#ᴾᴴᴼˢᴾᴴᴼᴿᵁˢ / ― drabbles.

[ihrschatzi-blog]

☕ or ❥ ( i'll let you decide! )

⸨ JOHANNA IS TOUCH-STARVED. ⸩          von @terribletoxins

Her own nerves have always been her undoing; now, decades later, nigh on a full century, hands still ball into fists and tremble, eyelids dropping to release a soft, shaky breath. A joint pops at the twist, slipping back into its socket in tandem with a hard swallow. 

She unlaces the digits to rest them atop protruding stomach, feels her child within kick softly as if sensing the distress of impending lecture.

“Sorge dich nicht, meine Liebe.” The words come murmured at the back of her neck, and Jo thinks that she may feel Isabel’s lips ghost against her shoulder blades. The German is a comfort to hear, and she relaxes into her wife’s touch, hands on hips padded with the weight gain of pregnancy. 

“I know,” she replies, opening her eyes to meet Isabel’s in the mirror; smile catching on as she takes note of the choice of clothes; reluctantly abiding by the dress code but ignoring all distinctions between genders. Johanna’s own a deep blue, no cut allowing her pregnancy to be concealed. The cut of the pantsuit is enough to agree with Isabel’s petite beauty, and soon Jo cannot help the smile that follows.

She takes a deep breath, steadying herself as she mentally races through the recent publishing. “Ready?” she asks, feeling Isabel’s hand on her lower back; and it is almost as if her fingertips dispel the knots of tension. She pecks her quickly, knowing full well that if she lets herself, they will be all the more late, but stops to make sure that her lipstick does not stain the mask too inappropriately. “Thank you, my love.”