coming” and mocking Simon about the fact he couldn’t cry to her anymore whenever he was mean to him.”

“Fucking Christ Laswell…what a little psychopath.”

Maybe not his most professional response but if the shoe fits…

“Okay so, things that have been going well at home?” Owen gently guided the conversation to something better and Price glanced to his notepad. His chicken scratch was barely legible and Simon had snorted when he’d seen it. The conversation had been…interesting. Simon didn’t give away much, but he’d told him a few things he liked about living with him. Price wasn’t sure if he really meant it or was just saying what he thought he wanted to hear but it made him feel better to think he was serious. For all of his personality traits it was Simon’s observational skills he somewhat admired most, born out of vicious necessity tragically but giving him the comfort to know that Simon was never going to be played by any old idiot.

“We’ve established a good routine. Dinner at the same time, lights out, calm time before it. I spoke to the doctor’s a few times to and Simon’s got melatonin to help him sleep, so he’s getting a full nights rest now. There’s been chronic bed wetting but we’ve found ways of managing it. Simon said he likes his yes basket for all his snacks to and playing with my dog, Riley.” Price glanced about as more tapping echoed in his ears. There were other small wins but he kept those to himself, little successes to cherish that didn’t need boasting about at this stage. They’d painted together just last week. Simon had willingly let him into his space, been open to spending time with him, and they’d talked a bit as they worked and got to know one another more. It was one of the first real conversation Price felt he’d managed to have with the boy. He’d left feeling better about his ability to cook anyway once Simon had declared his Bolognaise was the best he’d ever tasted. Sure, the kid was comparing it to a microwave meal but…well he’d take his wins where he could get them.

Challenges were of more interest to the staff members though. He could see them all perk up like hungry dogs salivating at a steak. Simon wasn’t a steak. He admired it, the thought that they could be the one to turn this kids life around – hell he’d once thought the same. The truth was…trauma had no timeline. Some kids would make no progress despite every support and the best will in the world for the next 20 years. Others might flip on a dime and heal quite a lot in 5. It wasn’t about any single one of them at that table but the team they were creating. Simon didn’t need a hero, he needed an army, and Price would be damned if he didn’t spearhead it. If Simon looked back in 20 years time and remembered him fondly then he’d have done his job right.

“Simon’s not big on talking but the few times he has his language gets…colourful. I imagine that’ll carry into the classroom. He prefers to be isolated in his room a lot, likes the quiet, so I think he’d benefit from having a breakout space.” Price pauses, wondering how to word the latest meltdown he’d had as Owen nods along and types like the cat that got the canary.

“A breakout space is something we can definitely provide. Thomas’s support for learning room is also used as a Quiet Hub for our young people who need time to regulate on their own.” Owen informed him.

“I run a lunch club there to so if Simon finds the playground tricky, he could come and eat with the small group I’ve got going.” Thomas piped up, smiling genially. Price almost scoffed at the hopeful look on his face, knowing full well that Simon wasn’t going to be his best bud just because he had a table and probably those bean bags that were never quite stuffed full enough to be comfortable. He could safely say with certainty right now that Simon was probably going to hate Thomas Edwards – the boy didn’t do bullshit smiles and probing questions into his emotional state.

“Is there anything else you can think of specifically that will need supported? Any diagnosis perhaps? I know you mentioned that there’s a PTSD diagnosis in the works but I’m thinking other things like autism, ADHD etc.” Owen questioned and Price paused a little. He tilted his head.

“There’s no official diagnosis for any of those things, no, but…I see some traits of ASD.” Price admitted.

“Like what?” Michaela asked.

“He thrives on a stable routine, he’s at his calmest when he knows what’s happening. Struggles to hold eye contact. Seems to have a thing with textures for food as well. Doesn’t like the lights on full blast. Of course those could all be byproducts of his trauma to. Difficult to tell.” Price shrugged. Michaela nodded, Thomas humming a bit. With a quiet sigh, Price added, “I’ve only seen it once but he…got physical, last week. His social worker visited with updates on his case and he had a total meltdown. Furniture tipped and lots of throwing stuff with a complete lack of regard for the safety of himself or us. Shoes at the lightbulbs kind of dangerous. He didn’t get physical with us but…I wouldn’t have put it past him to try, once he feels more comfortable with me. He got quite confrontational.”

Price hates the way that Owen types all this up. Paperwork is a necessary evil and he knows it, he’ll never get anywhere with helping Simon if they don’t have all their ducks in a row, but words on a page and actually getting to know the kid were two different things. It felt definitive, having it written down, that somehow he’d formed this image of Simon in their heads that they were going to perform to, whether that image was the same as the boy in front of them or not. Deep down, he didn’t want anyone to see him like that. He wanted them to know Simon as the kid who loved dogs and plants, as someone who had such a big fucking heart and showed great care for everything he was given because he knew the value of things better than most kids did. He wanted them to know the Simon that loved unconditionally, even when people didn’t necessarily deserve it.

“So one of the big things we’ll need to focus on for Simon then will be relationships. It’ll be the cornerstone of everything we do going forward. He needs to know he’s got consistent, reliable people he can turn to for comfort and for help when he needs it. As his form tutor and foster dad, John and Michaela are going to be an integral part of that.” Owen reasoned. Price tried not to role his eyes and simply nodded along. He’d done plenty of training before he was allowed to become a foster parent and knew the importance of being trauma-informed. He’d had the 6 principles of nurture practically seared into his brain. He was just waiting for one of them to say all behaviour is communication.

“Remember that there are times Simon may well struggle to cope, but when he’s dysregulated we need to look beyond that to what he’s really showing us. All behaviour is communication.” Ah. There it was. Check that off the bingo card.

“Perhaps we could also give him a buddy? A point of contact that isn’t an adult.” Thomas’s suggestion had Michaela nodding.

“Oh I know just the boy! We could pair him with MacTavish. Friendly, quite popular so can connect him to other friends. I’m sure they’d get on great.” Her suggestion was made with enthusiasm and Price had to fight the urge to disagree. Simon absolutely needed a buddy but…well…he had the attitude of the grim bloody reaper didn’t he? Did they have any kids who were willing to put up with silent, probing stares and an aura so cold it could freeze the first ring of hell? Maybe they should interview for applicants…

He leaves with a foreboding feeling and the promise of another meeting to “touch-base” in the next 6 months. As they walk down the stairs they’re met by the Deputy-Headteacher, who looks perturbed by the intense presence that is Simon beside her. He’s put his mask on again, eyes dead and hollow as they glare out at everything around him in the foyer, clearly not happy about having to be here or the tour she’d led him on.

“There they are. We had a lovely time touring the school-“

“No we didn’t.” Simon cut in. Price had to swallow a laugh at the startled look on the Deputy-Head’s face as Owen tried to make things better.

“That’s a shame. Not even one thing you look forward to doing more of when you join us?” he probed. Price had braced himself for the answer he knew was coming but it still took all his willpower not to grimace.

“Going home.” Simon’s scathing reply has Price sighing quietly. The staff members blink, unsure how to handle him and his bluntness. It was a stupid question really, Price thinks, Owen had set himself up for that one. He meets Simon’s eyes and sees he’s at his limit, fists balled up in the pocket of that green Hoodie that’s not been washed since he came in with it weeks ago. It’s got a lingering smell that’s just the wrong side of unpleasant but Simon refuses to wash it still despite another subtle talk about hygiene the other day. Price is going to have to be the bad guy soon and stop him from wearing it out in public lest anyone think he’s neglecting him.

“Well…we’re looking forward to welcoming you to the Littlewood family, Simon. We’ll see you for your first induction day next week.” Owen offers him a smile and gets nothing in reply. Simons as stoic as ever, unmoving, stone-faced. He might as well have tried smiling at a brick wall. Price nods a bit and grunts out a thank you as he passes, giving Simon the permission he needs to head for the front doors and get the hell out of dodge.

“I’m not going there.” He’s quick to refuse once they’re outside.

“Unfortunately, that’s not a choice. I can’t break the law by not sending you to school and this is the only one with space.” Price informs him as they reach the car.

“I’m not fucking going.” Simon repeats.

“Half a day. Your induction next Tuesday is over by lunch time.” He reassures him.

“I’m not, fucking, going, old man.” Simon grouses. Price has to take a deep breath, meets him with calm and collected cool.

“Simon, I’ve given you my answer. By law, you have to go to school. This one has space. It’s a choice that’s out of my hands now and won’t change.” He keeps his voice even and tunes out the venom in Simon’s voice as he continues to needle at him over and over. He hasn’t even put his seatbelt on yet and Price doubts he’s going to. There’s a slightly manic gleam in his glare that makes him think he’s been hovering at tipping point since Laswell’s last visit, and something as simple as visiting his new school is enough to push him over the edge.

“I said I’m not fucking going! It’s not my school and you’re not my dad! You’re pathetic!” Simon spits.

“Put your belt on, thank you.” Price ignores the insults.

“No!” Simon snarls practically, sitting with his arms folded in the front seat and spitting curses at him.

“And how does that choice help keep you safe?” Price questions.

“I’d rather go through the windshield than spend half a day in that shithole!” Simon snaps. Price knows he can do nothing but ride out this storm, let Simon spew fire and spit acid until he’s burned out. Simon’s beyond listening, beyond words, so Price just doesn’t talk, even when Simon tries to provoke him to. It’s a strange dance really. Simon’s confident enough in knowing Price’s response that he can shout and swear at him till he’s red in the face, but he keeps his arms rigidly folded, his body physically trembling with the effort of holding back physically, because he’s not quite sure where the line is. Price knows it’s what he’s pushing to find, that line in the sand that tips Price from calm to furious, to shouting at him and proving he’s just as bad as his father. Price won’t let him find it, won’t let that be his life anymore, so he stays silent. It’s the only response Simon gets for the 15 minutes that he stews in his fury. It’s like sitting too close to a lion, makes Price’s adrenaline spike and though he feels the spitting on his cheek from gnashing teeth he doesn’t flinch, knowing better than to give a predator the satisfaction. There’s a quiet click of his seatbelt being buckled up.

“Thank you. We need to get home to help Riley.” Price says coolly, aiming for distraction to deescalate the situation further. Simon doesn’t look at him, but he doesn’t say anything either. By the time their home he’s amenable to taking Riley for a walk to the local park, the stubborn silence making it an uncomfortable walk for Price even though Riley’s having the time of his life prancing through the leaves autumn has dropped onto the floor. Dogs are clever little things and he’s sure that Riley can sense the tension, but he weaves through the gap between them and nudges at Simon’s hands all the same until the boy reluctantly pets him.

“I don’t want to go to school there.” Simon says as they walk.

“What makes you say that?” Price keeps the conversation light, open, not shutting him down even though he knows the answer will have to be tough, it’s where you’re going.

“I wanted the other one.” Simon keeps his eyes forward on the pavement at his feet. Price thought back to the other school they’d toured and hums slightly. The boy played his cards close to his chest and there was never any indication that he’d preferred that one more. Had he missed a twitch of a pinky finger or something? Even if he had they’d said the best they could do was put him on a waiting list only.

“What did it have that you liked better?” Price paused at the edge of the park, reaching down to unclip Riley’s leash and letting him go run off some energy. He doesn’t want to push him to far but it’s good Simon can acknowledge what had triggered him, even though Price knows it runs deeper than that. For Simon it feels like he didn’t get what he wanted, but subconsciously Price knows that moving to a new school, away from old friends who had previously supported him perhaps, where he has to return to a home that probably still doesn’t feel like his every day to a man who isn’t his family, has him feeling at a total loss. It’s a decision made for him, a change he can’t control with too many unpredictable factors, and predictability meant safety. Where things weren’t predictable, they weren’t safe, and that feeling meant Simon was constantly on edge, always on the verge of being tipped into a meltdown at the slightest provocation. He’d just hidden it well until his brain recognised Price was safe enough to show his inner turmoil to.

“Pool.” Simon’s reply was short, but it made Price smile slightly.

“The swimming pool, huh? If you’re interested in swimming, we can get you a membership for the local pool. Did you want to swim for fun or join a team?” Price is met with silence for a little while as Simon mulls it over.

“Just liked it, I guess.”

“Well, the offers open anyway,” Price assures him, “Littlewood may not have a pool, but it does have space for you there, and a form tutor who’s excited to meet you. Did all that shouting and swearing at me change the outcome?” Simon huffs a bit, clearly not happy at being called out for his behaviour, but there’s a slight glimmer of frustration in his eyes that Price can tell isn’t directed at himself. Simon keeps such tight control over his emotions that the outburst has probably upset him more than it did anyone else.

“No.” he grumbles under his breath.

“Exactly, no, it didn’t. Sometimes, as an adult, I will have to make decisions you don’t agree with but are in your best interests. You’re allowed to be angry with me for that, but what you’re not allowed to do is let that anger hurt other people. We find other ways to channel that kind of emotion, alright?” His lecture is met with an eye roll and hunched shoulders. Price doesn’t push further, knowing that’s as much of a restorative conversation as he can get today, so instead, he pulls a tennis ball from his pocket and offers it to Simon. “Want first throw?”

Simon channels his rage into getting Riley to fetch as far as he possibly can, and Price inhales the fresh air to try and remove the sour feeling that this is only the beginning of a very long road.

#call of duty #captain john price #cod modern warfare #foster carer john price #teen!simon riley #simon 'ghost' riley #angst #tw abuse mentioned

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swampstew · 1 year

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KIᒪᒪEᖇᑕOOK - ᑕᕼᗩᑭTEᖇ 6

Welcome to Raven's Reading Nook - a small corner of this blog dedicated to cozy story times. Join us in the family room as we sit around and browse our phones, and eat some Girl Scout cookies as we begin tonight's story. Rated Mature for language. Minors DNI.

˜”°•.˜”°• Happy birthday to me, to Wire, and to my Kid Pirate Stan-mate QuinLoki ♥ Let them eat cake! •°”˜.•°”˜

“Oi! Make sure you have the travel packs ready to go! These need to cool at a consistent temperature or they’ll be ruined, and then I’ll ruin your face!” Killer instructed Heat, stressed about the day’s Live TikTok stream.

Normally he wouldn’t sweat over a stream but today was a big day. Huge one. Been a busy month for him. So many people he knew personally had birthdays in July. Nami and Paulie’s birthdays had already passed, and his actual in real life friends too, not to mention Wire and Nojiko had birthdays coming up as well.

Today though. Whew. Today was the birthday of a friend near and dear to his heart. To everyone in the crew, and pretty much anyone who knew them.

Raven.

She didn’t ask for a cake but they said they were doing it anyways. He only brought out the fancy decorating tool set for desserts he took seriously, and Raven was close enough in his orbit that he was going to do something nice for her. A classic favorite of hers with some extra pizzazz.

“Here we go,” Wire muttered as he finished setting the ring lights and camera up. “You know you don’t have to do one for me right?”

“Are you kidding me dude?! Its your birthday! Everyone gets cake on their birthday, no exceptions.”

“You guys are already taking me on a two-week cruise!”

“Fuck yeah we are bro!” Kid barreled into the kitchen, recently promoted to baker’s not-assistant but equal partner/Cake Boss. Kid himself was shockingly adept at baking cake. Especially the box kind. “You deserve it. We all do! A nice vacation getaway, us and the crew.”

“Yeah yeah we’re nice guys. Shut up and get out of the frame. I’m still making cake for you,” Killer finished the layout of his tools, prepped the baking sheets and pans, pre-heated the oven, brought all ingredients to room temperature, and everything was in place.

“Why so nervous Kill? It’s just cake,” Kid’s brow bone became pronounced against his scarred skin, raised inquisitively.

“Their opinions matter to me!” Killer practically hissed out.

“The audience?”

“No dummy! Our recipients!”

Kid laughed, “Dude, no way be serious. It’s Raven and our TikTok friend, the most laid back people in the world.”

For some reason that resonated with Killer and he took some calming breaths. Gratefully drank the can of ginger ale Kid brought him.

“It’s just, I’m a perfectionist. I know it. It needs to be done just right!”

“Dude, preaching to the choir,” Kid thumped his back.

“Speaking of…did you finish the present?”

Kid stopped his reassuring back pats, “Don’t fucking talk to me. I’m going with plan b.”

Biting back snarky laughter, Killer dusted his apron, double checked his low ponytail, and straightened his helmet one last time before pressing the ‘Go Live’ button, muttering a quick, "Don’tfuckupdon’tfuckdon’tfuckup," under his breath.

“Hello everyone, Killer here,” raising a hand in the air, the short cut of his plain shirt showed off his swollen bicep. He and Kid had worked out an hour before going live, to look extra…camera ready. “Coming at you live with a trifecta of desserts. Well trifecta of cakes anyways. Everyone seems to be born in July so as a time honored tradition, I’ve been baking my ass off. I never make as much cake as I do during the summer months, y’alls parents got BUSY.”

The chimes of notifications flowed as the iPad showed the users commenting in.

“HAH! Every single one of you is celebrating your birthday today?” Kid laughed. “If that’s true happy birthday then. Unfortunately today’s cakes are already being made with people in mind.”

“Yes today we’re making three cakes: one we’re freezing for later, one being overnight shipped, and one we’re personally delivering later. Only the best for our besties.”

“Yo, Wh0_remones says, ‘Where’s a girlie gotta go to fill out the bestie application?' Sorry girlie, applications are closed until further notice,” Kid said with a smug grin.

“To be fair, we do have a lot of friends and its getting hard to keep track of who has birthdays and when,” Killer interjected. “Moving on, for today’s recipes we’re doing good ole’ box mix, made from scratch entirely, and one frozen because its ice cream cake!”

“And because it’s a dick move to eat someone’s birthday cake before them, I’ll be taste testing the scraps along with Heat and Wire,” Kid finished explaining their setup.

“We’ll start with the ice cream cake first!” Killer pulled out two Tupperware containers that had been set out 10 minutes ago. “So if you’ve watched my previous uploads, like video #20, you’ll remember I made my own copy of Oreos, which we call No-reo’s. In preparation for today’s live, I made a fresh batch of No-reo’s over the weekend, which we’ll use for the crumb layer, and I also used it to make No-reo ice cream cream. If you watched my homemade ice cream video, cough video #30 cough, you’ll know exactly how I made these,” he patted the two containers.

“Chocolate and No-reo ice cream, no better combination,” Killer mused. “So ice cream cake is pretty easy if you’re not putting in the extra effort of making the ice cream yourself like me! Store-bought is fine too. Now some people say that an actual cake layer makes for the perfect ice cream cake. I say NAY!”

“NAY!” Kid slapped the countertop.

“NAY!” Wire called out from behind the camera stand holding up the new Panasonic Lumix G9 they bought for TikTok. And for their upcoming vacation.

“In this household, we believe in a sliver of a fudgy, cookie crumb layer and that’s IT!”

“Get outta here with the other fancy shit!” Kid roared.

“Kid is going to crush these cookie ends with the rolling pin while we melt the vegan butter. In the meantime, I’ll make chocolate fudge. Using the same whipping cream for the fudge, I’m going to whip it into whipped cream with my prized stand mixer using powdered sugar and vanilla extract. For the fudge, we’ll use the remaining, still-liquid whipping cream with ethically sourced mini-chocolate chips, vanilla extract, and honey.”

The two men moved around the kitchen to begin their tasks while Wire read out comments to entertain them. The sounds of the blippy electro-synth lofi channel echoed in the kitchen, oddly in sync with their movements.

Killer evenly mixed the softened chocolate ice cream and layered it into the glass pan and two small 10 ounce bowls before setting them in the freezer. He set the fudge aside as he helped Kid combine the crumbled cookies with butter in a small, glass bowl.

“IceBreaker, asks, ‘What are your favorite ice cream flavors?’ Mine is coffee almond fudge,” Wire answered. “Heat’s not in here but his is Mint Chocolate Chip.”

Killer slapped a spoon in a bowl, “Then why the hell am I making No-reo flavor?!”

“Because I didn’t want vanilla as the top layer when you asked!”

“I ASKED what YOU wante—never mind, you’re getting what you’re getting,” Killer sighed. “I like ice cream fine, I just prefer it in a drink format, like a milkshake! I’ll drink any kind but my personal favorite, and I don’t want to hear shit from anyone, is cinnamon pumpkin flavored.”

With a snort, “I like Strawberry Cheesecake,” Kid answered.

“Don’t hold out on them, tell them why.”

“No reason!” Kid growled.

Killer tilted his head, “It’s not even ice cream, its frozen yogurt! And it’s from Dippin Dots!”

“I LIKE THE SMALL ORB SHAPES AND TEXTURE!”

Wheezing, Killer pulled out the glass pan and bowls from the freezer. Kid cleared the countertop of dirty dishes, cleaning them down soapy water and a sponge on a stick, rinsing them off and hanging them on the drying rack while Killer layered the chocolate ice cream layer with the fudge and cookie crumbles.

“We’ll let that sit for five minutes and then finish it off with the final layer of ice cream. While that sets and our whipped cream reaches its final form, we’ll prepare for the next cakes. Technically we’re going to make two cakes at once. Kid will whip up this box mix while I whip up a made-from-scratch cake.”

“Yes I can bake, before any of you start acting cheeky in chat,” Kid’s eyes narrowed as he ripped open the package with this teeth. A small puff of pre-mixed cake mix broke from the tear, lightly dusting Kid’s band shirt. He dumped the mix into a steel bowl and wiped the dusty debris off, the intentionally torn shirt lifted at the bottom, showing off a sliver of chiseled abdominals.

Killer stopped the stand mixer and replaced the steel bowl with Kid’s dry ingredients, scooping the bowl of whipped cream into a piping bag. Setting the bowl to soak, Killer grabbed the ice cream cake and made swirly whipped cream peaks over the face. Adding sprinkles and maraschino cherries on top of each peak.

Kid was adding wet ingredients into his steel bowl, setting the stand mixer to combine the ingredients, taking a proud step back. As it mixed, Kid went to the sink and cleaned the bowl that had the whipped cream. Drying it off, he brought it back to the countertop and added the wet ingredients for Killer’s cake, stopping when his cake mix was done. He scraped the sides and cleaned the mixer’s handle, setting the mixer on low to fold in the remains that hadn’t mixed in.

He poured ¾ of the batter in two round, 9-inch cake pans, setting aside some batter to add cocoa powder for the marbled effect. Once done, he poured dollops of the darker batter into the lighter batter. Creating a swirl effect utilizing a toothpick with a soft touch and concentrated look. When he was done, he restarted the entire process.

Killer had put the finished ice cream cake in the freezer and started mixing his cake’s dry ingredients in a plastic bowl. Slowly adding it into the steel bowl of wet ingredients and folding the mixture to combine. As he was doing so, he noticed Kid working on his second bowl of box mix batter.

“Why are you making it over again instead of adjusting for the appropriate amount of ingredients?”

“You’re not tricking me into doing math on live camera. Shit’s easier to do and less chance of messin up,” Kid barked.

Killer deadpanned to the camera.

“Ooook. Wire please pin the recipes to the top of the message board for everyone to see. Your ice cream cake is perfect, if I do say so myself.”

“I never got that phrase. You’re saying it yourself so what’s the point of pointing out that you’re saying it aloud? We get it, jackass,” Kid licked batter off his finger as he poured it into the second set of round cake pans, starting the marbled process. Adding the batter into a set of 2-inch round pans for the taste test.

Killer ignored him to read out, “RetroTumblrina has this to say: ‘Ok but the fact that you both put so much dedication into making things for your friends is so fucking cute?’ – heh what can we say, we cherish our friends!”

“Yeah we do!” Wire created a heart sign with his hands and placed them over the camera’s lens. The message board pinged and swarmed with love for the tallest man on the crew.

“’Scream_maim_fire I am on my knees begging, please let me slide down your legs like a fire station pole!’ a very enthusiastic response from FuzzyFirehose,” Kid snorted as he walked to Killer. “Stand mixer’s all yours and my stuff’s in the oven. Should be done in 25.”

Killer moved his bowl to the stand mixer, “Great! I can get mine mixed and have the frosting done by then too.”

“Cool, can you do the frosting for mine?”

“No. You said you’d do it all yourself and that’s part of it. Decorating it too.”

Kid’s eyelids squeezed shut in annoyance, “No, anything but that.”

“All of it. Now go clean these bowls to reuse for the frostings.”

The lofi channel lilted softly as the two men cleaned and mixed. Wire answered questions and read out comments as time passed on. Killer poured his batter into three, 8-inch bowls and two, 2-inch bowls, putting them aside for oven space. When Kid brought the clean bowls back, Killer quickly made his four-ingredient buttercream frosting. Making enough to fill out six piping bags with different colors and pulling out his handy frosting plug – a great tool for piping several different colored frostings from one bag.

“Zip_It2556 says, ‘You all are so lucky I am refraining from making the batter, icing, and frosting jokes running through my mind rn on god.’” Kid and Wire laughed out loud at that, with Killer shaking with his head tucked down.

“Actually its all of you who are lucky that we aren’t saying the jokes going through our minds right now. Trust me, you got nothing on us. You’re all on here drooling over us. Whenever I utter a single innuendo you all turn to putty in my hand,” Kid smirked with a cocked brow at the camera. “You all wanna fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid.” Then acting as if nothing happened, Kid went back to his steel bowl to mix his frosting ingredients.

“Now who looks stupid?” Killer wheezed at a scowling Kid, who accidentally set the mixer too high and sent a mess of powdered sugar, cocoa, and butter all over his face and chest. While the flustered redhead cleaned himself and the mess up, Killer removed the marbled cakes from the oven and replaced them with his chocolate cakes.

By the time Kid remade the chocolate frosting and scooped it into piping bags, his cakes had been cooled and stored in a mini cooler Killer bought for the occasion.

“This is temperature regulated so I’m going to set it at a cooler degree to help bring down the overall heat in the cake. Then gradually I’ll lower the setting so it’s not stuck on the coldest degree and cause the cake to snap cold as it were. It would come out dry and crumbly. This method allows the heat to be condensed instead of seeping out, helping maintain moisture and then cool done enough to be at room temperature in time to frost. We’re going to clean up and take a short break, when we come back, we’ll be taking out my cakes to cool, decorating both, and finish this whole show up with the taste test.”

Heat had come back from his shopping trip to return all the ready-for-vacation buyer’s remorse items Killer tossed by the door; and also bought the better packaging Killer aggressively requested. In between advertisements on stream, Heat would play guitar and answer messages.

Kid and Killer came back into view as the oven timer went off. Moving in sync, Kid removed his cakes to the island countertop while Killer moved his cakes to countertop to cool. For a few minutes the camera’s focus was scrambled as it was moved for a closer view. The stand was adjusted and the camera was slightly pointed down with an overhead focus of the table and hosts. The camera captured the finest details of both men down to the smallest beauty marks. It was going to make their cakes look all the more amazing for the audience.

“First thing’s first is trimming the cake for any unevenness, and then we’ll spray the outer layer with this bottle of pre-made syrup. This is to help the cake retain its moisture and prevent crumbing during the frosting process. We’re going to apply a thick layer of frosting in between the layers, with a thin coating on the outsides, which will also prevent the cake from crumbing to the surface as you do the finer details. Since we’re going to stack these cakes, we’re going to add some tools to stabilize the structure from falling or jiggling. Some people use plastic or wooden straws, I prefer to use Pirouline cookies.”

Kid followed Killer’s instructions as he sprayed the cake, layered the chocolate frosting, inserted the wafer pipes, and stacked the cake. Four tiers worth. He spread the second chocolate layer with a wide, flattened blade, smoothing out the top with sharp precision. The chocolate frosting looked almost matte on screen.

“Excellent! Now we’re going to set it in the fridge and clean up the tools to start again with my cakes.”

While Killer did the same process for his Death By Chocolate cake, Kid added frosting layers to all the mini taste test cakes.

“Aww those are cute! I bet they’re gonna taste even sweeter,” Heat cooed over Kid’s efforts.

With both cakes cooling and setting, the crew cleaned the area and sat down to talk about recent news, popular media, and listen to Heat play more guitar. It was only for 15 minutes as another ad break ran through. Their top tier subscribers never had to sit through advertisements, which is why they always had to have something going on in the background at all times. When the timer went off, Killer jumped to his feet while Kid dragged his.

After explaining decorating techniques and frosting tip shapes, Killer got to work on his cake. Using blue and purple frosting, Killer piped basket like ropes on the edges of the top cake layer and around the base of each layer; created swirly peaks on the top layer and smaller pressed peaks on the sides of the layers, connecting them together with multiple thin ropes of white frosting. Using the same thin rope tip, Killer wrote out a message on the top.

“Happy Birthday Dearest REDACTED NAME – and for privacy reasons I’ll say just their handle: UnderstatedGrin,” Killer spoke as he finished the design. The camera zoomed to focus on the delicate piped ropes as Killer added silver coated, chocolate orbs to the centers of the pressed peaks with a pair of long, slim decorating tongs.

The camera panned to Kid who’s hairless brows furrowed together, his tongue sticking partially out as he carefully piped the icing with his metal prosthetic and organic hands.

“Argh, I keep making these peaks too tall and wide,” he complained.

“If you rapidly lift the piping bag down to up while you squeeze, you can create a 3D flower effect. Like this,” Killer demonstrated. Kid seemed to like it as he used the technique to pipe the pastel pink frosting everywhere. Even adding little green leaves at the base of each flower.

With a hum, Killer pulled out a bottle of shimmery liquid, “This is a metallic food coloring. It works best on a light base color to make that shine pop,” he explained as he pooled some in a small cup. Dipping a brush into the cup, he skimmed over the white buttercream ropes to make them silver. “We also have it in rose gold.”

“Mhm,” Kid mumbled as he swapped piping tips and colors. He laid down a pattern of puffy lavender cloud trails on the base of the layers. Swapping the bags and color again, he piped flat, dusty magenta colored lettering on one side of the cake on each layer, turning it around for the camera to see. It read: Happy 30th Birthday Raven!

He quickly dipped a clean brush in the rose gold metallic food coloring, coating the tulip flowers he placed on every flat surface he could find, save for where the birthday message sat. Setting the brush aside, he took the flat tip piping bag and created one final design on the top layer, his famed logo – his jolly roger.

Cocky grin on his face, he motioned for Wire to zoom in more for the audience to appreciate the cake. Wire did and followed up with Killer’s cake. The sound of notifications pouring in nearly drowned out the music. As Wire re-set the original camera position, the crew moved about once more. The only fixed person was Kid as he used the flat tip piping back to add one more thing to the back of the cake. With a satisfied nod, he opened the fridge door and with a careful touch, deposited the cake inside the chilled space.

Killer pulled out the extra cake dishes from the freezer, placing them beside the regular cake test samples that he layered with leftover frosting. Handing Kid, Heat, and Wire spoons, he watched them dig in.

Starting with the ice cream cake, “Ohhh it tastes like childhood memories I remember other people having,” Wire sighed.

Heat nodded, “Yeah like the kind you saw in commercials for party rooms, it looked so good! And this is amazing!”

Kid was too busy scarfing down the dessert. Wiping his mouth, “Perfect fudgy layer that acts as a tasty barrier between two flavors. I love it.”

Killer nodded proudly. He grabbed a tray of iced waters to wash their pallets. Observing as they bit into the Death By Chocolate cake.

Heat and Kid’s eyes rolled to the back of their heads, Heat let out a small moan that he quickly snuffed out with a slap of his hand over his face

“It’s Death BY Chocolate not WITH!” Wire howled. Biting a spoonful himself, he had to force back the satisfied groan that rumbled in his chest, the cake made his tummy feel warm and happy.

“This, this might give me a heart attack,” Kid huffed out, draining his water when he finished his cake.

Killer dutifully replenished the waters, “Not the most traditional reviews but I’ll take it. Now, time for Kid’s marbled cake.”

“I coulda made it from scratch,” the redhead grazed his chin. “S’not what was requested so if it’s not the best, that’s on the shitty nostalgic brand she loves.”

“Right, of course,” Killer drawled. “Well on with it then!”

Wire took the first bite, “Oh wow, that’s really well balanced!”

“Yeah, spongy and light, the chocolate frosting ratio is perfect! The buttercream is a nice touch too,” Heat added as he finished off what Wire wasn’t able to snag for himself.

Kid took a deep breath before taking a bite. Chewing thoughtfully, “Yeah, I’m just naturally gifted that way.”

“That’s not a cake review, you narcissist,” Killer crossed his arms over his chest.

“It’s…pretty good not gonna lie. Heat’s right, it’s spongy, fluffy, not dry and just the right amount of moist. The chocolate is savory and the perfect addition to a cake this light. The buttercream is pretty sweet too, I like to eat it by itself but it’s also decent with the other components.”

Killer swiped the platter and spoon up, turning around and lifting his helmet a little so he could take a bite. “I knew you could do it, don’t know why you were so worked up. This is perfectly ratioed. I give it a double scythe cross on the KillerCook rating scale!” he gave Kid a thumbs up. A cheerful grin spread on the cake boss’ face. Then it occurred to him—

“YOU WERE THE ONE STALKING AROUND THE KITCHEN IN A GLOOM BECAUSE YOU WERE SO ANXIOUS!”

“Are you still on that? We’ve got the closing segment to do,” Killer clapped his hands.

“Don’t let the fear of dry cake keep you from making cake. Cake is meant to be enjoyed, especially amongst friends. With that in mind, we’ll be taking the Death By Chocolate cake to the post office for overnight delivery and bringing the marbled cake to our birthday girl’s party tonight. Hope you all enjoyed today’s live stream and if you try out my recipes, tag me in your creations or duet me! Tune in next time when I make a delicious, cozy dish that takes some tender love and patience – French Onion Soup. It’s moderately easy to prepare and like everything else I make, slays. This has been Faffaffaffa-Food with Killer.”

End Livestream.

“Ok, the party is in 3 hours. Let’s set the box frame in the backseat to securely transport the cakes. Kid and Heat will bring the chocolate cake to the post office while Wire and I get ready. When you guys come back and get ready, we’ll package Raven’s cake and presents. Take an uber if anyone wants to go home tonight, I’m getting smashed and plugging in the RockBand game until it’s pried from my cold, passed out fingers.”

“I’ll bring the extra guitar and drum set,” Wire offered, moving to find the game controllers.

“She always volunteers her place for sleepovers so no one drunk drives. I bet she even went to Costco for water bottles, headache pills, blankets, and pillows,” Heat laughed, pulling the Death By Chocolate cake into the thermally insulated shipping carrier.

“Yeah she did,” Kid grinned, showing them his phone, “She texted me an hour ago with this pic.” It was a pile of the previously mentioned items plus boxes of frozen pizzas, burritos, bagels, a tub of cream cheese, a crate of champagne, and two cases of Powerade.

Reaching under the countertop to open a drawer, the redhead pulled out a card and envelope. “Don’t forget to sign Raven’s card,” Kid said as he handed them pens. He had already written his message and name, also leaving his present inside – a ticket to their two-week cruise.

Before Killer could say anything—

“This rig better work! If a single buttercream decoration droops on her cake, I will kill everyone in the car and then myself,” the redhead growled as he left the house.

Bonus: The comment section

CheezusCrust: What inspired your passion for cooking? KillerCook: Seeing the people I care about struggle with food insecurity. I made it my mission to always bring them the most nutritional and tasty food I could scrounge up from our neighborhood. It wasn’t always easy but it forced me to get creative. It helped that my main test subject is a human garbage disposal.

Wait_SayThatAgain987: What else can the Cake Boss bake? PunkNeverDied69: I can make a swiss roll😊

A_Hoe_Never_Gets_Cold: Shooting my shot. Scream_Maim_Fire, can I climb you like a tree? Scream_Maim_Fire: You better be fast spider monkey. If I catch you, I’ll throw you like a baseball.

N0$33: What did PunkNeverDied69 write on the back of the cake👀 FlamingHot420: Deez nuts joke probably. Raven thinks they’re funny for some reason. Scream_Maim_Fire: Hieroglyphics of some kind. It looked like: 🔧+⚙️=🔩 KillerCook: His (real) body count. PunkNeverDied69: Screw you all.

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