#botmum

          he should be used to the pain by now , but it’s hard to become numb to being torn open from the inside out. shallow , trembling breaths and cheeks raw from tears , ben’s the picture of pitiful. and weak. he doesn’t know which disgusts his father more: the monster or the boy. probably the boy. and he hates himself all the more for it. hates that he still cries ( even if the mask can hide the worst of it ). hates that it still hurts. hates that he is only useful when he’s being ripped apart.

number six sniffles. it’s still dark in his room, still dark outside, and he almost wishes he could share a room with one of his brothers. then again, if he did share a room, they’d know he cries in his sleep and they’re practically at that age where that kinda stuff matters.          as it is, being found crying by their mom isn’t much better. ben waffles, not wanting to worry her but not wanting to admit he wouldn’t mind if she came to sit on his bed with him. he looks around, as if one of his siblings could have inexplicably appeared while mom was waiting on him to speak up. once he confirms they’re alone ( as if they wouldn’t be in his own room ), he forces the question that had been weighing on his mind for far too long.       ❝ i’m… y' don’t… you don’t think i’m a monster, do you, mom? ❞   ( he really doesn’t want to be a monster ).

ways to say I love you / accepting / @botmum

Klaus Hargreeves is sixteen years old, and there are monsters under his bed. Dad found his stash-well the biggest one anyway and a couple of smaller bags he’s hidden in his room. Of course there was the usual lecture about his failures in life, his weakness, and a five hour stint in the mausoleum. It’s a familiar dance now between the two of them. Sometimes Klaus hopes that if he acts out enough his father will simply get board and leave him alone, but no such luck. So here he is, sixteen and sobbing into his pillow like a frightened child. 

The door opens and for a moment Klaus thinks it’s his father come back for another round. He sits up, fists clenching in his bed sheets ready to kick and scream until his throat is raw. When Grace’s kind face smiles softly down at him he feels all of his breath leave him in one relieved sigh. “Hey mom,” his voice is still full of tears, but any desire to scream has gone. It wouldn’t make any difference after all. At least if he screamed at his father the old bastard would get angry, but with his mom…her face is too kind, too understanding sometimes. She’s never been angry with him, never can be angry with him despite how much he acts out. It makes his skin crawl and he’s taken to avoiding her more often than not. Is it stupid of him to feel guilty about letting down a robot that doesn’t know the difference between oxy withdrawal and the stomach flue? Is it weird to feel like he’s lying to her? Diego would say no and that he tell Grace the truth, but Klaus isn’t so sure. After all, it’s not like the truth will make any difference-she couldn’t disobey dad even if she wanted to. 

A lullaby; it’s so innocent and out of touch with everything Klaus is feeling right now that he laughs, he can’t help it. It bubbles up from somewhere deep in his chest until his giggles mix with the tears still streaming down his face. He wants to tell her that a lullaby isn’t going to fix this, that he’s scared all the time, and that he’s worried the drugs have taken over in a way he doesn’t know how to fix. For a moment he almost does it, almost gets down on his knees and begs her to help him, but he doesn’t. Instead he shakes his head and gives her an approximation of a smile. “It’s okay mom, thanks though.” 

❛         YOU  .  .  .    DON’T  HAVE  TO  DO  THAT .        ❜          usual  defence  fails  to  even  reach  his  words ,  an  unfamiliar  softness  taking  its  place  instead .  he  isn’t  too  sure  what  to  make  of  this  change  of  heart .          ❛        i  can  handle  it  myself          no  big  deal .      ❜

  “  oh!   --    works  for  me.  “   color him  unsurprised,  but  impressed  at the woman’s  strength!     dave  hops  to  it,    standing  beside  her,   such a physical  contrast  beside  her  ( yet in reality,  much weaker! ) .   he  looks  over  the   spines,  so  many  titles  he’d  never  even  heard  of,    a fire of  giddiness  inside  him.   he  loved  books,  and  picking  up the  first  tome  and  shelving it beside  a  similarly-titled  one  alone  provided  great  satisfaction  to him. 

 figuring  he’d  like  to  engage  in some  conversation  with   the    motherly  figure    beside  him,   dave  chatted:    “  you know,   you’re dressed a lot like  someone from  my  time.   1955  or so?   i’m  pretty sure  i’ve  seen   my  sister  rose  in a dress just  like  that.  “    he  said  with a  chuckle,   something fond in his  eye.     “ it’s  like a  slice of  home.    you like it here? “