#wholsesome

[meirlle]

Does this actually work?

[famouscreatorwolfcalzone]

DeceptiDads Pt 1

TFP Knockout x Breakdown x Platonic Child Human Reader

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my first official post for a completed ch. 1!

I hope you guys like it! its long-maybe annoyingly so! Sorry!

warnings: mentions of abuse and war

Your little legs burned, struggling over the uneven, rocky terrain of the Nevada desert. Loose gravel slipped under your mismatched shoes—one a tattered slip-on you’d grabbed in a panic, the other a sneaker held together with duct tape and hope. Neither helped as the dirt roads gave way to cracked stone and thorny brush, sharp enough to snag your too-big jacket.

You’d slipped away from Jasper hours ago, the town’s lights long swallowed by the wild. Your backpack, heavy with your carefully chosen treasures, weighed on your shoulders. A crumpled box of fruit-themed bandages. Two water bottles, one now empty. A couple of snack packs, already half-gone. Your small, scratched-up whiteboard and markers, your only voice. And your baby blanket, ratty, full of holes, but warm with love. 

You did have one thing that wasn't all yours. One of your moms lighters. It seemed like a good last second decision, she always kept one by the door to smoke so it was easy to grab.

You knew about stranger danger—school lessons, cartoon villains. Staying visible meant risking someone spotting you. An adult. Someone who’d drag you back. Home. So you stayed low, a shadow in the scrub, ducking behind bushes at every engine roar or crunch of tires. Now, the road was gone, lost to rock formations and creaking, wind-bent trees. No cars. No people. Just you, the desert, and the orange smear of sunset.

Your legs shook, lips cracked and dry. You fished out your last water bottle, taking a careful sip, the plastic warm in your hands. A cave would be nice—a hideout, like a cartoon hobo with a stick and a sack. You’d find a tin can, cook beans over a fire. You’d survive. Because this—alone, hungry, cold—was better than going back.

At least, that's what your eight year old mind could reason out.

———————————

The desert wind whistled low across the ridges, kicking up sand and dead leaves from the brush. Sunset threw long shadows over the cracked earth, and far above the fading heat shimmer, something massive moved between the trees.

Breakdown’s footfalls were heavy, deliberate—each one sending small clouds of dust curling up behind him. He wasn’t worried about stealth. This was just another simple energon scout run. 

His scanner pinged—faint residuals, barely worth the trip. Knock Out had stayed behind, sweet-talking his way out with that velvet voice.

“Oh, won’t you go for me, Blue? Please?” he’d purred, batting his optics, fresh from a buffing session. Breakdown had grumbled but caved. Always did.

“Still sayin’ it’s this way,” he grumbled to himself. “Still sayin’ you should’ve come too, Pretty-Boy.”

He paused and scanned the horizon again, optics narrowing.

That’s when he picked up a sound. 

Not a machine. Not a signal. Just the faint little steps of something nearby, clearly struggling in this terrain. Not mechanical, so not another bot. Organic maybe? A human? 

A sound stopped him. Faint, scuffling close by, on the brush and rocks. It sounded small, organic.

Human? His targeting sensors twitched, locking onto something small, warm, moving without purpose. Post-MECH, humans set his plating on edge—those butchers had carved out his eye, leaving him scarred. But this was no MECH operative.

He veered off the Energon trail, veering around a rock wall and pushing past some trees, his armor scraping bark. Then he saw her.

A tiny human girl, scrambling to try to climb a small rock formation, scuffling on tiny hands and knees. Her oversized jacket dragged, sleeves flapping, her backpack swaying like it outweighed her. Tangled hair hid her dirt-smeared face, her breaths heavy, like she was fighting for every one. 

She didn’t notice him, too focused on not falling. Breakdown blinked his single optic, stepping closer. No Autobots, no humans, no signals. Alone? In this wasteland?

“Gotta be a trap,” he growled, remembering Bulkhead’s human—Miko, if his processor remembered correctly, was loud and reckless, always glued to her bot. This one was different, even as it failed its climb, it was quiet, not fussing about or calling for help.

He crouched, careful not to crunch the brush and have her bolt. He watched her struggle a few moments more before he reached over a servo. 

Giving her a light poke to the back of her head. She jolted with a gasp, stumbling back onto the dirt with a small yelp—no scream, no running. Just big, wide eyes staring up at him, breathing hard through her nose another small gasp as she saw him. One small arm slightly trembling in front of her, her only shield. Wide eyes flickering at each part of him. 

“What kinda pet wanders this far from its Autobot?” he muttered, optic narrowing. Bulkhead’s kid was never alone—her and the wrecker seemed inseparable, connected at the pede. This one was alone. 

He hooked a servo around one of the straps on her backpack and lifted her off the ground like a stray tool. She dangled there, limp in the air, barely reacting beyond a small grunt and a tighter grip on her fraying straps. The only sounds were the soft creak of worn fabric and the faint rasp of her breathing.

Her legs swayed slightly as the wind caught her coat, too big for her frame. But she didn’t flail. Didn’t scream. Just hung there—like this happened all the time.

Her eyes met his optic and didn’t look away. 

Wide. Dust-smeared. Unblinking. 

Her fast, soft little breaths are the only thing his audio receptors are picking up.

Afraid but silent.

“Where’s your leash, huh?” he muttered, giving her a small shake. “Bulkhead lose ya?”

Nothing. Not even a flinch. Just a slow, slight tilt of her head like she hadn’t understood him—or maybe she had, but didn’t know how to answer.

Breakdown scanned the area again.

Still nothing. No heat signatures, no movement in the brush, no Autobot signatures hiding behind a rock ready to shout and charge.

This is the worst trap I’ve ever seen, he thought. Or... it wasn’t a trap at all.

He grumbled low in his throat, venting warm air.

Lowering her slowly, he released the strap, letting her drop gently onto the packed dirt. Her knees buckled from the weight of the backpack and she hit the ground with a soft oof. Still no crying. Still no scrambling to run.

She just sat there, small and quiet, and looked up at him like he was something out of a cartoon she half-remembered from better days.

Breakdown squinted at her, annoyed at the stillness, the softness.

“Seriously? You gonna just sit there?”

Nothing. Not even a shrug.

He scowled and straightened to his full height with a heavy clunk of metal shifting back into place. A final look—then he turned, stomping away toward the trees.

“Whatever... not my problem.”

Each step sent small clouds of dust curling behind him.

He didn’t look back.

Didn’t care.

Shouldn’t care.

Decepticons don’t play babysitter.

Right?

——————-

Breakdowns pedes were on autopilot as he stared at the data pad in front of him, leading him to the signals strongest point. 

As he got back to the mission at hand, his processor couldn’t help but think back to that tiny human. 

He thinks back to Bulkhead and Miko again.

 Bulkhead’s pet was loud and energetic. It even had brightly colored fur on top of its helm. The times he met the pet there wasn’t one time it wasn’t obnoxious and screaming or trying to run, always trying to poke their pesky selves into Cybertronian business.

But Tiny?

You were the first human to not run screaming at the sight of him. 

…what does that mean?

His pedes slowed as he thought, not noticing the little follower behind him. 

——————————

You’d learned long ago: Stay still, stay quiet. That was the rule. It hadn’t always saved you—bruises and other cuts and gashes under your jacket proved that—but it seemed to be working now, on this giant robot man.

He was massive, a cartoon come to life, his blue metal scarred and glinting in the fading light. One eye was gone, just a dark socket, but his grip, when he’d lifted you, was careful, not cruel. You’d frozen, heart pounding, too scared to cry, but he hadn’t hurt you. Just talked—strange words like Autobot, Bulkhead, pet. None of it made sense, but his voice was deep, steady, not angry.

When he set you down and walked away, you slid off the rock, backpack thumping against your spine. 

This wasn’t the escape you’d imagined—but, you weren’t home. She wasn’t here. And that made it better… even if you still hurt.

You padded after him, his loud steps masking your smaller ones. He moved fast, forcing your little legs to jog, the desert’s chill as the sun was setting and starting to creep into your bones. Pet? Did he think you were an animal?

You stayed close, weaving through the brush, your sneakers catching on stray rocks and roots as you followed him through the giant rock formations in the desert. 

You were just wandering, but he seemed like he had a plan, so following him made some sense. Also he was a giant robot, very cool (and slightly scary) to you, any kid would want to stay with him.

You wondered if he was alone, like you. If there were more like him—giant, metal, scarred. You noticed his eyepatch right away, one side of his head missing a yellow glow. 

The thought made your chest tight, but not with just fear, with the thrill of an adventure, like the kind you'd read about in story books. 

You two walked for a bit when you came upon an alcove, some vegetation covering the ground and a small stream flowing through it.

He slowed, and you misjudged, bumping into his giant heel with a soft thunk. You froze, looking up, your whiteboard clutched tight in case you needed to write something.

——————-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Feeling a small tink on the back of his pede, he whips his helm around, to see you, right at his heels. 

“…Tiny?” 

      He quickly snaps his denta shut. Scrap, That’s the first mistake. You name it, you get attached to it. 

…Also, when did he start using that fragging name?

You blink up at him, wide eyed, looking between him and the opening that leads into the alcove.

Breakdown let out an annoyed groan, the Energon ping nagging his processor like a bad comm loop. He shook his helm, turning away. He'd rather not outright squish the human. 

In fact, he’s always seen those under him as valuable.

Vehicons were allies, friends—he’d always thought so, unlike the higher-ups who scrapped their own. But a human? That was a step too far.

Still, his pedes hesitated. 

She was quiet, small, following him around right on his pedes like the sparklings he’d watched over on Cybertron, before the war tore it all apart. 

His servo brushed his optic scar, MECH’s cold table flashing in his memory. Humans were trouble. 

Shaking his helm one last time, He stomped toward the Energon signal, forcing focus. The data pad’s pings grew stronger, leading to a far part of the wall in the alcove. 

He tucked it away, shifting his servos to hammers, and glanced over his shoulder. 

The girl stood a few paces back, clutching a white rectangle, eyes wide, cautious but steady.

 “Stay back, Tiny, unless ya wanna get squished,” he chuckled as he threw those words over his shoulder, but his gruff voice had a hint of underlying seriousness to it. 

His hammers tore through the rock, carving a jagged cave. Dust billowed, stinging his optic, but he paused to clear debris, checking the pad. Soon, blue crystals peeked from the walls—small, faint, barely worth the effort. He started prying them free, each clunk of crystal against his servo grounding him. Mission. Duty. Not some stray human. 

Just as he collected the last chunk of energon crystals, A comm buzzed in his helm. Knock Out’s voice purring through a hint of huff and impatience. 

“Blue, darling, tell me you’ve found a huge vein of energon because normally you would have called in by now. This medbay’s dull without you.”

Breakdown chuckled, glancing at Tiny, who was down by the little stream, splashing water on her face. “Nah, Red, nothin’ like that. Just a few crystals, barely a haul. Signal kept fadin’ on me.” A half-truth—he wasn’t sure if he should even mention the human. 

Knock Out’s huff crackled through the comm. “Fading signals? You’re slipping, love. I swear, if you’re out there denting your finish for scraps…” He trailed off, a playful edge hiding the worry Breakdown knew too well. “Get those crystals loaded and call for a bridge. I’m not dragging my polish through that dust to fetch you.”

He glanced at Tiny. Her small form was still by the stream, but her bag was off her back now, the white board she had balanced on her knees as she swayed her feet in the cool water of the stream. She seemed to be drawing something.

 He felt his spark twinge for a nanoklick---scrap.

“Fine, but you do the buffing for two cycles,” Knock Out shot back, voice dripping with mock indignation. The comm cut off, leaving Breakdown with the desert’s quiet and Tiny’s silent stare. He vented, shaking his helm. What was he gonna do with her?

Breakdown stood, the Energon shards heavy in his subspace, his optic lingering on Tiny.

Tiny stood as well, bare feet splashing from the water and getting covered in sand trotting over to him. She had that white board with her again, holding it up above her as high as she could to show the con. 

Breakdown tried to be dismissive, was determined to put a pede forward and just walk around her, but again, he felt his spark. As hard as he tried, he didn't think he'd be able to just ignore her and leave. 

Pinching the brow of his helm, he let out a frustrated groan, and lowered himself on one knee, defeated. Betrayed by his own spark. 

He had to really peer at her drawing, it being so tiny compared to him. But he could faintly make out through the squibbles that it must've been him.  A big blue blocky figure—him, maybe, with one big eye and a hammer. He snorted, almost amused. “Got me all wrong, Tiny. I ain’t that boxy.”

She looked up, eyes bright but silent, clutching the board like a shield. No words, just that stare, like she was waiting for him to decide her fate. 

His spark twinged, harder this time. Humans needed… stuff, didn’t they? Human Food, water, shelter. He knew how easily humans broke after fighting off MECH with Bulkhead.

  But the thought of Knock Out’s teasing smirk, that glint in his crimson optics that could cut through any gloom, made Breakdown pause, his servo hovering over the human. 

Those steady servos—precise, unyielding—had patched him up after MECH’s cold tables, when humans had carved out his eye, leaving him broken and raging in a haze of pain.

 Knock Out had worked through a whole Earth night cycle in the Nemesis medbay, his usual flair muted, his touch gentle as he welded plating back together, whispering, 

“Can’t have my Blue looking like scrap, can I?” That care, that stubborn refusal to let him fall apart, had pulled Breakdown from the edge. 

Red got it—saving what shouldn’t be saved, fighting for what the war would crush. 

Tiny, with her wide eyes and silent stare, was like that: a fragile thing, alone in the desert, no Autobot to guard her, no one to care. Like he’d been, before Knock Out’s smirk became his anchor. Another twinge, a glitch of guilt and something softer, as he glanced at her small form in front of him, clutching her tattered blanket. 

“Alright, Tiny,” he rumbled, standing and looking around the cavern. He went over to some stray boulders, grabbing each with ease and setting them up in a crude shelter-like shape by the stream. Just a roof and three walls with a sand floor. 

it looked solid, and good enough to block out the wind. “Can’t let ya freeze out here.”

He snatched up a good pile of nearby vegetation and some dead shrubs. Piling them in front of the little rock house.

“Alright. One cozy little inferno, comin’ up.”

He aimed carefully—well, as carefully as a Decepticon artillery unit could aim at a campfire-sized pile of sticks—and charged the cannon. Just before firing, he glanced back at her.

She was watching. Of course she was. Wide eyes, shivering, huddled.

“Uh—might wanna, I dunno… cover your eyes. And ears. Maybe turn around, unless you wanna lose your tiny fleshy…everything?.”

He said it quickly, casually, like it wasn’t his first time saying those exact words to a Vehicon with bad timing. Then he added:

“Won’t take long.”

You nodded and obediently turned around, hands over your ears, head ducked.

Breakdown smirked. That was cute, you took an order instantly, better than some vehicons under his command.

With the barest flick of power, he fired—not a full blast, just enough to ignite the brush without blowing it halfway across the canyon. The fire caught instantly, crackling to life in a little orange bloom of warmth and light.

Satisfied, Breakdown stepped back, folding his cannon away with a click and crossing his arms.

You peeked back at the fire, eyes lighting up as you scooted closer, holding out your hands toward the flames with a little sigh. Still no words, but for the first time, you looked… maybe not safe, but comfortable. Almost. The smallest smile on your face.

Breakdown blinked.

“Well… guess that worked.”

A pause.

“You’re welcome, by the way.”

He watched as something clicked behind your eyes—like a lightbulb finally flipping on. You blinked up at him, then held up one tiny finger, a little wait right there gesture.

You turned back to the whiteboard at your side, clutching the marker with both hands. The drawing you’d made earlier—of him, rough and boxy with a single eye and big fists—got a quick swipe from your sleeve, vanishing in squeaky little circles.

Breakdown tilted his helm, curious.

You wrote carefully. Slowly. Tongue poking out in concentration, brow furrowed like this was serious business. When you finished, you capped the marker with a pop, double-checked your work, and stood.

Hopping up from your spot by the fire, you trotted over and held the whiteboard up high—on your tiptoes, like maybe you could actually reach his chestplate if you tried hard enough.

He looked down.

Two words, drawn neat and straight with a little smile beside them:

‘Thank you! :)’

His optic whirred softly.

“…Huh.”

His comm cut back in.

“Okay, you big lug, finally got Soundwave unstuck and managed to reroute a ground bridge to your location. You're welcome, by the way. It’s coming in now.”

Behind him, the hum started low, then swelled into the familiar whoomp of opening energy. The air rippled with heat as green light painted the alcove, the breeze from the vortex stirring sand and leaves in small circles.

Tiny jumped at the sound, spinning around with wide eyes, nearly dropping her whiteboard as she stared at the swirling portal like it was pure magic.

Breakdown huffed a low chuckle.

“Thanks, Pretty Boy,” he muttered into the comm.

From the other end, Knock Out gave a knowing, amused little laugh before signing off with a static flick.

Breakdown turned back to Tiny. She was staring up at the ground bridge now, whiteboard hugged to her chest, jaw slightly slack.

He crouched, servos bracing into the dirt for balance as he leaned in closer.

“Gotta head back, Tiny. You… stay here, alright? Don't wander….”

You nodded once, fast and serious, like this was the most important thing anyone had ever told you. Your hands gripped the board tighter, fingers curling in the frayed sleeves of your jacket. Big eyes. Quiet trust.

Breakdown felt it again—that weird little pinch in his spark that had started the second she didn’t run screaming.

Scrap. I’m gettin’ soft.

He lingered longer than he meant to—just watching her. Quiet, still, trusting. That stupid little whiteboard still clutched to her chest.

He should’ve walked away already.

This should be the last time he saw her. He shouldn't have helped her. Not this much. Not at all.

But tonight had been full of weird spark-tugs, hesitations, and confusion. Instincts at war with protocol.

He straightened slowly, armor creaking as he turned toward the glowing swirl of the ground bridge. Its energy crackled against the rocks, casting long shadows across the desert floor.

“I’ll… check on ya tomorrow…”

The words came out before he could stop them. He hesitated. Was he lying?

He should be.

But his pedes were already moving, carrying him into the swirling light. The hum of the vortex surrounded him, filling his audials with static as the portal swallowed him whole.

He dragged a servo down his faceplate, venting hard.

Why? Why now?

He’d never felt like this—not for those loud Autobot brats clinging to Bulkhead or Arcee. He barely got a chance to glance at those ones before it was time to throw punches and dodge blaster fire.

But Tiny?

Tiny had been alone. Struggling. Weak.

And Breakdown had always had a soft spot for the weak, hadn’t he?

His mind drifted—back further than it had in vorns.

Before the Decepticons. Before the war. Back to his own early days on Cybertron, when he was a scrawny little thing constantly getting knocked around. Back when he started fighting—not just for the thrill of it, but to survive. To protect.

His old district had been rough. Not much energon. Too many younglings without supervision. And somehow, it fell to him to look out for the ones smaller than him. He’d gotten bigger, tougher, meaner—but it had always been for them.

Then Megatron came. Promising strength. Order. Power. The chance to protect on a bigger scale.

Breakdown hadn’t been swayed by words. He challenged the warlord to a duel. If Megatron could overpower him—fine, he’d join.

Megatron did.  And Breakdown will never forget it.

That’s why he was loyal.

That’s why he left.

To protect the weak. To fight on the side that wouldn’t let the little ones he cared for fall between the cracks.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The giant, crackling portal fizzled shut with a whirring hum, and just like that—he was gone. 

The blue giant disappeared into the light, and the strange buzzing in the air faded with it.

For a while, you just stared at the empty space where he’d stood. It didn’t feel real.

Then the quiet crept back in—soft desert sounds returning like nothing had happened. The babbling stream nearby, the crackle of the fire he made for you, the wind rustling sand through the little rock alcove. All of it settled around you, reminding you that yes, you were still here. And yes… that just really happened.

You sit down slowly, hugging your blanket tighter, processing the day.

You ran away. Like… for real.

You've found out there are huge living metal robots that exist. Are they magic or from space? 

Or is there a scientist somewhere that made them??

You made friends with one!! He was so cool. Like, really big and loud and made of armor, but not scary the way most grownups are. 

And he didn’t get mad when you didn’t talk. He just talked to you. Even gave you a nickname! “Tiny.” You like it. You might even keep it.

For some reason, he can turn his hands into big hammers and destroy rocks! He picked up a bunch of giant blue glowing crystals, and, you guess, got a call from someone as he said a few words not to you.

 was it another robot??

You'll have to ask him later. It's a good thing you brought a few extra markers along with your white board, you'll probably run them all dry with all the questions buzzing around in your little skull. 

You glance up through the opening of the alcove’s rock ceiling, the night sky staring back at you through a giant hole in the rock, bright stairs twinkling and the moon glowing brightly. 

You shuffle over to the corner, tucking yourself into the coziest nook you can find. Sand brushed from your feet, shoes back on, blanket wrapped tight around your shoulders. The warmth of the fire feels like another blanket, heavier and safer than the one you're holding.

Your body starts to melt under the weight of the day. The walking. The fear. The surprise. The excitement. You don’t remember your eyes closing—but they do.

And just before sleep pulls you under, your thoughts drift to him.

Big Blue.

That’s his name now. That’s what you’ll call him.

You smile a little, buried in warmth and firelight, your last thought soft and safe:

He said he’d come back.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning, you woke up slowly, blinking at the pale light spilling over your face. For a second, you expected to be in your bed—your real one, at home. Maybe the whole thing had just been a really cool dream. Maybe Big Blue was just something your brain made up.

You yawned, rubbing the sleep from your eyes with tiny fists.

Then your hand brushed gritty sand. Your fingers scraped dry rock.

You froze.

Your eyes shot open fully this time—and the dream didn’t go away.

The rock alcove was still around you, rough and silent except for the soft trickle of the stream. Your blanket was still wrapped tight around you, warm from the leftover heat of the fire. The sky above was light blue now, not quite morning-morning but close. The embers in the fire pit still glowed softly.

It was real. All of it.

And your stomach picked that exact moment to let out a dramatic growl.

You scuttled over to your backpack and unzipped it fast, hoping maybe there was more inside than you remembered. Inside you saw less than what you packed for food. 

You were able to fill your water bottles back up from the stream, but you only had one more snack pack left. 

You sat back on your heels with a sigh. The kind that made your shoulders drop a little. Then tore into the meal with your tiny hands. Crackers. That squishy little square of processed cheese. A few meat slices that tasted kinda like ham, kinda like plastic. And a brownie square that, despite being kind of stale, still made your eyes go wide.

You chewed faster than you meant to—hunger winning out. But as the food filled your belly, something else started crawling up from underneath it.

A weird twisty feeling. Not from the meal, but from… thinking.

You really ran away.

This wasn’t pretend. This wasn’t you hiding in the closet or going to the end of the street. This was the desert. The middle of nowhere. And no one had found you yet.

You thought about home. About her.

Did she know you were gone?

Had she gone to your room? Had she even noticed?

Would she be mad? Would she cry?

…Or would she smile?

You hoped it was that one. Then, maybe she'd finally gotten what she always wanted, she'd stop being angry with you.

She’d said it often enough, hadn’t she?

You rubbed your eyes again, but not because you were sleepy.

You tried not to think about it. About her voice. About how the louder she got, the quieter you had to become just to survive it.

Instead, you looked up at the sky again, squinting.

Big Blue said he’d come back.

You believed him. He was the first one you actually wanted to come back.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hours passed.

Anyone else might’ve gotten bored. Really bored. Especially an eight-year-old stuck in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing but rocks and sand.

But not you.

You’d had practice.

You were used to keeping yourself busy, used to quiet, used to being alone. You’d walked yourself to school most days. Packed your own bag. Scrounged up whatever food was still left in the fridge. You were always the one who made sure the door was locked. That the lights were off.

You learned how to keep busy. 

You’d learned how to wait. How to sit still. How to stay quiet without feeling the quiet too much.

And sometimes—sometimes—you even had books.

They were your favorite thing in the whole house. 

Some were from school or picked up from neighbors who gave them away. You loved them all. You read every page more than once. Some so many times that you could quote parts by memory.

Plus, always having to write on a whiteboard and reading so much meant you were actually good at something! You had the neatest penmanship in your grade, the best spelling skills and very high reading level. 

You liked to read. Reading time at school had always been your favorite.

No noise. No yelling. No one asking you why you didn’t talk.

But silence didn't always mean comfort. 

Only the silence the lived at home. It was cold. Heavy.

 It crawled across your skin and got inside your head. That kind of silence wasn’t really silent at all. It had its own kind of noise—like buzzing. Like a thousand whispering voices, none of them kind. 

It was the kind of silence that reminded you you were alone even when someone else was there.

That silence was unbearable.

Your books were your escape from that. It replaced that dreadful drone and squeezed in your chest with joy. You were able to escape into those fictional worlds and get lost there, not coming back till you were forced too. 

You tried not to think about the books you’d left behind. You had wanted to grab them—so badly—but the only way to get to your little bookshelf was to pass through the living room. And she’d been there, passed out cold

No book was worth waking her.

So here you were, making use of your time in a desert alcove. 

You started by drawing on your whiteboard again—another doodle of Big Blue, his hands transformed into massive hammers, smashing boulders and towering debris. But before long, you ran out of space.

You didn’t want to erase your work. Not yet. Not when it made you smile every time you looked at it. You also really wanted to show Big Blue when he came back. 

So you turned to the world around you.

The sand that blanketed the ground suddenly became your new canvas. You grabbed a few sticks and started small—flowers, suns, little swirls. 

But then you noticed how much room you actually had. You made big, looping spirals and winding paths, dotting the lines with pebbles and other things scattered about. 

Soon, you were sculpting lumpy sandcastles near the stream. The sand wasn’t perfect, but it was soft enough to shape. You made humps and hills, valleys and dams, turning the whole stretch of dirt into your own little kingdom. Twigs became people. Flat stones were ships or buildings. You even paused once to watch a lizard dart past, its tiny toes kicking up dust as it ran.

You didn’t have a lot of toys back home. And nothing—not even in your books, compared to this feeling. A feeling of being free, no overbearing shadow that you would have to eventually return too. 

But as the sun rose higher, the heat started to press against your skin. Even in the shade, it made your head feel fuzzy. You were just debating taking off your jacket when—

RRRRMMMMMM.

You froze.

A low rumble echoed in the distance.

Was that… an engine?

A car?

The joy drained from you all at once.

Your stomach twisted in a way that made you want to throw up. Did someone find you? Was this one of the roads leading out from Jasper?

Panic kicked in hard.

You bolted. You didn’t even look down, didn’t notice as your feet trampled through the artwork you’d made, sticks snapping, rocks scattering. Your sandcastles were crushed in an instant.

You grabbed your backpack. Your whiteboard. Hugged them tight to your chest. One of the plastic corners dug into your already bruised body, it hurt but you didn't care.

Hiding was more important. Staying unseen was always more important.

The car’s engine roared louder. Then closer. And closer still—until it stopped.

Right on the other side of the rock wall.

You sucked in a breath.

And held it.

Your thoughts were screaming.

Was it a police car? Would they take you back? Would they yell? Would they hit you?

...Was it her?

Your fingers dug into the straps of your backpack. You shook so hard your teeth clacked together. You knew what would happen next. It was always like this. The shaking would start. Then the wheezing. Then the gasping.

You closed your eyes tight. Tried to squeeze yourself into nothing.

You didn’t hear the metallic shifting. Or the weighty footsteps drawing closer. Not until they were right there—just outside the alcove, behind the little shelter you were pressed against.

And then—

CRASH.

Something huge and metal slammed into the sand just in front of your opening. It was a loud, bone-rattling sound. You flinched hard, your whole body curling tighter.

Slowly, you peeked one eye open.

A dark, twisted hunk of metal lay in the sand outside—broken glass glinting in the sun. It looked like a… well, a hunk of metal, a badly bent one.

And then you heard it.

That voice.

Low. Gruff. Familiar.

“…Tiny?”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As Breakdown stepped into the alcove and didn’t immediately see your little frame, his spark dropped like a rock in his chest.

His optic went wide, scanning fast, sweeping the space.

Where is she?

Where’s Tiny?

Did she wander off?

Did something happen?

Did one of those Earth wildlife things—coyotes, wolves, whatever—sniff her out?

But then, as his processor raced with worst-case scenarios, he caught sight of something that made him slow.

The sand.

Swirls and spirals drawn into it.

Crushed sticks sticking up out of the sediment. Tiny crumbled mounds by the stream. Lines traced with pebbles all around. Shapes only a sparkling would’ve thought to make.

It had to be you.

Relieved but still tense, he stepped forward carefully, a half-smashed vending machine gripped in one servo. He’d ripped it out of some run-down gas station on the way here—figured you’d probably be hungry. 

He dropped it where the fire had been last night. The metal box hit the ground with a heavy, echoing crash.

A moment passed. Then another.

“…Tiny?” he called.

He tried to keep his voice even. Calm. Not too gruff. Not too worried.

Then came a sound—a tiny gasp, followed by shuffling, sand shifting. A small head peeked out from the rock shelter.

There you were.

Your wide eyes scanned the space, then the wrecked vending machine, and finally—him.

And the second you saw him, you smiled.

Just like that, all the tension in his frame seemed to drain out of him. The tightness in his chestplate eased. You were okay.

You shimmied past the vending machine, careful of the glass, around the little house and threw yourself straight into his pede with little arms outstretched—hugging the giant metal limb like it was a tree trunk.

Breakdown froze.

You were… hugging him?

He stood stock-still, servos slightly raised, like you were made of energon glass and he wasn’t sure what would break first: you or his composure.

“Huh…”

No Autobots had found you. No angry human search parties. No wandering off.

You were still here. For some reason you stayed put like he'd asked. 

His vents cycled out a long, quiet breath. The tension eased from his shoulders.

He couldn’t help it—his faceplates shifted into something dangerously close to a smile.

His one optic softened just a bit.

He started to lower a servo toward you, thinking maybe to pat your head, but before he could, you suddenly bounced backward and held up one finger.

Wait! You darted back to the little shelter and crawled inside.

He blinked.

Had he startled you?

No—your movements were too deliberate. You were thinking.

Curious, he stepped around the drawings you’d made in the sand (accidentally stepping on a spiral or two—scrap, sorry), and sat down with a loud creak near where he had the night before.

You emerged again, hugging the whiteboard to your chest, beaming. Holding it out to him like a trophy. The highest you could. 

He leaned in and saw the new drawing.

It was him again—this time mid-swing, his hammer-arms obliterating a wall of boulders. There were little motion lines, and even some flying debris. But the best part?

Right above it was a hand-drawn arrow pointing to him with the caption: “BIG BLUE!”

Breakdown let out a low chuckle.

So that’s what you’d been calling him, huh?

It was… honestly kind of perfect.

He gave a small smirk, resting his servos on his knees.. “Heh. Kinda cute.” it was true, he was big and blue. Something that he didn't complain about, and neither did Knockout.

He smirked and lowered his helm a bit. “Name’s Breakdown, by the way. You got a real name, Tiny?”

You nodded, eager, and wiped the board clean with your sleeve. Then you scribbled out your real name in neat, practiced letters.

Breakdown tilted his head, repeating it slowly.

It sounded clunky forming on his glossa. Earth names always did.

He snorted softly. “Hmm. Weird name. Think I’ll stick to calling you Tiny… that okay?”

You giggled, nodding. Then you erased the board and quickly scrawled another message.

You held it up proudly:

“Well I think Breakdown’s a weird name too!”

He barked a laugh. A real one.

Primus, you were a strange little human.

But… not a bad one.

Your laughter bubbled up again—but it was cut off as your stomach growled, long and loud, reminding both of you that breakfast hadn’t happened yet.

Breakdown’s smirk twisted into a full grin as he pointed a digit toward the crumpled vending machine.

“I dunno what you things eat, but there’s some crinkly junk in there. Stolen it from one of those pit stops you seem to infest. Saw lots of humans going up to it…figred it would be worth ringing here.”

You turn where he points and finally get a better look at what he brought. It’s a badly mangled vending machine—dented in the middle where his grip had crushed the casing, its glass shattered completely. But the snacks inside are still visible, scattered across the metal shelves in a disorganized pile of salty chips, colorful candy, and plastic-wrapped pastries.

You set your whiteboard down with a little bounce and approach the machine, steps slow and careful now as you tiptoe around the broken glass glittering in the sand. Breakdown watches as you lean over its edge, your tiny arms stretching as far as they can, fingers twitching just short of the nearest snack bag.

You’re barely half the size of the vending machine. And to him, you look even smaller.

He lets out a quiet ex-vent and shifts his weight, more comfortable now in his seated position. His armor plates creak softly as he relaxes, chin resting in one servo while he watches you with a strange softness.

Primus. You're so small.

That thought just keeps circling back around. Over and over. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it.

And then, before he can stop it, another feeling creeps in—warm and slow, curling deep within his spark chamber.

He’s felt it before.

A long time ago.

It hits him harder than expected, watching you reach for a snack with your tongue poking from the corner of your mouth in concentration. Something about the scene—so simple, so peaceful—shakes loose an old memory from the back of his processor.

Back when he used to watch over the sparklings in his old district. The little ones would scurry around the alleys, drawing in dust and chalk, stacking scrap metal into castles and laughing until their vocalizers crackled.

He’d always bring them extra energon cubes when he could get them. He’d sit with them, listening to their endless chatter, letting them climb over him like he was part of the playground. He’d been the biggest thing in their world—and the safest.

It hadn’t been about war then. Or glory.

It had been about them.

And as he watches you dig out a small bag of pretzels, eyes lighting up, cheeks puffed with effort and pride—

It hits him.

He misses them.

He misses all of them so much.

Before any lubricant could shed, he's snapped out of the memory by the sound of your footsteps returning. You plop down in front of him again with your hard-won snack in hand, peeling open the plastic with a victorious little grin.

One hand stuffs your face with food, the other busily scribbles something on your whiteboard again.

He leans forward, peering past the bulk of his own chassis to see what you're writing.

‘Thank you Blue!’

Another thank you. Sweet and simple.

He lets out a small vent of air—a chuckle, almost. Pride stirs in his spark, swelling and warm, and a wider smile pulls across his faceplate. It felt good. Really good. To provide. To protect. To make something easier for someone else.

It had been a long time since he’d felt that.

He still had his Conjunx, sure. Knock Out was his partner, his equal. But the red racer didn’t need him in the same way. Not like this.

There was something different—something deeper—about looking after someone so small. So dependent.

Breakdown was starting to realize that helping you… was filling a space in him he hadn’t even known was empty. 

Before he knew it, you’d already scarfed down the entire bag of snacks—crumbs on your fingers, cheeks puffed with the last bite. Without missing a beat, you picked up your whiteboard again, the marker squeaking softly as you wrote something new.

Breakdown stayed quiet this time, giving you space to concentrate. His optic followed your every motion, curious but patient.

You capped the marker, stood up with a determined little bounce, and held the board up as high as your arms could reach.

‘I have lots of questions to ask you. Can I please?’

Breakdown stared at the message for a klik.

Then he huffed a quiet laugh, his shoulders shaking just a little. Primus, you really were something.

He nodded, a smirk tugging at one side of his faceplate. “Yeah, alright. Hit me with ‘em, Tiny.”

That’s how the rest of your day went.

You with your whiteboard, scribbling question after question—your curiosity endless. And him, giant and gruff and surprisingly patient, answering every single one.

You learned he was an alien. A real one. From a metal planet called Cybertron where everything—buildings, skies, even the ground—was metal. He said the idea of soft things like grass or flesh still made his processor itch.

And that engine you’d heard yesterday? That had been him. He could transform.

It took some explaining, but eventually he offered to show you. Leading you out of the alcove, he gave a quiet “Stand back,” before his parts began to shift. The grinding, clicking, folding sound echoed through the air like thunder. You watched, mouth wide, as his massive frame folded and twisted in on itself—

Until where Breakdown once stood, now sat a huge armored vehicle, the same blue and gray metal with a big front bumper and reinforced windows. A military truck? A transport van? You couldn’t tell exactly. He didn’t know either—just said it was the first “mean-looking Earth vehicle” he scanned when he arrived.

Your eyes sparkled, practically bouncing on your toes as you walked around his alt mode, inspecting every detail. He chuckled lowly through his speakers, clearly amused.

Then he showed off.

It started slow—just a roll forward, revving his engine loud enough to rattle your bones. Then he picked up speed, making wide donuts in the desert sand. Kicking up dust like a sandstorm. Spinning sharp corners with expert control.

He never got too close. Always careful to keep a wide radius around you. But you laughed so hard your sides hurt, clapping and jumping and cheering every time he pulled off something extra flashy. You don't remember the last time you ever laughed like this.

It made something in his spark ache—in a good way.

When you eventually scribbled on your board, “Can I ride with you next time?”, he went quiet.

“Sorry, Tiny,” he rumbled through his external speaker. “Too dangerous. You wouldn’t even reach the pedals.” You pouted, just a little.

But he promised to drive again tomorrow. For a performance. Just for you.

He ushered you back into the alcove, a careful nudge from his big metal servo at your back. “That’s enough for today,” he rumbled, though his voice wasn’t stern—more like he was worried.

He’d noticed the flush creeping into your cheeks from standing out in the hot sun. His vents kept him cool, but you were human. Soft. Fragile. Breakable in ways he didn’t fully understand. The thought of you overheating made his spark clench.

You both sat back down in the shade. This time, he was the one asking the questions.

Things about you. About Earth. What was your favorite food? Why did humans need to drink so much water? Why were clothes made out of so many different things? And—he squinted his optic—why did humans only have fur on the tops of their heads but nowhere else?

You giggled at that one, the sound making the corner of his mouthplate twitch. It was funny explaining things you thought were obvious, but you tried your best for Big Blue. He listened closely, nodding along as he read your neat handwriting and watched your little hand gestures.

Then came the question that made you freeze.

“So… what’s up with your voice box, Tiny? Is it glitched or somethin’?”

You stilled, marker hovering in your hand. Slowly, your eyes lifted toward him, wide and uncertain—like you’d been caught doing something wrong. The joy in your face faded into something nervous.

Breakdown’s spark gave an uncomfortable twinge. He hadn’t expected that reaction. Did something serious happen to you? Was that why you didn’t talk?

A low hum of worry ran through his frame as you bent over your board, writing slower this time. His own hands twitched before hovering awkwardly in the air, halfway between wanting to comfort you and being afraid he might hurt you.

On Cybertron, when a sparkling was upset, their EM field would instinctively reach out for reassurance—touching his own field, letting him know what was wrong without a word. He’d pick them up, wrap them in the familiar hum of his presence, and hold them until they felt safe again.

But again…you were human. His field reached instinctively for yours—only to find nothing.

The absence hit him harder than he expected. It was like reaching out into the dark and realizing no one was there to reach back.

He tried to keep his cool in front of you, keeping his voice light, not wanting to upset you further. He was about to ask if you were okay, but you were already turning the board toward him.

This time, you didn’t hold it up so high. Your gaze stayed fixed on your lap, shoulders curling inward as though bracing for the answer.

The words, written in neat but uneven strokes, made something tighten in his chest.

‘Are you mad at me?’

For a moment, he just sat there, one servo hovering in the air like he’d been caught mid-motion. His optic widened despite himself. Primus, no—

“Woah, hey, kid—no, no, I’m not mad at ya.” His voice came out a little too quick, a little too loud, and he winced at himself. Awkward, great start. “I was just askin’, is all. We’re, uh… we’re gettin’ to know each other, right?”

He shifted his weight like the floor was suddenly real interesting, then crouched down more—slower this time—trying to catch your eyes without making you feel cornered. His optics darted between you and the board, like maybe it’d give him the right words.

One of his digits came up, hesitated mid-air, then tapped lightly at the top of your helm.

“Hey,” poke.

“Tiny, c’mon—” poke poke.

It wasn’t exactly the smoothest approach, but it was all he had—half teasing, half hoping you’d look up so he could figure out if he was doing this whole “comforting” thing right. He hasn't had to do this for Eon or two.

He could see your nervousness falter, a little smile coming back as he played with you. He smiles too, his chuckle coming back, more spark felt.  

“Hey…if ya want, you ask me somethin’ kay? Anything, kid” he offered, his finger still not leaving your head. You let out some tiny laughs as you tried to push his giant finger away, both your little hands on the tip of his digit. 

He backed off, the air around you both now back to normal. You picked up your marker and board, scribbling out something. 

Before you showed him, you had a shy smile on your face, you thought about his words. Getting to know each other…

You showed him what you wrote. 

‘Is your eye okay?’

He blinked at your question, servo lifting briefly to his right side of his face plate. 

It was such a simple thing you’d written, but it hit harder than he expected. For a moment, his servo twitched like he didn’t know what to do with it.

“Eh—yeah. Yeah, it’s fine,” he said, waving a hand like it was nothing. His tone was lighter than the way his field suddenly tightened. “You don’t gotta worry ‘bout that, kid. I’ve had worse.”

He shifted his weight, glancing anywhere but your face for a beat too long before leaning forward again, trying to cover the odd flutter in his spark with a smirk. “Besides… makes me look tough, huh?” a big grin on his face plate, showing all his denta.

You had your head tilted a bit at his reaction, but his question made you giggle again. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He was right, his eyepatch did make him look really tough. Everything about him made him seem tough.

When he’d asked about your voice, it hurt. It was the same sting you’d felt every other time that question came up. In school, other kids had laughed at you or called you weird. Other adults you’d met — their friendly smiles would fade into that same hesitant look — and then they’d start talking slowly and loud, like you couldn’t hear. It made you feel stupid.

And it’s not like you didn’t want to talk. You did. You tried. Forcing a voice out felt like emptying your little body of all its air, even though you were barely breathing. You just… couldn’t.

When you were little, your mom would tell you to be quiet. Show you what happens when you don’t.

But as you grew, you just… lost control of when your body wanted you to say something. Even if your mom screamed at you to speak and tears rushed down your cheeks — your brain would just fill up, jumbled and stuck.

You giggled at his full smile—he was even flexing a little, showing off how tough he was. If he could be tough with something like that… Could you, too?

Your arms curled loosely around yourself, palms resting on your own frame. Too light. Too narrow. You could almost hear your mother’s voice, the way she’d pinch at your arm or glance you up and down with that little smirk. Weaker than me, she’d say, like it was a joke. Like it was a fact. She’d remind you often, not out of concern, but as if she needed it to be true.

You had far more bruises and welts scattered over your body than he ever seemed to. Still holding the marker, you rose from your seat and padded over, resting a hand against the solid plating of his leg to get his attention.

Mid-flex, his optic flicked down toward you. He froze, lowering those massive arms. “Yeah, Tiny?”

You turned away from his gaze, fingers tugging at the cuff of your jacket. Slowly, you rolled the sleeve back—past your wrist, past your forearm—until skin mottled with faint purples and yellows was bare to the cool air. With your other hand, you raised the whiteboard so he could read it.

Then you looked back at him, a hopeful smile just barely curving your lips, as if showing him your arm might be enough to ask the question you couldn’t speak aloud.

‘Do I look tough too?’

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

[fresh-out-of-freddys]

Messy

Henry Emily x Fem!Reader

You are Charlotte’s babysitter. Or rather… were. It’s been fifteen years since she was taken from us. From her father. I’d grown quite fond of the two Emily’s so there was no way I was just going to leave Henry alone after Charlotte had passed. But of course, with time spent comes feelings.

Warnings: grief, age gap (you do the math cause I don’t wanna), mentions of Charlotte’s murder, not proof read at the moment, but I’m sure I’ll come back through eventually. I think that’s it! :)

Word Count: 5,879

•••• • —• •—• —•——

1998

It had been fifteen years since Charlotte’s death. Or rather, her murder. She did not go peacefully. Her scream still echoes through my mind. I can only imagine how Henry feels on a daily basis.

I looked over at the roses in my passenger seat. Then, turning my attention back to the road, I reached over and turned the bouquet. I didn’t want the petals folding over themselves against the back of the seat.

The host on the radio was talking far too excitedly about tomorrow’s predicted weather. If he was right, it would match the mood of today. Solemn. Today was the day it had happened. Like clockwork, I had gone to her grave with new flowers. They were bright yellow throughout the year. But only on the anniversary of her death did I change them to roses.

I hoped that it meant something. If it really was Afton that did it, I know he’s still out there. If he was sick enough to do this to her who’s to say he’s not sick enough to find her grave? Watch over it? Smile tauntingly?

My stomach dropped at the thought. My foot had grown heavy on the gas pedal in anger. So much so that I nearly missed the turn into the cemetery. I slowed way down and turned, my car climbing the hill and coasting right into my usual spot. Once I parked and the car was off, I looked in the direction of her headstone. There he was. Henry.

I took a deep breath and grabbed the flowers. Then I checked my reflection, tucking a loose hair behind my ear. Once I felt as okay as I could, I opened my door and peeled myself from the seat, moving toward Charlotte’s grave. I could see Henry’s shoulders rising and falling in a shaky pattern. I swallowed, blinking back my own wave of tears.

The air was cool. The sun was growing a deeper orange as it sank behind the tree line. Charlotte always loved this weather. This time of day. I thought back to how she would always tug on my hand, begging to go to the park. Or how she would plead with me to go see her Daddy at work. Only now do I wish I’d have given in every time.

I stepped carefully past Henry, not wanting to startle him. I reached down and plucked the dead flowers from the little purple vase and placed the fresh roses in their place. As I fluffed them up, I felt Henry suck in a pained breath, signaling to me that he had sat up. I messed with the flowers for a moment longer and then sat down on the blanket Henry had laid out long before I came.

I stared at him, honing in on the way his eyes danced across the lettering on her headstone. His face was red and tear-stained, just like it had been at her funeral. His hair was slightly awry, but more put together than usual. The light blue button down shirt he had chosen was ironed, but the buttons weren’t lined up properly and one side of the collar was folded backwards.

I smiled softly, moving to sit closer to him. My right knee bumped his left as I leaned forward and undid the uneven buttons, revealing the white undershirt he’d been wearing.

“She would’ve been twenty-two this year.” He suddenly said, his eyes still fixed to the headstone. I nodded slowly, lining up the buttons properly and started to button them back up. He absentmindedly straightened up, making my task a little easier. “I can only imagine what she would’ve accomplished by now.” I sniffed softly, the cold breeze nipping my nose.

I finished with the buttons and moved up to his collar, straightening it for him. Once I was finished, I rested my hands on the tops of his shoulders, drawing his attention to me. His eyes were half-lidded and glazed with tears not yet cried.

“You don’t have to keep doing this you know.” He said, looking back at her headstone. “I’d hate for you to think you have to keep helping us.” I shook my head and dropped my hands to my sides, maneuvering my body to sit beside him.

“Henry, there’s nothing else either of us can do for her.” I told him, nodding toward the headstone. “I don’t come for her anymore. I come for you.” Henry scoffed slightly, reaching up and pulling his glasses from his face.

“You don’t have to.” He repeated rubbing the corner of his shirt over the lenses.

“But I want to. I’ve known you longer than I’ve known most of my immediate family. I’m not just going to leave you because the reason you hired me isn’t here anymore. She wasn’t just a job. Neither are you.” I told him, keeping my voice as steady as I could. Suddenly, Henry keeled over in a heaving sob, holding his hands over his face in hopes of stifling his cry.

I rested my right hand on his back, gliding it across the expanse comfortingly. Only then did I let my tears fall. I did miss Charlotte. She and I had become very close. Henry had told me once that Charlotte looked up to me. Like I was her older sister. Or the mom she couldn’t seem to remember. That changed something in me. Like I had found a calling I didn’t realize I had. Or wanted.

I started babysitting for Mr. Emily when Charlotte was only four. I was fourteen at the time. People now would scoff at the idea of having a child watch another child. But it was a different time then. That was quite normal in the seventies and eighties. I turned eighteen just after Charlotte was killed.

At that point, I was working a dead end job at some fast food place. But every night when my shift was over, I would drive to Mr. Emily’s house and check on him. Make sure he had eaten. Help pick up the house. Take out the trash. He would always try to pay me. Hand me a few crumpled bills with trembling hands. But I never took it. I was there because I cared for him. Not because I wanted to get paid.

After a while, the sun had fully set, leaving only a light dusting of pink and orange in the sky. Henry had since settled down, just staring into nothingness. Then I noticed a navy blue box sitting on the other side of him. I nodded slightly toward it.

“What’s that?” I asked, picking at the corner of my thumbnail. Henry slowly looked over and sniffed, picking up the box and setting in front of me.

“She loved music boxes. I- I had made this one for her just before she-“ He choked, swallowing down anther soft cry.

“Can I?” I asked, reaching for the lid of the box. Henry nodded and grabbed his jacket from beside him. I lifted the lid and a small ballerina stood up from the center. It began to play, no winding necessary. The tune was enchanting. Something that I know Charlotte would’ve been humming aimlessly for weeks to come.

I suddenly felt the warmth of Henry’s jacket being draped over my shoulders as a shield from the October wind. The act brought a smile to my lips as I continued to watch the little dancer spin slowly with the music. Henry was taking slow and deep breaths from beside me and I saw him clean his glasses once again.

The tune started over and I leaned forward to close the lid. I looked over it once more before pulling his coat tighter around my shoulders and speaking.

“She would’ve loved that.” I told him. Henry nodded and looked over at me with a small smile.

“I think so too.” He replied softly. “We should go. It’s getting chilly.” He stood up, offering his hand to me. I took it and slowly rose up to my feet. I bent down to pick up the music box and my knees both popped in unison, pulling a laugh from my chest. Henry chuckled slightly at the sound.

“What?” He asked as he folded the blanket over his arm. I shook my head and stood upright again.

“Just getting old.” I told him. He smiled. Actually smiled.

“No, not quite. Wait until you’re my age.” He said, gesturing toward our cars.

“That’s such an old man thing to say.” I teased, stepping around a large headstone.

“Do I not qualify?” Henry asked, walking over to the trunk of his car. I shook my head and followed him over.

“Absolutely not.” I answered. “And I’ll keep saying that until you’re…” I thought for a moment. “Ninety-nine!” I smiled wide, hoping to keep his mind off of Charlotte for as long as I could. Henry smiled again. A real, genuine smile.

“That’s very sweet of you.” He said, holding his hands out for the music box. Once he took it, his face fell again and he seemed to deflate right before my eyes. Grief is a bitch.

“Henry,” I began, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say. He took a deep breath and placed the box in the car, closing the large metal door on top of it. Then he exhaled shakily and turned back toward me. He just studied me for a moment. Like he was looking for something. I let him. Henry never once made me uncomfortable in the years that I’ve been helping him.

Then he opened his arms to me. I stepped forward, allowing him to hold me there as long as he needed. He was warm. Unusually warm. Especially with the cold that’s been drifting through the air. His heart was beating soft and slow. He smelled like old books and motor oil. Perfectly Henry.

“Is there anything I can do for you tonight?” I asked, my voice slightly muffled my his shirt. He paused, becoming more still than before. Just as he always did when he was deep in thought.

“Not that I can think of.” He replied softly. I smiled, knowing full well there had to be something.

“I can make you dinner.” I offered, feeling his arms loosen from around me. I stepped back and looked up at him, waiting for his response.

“Well, if it’s not too much trouble…” Henry trailed off, struggling to keep his eyes on mine. I reached up and squeezed his right shoulder, giving him a smile.

“It’s never been too much trouble, Mr. Emily.” I said, walking toward my car. I could still feel his eyes on me. A feeling that had grown more prominent over the last year.

“What would you like?” I asked, opening my door. I leaned into the frame of my car, folding my arms over my chest. His jacket was still wrapped comfortably around me. I wondered if he would ask for it back now or later.

“Something small. I don’t feel much like eating. But I know you won’t let me not eat.” He said, a small smirk creeping up on his lips. I matched the smile and nodded once.

“Spaghetti?” I asked, sticking my right foot in the car. Henry put a hand over his heart.

“You know me so well.” He complimented. I couldn’t help the blush that climbed its way into my cheeks.

“Has a tendency to happen.” I replied. “I’ll see you in a minute.” With that, I climbed into my car and closed the door behind me. I looked in the rear view mirror and saw Henry looking back out toward Charlotte’s grave. I pursed my lips together and drove off, setting my internal destination to Henry’s house.

Mine and Henry’s relationship was an odd one. Normally you wouldn’t see a pair who are twenty years apart spending this much time together. Not just time… quality time. Henry really knew me and I really knew him. But Henry was a recluse thanks to the outcome of his best friend’s heinous crime. I stuck around because I had always been fascinated by the creature that was Henry Emily.

Even in my teen years, I would get all giddy when the thirty-eight year old Henry would come busting through the door at his house telling us to come see the progress he’d made on his new animatronic. But after he lost Charlotte, his spark went out. The light left his eyes. He retreated into himself. I watched it all unfold. There was no way I was just going to leave. Before his loss, all he had was Charlotte, William, his work, and myself. He lost three of those things when Charlotte was murdered. There was no way I was going to remove myself from that equation.

The giddiness though hasn’t changed too much. Only matured into silent admiration for his strength to keep going. Sometimes for those big beautiful puppy dog eyes of his. Maybe all the time. But I would never let on. Eventually, I knew Henry would probably find out about my underlying feelings for him. But for now, I like the relationship we have.

I pulled up to Henry’s house, knowing it would probably be a few more minutes before his arrival. So I got out of the car, reminding myself of the old endoskeleton that always sat by the corner of his house so that it wouldn’t scare me for the millionth time. Once I’d reached the porch, I lifted the corner of his doormat with my foot, reaching down to pick up the spare key he had always left for me.

I moved inside, dropping the key in the little dish beside the door. I looked around, assessing the state of which his house was in. It was still somewhat clean from the last time I’d helped tidy up. But I could tell the dust had begun to settle again. Along with the mountains of old files and paperwork Henry still had to go through. I sighed, feeling deeply for him.

I walked to the kitchen and found a pot, filling it with water and setting it on the stove to boil. While that process started, I walked to the dishwasher I began to unload it, putting everything in its place. Then I moved to the living room, picking up trash and empty cups, throwing stuff away and putting the dishes into the now empty dishwasher. I straightened the cushions and pillows, folded the blankets, and returned all the photos that were strewn on the coffee table back to their album.

I wiped the kitchen counters clean, repeating the same trash and dishes task. Then, just before I heard his car pull in, I straightened up all the papers on his desk, tapping the stack against the polished wood. Then I grabbed the broom and swept the walkway, hoping to get that finished before Henry came in. I swept around the living room rug and all through the kitchen, feeling much better about the state of things.

Henry pushed the door open just as I was dumping the dustpan into the trash. He looked around for a moment and I moved back to the kitchen, opening a box of pasta to put into the now boiling water.

“You truly are a God send, you know that?” Henry said quietly, putting his keys into the same dish as before. I smiled to myself, focusing on the water in front of me. I heard him take his shoes off and move to his desk, sitting down with a long sigh. Only then did I look over at him.

“How are you doing on keeping and throwing away?” I asked, gesturing toward the mountain of manilla. Henry pinched his nose, attempting to hide a smile behind his hand.

“Do you know the percentile of people that actually make it to the top of Mount Everest?” He asked me, his tone sarcastic. I rolled my eyes and smiled, turning back to face the stove.

“You and your statistics, Henry.” I teased.

“What can I say?” He asked.

“You could say, ‘Oh! I’m doing just great. Can’t you see the very obvious dent I’ve put in it?’” I said, mocking his voice dramatically. I looked over my shoulder to see him leaned back in his chair, arms folded over his chest.

“I don’t sound like that.” He frowned, his glasses slipping down his nose as he tilted his head down. I shook my head.

“Always so dramatic.” I muttered.

“What was that?” He asked, the chair creaking as it always did when he stood. I jumped, turning to face him.

“Nothing , Mr. Emily.” I taunted, holding the spoon I had grabbed earlier close to my chest. He walked over to the stove slowly, something he used to do just before he would chase Charlotte and I around the island in the kitchen. “Stop it.” I squeaked, keeping my eyes fixed on him.

“I’m not doing anything. I can’t run like that anymore.” He reminded me, tucking his thumbs into the front belt loops of his jeans. I smiled somewhat sadly at him and loosened up again. I watched the water carefully, adjusting the temperature as needed. Henry stood beside me, far enough from the pot so that his glasses wouldn’t fog up from the steam. He would do this sometimes. Something about the proximity kept him at peace. I didn’t mind one bit.

“I’m sorry if I bring you down when you’re here.” Henry suddenly said, drawing my attention.

“What do you mean?” I asked, placing the spoon across the top of the pot. He shrugged.

“I guess…” There was a pause. “I just feel like some people would think fifteen years is plenty of time to heal from something like this and… and I just haven’t. Maybe it’s because I know it’s my fault.” I reached out and held his arm faster than I could process.

“Henry, it’s not your fault. Even if you had been there that day, there is nothing you could’ve done.” I reminded him. Henry’s eyes began to water. His other hand came up and laid on top of mine, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Your’e right. But I still could have been there for her more. Whether it was here or there. I should’ve been there for her.” He told me. I began to nod slowly.

“Maybe so. But the reality is, Henry, is that Charlotte loved you more than anything in the whole world. She would never fail to tell me that. How proud she was of you. How proud she was to be your daughter.” I explained. Then a smile appeared on my lips. “Actually we talked about you a lot.”

With that, his shoulders relaxed. He squeezed my hand again and I slid it off of his arm. Only for him to reach forward and hold my hand at my side. I felt my face warm at the action and I hoped that it was just because of the warmth from the stove. Henry took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

“Like I said, a God send.” He repeated, slowly exhaling and meeting my gaze again.

“And no,” I said, reaching up and pushing his glasses back onto his face. “You don’t bring me down at all when I’m with you.” I could’ve sworn I’d seen his face flush at my action. The sound of the pasta settling into the pot pulled my attention away from him. But Henry didn’t move. Just watched.

After a while, dinner was completely ready. Henry and I had just made small talk for the last thirty minutes or so. He at his desk beside the pile of folders and I in the kitchen, finishing up dinner. After I plated his, I walked it over to him and set it down in front of him, covering some old newspaper article he was reading. Then I went back to the kitchen, plated my own, and started to clean up first.

“You don’t have to do that yet.” Henry said from behind me. I heard his fork fall gently against the glass plate.

“I know, but if I don’t do it now while I’m up, I’ll be too full and comfortable to do it later.” I explained, rinsing off the strainer I’d previously used. The familiar sound of the chair creaking filled my senses and his footsteps approaching shortly after. But I stood my ground.

“Well then I’ll do it.” Henry said, stepping behind me and taking the wooden spoon from my hand. I turned to protest but froze at the sheer closeness alone.

“But I like doing it. It gives me a sense of,”

“Accomplishment.” He finished for me. I felt my knees buckle. It was moments like these that made me hate how closely he paid attention sometimes. His eyes were darting between mine. I managed to hold his gaze, noticing that while they were the same sad brown ones, there was emotion I hadn’t seen there in a very long time. Admiration. “I’ll do it.” He repeated, setting the spoon down in the sink and stepping back behind me, his hand running from my hip to across my lower back as he made his way back to his desk.

I shuddered, standing in a daze for a moment before snapping back to reality. What on earth was that? I grabbed my plate and moved to sit in the old leather armchair that I had helped Henry move in a few years back. I sat with my back against one of the arms, my legs draped carefully over the other. Henry and I ate in a comfortable silence. Just as we always did. Though, the air was indeed thicker tonight.

Maybe it was because it was the fifteenth anniversary of Charlotte’s death. Or maybe it was because of whatever it was Henry was making me feel. Maybe how I was making him feel. Perhaps the touch he’d just burned into my skin moments prior.

We finished eating, remaining silent as I stood from the arm chair and walking to the desk to pick up Henry’s plate. I did so in one fell swoop, catching a glimpse of the way he peeked up at me over the golden rim of his glasses. I smirked, trying to breeze over it. But I could almost hear the gears turning in his head.

“Should we talk about this?” He suddenly asked, just as I turned the faucet on. I glanced over to him, seeing him staring down at his clasped together hands.

“About what?” I asked, knowing by his tone of voice that it was not about Charlotte. There was a heavy quiet. Almost like the air itself was holding its breath. It stayed that way for about two minutes. I continued cleaning up the kitchen all the while.

“Do you-“ He started, immediately stopping to awkwardly clear his throat. “I- um…” At this point I stopped cleaning and turned to give Henry my full attention. He scratched the back of his head and then pushed his glasses against his now flushed face.

“Should-should we talk about…us?” He finally said, nearly whispering the last word. My hands gripped the edge of the counter tighter, fearing that this might be the end of our relationship.

“What do you mean?” I said timidly. I didn’t want to play too dumb, but I also didn’t want him to know I was fully interested. He was quiet for what felt like hours. Piecing together what it was he wanted to say. I swallowed hard, waiting for his response. Then he stood and moved to the front of his desk, pressing his palms flush against the edge. I noticed that his knuckles instantly turned white, signaling that he was just as nervous as I was.

“It’s just.. You-you don’t see many young ladies like yourself helping men like me. Or- or at least not to the extent that you do.” He stumbled over every other word. I slowly nodded, not completely understanding where he was trying to go with this.

“Okay?” I said, unsure of how else to fill the silence.

“You play house really well and I’m so thankful for everything that you do.” He said. I smirked at the term ‘play house’. I nodded again, taking a nervous step forward.

“It’s starting to make…” He paused again, his throat bobbing as he swallowed slowly. “I feel… uh.” Silence once more. I began to chew the inside of my cheek anxiously.

“You feel?” I asked, dragging out my words to add emphasis. He looked up at me, his pupils blown out and glossy. I was slightly taken aback by the sight. I’d never seen him struggle this way with words.

“You make me feel a certain way.” He finally said. His tone had grown serious. He sounded a little more sure of himself. I took a deep breath and crossed my arms over my chest.

“Okay.” I said simply. “Like, bad?” He was quick to shake his head at that.

“No no. Good, very good.” He corrected. “Young. And- and full. Something I haven’t felt in a very long time.” His eyes met mine again, his brows were furrowed and his gaze was soft.

I took another step forward, resting against the edge of the island that was closest to him. Only a step away from being toe to toe with him.

“I know it’s- it’s odd timing. Since I’ve been a mess all day and I’m not… completely over…” He trailed off. I gently kicked the front of his foot, trying to bring him back to reality. He rubbed a hand over his mouth, stifling a short cry. After a moment, he came to. He pushed off of the desk and approached me, placing his hands on the tops of my shoulders.

My heart was hammering against my rib cage. I could feel the warmth of his hands seeping through the fabric of my shirt. He was searching my face again, looking for the slightest sign of discomfort.

“I think that I might be falling in love.” He whispered, squeezing his eyes shut like he was waiting for me to scream at him. Or maybe run. But I simply froze, letting his words melt into me. I could feel my eyes glazing over, trying to process what was unfolding.

“Henry,” I squeaked. His grip on my shoulders tightened at the sound of his name. I couldn’t think of anything else to say. There were so many things I could’ve said in that moment and I wasn’t able to pick a single one.

“Charlotte…” He started. “She- she would always ask when I was going to marry you… every night once you left. You know, she didn’t understand age and life experience just yet. But I like to believe that she might’ve seen something that you and I couldn’t.” I raised my brows at this, thinking back to some of the comments that Charlotte would sometimes make.

‘My Daddy likes you’

‘He said that you looked like an angel last night.’

‘I had a dream that you became my Mommy.’

I was still so young. So was Charlotte. So I had always just thought they were silly quips or made up stories. But just like Henry had said, the age and the life experience had been a wall between me and a deeper relationship with Henry.

“Now, this whole thing might be wildly inappropriate and if it is then- then I need you to tell me. But I just… it was getting to be a bit too prominent.” Henry said, snapping me out of my now thoughtless trance. I refocused my eyes to his, looking past the lenses of his gold framed glasses. I licked my lips, trying desperately to wet my very dry mouth.

“It’s not at all inappropriate, Henry.” I finally said, my own voice sounding like a far off echo. “We’re both adults, regardless of our age gap.” He quirked a brow and only then did his grip on my shoulders loosen. “I appreciate you telling me this.”

He shifted his weight, his hands sinking lower on the outsides of my arms. My stomach fluttered at the feeling. We stood in silence again, the only sounds were the wall clock and our slightly uneven breaths. Then Henry began to nod, straightening his back and taking a cautious step forward.

“Your turn.” He whispered. He was close enough now that I could feel his breath against my forehead. My eyes nearly flitted closed at the sensation but I stayed present.

“H-how long have you felt this way?” I asked, digging my fingernails into my palms. His gaze flickered to the floor for a brief moment, almost like he was embarrassed of the coming answer.

“Maybe a year? Year and a half?” He replied. Henry’s fingers ran down the backsides of my forearms, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. I nodded slowly, taking a moment to form a thought.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” I asked. I know that Henry just wanted me to express my own feeling about the situation. Not ask so many questions about his. But I cared about him. I cared about how long he’d been fighting this battle with himself.

“It- it was just so new. Unfamiliar.” He said. “I was so sure that I was wrong for feeling the way that I did that I just…”

“Never said anything” I finished for him. He pursed his lips together in a near frown. His hands had now reached my own, his index fingers curling up around my pinkies gently. “Henry, I’ve always had…” I paused, piecing my words together carefully.

“You’re right.” I said confidently. “You don’t see a lot of women like me helping men like you. If you do, it’s either because the pair are related or the man is stupid rich.” The corner of Henry’s mouth pulled up into a soft smile. “But there is a third option.” Henry’s fingers had now fully laced with mine, keeping them low at my hips.

“Which is?” He asked. This Henry that I was speaking to was the one my eyes sparkled for when I was only seventeen. He was soft and open. Quiet and… happy. His fingers were slowly opening and closing around my hands, like he was checking if I was real. The feeling of his calloused palms against mine was a welcomed one.

“Love?” I said, my tone making me sound unsure. Truth be told I was. But I played into it anyway. “But the statics of that being the case are…”

“Usually pretty low.” Henry said, huffing a short and nervous laugh. I did the same and looked up to fully meet his gaze.

“But not zero.” I said softly. Henry raised our hands up, moving mine to his shoulders. Once my fingertips brushed the fabric of his shirt he let them go, trailing his fingers back over the length of my arms.

“That’s our case, Henry. Love. I-.” I started to say. But suddenly I got nervous. Like I was back in high school again trying to confess my feelings to my crush.

“I know how you feel. I think I fell in love with you a long time ago, but… I thought you saw me too much as an employee or, maybe like an older daughter.” Henry’s nose scrunched up at the last part.

“No, I never saw you as either of those things. If anything I saw you as a friend.” He said truthfully. “A much younger, prettier friend.” Henry smiled again. His hands had now found home on the tops of my hips, thumbs rubbing circles across the front of them. I giggled at his comment. Then his eyes grew sad again.

“I wish I hadn’t waited so long to tell you.” He said, his hands stilling on my hips. “Charlotte would’ve given anything to see us this way. God, the way she used to squeal if I so much as looked at you.” I smiled, acknowledging the tear that had rolled down his cheek.

I slowly reached up and wiped it away with my thumb, holding my hand against his face long after the tear was gone. Henry leaned into my touch, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

“Henry, there’s no way we could’ve known she wouldn’t be here right now.” I told him. “The best we can hope for is that she’s up there freaking out right now.” Henry smiled again, leaning his head back and staring up at the ceiling. I ran my hand from his neck down to the front of his chest, fiddling with one of the buttons.

“I can only hope.” He said quietly. His thumbs resumed their motion on my hips. He looked back at me again and I noticed a change. Almost like in the last ten seconds something inside of him had healed. That was when he kissed me. His hands came up and held either side of my face. My eyebrows raised but my eyes fluttered closed as I slowly kissed him back, relishing in the warmth of his lips.

Then he began to smile against my mouth and he let out a slight chuckle just before pulling away. I watched as he began to laugh. One that had been suppressed by fifteen years of grief and heartache.

“I did it, Babygirl! I got her!” He cried, looking toward the ceiling again. I smiled at him, joining him in the lighthearted laughter. He looked back down at me and he had tears streaming down his face. But this time they were paired with the biggest, most genuine smile I had seen on his features in a long time.

He leaned forward and reattached his lips to mine. It was wet, courtesy of his tears. But I didn’t care one bit. Henry was on the mend. I kissed back, going along with anything and everything. Every breath. Every tilt of his head. I pushed his glasses back on his face and he pulled back for a brief moment with a sigh.

“I love you.” He breathed. “I love you and I don’t care what anyone else thinks.” I cupped his left cheek, wiping away more tears in the process.

“and I love you, Henry. Always did.” I replied. His hand came up and wrapped around my wrist, holding it gently before he kissed me once more. Then he leaned forward, pressing his palms into the edge of the counter behind me, trapping me between his arms. I giggled, the proximity making me dizzy.

“Do you mind sitting up here?” He asked, pecking my lips again. “I would love to keep kissing you but the angle is hurting my back.” I rolled my eyes and captured his lips in a quick kiss.

“You’re not that old, Emily.” I teased, hopping up on the counter nonetheless. He stepped forward and nestled himself between my legs, making my head spin.

“You’ll find that to be untrue soon enough.” He replied, leaning forward and kissing me long and hard.

[arise-children-angel-is-here]

Bruce is quite disturbed by the thing staring into his very soul.

(Quick doodle, don't mind the lack of everything)

[ma-che-noia]

Aww, Sam 🥹

[averalia]

A Little Much

Part 1// Part 2// Part 3 ( Final)

Parings: Thomas “Tommy” Shelby x Reader

Summary: After years of hidden trauma, you find unexpected solace and fierce protection in Thomas Shelby, the man you once viewed as your enemy.

Warnings: mentions of abuse, smoking, Implied emotional abuse/neglect, PTSD symptoms, Discussions of self-worth, self esteem issues.

The journey from a whispered hope to a tangible reality was one of profound transformation. The news of your pregnancy, when it finally arrived, settled over the Shelby household with an almost sacred hush. Thomas, usually a man of contained reactions, had simply stood, his hand resting gently on your still-flat stomach, a flicker of awe in his usually unreadable eyes.

"Are you certain, Y/N?" he'd murmured, his voice barely audible, a stark contrast to his usual booming presence. You'd simply nodded, tears pricking your eyes, and watched as a slow, almost tender smile spread across his face, a smile reserved only for you. His initial response had been a quiet, possessive joy, but quickly, it morphed into his characteristic forward-thinking.

He became meticulously attentive, not in an overbearing way, but with a quiet, unwavering focus on your well-being. "Polly, ensure Y/N has her fortified milk at precisely eight each morning," he'd instruct, or "Finn, make sure the carriage ride is smooth today, no unnecessary jolts." He'd appear unexpectedly, finding you reading in the drawing-room, and simply pull up a chair, settling in with a book of his own, his presence a silent guardian. One evening, as you were struggling to get comfortable, he’d gently adjust the pillows behind you. "Comfortable, love?" he’d ask, his hand brushing your hair back from your forehead, a gesture of profound tenderness.

Your own anxieties, while present, were consistently assuaged by Thomas's steady presence. There were moments when the old fears would creep in – the idea of a child being vulnerable, of making mistakes, of the echoes of your own childhood – but then you'd look at Thomas, at the fierce love in his eyes, and the fear would recede. He didn't just promise protection; he embodied it. He had a way of making you feel so utterly safe that the idea of bringing a child into this world, a child you would love with every fiber of your being, no longer felt like a terrifying prospect, but the most natural, beautiful culmination of your love.

————

The birth of your first child, a son with Thomas's striking blue eyes and a surprising curl to his dark hair, was a moment that redefined everything. Holding him, a tiny, perfect being utterly dependent on you, brought forth a tidal wave of emotions – overwhelming love, profound protectiveness, and a raw, visceral understanding of the responsibility that lay ahead.

Thomas, witnessing the birth, had been uncharacteristically quiet, his face etched with a mixture of exhaustion and profound wonder. When the midwife placed the swaddled infant in his arms, his large hands seemed almost clumsy in their tenderness. He simply stared, a long, silent moment, before his gaze lifted to meet yours. "He's perfect, Y/N," he rasped, his voice thick with emotion, a vulnerability you’d rarely seen. "Absolutely perfect." You saw a crack in his formidable facade, a glimpse of the man beneath the calculating exterior.

Parenthood, for both of you, was a constant learning curve. Thomas, the calculating strategist, approached it with the same methodical precision he applied to his business. He would spend hours just watching your son sleep, observing his breathing, his tiny movements. "He's got your hands," he'd murmur one evening, tracing the baby’s tiny fingers. "But my stubbornness, I reckon." He insisted on being present for the nightly routines, taking turns with you to rock the baby, to soothe him back to sleep. He might not have been skilled at the delicate art of diaper changes or the lullabies, but his presence was a powerful anchor. When the baby cried inconsolably, and your own nerves were frayed, Thomas would simply take him, his deep voice a calming rumble as he paced the room. "Easy, lad, easy," he’d whisper, and surprisingly often, the baby would quiet, soothed by his father’s steady rhythm.

You, in turn, found an instinctual strength you never knew you possessed. Your past, instead of crippling you, gave you an extraordinary empathy. Every cry was met with unwavering patience, every scraped knee with genuine concern. You understood, intimately, the importance of a child feeling safe, seen, and heard. You fostered an environment of open communication, where emotions were acknowledged, and fears were addressed with gentle reassurance. You remembered the chilling silence of your own childhood home, and vowed your children would never know such a void. "Tell me what's wrong, my darling," you’d say, pulling your son onto your lap, "Mama's here."

————

The protective instincts you both possessed, honed by vastly different experiences, merged into an unbreakable shield around your children. Thomas ensured their physical safety with an almost obsessive vigilance. Any perceived threat, no matter how minor, was met with swift and decisive action. A new nanny was vetted with the thoroughness of a political candidate. A loose railing on the stairs was repaired within hours. He instilled in them a sense of confidence and resilience, teaching them early on the importance of standing their ground, of knowing their worth. "Never let anyone tell you you're less, son," he'd tell your boy, his hand resting on the child's shoulder, "You're a Shelby."

For you, the protection extended beyond the tangible. You guarded their emotional landscape, ensuring they felt secure enough to express themselves, to make mistakes and learn from them without fear of judgment or retribution. You taught them compassion and kindness, showing them through your own actions how to heal and how to offer solace. When your son, still very young, would occasionally wake from a nightmare, crying out for you, Thomas would be the first to reach him, holding him close. "It's alright, mate, just a dream," he’d murmur, his whispered reassurances a steady beat against the child's small chest. You would then follow, sitting on the edge of the bed, a soft hand on their forehead, waiting for the fear to fully dissipate.

As your children grew, they were surrounded by a love that was both fierce and tender. They knew their father was a formidable man, respected and feared in equal measure, but to them, he was simply "Papa," the one who taught them how to ride horses through the fields, who answered their endless questions about the stars and the workings of the world with surprising patience, and whose rare, genuine smiles were treasures. They knew their mother was a beacon of warmth and understanding, the one who listened without judgment, who offered comfort with a gentle touch, and whose quiet strength was an inspiration. You’d often hear your daughter mimicking your gentle tone with her dolls, a testament to the nurturing environment you’d created.

The echoes of your past never entirely vanished, but they no longer defined your present or dictated your future. Instead, they fueled your determination to break the cycle, to create a legacy of love, safety, and unwavering support for your children. You had found not just love, but a profound purpose, in the most unexpected of places, with the man who had once been your enemy. Together, you were not just survivors; you were builders, creating a family rooted in resilience, compassion, and a love that was, finally, truly free.

[kiko-thepurplebear]

HAPPY VALENTINES!!! ❤❤❤

Have a wholesome drawing of DB and Pop! plus some doodles and wedding outift ideas for DB and Pop ❤

[vanillacherie]

bicycle adventure together~ 🚲🌷🌼