yuuzora

The boy nods and has to physically hold back his surprise at feeling a soft, large hand carefully envelope his smaller one. Damian knows it's stupid...but he finds himself growing displeased at the size difference between himself and Breya. I mean, he knows that he still has room to grow...but somewhere in his mind, he wants to grow up already so that he can truly be an equal to mother: mentally, emotionally, physically–in all the ways that matter; in all the ways father has ingrained into him to desire, feel and act like towards his mother. Surprisingly, the boy finds himself not pulling away from the comforting touch. He tells himself that it's because mother is the one initiating it, that the only reason he's accepting the touch is due to not wanting to be seen as disrespectful for pulling away. But Damian knows its a lie. He can feel the way his heart pounds ferociously in his chest–from excitement or fear? The child himself can't pinpoint it exactly. Damian is used to firmer touches. He's used to being roughed up and thrown down, or even cast aside with a harsh shove or a backhand to the face. He's used to these soft moments leading into something more dangerous; used to the tender, almost featherlight, grasp of a hand or gentle gliding of fingers through his hair, leading to a rod to his backside until he's bruised and scraped up, whimpering and whining about how he's sorry for still being so childish as to accept such love and endearment so freely. Because he can't...———————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————— (I always get nervous sharing my writing, but I decided I'd share a little something I'm currently working on that is already at 6,929 words ^-^).