#ichbinkeinfloh

❝Never leave me, and don't deceive me I'll keep on crawling my friend Never tease me and don't leave me here It's all the same in the end. ❞

❝And I am afraid Take back what I said. ❞

Company is a VERY heavy distraction for his creativity, often hindering more than aiding it. His peculiar manner that demanded certain specifics for writing —– a quiet room that, if there would be sound, should be of the natural kind without peering eyes or heavily distracting noises, blue ink, a dim lit room, solitude —– was the cause of so many fallouts between him and dear Illya of his heart. Knowing that it would come to no surprise that he’s grown edgy the past few hour; noted with ease by the way his shoulders roll and his hand scratches at his brow, his own swiftly spoken voice that breaks with a ‘fuck it’ at the end of his reading and a rather violently scratched out paragraph bleed into pure blue.

Wojtek’s equally blue eyes flicker away from the destroyed page with disgust to his company. “I DON’T.”

It is a brutally expelled statement adorned by a scrounged up nose and a look of full irk at the flick that is delivered to his nose. But even all that (and like Florian’s own sensual purrs) is hard to take seriously when it comes from an unstable mind as his, for no sooner done is there a switch of the mask in the next upcoming seconds; voice turning from vinegar to honey.

A hand moves up to swat away the fly that is Florian’s own but stops in second thought and only wraps around the wrist to keep it from escaping.

“Passionate? And what do you know about me being passionate?” he proceeds to inquire with a stern gaze that locks with the other’s in mock defiance, body leaning forward, reeling in the other closer to him by the hand that soon graces the fair skin of his cheek.

The pen drops from his hand onto the notebook, discarded and unwanted now that he stands half raised from his seat. The palm of his hand falls flat on the fresh ink as he gently leans himself over the table as if he was ready to challenge the other to an unfair arm wrestle match. It is only momentary before he turns around, brushing his lips over one of Florians fingers.

Is that what he wants? Passionate? And what is passionate? A strong belief, diligence to carry it on. Love, strong sexual love. Ardent. Fire. Burning. Leidenschaftlich. Passioniert. Namiętny. Żarliwy. Such a string of words…words…yes, it’s just all a strong desire and lips part, the warm breath tickling the soft skin suggestively as his actions that follow because he is soon taking one of the digits gently into his mouth to suck on it with a soft sensuality. A short time that seems long and shorter than is, he can’t tell exactly how many seconds (a minute perhaps) lapses before letting go of it, a small string of saliva following after to be soon broken by another soft lick at the fingertip, eyes fixed directly on him. He knows what game he is playing; teasing, demanding. He wants the attention now and to bask in it for all of a sudden writing is the true distraction. So this is why he hates having him around when he works….

Florian nodded, before sucking his head to seemingly look at the menu. He knew Hugh was looking at him, and wanted to let him do so in peace, and would admit he did like the feeling of his eyes roaming him. After a while, he glances up, only to smile when he meets Hugh’s eyes.

When he looked away, Florian looked back up, lifting his head and smiling at Hugh. “Oh but you must come visit me in Berlin some time, see a little more of Germany.” His mouth opens slightly in a quiet gasp that smacked of falsehood, and his lips curl into a smirk, “But I wouldn’t want to bring you away from your wife. She must hate when you travel from her, I wouldn’t want to add more trips ontop of your chess ones.”

“Berlin.” he repeated, smiling upon the request. It would be nice to come visit, just so he could see Florian. If Florian were to have him, of course. They were, after all, still strangers. Hugh smiled as he puffed smoke from his cigarette and let his eyes meet Florian’s once again once the languid smoke faded from their view

Wife. Oh he was going to make those assumptions out loud? What a mischievous young boy.

“Oh, you do not have to worry about my wife, Florian. It was always something said of me, but I suppose I’d have to admit it myself. I’m not exactly the marrying kind.” He smirked in return, slowly and purposely wrapping his lips around his cigarette.

    Frieda slides into the empty chair next to him, a large smile plastered onto her face. It’s quite obvious that she’s been drinking, currently has a glass of some sort of alcohol in and a cigarette between her fingers in one hand, the other pressed to the arm of the chair he was sitting on.

send | 15 - neck kiss ( @ichbinkeinfloh ) 

    In 1945, Berlin is a city of ghosts  — ghosts of women without husbands, children without parents, soldiers without purpose. And Wilhelm wanders its streets with numbness in his heart, remembering the day when this place was his home, and not a prison. His mother begs him to return to them, but how can he? They would hardly recognise him.

     Nowadays, he spends most of his time in the bar across the street from his apartment （not the one that Greta used to work at, of course, because there are too many memories which lay dormant there, waiting to catch him unaware ）, where he sits until the barmaid throws him out onto the street, barely able to stand, his vision hazy with drunkenness. 

    It’s one of those nights — one of those empty, miserable nights — when Wilhelm finds himself in that dingy little bar, tipsy but not yet drunk. Not drunk enough, at least. He’s on his fourth shot of vodka when he becomes aware of a man sitting next to him. He looks over at him, eyebrows furrowed. Does he recognise him? Probably not. But he just has one of those faces.