johnson-atpulov: allowance

Her short, brown hair between your fingers is soft and smooth.

It is nothing short of, and perhaps even more than, an absolute privilege to be allowed to be so close to her.

You can feel her chubby, curved body pressed up against you, and you can feel the warmth radiating off of her. She's finally relaxed around you. It's taken years for her to finally look as if she finally has some peace and sanctity of mind around you, but by God, she has.

You sigh in contentment and bury your face in her hair, allowing your own medium-length black locks spill over onto her head somewhat. She's fast asleep by now, a miracle in itself since she's still letting you touch her, so she doesn't mind.

She smells of vanilla and everything that's right in the world. That second part surely must be it.

For she is everything right in your world. She is your sea and your sky, and all feels wonderful upon being able to just even graze your lips against her forehead. The smallest of actions count, they always do.

You actually do end up moving her bangs out of her face and plant a soft, gentle kiss on her forehead. Another on her nose. And before you could ever fathom kissing her lips, you turn your head to avoid it, as indulgence should be on her terms and her terms only. Always and forever.

You can only lie there in bed with her, still astounded that this isn't a dream. You're almost too astonished to even go to sleep, for you fear that her grace may be lost as soon as you awaken once more.

But sleep overtakes you, just as it overtakes any other human being.

And much to your surprise and joy, her allowance truly isn't a dream in the morning.