AN-I want to clarify I have a strong dislike towards Tomer Capone and his actions as an IDF soldier and do not support him in any shape or form. I only like Frenchie.
Summary: Reader (afab) is stuck in the Flatiron office, catching up on work. Frenchie gets a little too close for comfort and their mind goes elsewhere…
Hours had bled together as you stared into the abyss of Supe blackmail and internal records. Every time you thought you’d hit the bottom, the files kept going—more cover-ups, more hush money, more neatly labeled PDFs stuffed with signed NDAs. The screen’s glow burned behind your eyes, the dingy overhead lights buzzing like they were mocking you for still being awake.
The office door handle rattled suddenly, sharp and violent in the silence. You flinched, fingers stiff on the mouse, and peeled your gaze away from the monitor. It took a second for your vision to adjust, the text swimming before resolving into the doorway—and then into Frenchie.
His outfit was an assault on your already-frayed senses, colors clashing hard enough to make your temples throb.
“What are you doing here at this hour?” you asked, your voice rough from disuse.
“I could ask you the same question, mon ange,” he said lightly. “You were here when I left.”
Heat crept up your neck before you could stop it. The reaction made you feel stupid, a little guilty—he was your friend. Or maybe not even that. Just a coworker. Still, the nickname landed somewhere dangerous. You smiled despite yourself, then snapped your attention back to the screen.
You clicked the mouse, scrolled nothing, pretended to work. Anything but look at him as you felt his presence draw closer to your desk.
“I- uh… just trying to get ahead, I like actually being able to interact with you guys when you’re all here but I can’t really do that if I’m always balls deep into… this.” You motioned at the computer and sighed.
“You work too much.” You felt his gaze, your skin was burning up again. He settled behind your chair, one rested the back and the other on the armrest.
“It’ll be worth it.” You slouched and looked up at him. His eyes were on your hips. You looked down, your shirt hung on your waist, revealing your tattoo. A lotus, about the size of a dime.
The hand that was on the armrest reached down, sliding his index between your skin and boxer band to get a better look. Your breath hitched in your throat. His thumb brushed against the ink.
The placement was a perfect thumb marker for his grip on your hips as he pulled you back down onto his length.
“Where do you think you’re going ma biche?”
The thick drag of his accent in your ear and his tip kissing your cervix melted into a delicious sensation in your cunt. All you could muster up was a pathetic “fuck.” Drunk on his cock, you searched for something to ground yourself, his bicep, his back, a tuft of hair, anything. Your nails left red kisses in their wake, a silent praise to his vehemence.
The band snapped against your skin, bringing you back to reality, “Mon cœur?” His eyes bore into yours.
“Uh sorry, what’d you say?”
“I didn’t know you had tattoos.” He pulled away, your boxer band snapping, but not enough to hurt.
“Oh I uh… yeah, I do, a few actually” You cleared your throat to stop yourself from saying “And I’d love to show you.”
“Yeah just…” You rubbed your tired eyes “I think I’ve been looking at this screen too long. You hungry?”
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2087
