NSFW one-shot | Post-war, Peiper x fem!reader | Trial
โ ๏ธ : P in V, Unprotected Sโฌx, โsortaโ semi - public
The air in the tribunal office was cold and still. You hated how sterile it felt; like grief had been vacuum sealed into paper files and labeled Exhibit A. You were just a translator. A glorified clerk with better French than most and a tendency to not flinch when the defendants stared too long.
He never stared. Not like the others.
Joachim Peiper didnโt need to.
He looked through you like he had when you first saw him across the courtroom: that quiet calculation, like he already knew what page you were on and what youโd say next.
โYou requested this?โ you asked, voice clipped, fingers tight around the file folder.
He sat, unshackled for the meeting, hands resting neatly on the table like he still had rank. โThey said Iโm allowed to speak to someone about the language inconsistencies in the transcripts.โ
You didnโt sit. โThis isnโt a debate club.โ
โYouโre still angry,โ he said quietly.
He raised a brow, a ghost of that same sardonic smirk from four years agoโ the one that used to follow brutal orders with a cigarette and a quiet, โItโs just war.โ
"You're still angry," he said quietly.
You stared at him. "You killed civilians. Burned villages. What emotion am I supposed to feel, Joachim?"
He tilted his head. "The same one you felt when you let me fuck you behind your father's back."
You didn't move. Your pulse did.
"That was war," you said flatly.
"And this is peace?" he asked, voice low. "You wear a badge now. You translate my charges. You read the details of things you'll never unsee."
You set the folder down. "You think this is foreplay?"
"No," he said. "I think you came here because you wanted to remember."
You were across the room before you knew what you were doing.
His chair scraped as he stood too-too close, too familiar, too much like before. The same heat, buried under layers of guilt and ash.
"Touch me," he said, voice like gravel, "and it'll ruin you."
You swallowed. "I'm already ruined."
You kissed him like a woman starved. He kissed you back like a man already dead.
You kissed him like a woman starved. He kissed you back like a man already dead.
It was rough, desperate, ugly. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him. Yours tore at his shirt like the fabric itself was part of the lie.
He spun you, slammed you back against the table, papers flying. Your breath caught as he hiked up your skirt with practiced cruelty, fingers finding you slick and open beneath.
You slapped him across the face. His jaw flexed. His cock twitched against your thigh.
"No underwear?" he murmured, voice dark. "Still a filthy little traitor."
"Fuck me or don't," you hissed. "But don't pretend you're still in command."
No buildup. No slow slide. Just the kind of raw, unfiltered fuck that shouldn't happen between a war criminal and the woman translating the evidence that will hang him.
And then he was inside you.
Your fingers clawed at his back as he drove into you, hard and relentless. You bit down on your knuckles to keep from crying out. He watched you the whole time- those dead-blue eyes burning, like he wanted to memorize the shape of your ruin.
Your orgasm ripped through you with a violence that embarrassed you. He followed seconds later, his breath broken against your throat, body taut with something more than pleasure.
When it was over, you pushed him off you like he was poison.
You straightened your skirt. Picked up the files. Said nothing.
He sat again, as if nothing had happened.
"You'll write the truth," he said. "In the transcripts."
You met his eyes, still shaking, still wet between your legs, and said, "I will."
Because the truth was worse than the lie.
And maybe some sins were meant to be documented in footnotes and forgotten in time.
AN: Reposting from my old account: @reichsbarbie
