#fosterdad

[wallwriterstuff]

Part 3: Dirty Laundry ||Fosterdad!John Price x Teen!Simon Riley||

Warnings: Mentions of child neglect and abuse. Mentions of police investigations. Mentions of the foster care system. Explicit description of PTSD and childhood trauma.

Words: 3118

Summary: Sometimes, trauma bleeds through the well crafted exterior of even the toughest souls. It festers and rots a person from the inside out, staining everything it touches, and Simon can't quite clean the stains in time before John finds them.

<- Previous Part: The Yes Basket Part 4: Paint Over The Cracks ->

It’s warm.

Too warm.

Constricting.

An arm around his throat and the cold metal of a barrel pressed to his temple.

The pressure’s what wakes him, and John quietly curses at Riley, who has managed to sneak in and drape himself atop him, creating the pressure that’s disturbed his sleep. The German Shepherd whines and John sighs, scratching behind his ear lightly.

“You to eh boy? Never can shake ‘em…” he murmured. For a moment, John stares at the ceiling, trying to shake off the lingering adrenaline of the moment and breathe through the heaviness so many old ghosts leave behind. They put more pressure on his chest than Riley’s furry form ever could. It takes Price a long moment to realise that the rumbling he can hear isn’t actually his mind playing tricks on him. There’s no APC’s here rattling across dessert sands or cargo planes building up to take off. What this quiet suburban neighbourhood does have, though, is a laundry room in each house. A laundry room that sits right beneath his bedroom and vibrates the floorboards.

With a grunt, John heaves himself upright and reaches for his prosthetic. Riley waits patiently, head tilted and tail wagging slowly like a pendulum. With his leg on, John gives it a quick test as he pushes to stand, grunts at the initial phantom pain he can never quite get rid of, and then begins to hobble his way downstairs, clicking on lights as he goes. He hits the bottom step of the stairs, hand running over his face to stifle a yawn as he heads through the kitchen and into the laundry room just behind. The washing machine door is open, the glass is wet, and the smell of soap wafting strongly off of the lingering bubbles suggested that whoever had used it had used one too many pods. It’s the dryer that’s making the rumbling noise as it tumbles about what appears to be a sheet. John frowns, squinting in confusion, and then he sighs.

“You’re not in trouble Simon, come on out.”  He can’t see the boy anywhere and he moves like a ghost, he may have already snuck back to bed for all he knows, but he’s the only other person in the house who could be doing a wash at…

Fucking Christ, it’s 3AM John internally groans at the time and makes sure to take a good look around the laundry room and the kitchen before he slowly ambles back upstairs. Simon’s door is closed, of course and John pauses briefly on the other side of the wood as he tries to figure out what’s happened. Maybe the boys finally decided to wash some of the things in that binbag? John hadn’t pushed it, but he’d been a bit more vocal about good hygiene this week since Simon hadn’t changed his clothes in the 3 weeks he’d been living with him. Had that unnerved him? Pushed him to clean the clothes himself? Was it that whatever fascination with cleaning himself Simon had had now transferred to cleaning his possessions to? John knocked at the sound of shuffling behind the door, his brows furrowed. The shuffling immediately stopped. The only sounds John could hear being the faint rush of traffic along the road as Old Mike came home from a late shift again, the creaking of expanding and contracting pipes of his house, and the loaded silence of a boy who didn’t want to be caught doing what he shouldn’t.

John knocked again.

Simon barely cracked the door the second time, glacial eyes darting rapidly over John’s face, watching even more astutely than usual. They were rough as tree bark as they scraped over his soul and John had to wander what had the boy’s hackles raised.

“You need any help with your laundry, Simon?” he asked. The non-judgemental offer was left hanging in the air between them, and John let the boy scrutinise him and his intentions from head to toe.

“No.” Simon’s answer is as blunt as ever, but there’s a slightly terse edge to his voice that’s new, an underlying tension in his tone that set John’s bullshit buzzer whirring. John sighed, rubbed at his eyes and sniffed a bit to clear the early morning grogginess from his sinuses, then paused. The stench from Simon’s room was near revolting and he couldn’t stop the way his nose wrinkled.

“Jesus kid, let me in.” John said with a frown.

“No!” Simon was adamant now, lips twisting into half a snarl as he bared his teeth and puffed his chest, doing his best impression of a predator even as his eyes showed he was really feeling like prey. John looked him over for a moment, keeping his prosthetic in the doorway so that Simon couldn’t close the door on him, or at least, couldn’t hurt him if he tried to force it shut.

“Simon-“

“I have a right to privacy.” Simon had never spoken so much in all the time he’d been with him. John nodded his head slowly, taking a steadying breath and keeping his expression calm and neutral, even as his heart waged war in his chest.

“You do have a right to privacy, and you have a-“

“Then fuck off old man.” John doesn’t flinch in the face of the acid Simon spits. The boy’s shaking, and it isn’t from rage. He’s seen plenty of angry children, seen plenty of hurt and scared ones to. He won’t meet fire with fire and burn his house down.

“You also have a right to an adequate standard of living and to experience the best possible health,” John continued calmly, “And you have a right to ensure that I, as an adult in your life, makes decisions in your best interest. Now you’re a smart lad; if you were me, smelling what I can smell right now, would you say I’m acting in your best interest if I just go back to bed?” he let’s the question hang in the air for as long as needed, watches Simon grapple with the logic of his answer and his own fear. The smell takes him back to times he’s been stuck behind enemy lines in the black, moving through shantytowns where people don’t have the means to keep clean or rescuing PoWs from dank cells with no drainage or ventilation. It’s the smell of the hopeless and the damned. Except, Simon is neither, not in his house, John won’t let him be.

“I – I can clean it. I’m cleaning it.” He’s still trying to rationalise, still trying to find a way out. John doesn’t want him to feel cornered but for the sake of the boy’s health he can’t let this one go. He knows the smell now, can pick apart what’s the stench of old neglect in the binbag and the odour of current trauma. He understands why Simon’s been showering so much now, realises that this must have been going on for weeks before he noticed. He keeps his voice gentle, not accusing in anyway, doesn’t even force eye contact. He needs to praise the effort, prove he’s working with him, not against him.

“You’re doing a great job, the sheets’ll be dry soon…but maybe I can help you swap the mattress out so they can go back on a clean bed, yeah?” John’s suggestion is met with stone cold silence that drags for an infinite stretch of time. Simon’s not even able to look at him, and John can understand why. The boy prides himself on control so losing control of his bladder is more than embarrassing, and the way he’s acting makes John suspects it was a punishable offence in his former home. He’s never seen the boy be anything other than pale, but his cheeks are burning a fierce shade of pink now as he struggles to breathe properly. John’s not sure if it’s panic, the smell, or a mix of both, but Simon’s so beyond rational thought that he almost falls into a stupor as he stumbles back to let him in.

There’s a wash basin on the floor from the kitchen, Fairy Liquid sitting nearby to and even a bottle of lemon juice. Simon’s got a phone open to a cleaning article and sploshes of soapy water all over the hardwood as he’s desperately tried to scrub his mattress clean. John feels a deep swelling of sympathy, staring in mute horror at the soaked and stained mattress, eyes trailing to the open window fluttering curtains in the breeze like white flags. Simon can’t talk, but his body is coiled to spring like a rattle snake, one wrong move pulling the trigger to a gun he can’t control. They’re at the edge of a precipice now, and one small nudge could rob Simon of all rational thought and send him into a full on meltdown. John’s not just in his space but he’s bearing witness to a weakness, one he could exploit. He needs to prove he won’t. Simon won’t believe any of the evidence he lays out before him for a long time either way, but John knows he has to start somewhere.

“I say we move you into the spare room tonight, get a proper night’s sleep, and tomorrow we’ll deal with the mattress.” John’s suggestion is quiet, soft. Simon can’t seem to lift his gaze from the floor, finding the knots in the wood to be the most interesting thing in the room. The smell of stale urine is assaulting John’s nose, burning the nasal cavity, and his stomach twists to know Simon’s been sleeping in all this mess right under his nose for perhaps the entirety of the time he’s lived here. Seeing no response is incoming, John goes to one knee, makes himself small, tries to meet Simon’s gaze from below. The boy doesn’t shut his eyes, no he’d rather have a chance at seeing whatever’s coming John thinks, but he does turn his head immediately to keep avoiding John’s eyes.

“Simon, I’m not angry. Look at my face. Do I look upset? It’s okay, lad. It happens.” John thinks better of reaching for him. Simon still doesn’t respond. “What’s going to happen now, is that we’re going to get you fresh sheets, and move you into the room just across from mine. You can sleep in a clean bed, and tomorrow morning-“

“I’ll just piss it again.” The boy’s voice shakes, as if the confession takes physical effort to squeeze its way out of his throat. John is quiet for a moment, keeps his voice non-judgemental. The atmosphere in the room is charged and he feels like one small spark could ignite the gasoline he’s swimming in. Everything smells and burns and John’s angry, so, so furious, that somebody has broken this boy so badly. He can’t let Simon see that anger though, he’ll think it’s directed at him.

“This happens more than once in a night?” John asks. Simon clenches and unclenches his fists, manages a jerky nod.

“S-sometimes.” He stutters. John gives another slow nod.

“There’s things we can buy to help.” He promises softly.

“I’m not wearing fucking nappies.” Simon wipes furiously at his eyes, the embarrassment and anger leaking through his eyes as it overwhelms him. It’s the proof that’s upset him so much, John thinks. He can no longer hide the physical evidence that things are not okay, were never okay, and he can’t hold the demons at bay all the time, however much he gives the impression he can. The boy with eyes that would make Satan shiver can only do so much, hold on for so long, before he to drowns in the hellfire of his life. Simon likes to make a show of dealing with it, pretending things are fine, but John’s bore witness to the fact it’s not, and that’s set off all of Simon’s alarms. How long had he had to pretend to keep Tommy safe? His mother too maybe. Had Simon always fell into the role of protector perhaps? Keep anyone from suspecting things were going wrong, keep the family together. But they’re already broken up, aren’t they? John shakes the thoughts off, it’s best not to rationalise someone else’s trauma, especially with only half the story.

John shakes his head, “Of course not. There’s pads we can put on top of the mattress, you just throw them away and put a fresh one on if you need to. Some brands do pants and underwear liners. We can buy some waterproof mattress covers to. It’s something we can mention to the doctor, when we go to see them, there’s tablets they can prescribe. We have options to try alright?” John waits with baited breath to see if Simon will take any of the options available, will help him choose, work together with him as opposed to try and go it alone. Simon doesn’t say anything; he’s so busy trying to get a grip of himself and his emotions he can’t form any sort of answer it seems. John can’t imagine being in his shoes, how mortifying it must be for a man whose essentially a stranger to bear witness to this moment, a moment he strongly suspects he’s been punished for a lot which has only contributed to Simon’s desperation to hide this side effect of the trauma he’s experienced.

He seems to work on autopilot when he helps John to make up a fresh bed, flinching from him if he accidentally gets within touching distance. He isn’t surprised when Simon goes back to the binbag, but instead of bringing the whole thing, he rummages through it to find only one item. The hoodie is definitely far too small for him, a horrific bottle green colour that makes his already pale skin look sickly in comparison. It smells of that lingering scent of cigarettes still, even has some burn holes in it. John doesn’t comment on it and lets Simon keep the comfort item close. He gives him one last chance to confide in him before he leaves to go back to his own room.

“You need anything else before you turn in?” his offer is met by an immediate headshake, and John knows instinctually that Simon’s at his limit, that the kindness John has met him with tonight is going to keep the boy awake and shaking until sun rise can chase away the memory of it. “Alright then, try get some sleep yeah?” John gives him a slight nod as he shuts the door behind him and walks back to his room. He shuts the door behind him and goes through the motions of taking off his leg, but he can’t bring himself to get into bed somehow. He rests his head in his hands and takes a deep, steadying breath, finally letting his own tears fall as he grieves on the boy’s behalf.

Nobody ever said his job was easy.

His heart hurts and he’s filled with such a visceral rage it makes his teeth grind. To have traumatised a boy so thoroughly he can’t stop himself from wetting the bed at four-fucking-teen is more than criminal - John’s hunted people down for less before. Simon doesn’t need his anger though. He needs consistency, calm, support, and care. John inhales deeply and exhales in a rush, trying to force out all the negative emotions he’s feeling so that Simon get’s nothing but his best when he sees him tomorrow.

Simon deserves his best.

It only keeps getting worse.

Simon’s throwing a tennis ball for Riley in the backyard. He hasn’t spoken to him since last night and when John answers the phone he’s tired, beyond tired. He doubted either of them slept anymore after their 3AM meet up.  

“Kate…give me good news.” He sighs.

“Alright. We’ve got him signed up at your GP and they’ve given you one of tomorrow’s emergency appointments. 10:20AM.” Kate Laswell delivers the news perfunctorily, with almost too much nonchalance. John knows better than to believe that’s the end of it.

“There’s a but coming, isn’t there?” he asks. Kate is too quiet for a long moment and John readjusts his position, pressing the phone between his shoulder and ear so he can go back to spreading mustard on his sandwich.

“He can’t see Tom.” Kate’s voice feels like a falling gavel in a courtroom. Simon’s not spoken of his brother much, but John gets the impression that it wasn’t his own hoodie he was clutching for comfort last night. He knows deep in his bones that this news won’t go over well with Simon.

“Can I at least give him a reason why? How the fuck do you want me to explain that to him?” John asks finally, voice a little bit clipped.

“You can’t. The thing’s Tom’s disclosed are vile, John. There’s a police investigation and all sorts opening, so right now, no visits. I’ve got to arrange a time and a date with you for the police to come interview Simon. Frankly, if what the kid’s been saying is true, it’ll do Simon better to not have contact with him at all.” Kate sounds just as tired as he feels and he can almost imagine the woman sitting in her office, rubbing her forehead to chase off a pounding headache. John puts down the knife in his hand and shifts it to his phone, gripping it tight and pushing it harder against his ear like he might catch a whisper of better news if he just holds it close enough.

“Kate I need something go off of here. The kids pissing the bed and got more bruises than a prisoner of war. What am I dealing with here?” he asks, frustration colouring his tone.

“Trauma, John. You’re dealing with trauma. It’s nothing new. All the kids coming to you are traumatised. This one just needs to be handled with more care than most. If you can’t handle that let me know and I’ll remove him now.” Her tone rings with finality and John flinches, feeling like he’s been sucker punched.

“No,” he speaks through gritted teeth, “He’s had enough upheaval…I’ll figure out a way to tell him if he asks. Thanks for sorting the doc’s.”

“You’re welcome. Anything else?”

“No.” John grunts out a reply before he can say something he might regret.

“Great. I’ll be in touch to arrange a time to visit Simon.” She hangs up without a goodbye, again, and once more John is left stumbling in the dark for a way to help Simon. He’s starting to feel like the only one in the world who wants to.  

[faeriekit]

43rd Annual Gotham Academy Bake Sale

dp x dc | FosterDad!Frostbite

❄ Now available to own on video and ao3 ❄

I promised @tourettesdog a snippet of More Yetis™ ages ago and I finally finished lol

❄*❄*❄

Bruce looked up.

And up. 

...And up. 

The— parent?— glanced down at him with a fanged smile. Not— not meanly. Just fanged. As in, he had fangs. 

And thick, puffy fur. And glacial blue horns. And a soft, muzzle-esqe face, and an equally blue prosthetic arm, with what looked like his original bone structure underneath it. 

What a sight at the PTA bake sale. Bruce huffed lightly.

(Remarkably, the puff of air came out as cold steam. Huh.)

“Good afternoon,” the parent, presumably, greeted him, his voice a low rumble. “I’ve been told that the purpose of this event is to raise money for the school, so there are baked good available for purchase. Please tell me if you are interested in any of the selection.” 

Bruce watched the giant, furry parent carefully set out a crocheted blanket to serve as a tablecloth on the provided folding table, dotted the space with carefully organize tupperwares and displayed, and sanitized his— claws— before setting out little treats on round wooden trays. A stack of napkins completed the setup. 

It was a good first-time setup. Downright exotic, even, considering the setting of Gotham Academy. It had a homey, home-grown feeling that was entirely anathema to the cultivated air of the usual attending crowd. 

It was nice, though. Bruce took a picture of the table for his public instagram. 

Usually Bruce and Alfred would man a table for the younger kids, but Damian was still attending the lower school, and Duke had been opted out of participating due to…prior circumstances…which left Bruce to be an attendee rather than a fundraiser. It was kind of nice. He got to try new foods. Check things out. Meet a giant yeti. 

“They look good,” Bruce complimented, because they did. They didn’t exactly look vegan, so Damian couldn’t try one, but they did look good. “What’s this one? On the bun?” 

The giant…whatever he was daintily got himself into a folding chair. From his side-satchel came a paperback copy of Elin Hilderbrand’s Summer of ‘69. “Salmon patties on potato buns. My charge assures me that they’re perfectly edible, although we did have to shop around for a suitable vehicle with which they could be eaten.”

Alright, so the guardian had missed the boat on exactly what bake sales were supposed to consist of. So what? The food sounded good, smelled good— and for four dollars, that was a good deal. 

“Keep the change.”

They tasted good, too. “Hey," Bruce exclaimed, "This is pretty grand!”

The yeti’s eyes crinkled around the edges. The muzzle couldn’t exactly replicate a human smile, but Bruce had the distinct impression that this was the equivalent expression. “Thank you. Daniel told me that it was overkill to catch my own fish for the raising of funds, but I always prefer the taste of a fresh catch.” 

With those fangs, Bruce would believe it. He took another bite of what was probably a salmon burger. “Nothing beats fresh-from-the-sea. When I lived in London for a few months, I was very spoiled by the seafood selection.” 

The yeti’s ears swiveled upright in interest. “Oh? I will say, living in Gotham, there is a lack of interesting seafood. The shellfish grows to be as large as my arm in my home territory.” 

Well, that didn’t lower the location down to anywhere in particular. The arctic? The deep ocean? Some vast, unknown world? “Sure sounds more interesting, that’s for sure. Hey, I haven’t seen you around here before. Are you new to the school?” 

The being kindly answered his nosy-enough question. “I have taken temporary leave of my people to care for my charge. As he is mostly human, his elder sister and I came to the decision that the human plane was a better locale for him to grow up in. Gotham city simply has more volatile energy floating around.” 

Bruce’s eyebrows rose up over the rims of his sunglasses. Gotham was their first choice to raise a child in? A not-completely-human child to boot? “You sure about that?” he asked, just to be clear. “It’s not so safe here. We’ve got a guy who blows up buildings for fun. I think we’ve had the most toxic gas leaks…ever, really. I love the place, I grew up here, but man do we have problems!” 

“Hm,” the yeti hummed. “We were concerned about that. Daniel spent the first few nights beating up pickpockets, however, so I foresee that he will likely enjoy the challenge.”

As someone who beats up pickpockets, Bruce had no reliable say on the matter. He took another bite of his salmon patty. He made a note of the issue nevertheless. If there was going to be a new, half-human vigilante in his home territory, that ought to be something he stays abreast of.

“Hey! B! Over here!”

Bruce spotted Duke’s hand a head above the crowd. He waved back; his newest foster edged through the crowd of wealthy parents and their nepo-baby children to make his way over, a cupcake in his hand. “Duke! Find anything good?”

“Yeah!” Duke confirmed cheerfully, raising the cupcake in his hand. He continued his approach. “They had tamarind ones at the stand Mrs. Cheng is running! I got you one just in case you wanted to try it. They were almost out, and—“

Duke paused beside Bruce. And looked up.

And up.

...And up.

Bruce didn’t bother to hide his smile. “I’m getting to know some of the other parents here. Hey, what’re your thoughts on salmon?”

“It’s,” Duke started, thoroughly distracted by the parent’s height, “Good. Um. Hi?”

The gigantic being (he must be, what, nine feet? And balancing on that horrid folding chair the PTA shoves out every year?) roved a yellow eye down to his foster son.

“It’s very nice to meet you, young one,” the parent rumbled, cheery as anything. “My name is Frostbite. You may know my charge, Daniel. He is in his junior year.”

“Danny? Danny Fenton?”

Bruce finished off his burger with a bite. Well, there was curious tone. “Do you know him, Duke?” he asked. The tone wasn’t quite warning, but the edge was to be found in his phrasing.

Duke winced. “Yeah, we…uh. We might have gotten into a fight on his first day. And his second week. …And…last week.”

Bruce. Blinked.

“…And maybe a few hours ago. But to be fair, he has a really punchable face—“

This sounded more like Dick and Jason in their first weeks at Gotham Academy rather than Duke, who was generally better-mannered than most of his brood. (Bruce tended to chalk it up to the effect of being raised largely by loving, attentive parents.)

“But. Um.” Duke shuffled a little closer to Bruce, and a little farther away from the tallest parent to ever grace the pristine lawn of Gotham Academy. “He’s…you know. He’s fine. Usually.”

Thank goodness Alfred was across the way with Damian. He would have disapproved highly of the both of them for this slip.

Still, the gigantic creature only…huffed. Bruce would dare call it a chuckle, even. He popped a barely punctured bookmark into his novel, and gently set it to the side. “My apologies, young one; fighting is a favored form of socialization in our culture. His interest in you is likely genuinely meant, if…rough. Tell myself or his sibling if it becomes unbearable, and he’ll calm down.”

Duke’s lips twisted. “No, it’s not— It’s. Fine? I guess? We like blow off steam and stuff. When I sprained my wrist, he just punched my other arm and bought me ice cream.”

Bruce wanted to judge this kid and whatever parenting style this yeti was putting this kid through. He wanted to pass judgement so badly. But this also sounded exactly like something one of his own kids would do with someone they were friends with.

So.

So he bought a second salmon burger, took an offered bite of Duke’s tamarind cupcake (very generous), and tried to remember everything he could about his brief foray into romance novels. “Say, have you ever read any John Grisham? It’s not quite the same genre, but I’m more of a fan of thrillers myself…”

Honestly, the surreal part was that nothing untoward happened for the entire bake sale. Bruce would happily do this again next year.

[tfmerc]

okay what abt like a Simon and foster! kid reader? I'm currently writing one but I haven't seen a tone of people write abt this b4. Just curious

The idea of Fosterdad!Simon is so sweet :(

Just know he parades that kid around, showing them off to all the boys

masterlist - rules for requests

Simon let out a soft huff, sluggishly raising his hand towards his eyes; pinching softly at the bridge of his nose. He shifted slightly, lashes fluttering as he took in his surroundings. The plush of the couch, sunrise creeping through the closed blinds.

A heavy grunt passed his lips, kicking his feet over the edge of the couch. Bracing himself with his thighs, before he finally made his way to his feet; a string of cracking joints caused him to groan quietly. Slowly stumbling his way from the couch, he made his way towards your room; peering in through the ajar door.

He couldn’t help the soft smile that spread across his lips, each rise and fall of your chest brought him great comfort. A living, breathing reminder that this was real. The fighting, suffering and loss was all worth it.

Simon slowly creeped into the room, footsteps light as a feather as makes his way towards your sleeping form; brows frowning softly. He sat down at the end of your bed, a tentative hand reaching to brush the stray strands of your hair away from your face. Watching with gentle eyes as you scrunched your nose and turned away from the ticklish touch.

You were perfect. Anything and everything you did was like that of an angel in your old man’s eyes.

[claudiatherelentless]

So when you have a Daddy Kink it's all well and good but when Colin Robinson actually Fucks his Fosterdad suddenly it's Weird

[doctorhimbeere]

So I read that one Harry Potter fanfic Starlinggale agian because the curse of a small fandom. And even if Harry Potter has lost a lot of it's glory and I don’t support Jk in any way or form anymore and skip normally everything HP related fic,this fandfic isn't bad but their is one thing that got my brain working overtime the house sorting.

Without much spoiler Peter and Thomas are both teachers in Hogwards and Peter was in Ravenclaw in his school days, which fits no questions askes but Nightingale was in Huffelpuff and boy if I tell you that changed something in my brain chemistry because OF COURSE HE IS A HUFFELPUFF.

He is loyal beyond repair...

Molly ...he and this is my headcanon he looked at her and went friend even when everyone said no not friend shaped

Beneath the tigertank destroyer, he is just a soft baby

Never rudely refuses food or complaints about it

The way he acts with Abigail or in the comic, the baby twins. Come on my man is such a fosterdad/uncle

The way he is so caring about all his friends but can't remember that his mortal body needs rest to

The dogs

The way he acts with children orbpeople in shock

The way he never juges Peter no matter what. He might get disappointed and angry but never juges him

HE LITTERLY FOUND PETER ????

[sonicasura]

Yeah, Isao is in for one of the most confusing fights his ever been in. Its not helped when he hears Kafka keep telling Tiny to stop repeatedly say "Kill kaiju, kill kaiju, kill kaiju" on end. Tiny only shuts up and go back to sleep once Isao deactivate his number suit and weapons. Which means Tiny can't feel No 2's presence and thuse thinks its safe again.

You can imagien later on when Kafka tells them how he had felt that presence and show a drawn picture of No 2. Which should be impossible since Kafka has never really seen what No 2 looked like when it was alive.

Isao and everyone is very unsure on how to react to those news. Btw, Soshiro and Gen have a hard time not laughing their asses off when watching the match Isao has with Kafka. The himbo really is those twos favorite comedian.

But thats about it I have to share with all the updates I have for the Quarter, Bloodline and Fosterdad Kafka aus. I hope it hasn't been too much to share with you?

Lmao Kafka honestly would turn a supposed death match into a comedy routine. Also that's an interesting detail about him seeing what Tiny saw. Thank you for sharing all you had! It wasn't a hassle at all!

I'm actually trying to start writing again. This is the only thing I managed to make so far but it is a good start.

[stormyfayethechristianrunaway]

May Is National Foster Care Month.

I Support Adoption From Foster Care.

Find Out More At www.adoptuskids.org.

#NationalFosterCareMonth #FosterCareMonth #Adoption #FosterAdoption #Adoptions #AdoptionFromFosterCare

#ForeverFamilies #ForeverFamily #FosterCare #FosterChild #FosterYouth #FosterTeens #FosterKids #FosterSiblings #FosterParents #FosterDads #FosterMoms #FosterCareWorkers #AgingOutOfFosterCare #WardOfTheState #ChildGuardian #FosterCareAdovocates #KinshipAdoptions #SingleParentAdoptions #OlderTeenAdoptions

🗣🙋🏾‍♀️👥 @stormyfaye

Stormy Faye The Christian Runaway

#StormyFayeTheChristianRunaway

https://www.stormyfaye.com/

#FaithForTheJourney

#May16th2023

[thenatsdorf]

The world’s best foster dad. (via Analisat3212)

[wallwriterstuff]

Part 3 dropping tomorrow!

The Yes Basket ||John Price x Teen!Simon Riley||

Warnings: Mentions of drugs. Implied child neglect, explicit mentions of physical injury and abuse (1 sentence mentioning bruises and being underweight). All the angst. Talk of foster care and sibling separation. Mentions of military discharge and injury. Minors should not interact with this.

Words: 2236

Summary: John Price has had plenty of foster children before him and knows how to support most of the behaviour he sees. A simple trip to the supermarket unveils a deeper need for understanding than he originally thought, and John is left scrambling for answers Laswell won't give him.

Chapter 1: To Soothe A Soul

Simon Riley is a ghost in his home.

He’s barely seen the boy since Laswell dropped him off last week. The lack of weight on him clearly works to his advantage for sneaking about the place because Price has been startled by his sudden appearance at least twice, and his instincts are usually pretty good at detecting anyone in his general vicinity. Either that, or Simon must have gotten good at creeping around. Perhaps it was safer that way in his former home, less noise less attention. All Price knows is that he only sees the boy when he’s eating his food or using his shower. He uses the shower a lot. He can’t tell if it’s a novelty thing that he never really had before or if it’s perhaps a psychological thing that needs a little more investigating, but the boy spends at least an hour a day scrubbing his skin raw in the tub, only to appear in the kitchen afterwards with a pink face and hands and stinking clothes that undo most of the work he’s just done.

He still won’t let Price wash anything in the bin bag.

Simon’s living out of it, he thinks. Not that he has any access to that room now. Simon barely cracks the door when he knocks on it to inform him dinner is ready or to ask if he wants to join him in watching a movie or something with Riley. He’s been gentle about his approach on it to, not outright disregarding his belongings as a filthy nuisance in his home but rather asking him how he can help him look after them. He’s been stealing food to. Light-fingered little bugger got away with it for almost 48 hours before Price realised his fruit bowl was suspiciously low on fruit. He’s had children in his care hoard food before, knows how to deal with it, so today, he’s dragging Simon out into the big wide world whether he likes it or not to solve the problem. The echo of his knock on the wood is met by complete silence behind the door, and Price still feels that prickle of dread when Simon cracks the door open just enough to stare him down as if he’s the intruder, somehow.

The whites of his eyes are only just whiter than the pallor of his skin.

“We’re going to head to the shops together, get some groceries in. Since I’ll be cooking for both of us I want you to give me an idea of what sort of things you like to eat. You’ve got 10 minutes to get yourself ready, alright?” Price doesn’t phrase it like a question, knowing the answer would absolutely be no if he asked. Simon barely blinks, a minor twitch of his brows showing his displeasure through a frown. Price waits him out, watch’s carefully for any sign of resistance. Seeing no way out, Simon finally acquiesces with a short nod, slamming the door shut between them both. Price let’s out a quiet breath and turns to head back downstairs, sure he’s going to have to come and get him when the 10 minutes he’s given him to get ready is up. It’ll serve two purposes, he thinks. If Simon takes a walk with him today then the boy will get a better lay of the land, have a bit more freedom to walk himself to the park maybe or walk himself to school, when the time comes for that, but it also means getting in food Simon can have control over. Speak of the devil.

Riley perks at his feet and trots happily to the boy as he stamps his feet into beat up trainers at the bottom of the stairs. The laces are threadbare at best and there’s holes in the outer skin that let Price know they’re no longer waterproof. Maybe when they have to tackle the issue of school uniform he can broach the topic of new shoes. Forcing himself up, Price moves to the coat rack and takes down Riley’s leash and harness, the German Shepherd waiting patiently to be belted up. Simon says nothing, hands stuffed deep in his pockets and eyes cast downward towards his feet. He doesn’t force the boy to break the silence, wondering if Simon is just a bit stunted in his social development or if there’s something greater at play. He never can tell, still doesn’t know him quite well enough.

He offers Simon the lead anyhow, and the boy takes it wordlessly, walking out alongside him and not waiting for him to lock the door behind them. Price has to catch up, and just about catches a glimpse of Simon slipping a black surgical mask over his face. Price’s brow furrows, a shudder rolling down his spine when he gets closer and sees the shoddily painted skeleton jaw painted on the front of the mask. It doesn’t feel like a fashion choice.

God kid, what the hell happened to you?

It’s like walking with the angel of death, even the breeze in the trees seem to fall silent in Simon’s presence. Price isn’t one to easily be unnerved, hell his job demanded he have nerves of steel, but something about Simon’s silent and foreboding presence makes him feel the need to fill the quiet space with noise.

“I’ve got a basic list, bread, milk, all that stuff, but once we’re in the shop you can give me an idea of what sort of dinner you like.” He said. Simon says nothing, of course. He gets a handful of looks from neighbourhood gossips but ignores them steadfastly. He’s like an omen of death, dressed in all black, hidden under baggy clothes, and…not reaching for a single bit of food. Price realises quickly that this is going to be harder than he originally thought. He feels like a phony Santa with the fake jolly attitude as he tries to suggest different things and is met by a shrug each time. He’s lost track of the amount of products he’s picked up in an attempt to sway him when Simon finally speaks ups.

“I don’t care.” The blunt and abrupt sentence is punctuated with a voice crack that makes the boy visibly cringe, as if the visible evidence of his youth is somehow a weakness he’s unwittingly shown. Price watches him for a long moment, head tilted and eyes squinting slightly.

“I do.” It’s a simply sentence, not one he packs a lot of emotion into, but it garners him the biggest reaction he’s had so far. Simon narrows his eyes. That eerie presence he exudes magnifies ten fold and almost tries to envelop Price, like a shadow has oozed from the boy and tried to poke and prod it’s way into Price’s very soul to examine the contents. He holds his gaze with the most neutral expression he can and pulls out his wallet to hold out a crisp ten pound note to the boy.

“This here is for you to go and get snacks with. We're going to make a yes basket. Anything you put in the basket, you can eat at any time. No permission needed, it's your food to eat as you please. The only rules for the basket are that whatever you buy fits within your budget, you need to buy a mix of junk food and healthy stuff, and it's only refilled when we go shopping on Saturday. If you eat it all by Wednesday there's no adding extra's too it until Saturday. If you do find it's empty and your still hungry, you can still eat the snacks in the kitchen cupboards, but we share those, so you need to ask permission before taking them. Understand?” his explanation is met with a further narrowing of the boys eyes, but Simon isn’t fool enough to look a gift horse in the mouth. Whatever life he’s been raised in, Price gets the impression that reading and playing people, having street smarts, is something the boy prides himself on, and that’s what makes him snatch the money from his hand and stalk for the fruit aisle first.

Price doesn’t see that basket once it’s taken into his room, but his fruit bowl remains full. Whether or not he paces himself is beyond Price’s knowledge to, but he’s set the boundary and he’ll see soon enough if Simon’s pushed it. If the way he eats his dinner is any indication then he reckons the basket was empty on day one. He scarfs down anything in front of him like he’s a black hole gorging on any and all matter, regardless of whether he finds it pleasant or not.

The subtleties in Simon’s expression is what helps him tailor his shopping lists going forward. His nose wrinkles ever so slightly when he eats anything he doesn’t like, and the missing nutrition in his previous diet is quick to make itself known when just a fortnight of eating a more varied and rich diet makes the boy sick to his stomach. He tries to hide it of course, but Riley’s compassion doesn’t let the boy suffer alone for long. The scuffling at his door is what wakes Price, and he forces his prosthetic back into place with a grunt, thumping with groggy eyes towards the bedroom door. He hears Simon heaving the minute he opens up,  giving Riley a scratch behind the ears before he heads for the bathroom. He pauses just briefly before knocking on the door and waiting to see if Simon will invite him in. He doesn’t, of course, so Price pushes the door open, and tries not to heave himself.

Simon’s always hidden beneath his clothes and now he knows why. Pale skin is mottled by severe but aging bruises. The poor boys black blue and yellow, a tapestry of violence inked into his skin that he’s still recovering from, may never recover from. There’s bones where he’d expected at least some muscles. He wonders if the skeleton painted on his face mask is supposed to represent the skeletal structure he’s somehow kept upright and ticking over in whatever horrific circumstances Simon has had to call his life up until this point. Price wipes any trace of his horror from his face as he grabs a wash cloth and dampens it, placing the cool cloth on the back of the boys neck as he awkwardly kneels beside him.

“Easy Simon, breathe.” He murmurs. Simon flinches form his hands, from his help, too used to doing things alone, but he’s just a child and he wants the one thing any child demands when they feel so awful nothing else helps.

“Mum.”

It’s a quiet croak, but it’s enough to shatter Price’s heart. He swallows thickly to get a grip on the lump in his throat before he pats the boys shoulder.

“Just me…have you had a sip of water?” he asks softly. Simon doesn’t turn his head, just leaves his head resting along his arm so Price doesn’t see the weakness seeping from his eyes. He shakes his head. Price gets him a glass of water, and they sit in silence until Simon’s ready to stumble back to bed again.

It’s the first time the silence doesn’t feel oppressive.

Price lets him sleep in the next day for as long as he needs, doesn’t ensure he eats breakfast as he’s now ensure just what to feed a stomach he guesses was previously empty most of the time, and instead calls up Laswell.

“John. How’s things?” her voice is tired and it sets his alarm bells ringing.

“Alright. Better, sort of. We’ve made a bit of progress, I think. How’s things on your end?” Price leans against the kitchen counter, watching Riley do his business in the back garden as he reads the pregnant pause before she spoke again. Not good then, he thinks.

“We’re alright,” She lied, “How can I help you today?” Price decides to let it go. Simon is his priority.

“Was wondering if we were any further forward with getting a doctor’s appointment for the lad, or even sibling visits. He mentioned his mum the other night, might do him some good to see his brother.” Price suggested.

Kate sighed, “Don’t push it John…Tom’s not good. Kid’s disclosed a lot since they were separated…Simon won’t be seeing him for a while yet. Doctor’s not called back yet, I’ll push it from my end. Is he well enough to wait?” Price’s head span for a second. Just what had the younger boy disclosed that had Kate so uptight? What had he seen? What had Simon seen? Or...is it something Simon had done? No, no that didn’t feel right. Simon was like a pitbull, preferring to puff up and look domineering but, under the right care at least, completely harmless. His burning curiosity might never be satiated. His job was to help the child, not investigate the case. No, no he had to leave that to Kate.

“I’d rather he was seen sooner over later. Could do with some help from a dietitian maybe. He was more undernourished than we originally thought and I don’t want to give him too much to soon.” Price relayed his concern neutrally, even as his mind raced ahead. “I’ll call today then and call you back when I have an answer.” Kate didn’t bother with a goodbye before she hung up. Price sighed, stared at his phone for a moment, and placed it on the side.

One thing at a time John, he thought, One thing at a time.

[thepropertylovers]

Today is our middle kiddo’s (little brother) birthday! He’s 4 years old, which is wild to think about because he was only 2 1/2 when he and his brother and sister came to live with us. Right now he loves to grab and hold and carry around pretty much everything, he likes to learn and picks up on things quickly, he loves to help his siblings whenever they need it and has the biggest heart. He has taught us so much about love, patience, and understanding. He’s come a long way from his digging into candles and smearing wax on the green velvet chairs and drawing on the staircase bannister with permanent marker days 😂. We are so incredibly proud of him and love him more than he’ll ever know. 🎂 . . . . . . #birthdayboy #husbands #fosterparents #fosterfamily #fosterdad #fosterdads (at Tennessee) https://www.instagram.com/p/CHN_QtmjBk0/?igshid=1o13h38a5477o

[collectivethoughtsandrubbish]

Father's Day is a week away, but I'm so thankful for this new dad. Words can't express how much you mean to me and these boys! 💗 #PGBCdads #collectivethoughtsandrubbish #fosterdad #dadecountyfosterparents #fostering #fathersday https://www.instagram.com/p/ByfkGK2gvB1/?igshid=hdk4bgsk05g1

[theafcdad]

Hey #dads, don’t forget to enjoy some downtime. I got the remote & am enjoying a #WW2 #documentary. #fosterdad #adoptivedad #happyfathersday #downtime #kenburns (at North Carolina) https://www.instagram.com/p/BywMyg_n2p4/?igshid=12kuqmmgcz9so

[sonicasura]

Hey Sonic! Its me the Quarter Anon, its been a while hasn't it? I've come with some updates to the Fosterdad Kafka Au I have with my little sister. You up for some chaotic family fun and shenanigans with Kafka, Reno and Kikoru?

Sure! I love to see what you got so far!

[thetonycross]

Just a reminder to pray for your friends and families who are fostering children. Just spoke to some fellow foster parents and I’m telling you it was a war that can only be described as spiritual warfare. Please lift them up, please see if you can come alongside of them to provide some sort of help. Prayer is always needed but there are so many other ways. Dm me for ways to serve. “For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers over this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places.” ‭‭Ephesians‬ ‭6:12‬ ‭ESV‬‬ #fostercare #fosterfamily #fosterdad #adoption #court #spiritualwarfare #james127 #ephesians612 (at Hammock De Galvez) https://www.instagram.com/p/CjqDmpFMbVq/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[stormyfayethechristianrunaway]

The Good Lord called home my Mama, Mrs. Ardelia Cunningham Swanson, 25 years ago today. 🕊

In her 92+ years of life here on Earth, I give her honor of being a faithful daughter, sister, friend, wife, and mother.

Also, she spent 40+ years of countless untold stories being a mother and grandmother to numerous children, from crying newborns to hardheaded teenagers.

Yeah, she was that woman in the neighborhood. 🏡

Her home was open to those whom God directed to her.

The one who, even the caseworkers showed up unannounced with a kid or two or three, for her care. 💞

Because they knew her home was safe and her hugs were warm and her kitchen table fed an army from that backyard garden.

So I'm asking my social media family and friends, in this closing month of May, for an hour or a day, to please change your profile photo or cover photo to represent Foster Care Awareness Month.

With Love Always, ❤️

#DaughterOfArdelia

May Is National Foster Care Month.

#NationalFosterCareMonth #FosterCareAwareness #FosterCareAdoption #FosterCare #FosterYouth #FosterKids #FosterChildren #FosterTeens #FosterSiblings #FosterParents #FosterFamilies #FosterMothers #FosterMoms #FosterFathers #FosterDads #FosterCareMonth #FosterCare

https://www.childwelfare.gov/fostercaremonth/

💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔

🗣🙋🏾‍♀️👥 Stormy Faye The Christian Runaway

Please consider subscribing to @stormyfaye and @stormy_faye or visiting my bio link (https://linktr.ee/stormyfaye).

My tip donations CashApp: $stormyfaye12 and my social links are there.

#StormyFayeTheChristianRunaway

#FaithForTheJourney

[theadoptionoption]

Look what came in the mail today! Peter Mutabazi's new book titled: "Now I am known". Definitely looking forward to reading it!! Check out Peter's page at: @fosterdadflipper #adoption #fostercare #fostercareadoption #adoptionfromfostercare #newbook #biography #fosterdad #adoptiveparent #book https://www.instagram.com/p/CiV7EOgOrgK/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=