#franz

August Diehl in a military cap... I'm dying 🤤🤤

->(not my gif)

summary: "i know you're already wet and i haven't even touched you."; reader is working as the translator for the prime minister and takes a little getting used to her roommate - but luckily, franz is willing to put in the work

warnings: heavy flirting, not explicitly 18+ but police as u will idk, franz is a sexy little shit 😔

word count: 1821

a.n: first franz piece thank the LORD for the anon who finally requested it i was waiting for an excuse; i need to rewatch this bloody film they were trying to kill me off by casting both august and jeremy irons 🤡. ive had this idea for ages might do a part 2 with smut but idk. hope you enjoy!!! reader is english of course im projecting 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁥󠁮󠁧󠁿🏴󠁧󠁢󠁥󠁮󠁧󠁿🏴󠁧󠁢󠁥󠁮󠁧󠁿

~

You couldn't quite believe your luck. Not only had you been allocated one of the best suites on the train, but it seemed you would be bunking alone. The train had set off some thirty minutes ago and still no-one had come to claim the top bunk.

The view from the small window had captured your attention so intently you were only halfway through your unpacking. A little unprofessional perhaps, especially since the commencing of your new job for the next few weeks, but what was the harm in a few moment's peace before the chaos began.

You had never visited Munich before, and had never forseen that your first visit would be as translator to the Prime Minister. Up until a week ago you hadn't been much of anyone - now you played one of the most important roles in the incoming war. It was up to you to enable clear communication between world leaders, and one mistranslation could mean devastation on both sides.

You were so wrapped up in your own thoughts you almost jumped out of your skin when the door to your cabin swung so violently open you worried it may come loose from its hinges. Jumping to your feet, you were met with a tall German soldier still calling out to someone along the corridor. You had a moment to process his features before he noticed you, and you couldn't help but notice how handsome he was. A little rugged, yes, but still miles from any of the other officers you'd encountered thus far.

The wide smile he showed to his companion dropped when he turned to you, eyes scanning you quickly. You were thankful you'd already unpacked your underwear as he gave a quick survey too of your open suitcase.

"Can I help you?" you asked, smoothing out your skirt. Professional, you told yourself. You had every right to be here as he did - although the way he was looking at you was more like a hooker than a government official.

He checked the corridor again before turning back to you, features darkening and a small laugh escaping him. "I don't see how you could help me: this is my room."

His tone was deep and as he strode further into the room you instinctively backed up until you felt the hard wood of the desk hit your thighs. There was hardly room to breathe in the small space, but the man was standing even closer still. He radiated warmth through his layers of uniform and a thick air of cigarettes clung to him.

Taking a deep breath, you folded your arms across your chest, trying your best not to seem intimidated. "You must be mistaken, this is my room-"

"What is that accent?" he interrupted you, drawing closer still. He looked down at you, smug, as a cat does to a mouse it's about to dine upon. "Where are you from? You're certainly not German."

You faltered. You'd always been praised for your accent, but in your nerves you must've slipped. "I'm here as the PM's translator," you said, unable to hold his stare. You moved to continue unpacking, if just so not to have to face him anymore. Why you were suddenly so intimidated you didn't know. You dealt with men like him on a day-to-day basis: what made him so special?

"Ah, a little English girl then," he muttered.

Even though you'd moved closer to the bed, he'd followed you, and one step backwards would've had you flush against his chest. From your position you tried desperately to compose yourself, shaking hands folding and unfolding the same shirt.

"Well," the officer said, voice so close you could feel his breath on the back of your neck. "You're a long way from home, aren't you?"

You made no reply, turning and bumping past him to tend to the stack of papers you'd left by the window. Even that small contact, the scratching of his uniform jacket against your bare arm was enough to bring a flush to your cheeks. You didn't even have to look at him to know a witty remark was forming in his mind, only there came a second interruption.

"Franz!" a voice called out. Both of you turned to the open door though you stole a glance at the officer. Franz, that was the name he'd failed to tell you. Without further remark he left the room, leaving you alone to tend to your racing thoughts.

Dinner was at six o'clock sharp, but your nerves had killed your appetite. The interaction from the afternoon had knocked you completely off kilter, and you began to worry Franz's presence would interfere with your ability to do your job.

You must've been losing you mind. Never once before had you lost your composure so quickly. But then again, there wasn't men like him back home.

You were just in the middle of going over your notes for the meeting when a figure came to stand at your table.

Franz had changed into a more comfortable form of uniform and seemed to have combed his hair from the mess it was in earlier. Still he wore that shit-eating grin and sat down without asking permission.

"I assume you're not expecting anyone," he said, moving immediately to light a cigarette.

You gave him a look of consternation before turning back to your work. At least you could hide some of your face behind your papers: that might buy you some time to regain your sanity.

"What makes you say that?" you grumbled, pretending to focus.

"Well presumably you would've been bunking with him. Instead you're stuck with me."

"I'm glad to hear you think so highly of yourself." Mission reports, due dates, who said what and when - all the information blurred before you. You were trying to watch him from above the paper, wanting to look again at his smirking face, but you couldn't give him the satisfaction. He was the kind of man who saw woman a thing to be conquered, to be taken rather than be courted. Under most circumstances you abhorred such men, but somehow he'd gotten under your skin, and watching him balance his cigarette between his lips had you crossing your legs.

"You know the conference doesn't start until tomorrow," Franz muttered, tone a little softer now.

Somewhere in your silence he'd acquired a drink and was lazily sipping at it. Thumbing through a couple of your papers you could tell he was watching you.

You shook your head. "This isn't a holiday."

Professional. Always professional. So long as you stayed professional everything would be fine.

But soon fine didn't seem to be enough anymore.

Without warning, Franz collected your documents into a misshapen pile and held them all in a clump above his head. You were left dumbfounded, holding the one sheet you'd saved from his rampage.

"What are you doing?" you hissed, shocked. "Those are official documents! Confidential documents!"

"Do you have a stick up your ass? Your superior isn't here: you can drop the act." His enjoyment was evident from the mischievous glint in his eye, teeth baring in a wide smile as you attempted to coerce the file back from him.

"Act? What are you talking about act? I have to prepare for tomorrow. Do you know how important this is?"

Franz shrugged. Whether that meant he didn't know or he didn't care you couldn't tell.

"So what? You have to practise for tomorrow. You can practise your German with me."

"Yes, you've clearly demonstrated your intellect," you muttered, giving up the conquest for the documents. Perhaps he was right. After all, you could do with a fucking holiday.

"Maybe not intellect, but I'm sure I can persuade you of my skills in other things."

You nearly choked on your drink. There was no way this was just a result of drunkenness - he'd hardly finished one whisky. His proposal seemed sincere, but you were still getting used to this whole 'relaxing' thing and decided to toy with him a little more. After a perfunctory glance about the bar, you reached to undo the top two buttons of your dress, leaning back in your seat and taking a long draw of your cigarette. You watched with satisfaction as the smirk dropped from his face, his eyes widening a little as they flickered between your face and exposed skin.

"I don't know: I think you're all talk."

All thoughts of professionalism were gone. Franz settled easily into your new game and moved a hand down to his thigh. Slowly he rubbed from his knee to just below his hip almost invitingly. You tried to keep your composure, but you imagined how it would be to straddle him, how he would harden beneath your lap. Smug bastard. He knew exactly what he was doing.

"Is that right?" He was practically beaming. God how you wanted him, but you hated to give him the satisfaction. If you were going to teach him anything, you would teach him to work.

"I know men like you," you mused, tapping the stray ash of your cigarette. "You get your dick inside a woman and the whole thing's over in half a minute.

"Wouldn't you like to test your theory?"

You shrugged. "I doubt there's enough wine on this whole train that could get me into your bed." That couldn't have been farther from the truth. You were only on your second glass, but if he'd asked you would've let him take you there and then on the dining table.

"It's interesting that you say that," he muttered, almost studiously, as if this were some academic conversation. He was on his fourth cigarette by now and you were transfixed by the movements of his mouth around the thin sticks, the deft angling of his tongue collecting the remnants of whisky on his lips.

You raised a brow as signal for him to continue. "See, I know women like you. You act all tough, play hard to get, when in reality I know you're already wet and I haven't even touched you."

You swallowed hard and he fucking knew he was correct. You were losing the war of attrition and your need to win the battle was overrided by your need to have him between your legs.

"You know, I think your German really has improved. At least now you've stopped being a little English prude. But there's one more phrase you might need to know for the next few weeks. It'll stand you in good stead."

"What's that?"

Slowly Franz rose to his feet, almost putting on a show for you, allowing you to note all the movements of his muscles beneath his uniform, the definition of his soft strength beneath the cotton shirt. "I'm going to take you to bed."