After light - Flake Lorenz
I decided to make a mini story for Flake with Electric Skin being the first part. Enjoy!
Warning: Fluffy smut
East Berlin, a week later
(Y/N’s Perspective)
He hadn’t said much the next morning. I didn’t expect him to. Flake was like that—words chosen with precision, like keys on his synthesizer. But when he’d kissed my shoulder before slipping out for rehearsal, when he left a note in scratchy, looping handwriting that just said "Bleib, wenn du willst." (Stay, if you want.)—I knew it hadn’t been nothing to him.
And I had stayed. Not just that morning, but again and again.
Now, a week later, I was lying on that same lumpy mattress, his pillow tucked under my chin, his synth humming low in the corner from earlier practice. He was across the room, shirtless, lit cigarette in one hand, squinting at some handwritten setlist. His blonde hair was a little messy, falling into his eyes. The curve of his back as he leaned over the desk made me ache.
“Stop staring,” he murmured, eyes still on the paper.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
I smiled and rolled over, the sheet slipping down my bare spine. “You’re just fun to look at.”
He turned finally, smoke curling from his lips. “And you’re dangerous when you smile like that.”
He crossed the room in three long strides, cigarette left behind, and climbed onto the bed without ceremony. His lips found mine before I could speak, his hands slipping around my waist. But this time, the urgency was different. It wasn’t about curiosity or heat. It was familiarity. Comfort. A rhythm we were beginning to learn.
“Did I scare you that night?” he asked against my skin.
I blinked. “What do you mean?”
He hovered above me, brushing hair from my face. “The first night. You were… still. Quiet. I didn’t know if I should stop.”
“You didn’t scare me.” I wrapped my arms around his neck. “You made me feel safe.”
His breath left him in a soft, silent laugh. He kissed my collarbone. Then lower. His touch was slower tonight, as though he had all the time in the world. No urgency, no fear of being interrupted by a rehearsal or a raid or a power outage—which, in this part of the city, happened more than anyone admitted.
I ran my fingers through his hair as he kissed down my stomach, every movement patient and deliberate. He was learning what made me shiver, what made me gasp. I was learning the tiny catch in his throat when I whispered his name, the way his hips moved in time with mine without needing words.
And when he was inside me again, face buried against my shoulder, one hand gripping mine above my head—I felt it again. That soft, overwhelming sensation of being chosen. Not just for tonight. But for whatever came next.
After, we lay tangled in each other, sweat cooling, bodies humming in quiet aftermath.
“I like this,” I whispered. “Us.”
He nodded against my skin. “Me too.”
The city outside kept moving. Sirens. Laughter. A motorcycle backfiring. But inside, in this little room above a graffiti-scarred courtyard, everything felt suspended.
He kissed my temple and pulled the blanket up over us both.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I had to leave.
