#johan liebert fanfic

[riewritten]

QUESTIONS WITHOUT ANSWERS ˚ · . READ ON AO3

『JOHAN LIEBERT x GENDER-NEUTRAL!READER』

˚ · .─ SYNOPSIS: Set a decade after the monster's last havoc in Runenheim; he managed to settle someplace nobody knew him, resolute to wander alone until his questions were answered. Needless to say, a companion who'd be willing to stay amid his solitude was the last thing he expected on this journey.

˚ · .─ TAGS: post-canon, developing friendships, romance, fluff, soft johan (whew), pining, domestic bliss, acts of service, johan acting like a male wife when he's just a friend lol, johan is soft but his unremorseful tendencies still show itself if you squint hard enough. ˚ · .─ WORDS: 5.8k

⭒ ⊹ ⭒ hapee holiday season, everyone! here's a christmas gift for my johan lovers:)

You come by Johan's crib after a long day of work. The door's open and there’s a faint albeit very comforting scent of smoke oozing out of the kitchen—your favorite soup. You knock softly (as if Johan didn't already sense your arrival with the clanks of your feet from the hallway; he had come to memorize your footsteps at this point). You find him by the stove, stirring something, movements deliberately slow.

“Smells good,” you say, voice light but sincere.

He doesn’t turn immediately, focus maintained on the pot. "It's just a simple dish. I thought you might be hungry."

He says it as if it's nothing. As if he just coincidentally thought of cooking your favorite dish. You smile, walking over to the table where a fresh and warm buttered loaf of bread awaits.

“You always know exactly what I need.”

Johan almost lets out a small, almost imperceptible chuckle, still not looking at you. "I'm learning."

The first time you met Johan, it was in the bookstore you both frequented, the perfect place to disappear for hours in the quiet maze of shelves. You got to know him by the murmurs first then speaking to him second. It was the constant whispers of the librarians and regulars about a blonde man who seemed to have nothing in his closet but turtlenecks and trousers, yet the awe in their voices spoke volumes—albeit in hushed tones—as it tipped from intimidation to admiration. “He’s beautiful, isn’t he?” one of them had said once, “like straight out of a painting.” “I know,” replied the companion, her voice barely above a whisper. “But doesn’t he feel… untouchable? I wouldn’t dare.” You’d followed their gazes and caught the sight of him for the very first time. Seated by the large window in the philosophy section, he was a picture of quiet solitude. His blonde hair caught the sunlight like spun gold, but it was his stillness that struck you most. Calm and composed—indeed he must be carved from stone. Since then, you’d noticed the way others seemed to orbit around him, drawn in by his presence but never daring to get too close. “I hope someone gets the gall to talk to him,” you overheard one of the librarians mutter once. “It’s a pity seeing him alone all the time when he spends most of his days here. I get he might prefer it that way, but still…” The words had stuck with you, stirring a strange kind of curiosity. Who was he, this man who seemed to command so much attention yet cold enough to remain distant? Oh, if only you knew what the future holds for you two, you wouldn't be so nervous about it.

“Why are you laughing?”

When you snap out of it, the stove’s already closed and Johan’s attention is full at you. Needless to say, you’re flushed, but you at least manage to smile and say, “Nothing. Just remembered something funny.”

“Great,” he blankly muses as he carries the food to the dining area. “At least we’ve got something to talk about over dinner.”

The first time you gathered the needed gall to approach him yourself was when you were wandering the aisles. He was in his usual spot with a small stack of books aside. His posture was relaxed, one hand cradling a book while the other resting on the arm of his chair. The whispers you had heard didn’t do him justice. He was striking, indeed, but there was something else, something intangible—a quiet volume in his presence hiding beneath the tranquility. It was the same volume that made you hesitate, and so you lingered by the shelves first.  It wasn't until the librarian’s words echoed in your mind. “It’s a pity seeing him alone all the time…” Before you could talk yourself out of it, you stepped forward and blurted out (casually, or so you hoped), “What are you reading?” When his gaze met yours, you felt the air shift. His eyes were the clearest shade of blue you had ever seen, perhaps akin to a lake hiding depths you’ll never reach. Looking back at it, you might’ve been right during that moment, for there are still so many things you don’t know about Johan even now. Going back, Johan took his own time, as if weighing your question, and for a fleeting second, you think he might ignore you entirely. Fortunately, he tilted the book slightly so you could see the cover. “Being and Time,” he said, voice as quiet as the space around you. You’d expect his voice to be deep and manly, but his soft-spoken tone didn’t disappoint you either. In fact, you might’ve liked it more than you imagined. “Heidegger,” you say, mostly to fill the space. “That’s… a lot to unpack.” A faint smile touched his lips, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It is.” Then he closed the book in a manner so poised that it felt almost reverent. “Have you read it?” You shook your head. “Not yet. Philosophy’s always been a little intimidating. Too many questions, not enough answers. Not my thing.” For a brief moment, however, you thought it'd be nice to pretend you liked it just so you could talk to him longer. His smile lingered, softer this time. “That’s the point, isn’t it? The questions.” “And you like that?” you took a small step closer. “Questions without answers?” He leaned back slightly, considering you with a quiet curiosity that mirrored your own. “I think it’s better than answers without questions.” “Not really.” He raised his brows, and it didn’t take him too long to signal his hand on the spare chair in front of him, inviting you to his table so you could expound on your answer. You realized then that talking to Johan means having to deal with his words hanging often in the air, and even now you still find yourself caught between wanting to unravel his meaning and simply basking in the way he says it. Amid his tranquil is a tension, that invisible string pulled taut just before it breaks.

And, with that said…

“You don’t talk much about your past,” you start, voice almost shy. “I respect that. But I think I need to understand. Not for me, but for you. We’ve been friends for a while now.”

Johan doesn’t answer immediately. His fingers are wrapped around his cup, staring at the dark liquid inside as though it could offer him the answers. You’re right, all you know about him is that he’s named Johan. He’s past his thirties. He seems to like your company over dinner or while reading his daily dose of books. He likes spending the rest of his day in the library where you two first met after he’s done with his informal job of tutoring children around the neighborhood for a small price—because to quote one parent, “Mr. Johan is good at children! They love him,”—which almost made him chuckle sardonically at one point, only if he wasn’t with you at the time it was said.

He has always been careful with his words, but this time, he seems to hesitate a little longer than usual. Finally, he speaks, albeit his voice is quiet, almost a whisper.

“I’m not the person you think I am, you see…” he starts, and with that simple remark, he's able to deduce that he's not ready to talk about it at all. "...but the past is a weight deplorable people like me are not willing to carry. 

Not that he ever would be ready to talk about it, with you no less. Johan had spent so much time hiding his true self for the past decade not any more thrilled to see the reactions of others who’d come to know who he really was, even more not willing to see your reaction once you learn all of it, too.

But needless to say what he just said is progress. This is the first time in a decade that he has admitted out loud that he is a deplorable being. And that couldn’t be truer for him because even now as you talk, Johan still has no plan to carry the burden of his sins the way his victims would want to. 

He is, in fact, stuck in here, wandering aimlessly, still struggling to understand the need for it, still wanting to see the world the way those people had seen it. The vision doesn’t appear to him no matter how many books he reads, how many buoyant children he tutors, or how many happy parents he comes across. 

Then why does he allow you to see him little by little if he fails to understand it all?

“What only matters for me right now is what’s here,” He gestures around, eyes briefly meeting yours. “This. You.”

You don’t know what to say, but the fire starts feeling a bit warmer after that remark.

On Johan’s end, he seems to have formed some kind of enlightenment with his remark, too. 

Here, in his little crib, with you by his side, he’s slowly but finally allowing himself to be seen (in ways he can and knows how) for the monster that he is, and it's all thanks to your presence. His growing fondness for you has the potential of freeing him from his aimless wandering. And if this fondness, perchance, starts developing for other people as well (to your neighbors, to the kids he tutors, to the parents trusting him, to the librarians doing favors for his books), he believes he could finally start seeing the world the way those people have seen it.

“But I don’t need to know what you’ve done or whatever it is that makes you ‘deplorable’," you quote in the air. "I just want to know you."

And his questions will be answered. And, in time, Johan can finally face the weight of his sins with full understanding.

He looks at you then, his gaze steady and calm. “You already do.”

On the second, third, fourth, and perhaps even fifth time you two came across each other at the library, you had always pretended to see him coincidentally (feigning shock with a high-pitched “Oh hi there, Johan! Didn’t know you were there! It’s been a while! How are you?” that you prayed he didn’t find annoying) because, little did Johan know, your intrigue had been keeping you up at night. You frequented the library—with all sorts of books and topics diverse—to quench your curiosity about lots of things. But with this blonde man, how could your curiosity about him be quenched if not through this? At times, you thought he’d seen through your friendship scheme, but your inner demons brushed off the thought. After all, how could he tell that these moments were, in fact, not coincidental when you two were known by the librarians for frequently requesting library cards because the old ones had been too full to fill up? You glanced at the stack of books beside him and realized that they have a rather eclectic mix—existentialism, psychology, classic literature. “You have a theme going,” you say, nodding toward them. He followed your gaze. “These authors had… interesting ways of seeing the world. I like to understand how people think.” The faintest edge to his voice, however, made you wonder if he was speaking about others—or himself. “Do you ever agree with them?” “Not always, but understanding isn’t about agreement. It’s about perspective.” You nodded then, rendered into silence, unsure how to respond. There was a weight to his words that felt out of proportion to the simplicity of the conversation. But you didn’t mind. If anything, it makes you want to keep talking to him.  “I’m sorry—” you said suddenly, realizing you had been standing there for far too long. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you. I just couldn’t help but notice. I’ll be off then! Have a great time.” When his gaze met yours again, there was a flicker of something softer. “It’s not an interruption,” and for the first time, his voice held a hint of warmth. “Sometimes, a conversation can say more than a book.” You smiled at that, feeling a strange, inexplicable comfort in his words. “Well, if you ever need someone to talk to about… questions without answers, I’m around!” He didn’t respond immediately, but his expression shifted, the faintest trace of curiosity mingling with something you can’t quite name. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said at last, and though his words are polite, there’s a quiet sincerity to them that makes you believe him.

After dinner, the quiet hum of the night wraps around you as you sit in Johan’s small, meticulously organized living space. The fire dwindles to a much softer glow, casting long shadows across the room before you notice Johan's gaze flickering between the firelight and you. His hands rest loosely on the arm of his chair, seemingly content in the silence. His stillness betrays a quiet attentiveness though—for he's always aware, always considering.

“You didn’t eat much,” says Johan, proving your musings. It's not an accusation either, just an old flat remark on his end.

You shake your head, smiling softly. “I wasn’t that hungry earlier.”

He gets up without a word, movements unhurried as he disappears into the small kitchen. You hear the faint clink of a ladle against a pot and the gentle hiss of steam as he pours something. Moments later, Johan returns with a steaming bowl of soup and a slice of bread.

“Eat."

You hesitate for a moment before picking up the spoon, letting the warmth of the soup seep into your hands. “You don’t have to take care of me like this, you know?”

“I know,” he says simply before meeting your eyes, the usual coolness softened by something you couldn’t quite decipher. 

The soup is more than perfect, though—rich and comforting as always—and he knows you'd feel guilty if you don't eat it. “I don’t know how you do it,” you mumble in between, “but you always make things feel… manageable? I don’t know.”

He tilts his head slightly, as though considering your words. “Do expound."

"I’d rather not."

The chuckle he lets out with your statement has made it more difficult for you to hide your fluster, but much to your relief, Johan doesn't press you further.

The same chuckle wraps every crevice of your body with warmth. Oh, to have a friend taking care of you like this. His solitude can be dreary, but so utterly comfortable nonetheless.

Making Johan live next to you will always be one of the proudest decisions you ever made.

It was approximately three months after those fateful (intentional) encounters, that the library had become a haven for you both. Your quiet camaraderie grew into something akin to a routine. You’d share the same table, absorbed in your respective books, the soft rustle of pages turning creating a rhythm that felt comforting in its simplicity. Occasionally, you’d catch Johan glancing at you, and there would go his unreadable gaze for a moment before returning to his book. That time, you were engrossed in a novel while Johan seemed to be studying Hegel. The silence between you was companionable, feeling like you had carved out your own little world amidst the whispers and movements of the library. But the spell broke when Johan spoke, “May I ask you a favor?” Not that it annoyed you. It actually did quite the opposite. Johan, this guy, asking you a favor? He rarely initiated conversations in the first place! Still, you tried to be calm about it, settling down your book with poise and all. “Of course, what is it?” “I’ve been considering moving to a quieter neighborhood. The place I currently reside in… lacks a certain tranquility.” You tilted your head, “Quieter, huh? You don’t strike me as someone who’d tolerate noise for long.” He gave you a faint but genuine smile. “It’s not the noise itself. It’s the... atmosphere. I’d prefer somewhere where the days feel less hurried.” “I might know a few places. My neighborhood is pretty quiet, actually. There’s a lot of greenery, and the people keep to themselves. It’s the kind of place where you can choose to go weeks without bumping into your neighbors or talk to them to your heart's content.” His eyes lit up very slightly, but that rare glimmer of interest in his face made your heart skip. “That sounds ideal. Do you happen to know of any available apartments?” You hesitated, mind racing. The apartment beside yours had been vacant for months. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it was cozy, with a small balcony overlooking the courtyard. The thought of Johan living next door—of sharing more than just library visits—has kept your tongue tied for a while. “A-actually… there’s a place right next to mine.” But hey, at least you were still trying to sound casual about it. “It’s quiet, and the landlord’s a nice guy. I can give you the details if you’re interested.” “That’s very kind of you. If it’s not too much trouble, I’d appreciate it.” “Not at all!” you replied quickly, perhaps too eagerly. “I can show you the place after we leave here if you’d like.” “That would be helpful. Thank you.”

And now, as you go back to the present, you wonder why you’ve been feeling a bit too nostalgic lately, though it doesn’t stay unanswered when you glance at Johan’s calendar.

This day, last year, was the time you started sneaking on his spot at the library to initiate a talk. Reflecting on it now, your stupid tactics will never be something you’ll regret. He’s one of your closest friends now. 

Johan’s friendship isn’t one for grand gestures, but it becomes clear that his acts of care are his way of expressing what he’d prefer not to put into words. A favorite book you’d mentioned in passing has appeared on his coffee table. A small vase of daffodils now sits on the windowsill the next time you visit. His dinners are always for two, even when you show up unannounced—and if, for instance, you try to ask him about it, he’d just casually shrug and say, “I just ended up cooking a lot. Eat it while it’s hot.” More, and more, and more. It’s as though Johan is slowly turning his house into your own, too.

The same goes for the stuff you accidentally leave at his place. Your scarf? You’d see it neatly folded on the chair by the door the day after. Feeling a bit too cold during the evening? There, he has a blanket ready before you could even ask. 

One night, you arrive at his house later than usual, steps heavy from a particularly grueling day. The door's unlocked, as it has been when he expects you.

“Johan?” you call, shrugging off your coat.

“In here,” comes his voice from the kitchen.

You follow the sound and find him standing by the stove while stirring a pot. The dim light casts a warm hue over him; his sharp features soften along the way.

He glances at you briefly, offering a small nod. “Long day?”

You lean against the doorway with a tired sigh. “You have no idea.”

Without a word, he turns off the stove and begins ladling soup into a bowl. He sets it on the table, gesturing for you to sit.

He sits across from you, his own bowl untouched. Then there goes his gaze, lingering on you, unintrusive but steady, as though he's reading every line of exhaustion on your face and filing it away.

“You should take a break."

You smiled wryly. “From what? Life?”

“From pushing yourself too hard."

His words hang in the air, simple yet profound. You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. Johan’s protection of your peace became a natural extension of his care for you. He never pushed you to do anything for him. He never asked for more than you were willing to give. But he shows up. Every day. Quietly. Steadily. 

The warmth of this dinner where Johan casually asks about your day, muses about his, shares the books he had read, makes you chuckle at the tomfooleries of children he has tutored, and more has been consuming you. It doesn’t take long until you finally work up the courage to ask a question that’s been lingering in your mind for quite some time.

 “Why do you do all this for me?”

Johan looks at you, his expression unreadable. For a moment, you think he might deflect, as he so often does when conversations edge too close to vulnerability. But then, he answers, his voice quieter than usual.

“Because you stay.”

The simplicity of his words struck you. Johan, who has always been careful, always guarded, is telling you more than you realize.

“I stay because I want to."

His gaze doesn’t waver, but you notice the subtle shift in his expression—a faint, almost imperceptible relaxation.

“I know,” he replies, and for the first time, there's a hint of something like certainty in his voice.

With the winter deepening and the night growing colder, the warmth inside Johan’s home never falters. The conversations drift to lighter topics—books you’d read, places you wanted to visit, small dreams you’d never share with anyone else. Johan listens intently, his focus unwavering.

“I think you’d like the mountains,” he says at one point. “Quiet. Peaceful.”

You smile. “You make it sound perfect.”

“Well, it could be.” His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer than usual. “Don't you think so?”

There's something in his tone—something unspoken, undecipherable, and yet undeniable. You realize something that made your heart ache and swell all at once: Johan isn’t just taking care of you. He's allowing you to take care of him, too, in the only way he knows how: by letting you stay. And, just like what happened just now, his likes and preferences will slip out of his mouth without him noticing from time to time, albeit much of them still projected as something you might like instead.

It's not easy for him, you know. But every bowl of soup, every blanket, every quiet moment shared in his little home is his way of saying what he couldn’t bring himself to say outright.

And for now, that is enough.

Johan’s care remains consistent, though you begin to notice small changes in his interactions with you.

His gaze often lingers a second longer, softening in ways you don’t know how to interpret—maybe it even softens a little too much especially when you’re telling him about your days. And his voice—oh, his voice that has bewitched you since the first time you had heard it in the library—recently it lowers in an almost tender way, his tone more perceptive of what you need even before you realize it yourself. 

Then there goes the gestures. An extra blanket he drapes over your shoulders on particularly cold nights. A cup of tea that spawns on the table whenever he notices your mood falter. A brush of his hand against yours when he steadies you under the weight of too many things. All these moments feel small, insignificant even, and yet they’ve become harder and harder to ignore. 

Maybe it’s a you problem (even though you tried your very best to stop the thoughts, to be fair) but oftentimes you can’t help but ask, has he always been this way?

No way Johan could like you, that much you know. But if we’re talking about you and the things under your sphere, the feelings that you can control, what would you answer if he came one day to ask if you still like him as a friend, or if it has progressed to something more dangerous—what would you tell him, then?

Fortunately, the Christmas season has brought a whirlwind of gatherings—giving you the space that you need from your colleagues. And for the night of Christmas itself, you’ve chosen to attend one with your friends instead of having dinner with him. It’s not that you don’t enjoy his company; you do, perhaps a bit too much, even, but you thought a change of pace would help clear your head.

You never intended to get yourself wasted, but the way you kept thinking of him during the gathering, spacing out, wondering if he managed to cook his own dinner or if he ‘accidentally’ made it again for two. At one point you even considered excusing yourself early just so you could go back home—to him. Oh god, you’re doomed indeed.

Hours later, the cold night air hits you as you stumble back to your apartment, the warmth of good food and too much wine still buzzing in your veins. While fumbling with your keys in the dark, you notice a figure standing at the door next to yours.

Johan.

His posture is impeccable as always, but his face is unreadable, bathed in the soft light of the hallway lamp. His sharp eyes meet yours, flickering briefly to the keys trembling in your hand.

“How long have you been—”

“You’re late.” His voice is rather calm, but there’s a note of something you can’t quite place.

“Merry Christmas, Johan,” you smile softly, the silly intoxicated mind finding his concern oddly amusing. “But oh, wait! Sorry, you told me you don’t celebrate holidays, right? Silly me,” you sway slightly. “Still, I bought you a gift, but I—hic—I left it inside. Maybe you can accompany me inside so y—you could, uh… what was I gonna say again?”

“You’re drunk,” he states the obvious with eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

“No, I’m, hehe, not.” Though your keys clatter to the floor as if your body is mocking your denial. “Shit. I don’t have a spare key.” Disappointment so palpable as if the keys falling to the floor renders it unusable.

Johan sighs, bending to retrieve them with effortless grace. Without another word, he steps forward, unlocks your door, and gently guides you inside.

The warmth of your apartment envelops you, and you’re too tipsy to protest as Johan helps you to the couch. He disappears momentarily and returns with a glass of water.

“Drink.” His tone leaves no room for argument. You comply, sipping obediently, though you can’t help but watch him as he hovers nearby, his movements ever careful and deliberate, as though he’s weighing every action. When you finish, he takes the glass from your hands and sets it aside. “You should lie down.”

You nod. But then, Johan doesn’t accompany you to your room. He instead readies himself to leave. Why would he leave? He turns off the lights, assuming you are indeed on your way to your bedroom, and then bids you good night.

No.

The room spins slightly as you try to reach out to him. You fail miserably though, but Johan’s fast reaction steadies you immediately. He picks you up by the arm before you can even fall, “You okay?”

“Don’t leave.”

Johan squints his eyes, his thoughts lurking towards something. “Did something happen at the gathering? Did someone perhaps—”

“No, I—” you stammer because Johan’s proximity seems to have sobered you up. He gently sits your flailing body on the floor. He’s crouching, though his hold on your shoulder didn’t cease. “I just…I just realized something.”

He hums, waiting for you ever so gently to respond.

The same gentleness that pushes you off the edge.

“I like you.”

But the lights are off. You wouldn’t see Johan’s reaction.

The silence stretches painfully, and it doesn’t take long until you feel a pang of regret. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disappoint you.”

For a moment, he doesn’t respond, and you think he might leave. But then he speaks, his voice quiet, almost strained. “You didn’t disappoint me,” he says finally, and you find it strange how that simple—perhaps even empty—clarification plucked out a thorn in your vein. “It’s just that you don’t know what you’re saying right now.”

“I do,” you insist despite the haze in your mind. Your eyes scan everything else but his face above, trying to articulate it in a way he’d believe. “I’ve liked you since we met at the library. I pretended to come across you accidentally just so we could have something to talk about. I—I used to sit there for hours just hoping we’d talk. It kept me awake at night… thinking about you, about the way you look when you read. I thought I was just like that because I wanted to be your friend so bad, but I—” you exhale, ragged, exhausted. “I don’t think it passed even when we became close. There go your habits, and how you’re so kind to me… I can’t deny it any further and pretend I just want to be friends.”

Your words trail off, and the silence thereafter has felt suffocating. Johan remains unmoved, his posture rigid, and you can’t help but wonder what’s going on inside his head.

“Let's talk about it tomorrow…” Johan starts. “When you’re sober.”

“Okay…”

And yet, no one dares to move.

You finally look up after five minutes or so, and there you catch Johan’s gaze lingering on you—not piercing, but steady, contemplative. His hands rest loosely on your shoulders, yet you notice the slight tension in his fingers, the faint clench, and release as though he’s holding something back.

“You’ve been quiet,” you finally say, voice softer than intended, eyes up at him and nothing else.

“So have you,” he replies, and though his tone is even, there’s something in the way his eyes flicker to yours, then away, as if he’s caught in something too raw to name.

There goes the silence again, not because it’s awkward but because something has changed. Your body can sense it—the urge to move just a bit higher so you can reach his face, perhaps cup his cheeks just a bit, and maybe a small kiss on the forehead too…? Your heart flutters like a bird aching to be let out. Your feelings for Johan have been climbing higher than you ever intended tonight. And yet, the way he looks at you now, guarded but searching, makes you wonder if he feels even a fraction of what you do.

“Johan,” you say, voice trembling, “I…”

He looks at you again but in a manner quite different from how he usually reacts whenever you call his name. Still, you don’t let it scare you off. 

“I don’t care if you can’t carry the weight of your past,” you say, the words spilling out like water from a dam. “I just want to be with you, and… maybe—”

It’s just that you don’t get to finish.

Johan leans in fast; you feel the time pacing a bit quicker, perhaps so it could cater to your shock. His hold on your cheek is gentle and controlled, but the way he meets your lips fervently speaks the urgency of it, as though he’s been waiting for this moment longer than he’s willing to admit.

And so when you do more than push him away, your hand tentatively reaching for his arm instead—he deepens it further, his restraint crumbling just enough to let you feel his response to your confession. After all, what Johan lacks in words he always compensates in action. His care has always been consistent and predictable in its subtlety and restraint, thus making his lack of control and patience right now unusual and out of character. But even then, his lips have a careful precision that still feels so him.

Oftentimes you'd wonder how Johan's skin would feel against yours. He barely looks alive so you thought he'd feel cold. But oh how wrong you are. His hand languidly slides to your back, and then he abruptly pulls your body towards him. It's warm, perhaps too much that it overwhelms you. His heart is beating fast, the needed confirmation that this affects him just the same.

Johan’s movements feel as though he himself is unfamiliar with this feeling—as if this is the first time he's had this reaction. Your mind then races with questions. Does this mean he feels the same? Or is this meant to keep me guessing? What happens after this? 

The thoughts melt away when he pulls away, eyes lidded, lips puffed. “Johan, what—”

Only to kiss you harder again. Perhaps he did because he felt your attention drifting away from him. It’s as if to say you wanted this to happen, so relish it without thinking about anything else. This sudden assertion after keeping himself subtle is doing something in your brain.

Johan seems to take pleasure in your reactions, too—the way you pant as your lips pressed together, your hands clinging onto the waves of his hair, and when you slip out a little moan because his hands slide into your shirt to feel the heat of your back, you feel him smile. Then he becomes more passionate. More desperate. More longing. And in this moment, Johan feels more reachable, more understandable.

Perhaps his lack of usual poise also says a lot about how he’s still doing everything in his power right now to hold back, and he’s asking you to cooperate.

Johan pulls back for good in a rather slow, deliberate manner, just in sync with your panting breaths. His forehead brushes lightly against yours as he stays close. 

“I told you, hadn’t I?” His eyes, now open but still lidded, seemingly search your face for something—fear? Regret? Understanding? What is it? “We’ll talk about it tomorrow when you’re sober. You’re not listening to me.”

You open your mouth to say something but his fingertip presses gently to your lips.

“Don’t,” he whispers, his voice softer, reminding you of his restraint. “Not yet.”

But I just want to say that I liked it and I want more.

“Please,” he adds as if he just read your mind.

What a sight to see.

The way his face looks right now makes you feel his inner turmoil. The weight of his past he claims a deplorable being like him will not be willing to carry is making him more reluctant to let himself have this—to have you.

He needs time, doesn’t he? And so you finally nod, temporarily ceasing the itch to have your questions answered.

Johan sighs in relief, sounding genuinely tired as if this night has taken all of his energy and willpower. He doesn’t forget to usher you up, and when he realizes you’re not wobbling that much anymore, he nods, taps your cheeks, kisses your forehead, and repeats his good night.

As soon as the door closes, you slowly walk to your room. Eyes wide, fingertips touching your sore lips, and you plopped on the bed unceremoniously. 

For now, in the quiet of your apartment, with the taste of him still lingering on your lips, at least you can now assure yourself that for the first time since you’ve known each other, he finally let himself be vulnerable, even for a moment. And that is more than you ever could have asked for.

🏷️ SUBSCRIBE/UNSUSCRIBE TO STORIES | @chxrry-writes @nefarra @ellabellapumela @skexxll @xeiin-n

@melonvrs @s0m4-sh4rk

[riewritten]

CRYING. CYING CRYINNGSNDJGNDNR!!!?!?@#?@ first johan liebert fan art, a MAJESTIC one at that, dedicated to my fic‼😭💘 yOU ARE SUCH A GREAT ARTIST what the hell?!?!?! LIKE THE LINES?!?!? THE SHADING AND COLORING STYLE?? delicious. SUPERB. i will eat ur art 1000/10

now i CAN definitely imagine johan shamelessly huffing a lil cig at YOUR bathroom door (the audacity of this bitch!!!) after removing his anna liebert costume, make up, and all because he's confident not even the stink of cigarette smoke could wake his favorite roommate up 😔✊ he had spent a lot of nights observing you sleep to know that much, after all.

the only con is that he'd have to clean the ashes along with his make up kit among many other things. you see, it's actually quite apparent to notice that someone had smoked inside your bathroom—there would be ashes on the floor, the stinky smell would stick to the tiles, and it would all be piled up with your annoyance to whoever the fuck would break into your house while you're sleeping just to do such an abhorrence.

but johan, this unhinged man, is living off the thrill of being caught, of being noticed and known by you—well, much to his denial of his own existence. he thinks it's just his self-destructive tendencies at work, but deep inside you should know that this fucker is sometimes disgustingly filled with satisfaction during scenario-buildings—an event where you could see him all bare and exposed, a point in time where the monster lays itself bare to the one who interests him most. oh, you'd be so terrified. perhaps your whole world would crumble, even. he sure knows it would—that is in accordance to his will—for the monster, for the first time in his life, wants to have a tumultuous impact towards another living being.

he doesn't know the reason why, though. this is the first time the monster inside him took this type of interest towards someone.

HERE'S THE OIL WELL FIRES FANFIC for those who haven't read it yet btw <333

@riewritten caught johan getting out of drag

kept procrastinating on this cuz i kept nitpicking but i need to work on my perfectionism so i went ahead and tried to finish it instead of throwing it in the WIP dungeon LOL. now go read “oil well fires” by riewritten. genuinely the best johan fic i’ve read and i can’t wait to read the future chapters 🙏🙏

[sweetlywriting]

Kirche

Johan Liebert x Reader

You were suprised as the lean blonde man slide into the pew you were currently kneeling on. Or more accurately, surprised that the devil’s incarnate could actually walk into the German Aachen cathedral without bursting into flame.

“I didn’t know you were religious.”

He said it in that charming coquettish voice, with a pleasant hum at the end, so deeply contrasting to his true nature. Such a lie too. Johan knew full well that you believed in his antithesis. And he never missed the chance to try and toy with that belief, as he had done with every other aspect of your life.

Just a week ago, at some odd hour in the night as you were on your couch swathed in blanket, eyes glued to the tv as terror and havoc occurred in the tiny metal box. That sinking feeling settled in the bottom of your stomach, knowing exactly who it was but completely unable to prove it. The dread that you had spent so much of your time with such a horrid person pained you, and the fact the horrid person was likely making dinner for the both of you felt even worse. You swallowed, just about to get up when a voice clearly spoke from next to you.

“How tragic.”

You knew he didn’t find it tragic at all, but grit your teeth and nodded, not wanting to give much reaction. Perhaps he didn’t like that, because the next thing you know his pale slender hands gently grab at the necklace buried in your tank top. A gesture that makes your heart race a little more than you want it too. You don’t dare breathe as he quietly observes the cross shaped charm on the necklace, gently brushing your collarbones with every movement. His hand finds it’s way to edge of your face, the tv news forgotten as you lean into his touch. His beautiful light blue eyes meeting yours. He comes closer gently brushing your hair behind your ear, before whispering closely.

“What a kind God you have.”

The atmosphere immediately changes, it feels as though a bucket of ice water has been poured on your head. Creating a beautiful moment only to crush it, like a child playing with sand.

“I’m just saying he’s quite . . . Forgiving. He’s so very sparing on my deeds, sometimes I wonder if he likes any of you at all. But it’s fine, I’m much more fond of you anyways. Dinner’s on the table,”

He said this a swiftly walked away, as though torturing you with words was a daily thing which in all technicality, it was.

But you didn’t want it to happen today. Not here, already in church-not now. You focused straight ahead not acknowledging Johan in the slightest, as he already had the high ground being in your last place of comfort. Somehow through a hazy amount of time, his slow manipulation and quiet comments had driven you far away from your family, friends, career, and everything else along with it, except for Johan. Leaving you to wonder for the rest of your life where exactly you fucked up and let this carry out to far.

“Why me?”

You whispered. He laughs warmly as though he’s just a normal lover entertaining your silly antics. That’s it probably looked to the few others in the church.

“Perhaps it was fate . . . Or simply God.”

You bang your head on the pew, the noise reverbs in the hollow building and in your head, long after he leaves.

[celesthysaturn]

But who is Anna Liebert, after all? It makes me confused to know if she is Nina the monster version or the female Johan version. Well, for me, she is someone with Johan's personality and Nina's body, as if was the 3rd twin that never existed or was formulated in Johan's imagination when he disguised himself as Nina

[malware-180]

Johan Liebert Headcanon| When you are on your period

@siaaasstuff this is for ya!

✨･ ｡☆∴｡　*　･ﾟ*｡💖･　　･ *ﾟ｡　　 *　 ･ ﾟ*｡･ﾟ★｡

-Liebert gets sanitary pads, tampons and everything you need so you don't leave your house to buy these things.

-He makes sure that you feel as comfortable as possible. He buys you remedies to counteract colic because he doesn't like to see you writhe in pain.

-Do you like Japanese peanuts? Do you want a pizza with mushrooms? You have to know that your handsome boyfriend will indulge your every whim. Especially when it comes to junk food.

-Johan is going to deposit kisses on your face with the purpose of making you feel loved. Usually girls feel sensitive these days, so he understands that you need love in your hypersensitive stage.

-Your bad mood or spontaneous crying is not something that surprises him. In reality, the nihilistic blond is waiting for that and he finds it cute but of course he prefers to step aside because it's useless to deal with you frustrated.

-Often when you are going through your period Johan will snuggle up to you, hugging you from behind and loving you with this act. You see, he hates physical contact. You and his sister are exceptions. Value this well, please.

-After those difficult days, the boy with the melancholy look is going to take you for a walk. He adores you and it's the least you deserve (even if he doesn't repeat it verbally often).

✨･ ｡☆∴｡　*　･ﾟ*｡💖･　　･ *ﾟ｡　　 *　 ･ ﾟ*｡･ﾟ★｡

[klmwrites]

Wholeheartedly begging Noaki Urasawa to write a Monster AU in which Tenma teams up with Johan to stop Anna/Nina from her murder spree

[hinami-only]

Frostbitten Peonies

"Do you believed in miracles, Johan-san?" i asked

"I dont" He replied

"Why?" I asked, puzzled by his response

"Miracles, as humans perceive them, often necessitate human action or intervention. It's a term humans created to avoid grappling with the complexities of the seemingly impossible." he explained, gazing at the sky ahead, i can't seem to read his mind

I was left stunned. "Intelligent people really scares me..."

"its just that normal human lacks logic. " he respond, his words landing with a sharp sting. Ouch.

"Seems like I'm lacking in that department" i chuckled softly

Silent then surrounds us.

I glanced at him. His eyes fixed on the clear sky above. I can see his eyes, but i am still unable to read his mind. As always.

"You're right, Johan-san... Humans really do lack of logic. Humans really like to rely on someone or something. Yet, that's the essence of being human. A humans life are empty without seeking the help from the other. Human lives are made richer by relying on others. So, it's understandable on why humans seek miracles since dependence is what keeps them going."

I noticed that Johan became silent. I glanced at him, he's already staring at me, then i notice a smile slowly spreads across his face.

"Looks like you've finally put that brain of yours to good use. But I was only joking, I didn't expect you to take it so seriously, dumbo" he teased, his laughter filling the air as he clutched his stomach.

I turned red from embarrassment as i realized that he was just teasing me this whole time.

His laughter echoed throughout the garden, and his hand remained pressed against his stomach, which annoyed me.

But.

Seeing him laugh so genuinely for the first time made him seem more human, like he was dropping his usual fake act.

Despite my initial anger, I chose to let it go for now. Since there would be plenty of time to be angry with him in the future.

BANG

Plenty of time?

Enough time?

Are you fucking kidding me?

One bullet was all it took to bring me to my knees.

I, a proud and egoistic woman, was brought down by a crazy man's bullet?

Funny.

I gazed at my wounded stomach in horror, the weight of my mistake crashing down on me. Our baby.

I groaned in pain, wishing I had stayed home instead of following Johan.

Another shot rang out, sending me laying to the ground.

"Fuck" i grieved, holding my stomach

Lying there, questions flooded my mind.

What would happen to my baby? Our baby? Johan's Baby? Johan?

I cant die. He may seem not like it but Johan relies on my cooking, he won't eat anything made by others, he will starved. Who would look after him? A maid? Thats ridiculous, he wouldn't trust anyone, not even his so-called "friends".

It all seemed so absurd, and I chuckled weakly.

I really am stupid. Right, Johan-san?

My head is starting to ring, then as my eyes are starting to get blurry, a shadow towering me, with a gun in hand.

"Is two shots not enough?" I spat, my voice strained. This greedy bastard.

My eyelids grew heavy as I clutched my stomach, our baby's last protection.

As I faded into darkness, I glimpsed at the menacing grin on the crazy man's face.

A Monster?

Hah...

BANG

[boredmezzosoprano]

What if…

What if in Another Monster, while he was on the run Johan became disfigured somehow (or did it to himself?) and thus was no longer able to tempt people with his looks and slowly from there starts to gain some humanity? Oh the artist who created the bottom picture is called soybeanbokchoi 💖

[somin-yin]

Johan seducing Light:

For context: This takes place after Johan betrayed Light and neither of them could kill each other so Light took him prisoner.

WARNING: It gets NSFW in the middle so read ONLY if you're over 18.

As soon as they arrived at the penthouse, Light pushed Johan inside and closed the door behind them. The view from the windows was breathtaking, and Johan couldn't help but feel a sense of confusion.

"What is this place, Light?" Johan asked, turning to face him.

"This is where you'll be staying from now on," Light said, a dark glint in his eyes. "Consider it your prison until I can figure out what to do with you. And don't bother trying to escape. There's no way out of this penthouse that I haven't already thought of."

Johan just looked at him, the gears of his mind working to create a plan to either win Light back or to get out of there. He could notice that there was still tension and attraction between them and he knew that he could use it to his advantage. He walked towards Light, his heart racing in his chest. And before Light could react, Johan reached up and grabbed him by his tie, pulling him in for a fiery kiss.

Light was caught off guard, but he soon found himself responding to Johan's kiss with the same fervor. Johan's lips were soft and insistent against his, and Light wasn't able to resist the other man's passion. He leaned into the kiss, deepening it as he wrapped his arms around Johan's waist but then his rational side took over, and he pulled away, pushing Johan back.

"Stop it, Johan," Light said in a firm tone. "You know that we can't do this. Not anymore."

Johan's face fell, and he looked at Light with a mixture of longing and disappointment. "Don't you miss me, Light?" he asked softly. "Don't you still have feelings for me?"

Light hesitated for a moment, his mind filled with conflicting emotions. He did miss Johan, more than he cared to admit, but he couldn't let himself be vulnerable again. He couldn't let Johan know that he still had feelings for him.

"No," he finally said, his voice cold and harsh. "I don't miss you, Johan. And I don't have feelings for you anymore."

Johan knew that Light was lying, that he was just trying to protect himself, but he couldn't help the ache in his heart. Johan took a deep breath and looked at Light with a sad smile. "Okay," he said quietly. "I understand. If you don't want me, then I won't insist anymore."

Light's expression remained cold and distant, but Johan could see a hint of sadness in his eyes. He knew that Light was struggling with his feelings, just as he was.

Suddenly Light took a step closer to Johan. "Don't think for a second that you can manipulate me, Johan," he warned, his voice sinister.

Johan's eyes flashed with a sudden determination. "I'm not trying to manipulate you, Light. I just don't want you to come regretting your decision later."

Light raised an eyebrow, studying Johan carefully. He could sense that there was something else going on in Johan's mind, something he wasn't saying. He felt a flicker of unease in his chest, but he pushed it away. He couldn't let himself be swayed by Johan again.

"You're wasting your time, Johan," he said, turning to leave the penthouse. "I won't regret anything. There is no room for sentimentality."

Meanwhile Johan's mind raced with a plan. He would seduce Light, he would make him want him again, no matter what it took. But he knew he had to be careful, he couldn't let Light suspect what he was doing.

Johan watched as Light walked towards the door, his heart sinking with every step. He knew that he needed to act fast, before Light left the place and he lost his chance.

"Wait," he called out, "I need to take a shower."

Light stopped in his tracks and eyed him suspiciously, his mind immediately jumping to the possibility that Johan might try to escape or do something while he was in the shower.

As if reading his mind, Johan shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. "I just want to freshen up a bit," he said. "I don't want to give you any reason to doubt me so you can watch over me if you want to."

Light was clearly not convinced. "Fine. I'll be watching you. But don't try anything stupid," he finally said, his voice hard.

Johan nodded, hiding his excitement. This was exactly what he had been hoping for.

"And don't get any ideas, Johan," Light said coldly. "I'm not going to fall for your tricks."

Johan just gave him a small, seductive smile that sent shivers down Light's spine. He knew that he was playing with fire, and that he had to resist the temptation. "Of course not," he said, his voice sweet. "But you never know what might happen."

Light hesitated for a moment, he knew that Johan was always up to something, always plotting and scheming, and he couldn't let his guard down for a moment. Finally, he followed Johan into the bathroom, his eyes scanning the room for any signs of escape routes or weapons.

Once inside the bathroom, Johan began to undress slowly, deliberately. He could feel Light's eyes on him, watching him intently as he peeled off his clothes.

As he slipped out of his shirt, Johan could see the way Light's eyes lingered on his chest, taking in the smooth, pale skin. He knew that he was having an effect on Light, that he was still desirable to him.

But he also knew that Light would never admit it, not even to himself. He was too proud, too stubborn, to admit that he still had feelings for him.

Light's inner thoughts were a jumbled mess. He couldn't believe that he was being affected by Johan's display, that he was feeling himself growing hard at the sight of Johan's naked body. He didn't want to admit that he was still attracted to the man who had betrayed him.

In his mind, Light cursed himself for his weakness. He knew that he was falling for Johan's trap, that he was being lured into a web of desire and temptation that he couldn't escape.

Johan stepped into the shower, turning on the water and letting it run over his body. He ran his hands over his chest and down his stomach, knowing that Light was watching him the whole time.

He could see the way Light was struggling to keep his composure, the way his eyes lingered on his body as if he couldn't tear them away.

Johan knew that he had to be careful, that he couldn't give too much away. But he also knew that he had to push Light, to make him see that there was still something between them.

And Light, for his part, could feel his body betraying him in ways that he couldn't control. He wanted Johan so badly, he wanted to give in to his desires and take him right there in the shower. As he felt his control slipping further, he knew he had to get out of there before he did something he would regret.

When Light left the bathroom, he couldn't shake the image of Johan's naked body from his mind. His body was on fire, and he needed release. He made his way to the bedroom, his mind filled with memories of the times he and Johan had been together. He remembered the way Johan's skin felt under his fingertips, the way he moaned when Light touched him just right. He remembered the way Johan would look at him, his blue eyes filled with yearning and desire.

Light shook his head, trying to clear the memories from his mind. He knew that he couldn't give in to Johan, not when he had already made his intentions clear. But as he sat on the bed, his hand moving frantically over his aching member, he couldn't help but wonder if he had made the right decision. Meanwhile, Johan remained in the bathroom, a smirk on his face as he heard the sound of Light's gasps coming from the bedroom. He knew that he had succeeded in his plan to seduce Light, and he couldn't wait to see what would happen next.

Johan took his time in the shower, letting the warm water wash over him as he thought about what had just happened. He knew that he had managed to arouse Light, and the thought made him feel powerful. He had missed the feeling of control, the feeling of being desired, and he was determined to use it to his advantage. As he got out of the shower and dried himself off, he couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction. He had managed to get under Light's skin, to make him feel things that he had been trying to bury for so long.

Johan walked out of the bathroom, wearing just a towel around his waist. He could see Light heading out towards the penthouse's door. Johan smirked at Light and asked in a sweet tone. "Do you want to join me next time?"

Light just glared at him. "Don't push your luck," he said before slamming the door and locking it.

[vorrrrrona]

У него за всю жизнь было много имен.

«Мое имя – Ганс…»

«Мое имя – Отто…»

Но было лишь одно имя, которое запоминалось и шло ему как никакое другое.

«Йохан – прелестное имя».

Тем временем по стенкам его черепной коробки эхом разносились слова, сказанные когда-то человеком, которого он бы рискнул назвать близким. Он сам не знал, что чувствует, лишь повторял себе вно��ь и вновь то, что услышал от него.

«Не важно, как нас зовут. Имена придумали люди, едва обретя речь, но в древние времена людям достаточно было посмотреть друг на друга, чтобы понять, что этот человек – твой друг. Твой родитель. Твоя половинка. Твой враг. Большего и не нужно. С появлением имен жизнь человечества не стала лучше. Продолжаются бойни. Продолжаются войны. Так почему же имя нам настолько необходимо? Потерять собственную душу – вот, что страшно».

Где-то вдалеке послышались первые раскаты грома.

Подняв холодный взгляд к небу, Йохан увидел, как город начала медленно поглощать тень от надвигающейся грозовой тучи.

Испугавшись, что книжка, которую он нес за пазухой,  намокнет, он спрятался под навес старого кафе. Присев за столик, он достал эту книжку и начал внимательно разглядывать обложку.

«Алиса в Стране Чудес. Льюис Кэрролл. Лимитированное издание».

Открыв ее на первой главе, он внимательно вгляделся в первые строки.

«Какой толк в книжке, в которой даже нет картинок? – спросила Алиса у сестры».

Затем повествование ввело нового героя – белого кролика с розовыми глазками, который проскакал мимо Алисы и удивил ее тем, что начал бормотать:

«Я опаздываю, я снова опаздываю!»

Йохан не знал, что ему чувствовать, читая эту сказку.

Единственная история, которую он помнил из детства – это «Монстр, у которого не было имени».

Эти рассказы были столь не похожи, что вызывали неоднозначные ощущения – казалось, что «Алиса» Кэрролла – это нечто из другого мира, совсем не такого, в котором привык жить сам Йохан.

Странное чувство разливалось в сердце, затем охватывая легкие, проникая в желудок и заставляя почувствовать себя живым вплоть до кончиков ногтей.

По телу пробежала легкая дрожь.

- Что это такое? – сказал он сам себе, вглядываясь в прекрасные иллюстрации, нарисованные рукой искусного художника.

Сделав глубокий вдох, он закрыл книгу и положил ее на край столика.

Его руки слегка дрожали.

Подняв голову и посмотрев на свое отражение в витрине старого кафе, он застыл в изумлении: его не покидало ощущение, что нечто потустороннее, не являющееся им самим, смотрит на него из недр собственного «Я».

Нащупав под пиджаком холодную сталь револьвера, но продолжая глядеть в глаза самому себе, он тихо произнес: «Я уничтожу то, что живет по ту сторону зеркала, и пожирает меня все больше и больше».

Почему он, читая эту добрую сказку, видел в ней нечто ужасное? Он не знал.

Что, если бы монстр поглотил его? Хотя… он уже сделал это.

Поэтому он знал, что чувствует Фризе каждый раз, когда осмеливается посмотреть самой себе прямо в глаза.

Ее глаза были глубокими, словно янтарь, в котором тысячи лет назад утонул маленький паучок или букашка. Он не раз ловил себя на мысли, что чувствует себя этим самым паучком, который медленно тонет и застывает в кусочке этого камня.

Его не волновали такие глупости.

Его волновала лишь одна глупость, которую может совершить Фризе, если он не поторопится.

Парень поднялся со стула, укрыл книжку пиджаком и направился в сторону одного высотного здания, куда он же и сказал ей прийти. Они должны были там встретиться, но убивать Фризе в планы пока не входило. Она еще нужна.

Когда он поднялся на крышу, Фризе уже ждала его там. Она стояла на самом краю, рискуя быть сброшенной вниз случайным порывом ветра.

Когда он подошел к ней сзади, девушка вздрогнула, но даже не обернулась.

- Ну давай уже, покончим с этим, - сказала Фризе голосом человека, у которого вот-вот случится истерика, - Стреляй. Целься в голову. Или в сердце. Я не хочу лететь вниз еще живой.

Вдруг она почувствовала на своей ладони ледяное прикосновение.

- У меня есть оружие, - сказал он, и в голосе его звучала улыбка. Такая спокойная. Умиротворенная. До жути, если рассматривать ее вкупе с сложившейся ситуацией, - но оно не для того, чтоб тебя сейчас убить. Пока еще рано, Фризе. Я очень расстроюсь, если узнаю, что ты умрешь раньше меня.

- Я уже умерла, – фыркнула Фризе, но Йохан аккуратно положил руки ей на плечи и отвел от края.

- Прекрасный вид, - сказал он, - тогда, когда мы впервые встретились на крыше, ты открыла мне глаза. Спасибо.

            Ответом ему послужило ледяное безмолвие.

- У меня есть сюрприз для тебя, - продолжил Йохан, словно ее дерзкое молчание его совсем не касалось, - Я хочу показать тебе еще одно место.

- Какое?

- Если я правильно понимаю слово «сюрприз», то в этом и суть, чтоб не раскрывать карты слишком быстро.

Фризе совсем не боялась смерти. Теперь, когда она лишилась своего творчества, своей сути, своего призвания, лица и – самое страшное, - души, ее совершенно не волновало, как именно Йохан решит с ней расправиться.

Они спустились с крыши и долго петляли по самым темным закоулкам городка, не замечая, что тучи рассеялись и теперь над их головами багровело почти что безоблачное небо.

Наконец он привел ее в одинокое заброшенное здание. Внешние стены были разрисованы вандалами, окна разбиты и заколочены поломанными досками.

Они вместе зашли внутрь. Там было абсолютно пусто. Начав вертеть головой, Фризе рассматривала помещение, пытаясь понять, что здесь такого особенного.

- Стой. Не шевелись. – вдруг приказал Монстр, и девушка, как послушная машина, замерла по его приказу, - теперь посмотри чуть левее. Да, вон в том углу.

Фризе присмотрелась. Едва ее взора донесся предательский блеск битого стекла, она обомлела от ужаса – там стояло большое зеркало. Почти такое же, какое было у нее в детстве. Такое же зеркало, как то, в котором впервые появилась Элис.

- Нет! - вскрикнула девушка, которая не ожидала такого подвоха. Она ждала всего, но не этого. Ее охватила паника. Ноги подкосились, и она рухнула на колени, начав тяжело дышать. На лбу проступил холодный пот.

- Йохан, ты…

Едва она собиралась закончить фразу, как парень приложил палец к ее губам и спокойно прошептал на ухо, продолжая улыбаться, почти не меняясь в лице.

- Тише. Мы здесь, чтобы уничтожить твоего Монстра.

- У… уничтожить?..

Вдруг посреди тишины раздался щелчок. Йохан аккуратно взял ее за руку и вложил в нее револьвер.

- Ты знаешь, куда стрелять, - сказал он, помогая девушке подняться с испачканных колен. Он чувствовал, как ее колотила мелкая дрожь.

- Пойдем. Теперь моя очередь открыть глаза тебе, - он подвел ее ближе к зеркалу, следя за тем, чтоб она не использовала пистолет иначе, чем он для нее предрешил.

- Сними его с предохранителя.

Щелк.

- Теперь – прицелься.

- Но куда мне…

Йохан приложил указательный палец к ее лбу, но не отводил холодные голубые глаза от зеркала, во тьме которого отражались лишь они двое.

- Я поняла… я все поняла… - сглотнув нервный комок, сказала Фризе, и ее глаза вдруг расширились.

За секунду до выстрела в ее глазах вспыхнул огонь ненависти.

Бах!

Затем треск и визг стекла, разлетевшегося на кусочки. Точное попадание прямо в голову собственному отражению.

Бах! Бах! Бах!

Выстрелы летели один за другим, пока в кобуре не закончились патроны.

Дрожь вдруг прекратилась, но в ту же секунду Фризе почувствовала, как земля уходит из-под ее резко ослабевших ног.

Она потеряла сознание и последнее, что видела Фризе перед тем, как утонуть во мраке, это единственное лицо, которое она мола различить.

Это был Монстр.

Это был Йохан.

***

Она пришла в себя через несколько часов. С трудом разлепив ослабевшие веки, она осмотрелась и поняла, что находится в больнице.

Даже лежа, Фризе ощутила, что голова снова начала кружиться, а в глазах – темнеть. Но тут ее панику прервала медсестра, вошедшая в палату.

Фризе невольно посмотрела на нее, и…

Увидела ее лицо. Не силуэт с размытыми тенями, не липкое пятно – лицо.

Фризе застыла в изумлении, потеряв дар речи.

Тем временем, медсестра подошла ближе и протянула ей какой-то сверток.

- Ваш молодой человек оставил это вам, - сказала женщина, - сказал, это подарок.

- Нет, он не мой молодой человек, он просто…

Просто кто? Друг? Нет. Она вообще не знала, с кем общалась до этих пор.

- Милый парень, я вам скажу, но маленько чудаковат, - хихикнула медсестричка, прикрыв рот ладонью, - Сказал вам передать, что будет ждать в Спокойном Доме. Что бы это значило, ума не приложу…

В свертке, переданном Йоханом, была книга – лимитированное издание «Алисы в Стране Чудес».

В нее была вложена открытка - фотография города  где-то в горах.

- Спокойный дом… - прошептала Фризе и загадочно улыбнулась тому, как резко помутнело у нее в глазах, - Я поняла. Я все поняла…

[evilcatcreature]

The Wrong Universe (OC/Johan Liebert Fic)

I thought I'd do a pinned post for this!

I am writing a fanfiction for Naoki Urasawa's Monster. The plot is something that you'd be able to follow even if you hadn't watched/read Monster.

(this is a fanart by me)

Title: The Wrong Universe

Summary: Michael is a (fairly) normal student, until one day he meets a mysterious stranger called Johan. Michael slowly feels an obsession develop, but doesn't have the social skills to even talk to him. He doesn't realise what world he is wandering into until he finds out who Johan Liebert really is. Can he get over his obsession and save himself?

Content Warnings: Stalking, Murder/Death, Serial Killers, Drugging/Kidnapping, Psychological Themes (morality, philosophy etc.), Sexual Content (but only consensual)

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50365696/

Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/1449486358

(I'm not sure if I'll continue uploading to wattpad unless I can see that it's something people want)

[riewritten]

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐓𝐄𝐀 | READ ON AO3

JOHAN LIEBERT x GENDER-NEUTRAL!READER

˚ · .─ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: A reclusive man haunted by a dark past makes a routine of settling in from one remote village to another, it is until his solitude is disrupted by a warmhearted neighbor who slowly unravels his barriers.

˚ · .─ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 4k

˚ · .─ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: post-canon, neighbors, developing friendship, domestic fluff, hurt/comfort, romance but only if you squint, johan goes by a different name, a bit self-indulgent

The morning was quiet, the kind of quiet that wrapped itself around you like a heavy blanket. Johan—or the man who used to be Johan—stood by the edge of a small, weathered dock. The lake before him mirrored the gray sky above, its stillness a fitting companion to his isolation.

Here, in the shadow of the Austrian Alps, no one asked questions. No one looked too closely at the soft-spoken man who had arrived a year ago with little more than a duffle bag and a name scribbled on forged papers: Elias Meyer.

The locals in the nearby village whispered their theories about him. Some said he was a writer escaping the noise of the city; others believed he was a broken man fleeing a past too heavy to bear. No one dared to press him for details, not when his polite smiles came with an unshakable undercurrent of sadness.

Johan—Elias—had chosen this place for a reason. It was far enough from his past that even the most persistent ghosts couldn't follow.

One afternoon, as he carried firewood from the forest to his small cabin, he noticed a group of children playing by the lake. Their laughter echoed through the valley, sharp and carefree, a sound Johan hadn’t heard in what felt like lifetimes.

When was the last time he had heard it again?

With the question, memories of him and Anna running and laughing around the flower fields surged in his mind like a hidden plague aching to be let out. He tried to shake it off, which thankfully, did when a ball suddenly rolled towards him, coming to a stop near his boots.

One of the children, a boy no older than eight, hesitated before approaching him with wide, curious eyes, “Excuse me, Sir.”

Johan bent down, picking up the ball. For a moment, he froze, staring at the object in his hands. Memories of other children, other faces, tried to claw their way to the surface. But he pushed them back, focusing on the boy before him.

“Here,” Johan said softly, handing the ball back.

The boy smiled, and Johan felt something shift—a flicker of warmth where there had only been cold.

Weeks passed, and Johan began to notice the children more often. They waved to him from the village road, their carefree energy drawing him out of his solitude in ways he didn’t understand.

One day, the same boy from before approached him again.

“Mr. Meyer,” the boy said, using the name Johan had adopted. “Can you help us build a raft?”

Johan blinked, surprised. “A raft?”

“For the lake. We want to float it across and see who can paddle the fastest.”

Johan hesitated. He had spent so long avoiding attachments, avoiding the messiness of human connection. But something in the boy’s earnest expression made him nod.

As they worked together, something unexpected happened. Johan began to laugh—not the hollow, calculated laugh of his past, but something genuine, something that startled even himself.

Months turned into a year, and Johan—no, Elias—became a quiet but integral part of the village. He never shared much about himself, and the villagers respected his privacy. But he was always there to lend a hand, whether it was fixing a broken fence or helping the children with their schoolwork.

He didn’t try to forget his past; that would have been impossible. He didn't try to be a good person to reclaim himself either, as that would've been more impossible. Instead, he let it serve as a reminder of what needs to ponder as he lives the rest of his life in solitude.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the mountains, Johan sat by the lake with the boy who had first approached him.

“Mr. Meyer,” the boy asked, “why do you live here all alone?”

Johan smiled faintly, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “Sometimes, people need to start over.”

“Because?”

“No reason, really. They just need to. Maybe to see the world a lot clearer than they did in their old lives…?”

The boy nodded, not fully understanding what his blonde friend was on.

Years later, Johan’s presence in the village becomes a story the locals would pass down—a kind stranger who came out of nowhere and left with no warning. No one knew where he went or why he had left in the first place.

But those who remembered him would always recall his kindness, quiet but comforting, faint but indubitably paved more warmth in their lives.

And somewhere, in places even quieter than the village he had already gone through, Johan Liebert immersed in his new name—quite surprised that monsters like him didn’t actually need to consume another’s existence just to gain one. For the first time, he was simply a man, trying to live—at least, that was the routine he had developed for years and years. Elias Meyer, a man almost unnoticeable building himself a haven from one remote town to the other. Johan had no plans of changing it. 

Even when he decided to settle in another remote village to check on an old friend (without making his old identity known, of course), he had no plans of changing it. Elias Meyer is an existence that will always be bound to leave.

The mornings in this town were colder than the last one. The frost was biting at the air before the sun had fully risen. The uncomfortable weather might’ve been too cozy for someone like him, and yet his resolve was unwavering—he is Elias Meyer, and Elias Meyer is an existence that would be always bound to leave—it is until you started appearing at his door with delectable breakfasts at hand.

You had moved to this little village years ago after graduating college, and ever since, the neighbors had perceived you as a bright newcomer with an eagerness to meet each one of them. Poor Elias, they thought to themselves humorously, because they just know his preference for solitude—even to the point of owning a cabin at the edge of town—would have no say once faced with your resolute extroversion.

You perceived Elias as that tall, blonde man whose face looked carved from stone—a beauty so ethereal it’d be a waste if he wasn’t basking in the sun for everyone to see every morning. He barely acknowledged anyone. He kept to himself, slipping into town only for essentials, his words clipped but polite. And unfortunately for you, most of the neighbors could respect his solitude.

But you couldn’t.

When you first saw him at the market buying his fair share of supplies and vegetables, he has unknowingly bewitched you. His beautiful, distant face seemed wrapped in shadows you couldn’t decipher. And perhaps you're a cat whose curiosity would someday get you killed, or perhaps a moth doomed to die by its entrancement to the fire. The neighbors were right, much to their excitement—Elias is doomed to be your project.

The first morning you knocked on his door, you had a basket in hand—freshly baked shortbread cookies, a jar of honey, and a thermos of hot tea.

When he opened the door, his expression was unreadable, pale blue eyes scanning you with a calm detachment that made your stomach flutter.

“Good morning, my new neighbor!” you chirped, holding the basket out. “I figured you might want some breakfast.”

He stared at you for a moment, his gaze cool but not unkind. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

“Oh, come on, you haven’t even tried it yet!” you insisted, pushing the basket forward. “I made it myself.”

There was a long pause, the kind that might have made anyone else shrink back. But not you. You smiled, unwavering, until he finally sighed and took the basket from your hands.

“Thank you,” he said again, quieter this time. Then he closed the door.

It was all it took for him to take note of your existence? Hell, he looked at you for a solid minute from head to toe, as though taking in your presence before his very eyes! You left his doorstep feeling victorious.

The next morning, you knocked again. And the morning after that.

At first, he didn’t seem to know what to do with you. He would accept the food with a quiet nod, barely saying a word before closing the door. But over time, you noticed subtle changes—with how he lingered a little longer at the threshold, and with how his eyes softened just the slightest when he saw you.

“You really don’t have to do this,” he said one morning, as you handed him a bowl of steaming soup.

“I know,” you replied with a grin, “but I want to.”

He stared at you, as though trying to puzzle you out. “Why?”

“Because you look like you could use a friend.”

The words seemed to unsettle him. He didn’t reply, but this time, he didn’t close the door right away.

Weeks passed, and your morning visits became a routine. He started inviting you inside—not for long, just enough time to sip tea or exchange a few words.

You learned his name was Elias Meyer, though something in the way he said it made you wonder if it was real. You didn’t press him for details; you could tell he valued his privacy, and you could at least respect that despite the things you couldn’t.

But little by little, you saw glimpses of the man beneath the quiet exterior. He was incredibly observant, noticing small details about you that no one else did. He rarely smiled, but when he did, it felt like the sun breaking through clouds.

One morning, you brought him a basket of wildflowers along with the usual breakfast.

“They reminded me of you,” you said, setting the basket on his table.

He gave you a strange look, his lips twitching as though he didn’t know whether to laugh or frown. “Wildflowers reminded you of me?”

“Sure,” you said brightly. “They’re quiet, but they still make the world a little more beautiful.”

Despite the amusing remark, Johan seemed to remember something from a long past, something that made him stare at the flowers way longer than intended. Then, you saw him smile—not a ghost of one, but a real, genuine smile. It was fleeting, but it made your chest tighten in a way you didn’t quite understand.

“You should smile more, Elias,” you blurted, which in turn dissipated Johan’s smile with a clear of his throat.

“Not my thing.”

But still! You quietly gushed. What a beautiful smile! You went home victorious yet again when dusk came.

One evening, as the sun set behind the mountains, you found yourself sitting on the porch of his cabin. He had made tea for the two of you, a small gesture that felt monumental considering how reluctant he’d been to accept your kindness at first.

“Why do you keep coming here?” he asked suddenly, his voice low but steady.

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. “What do you mean?”

He hesitated, searching for the right words. “I’m not the kind of person people like you should want to be around.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “What makes you say that?”

His eyes darkened, a shadow passing over his face, and yet he stayed silent, refusing to answer. It didn't take long for you to put the pieces together. You reached out, placing a hand on his arm. “We all have pasts, Elias. But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve a future.” For a moment, he looked at you as though you were something incomprehensible, something he couldn’t quite believe was real.

The days turned into weeks, then months, and slowly, Johan—or Elias, as you knew him—began to change. He still valued his solitude, but he didn’t seem to mind sharing it with you.

He never told you the full truth about his past, not that you ever asked. You didn’t need to know who he had been to see the man he was becoming. 

Johan was getting accustomed to his new normal, but then it changed again.

It is a change that, perhaps, would require Johan to rethink the duration of his stay in your village. How strange, one might think, for Johan had developed more disdain for permanence ever since he started living like this. And he only came here to check on an old friend, wanted to see if they’re doing well and good, then he’d be quietly taking his leave again, right? Under what instances must his agenda change?

It started the first morning you didn’t knock on his door. Johan didn’t think much of it. People had lives, after all. Perhaps you’d overslept, or maybe you were busy with something else.

The second morning, however, felt different. He found himself waiting by the door longer than he cared to admit, listening for the sound of your footsteps or the soft knock he’d grown accustomed to. When it didn’t come, he stood there for several minutes before stepping back, unsettled.

By the third day, Johan’s thoughts refused to quiet. Something about your absence gnawed at him, a peculiar weight in his chest he couldn’t name. He hadn’t realized how much he’d come to expect you, to rely on the brightness you brought with you each morning.

So that evening, just as the sun dipped below the horizon, Johan found himself standing in front of your small, weathered house.

The curtains were drawn, and the porch light was off, but he could see a faint glow from inside. His knuckles rapped against the door, firm and deliberate.

“Are you there?” he called, his voice steady but quieter than usual.

There was no answer, but the light inside didn’t move. He waited a moment longer before trying the handle. It turned easily, and he stepped inside, his footsteps nearly silent against the wooden floor.

You were on the couch, curled into yourself, shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. The sight stopped him cold.

There he goes, his hand stops around the doorframe as he processes the sight. And, perhaps, the realization that out of everyone in this unpopulated village, he might not be the one who does best at masking his real self. You, who were always so buoyant, so irrepressibly bright, were now something else entirely—small, vulnerable, broken in a way he hadn’t seen before. You were still wearing the clothes he had last seen you with three days ago. Your hair was all greasy, and your skin was oily as it wrapped around your body. It must’ve been uncomfortable on your end. Your whole house was chaotic, too. As if it had been abandoned for weeks.

He took a careful step forward, then another, stopping just short of the couch. “You didn’t come this morning,” he said softly, as though the words themselves might shatter you further.

“Please, don’t look at me…” Slowly, you turned to look at him, your face streaked with tears as you realized that it was Elias before you, the last person you’d expect to visit you such an hour—with a face hinting concern, no less. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice raw. “I... I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“You don’t have to apologize.” 

He crouched beside you, his expression calm but intense, his pale blue eyes fixed on yours. He didn’t move for a long moment, his mind working in ways it hadn’t in years. Comforting others was not something he was accustomed to. His presence had always been a harbinger of destruction, not solace. And yet, here you were, someone who had given him pieces of light he didn’t think he deserved, now in desperate need of something in return.

He reached for the blanket draped over the back of the couch and gently wrapped it around you. His movements were slow, deliberate, as though trying not to startle you.

What surprised you, however, was when he sat down beside you, leaving just enough space to make his presence felt without crowding you.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, his voice low but not unkind.

You shook your head, clutching the blanket tighter. Minutes passed in silence, broken only by your uneven breaths. Johan sat perfectly still, his gaze fixed on some indeterminate point ahead. He didn’t press you, didn’t offer hollow reassurances. Instead, he stayed there, his calm presence steady against the storm inside you.

When your sobs finally quieted, he heated some tea on your countertop, paving his way onto your kitchen with all the familiar stock of food, all because these were all you’ve been bringing to his door first thing in the morning. Much to his surprise, he sees the familiar basket on the edge of your kitchen—two pieces of sourdough bread, a thermos of tea, and a jar of honey refilled. It means you had an attempt to get out of your house and go to his somehow; it’s just that you failed miserably.

Johan is then confused. What made you sink this low? What have you been amidst all the smiles you shine down upon everyone? The monster inside him spoke; poor human beings, to absolutely despise their real form so much to feign buoyancy and joy when out of their safe havens. How despicable.

This was the first time—since Johan had escaped that dreary hospital bed—that he had gotten confused about which voice he’d let take over inside his pretty little head.  

Without a word, he handed the mug of tea to you, fingers brushing yours briefly. “Drink,” he nonchalantly said. “It will help.”

You hesitated but took the cup, your hands trembling slightly as you brought it to your lips. After you’d finished, Johan stood and moved toward the kitchen again. You watched him, confused, as he opened a few cupboards and began preparing something—toast, simple and unassuming, but warm. When he returned, he set the plate in front of you without a word.

“You don’t have to eat it now,” he said, his voice softer than before. “But you should eat something.”

The care in his actions, so understated yet deliberate, brought fresh tears to your eyes. There you go again, Johan pointed out in his mind. He never thought you’d be a crybaby. As much as you’d like to disrupt his solitude in the morning, it seemed like he has also taken a liking to observing your every action. How unusual.

Johan stayed until you fell asleep, sitting quietly in the chair across from the couch. As your breathing evened out, he leaned back, his gaze lingering on your tear-streaked face.

And again, for the first time in years, he felt something unfamiliar—a desire not to fix or manipulate, but simply to be there.

As he left the house that night, locking the door behind him, he had decided that whatever it was that fractured your smile, perhaps it would be in his best interest if he didn’t let it consume you—not if he could help it.

A few days passed, and your routine of appearing before his door first thing in the morning still hadn’t gone back.

What surprised Johan instead was the soft knock on his door in the middle of the night, waking him up from a light slumber. He had mentally thanked himself and his unhealthy sleeping habits because as soon as he opened the door, he found you standing there, shivering, your face pale and your eyes wide with a mix of fear and lingering tears.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, clutching the edges of your cardigan. “I had... a bad dream.”

Johan studied you silently for a moment, his gaze sharp but not unkind. Without a word, he stepped aside, gesturing for you to come in.

He didn’t ask what the dream was about as he could sense the weight of it in your shoulders just well—it was in the way you hugged yourself, in your trembling as if the nightmare still had its claws keeping in its wake. It wasn’t an unfamiliar sight. It’s just that he didn’t know what to say; it's been decades since he had comforted someone who just woke up due to their own plaguing demons—it was back in the days when his sister, Anna, could still turn to him like this whenever she dreamt of the Red Rose Mansion.

So instead of pressing you on it, he heated some chamomile tea and placed the warm mug in front of you before sitting across the table, repeating his gesture the nights prior.

“You’re safe now,” he managed after a while, voice steady and calm, as if willing you to believe it. 

“Am I?” you blankly stared down the ground, letting the smell of chamomile permeate your senses. It wasn’t long until your words sunk at you: Crap, he might think I’m being sarcastic, and so you muttered, “Sorry.”

“For what?”

“I didn’t mean to bother you, I just... I just didn’t know where else to go.”

"Worry not, you've come to the right place." What did he mean by that? Isn't he bothered? It's three in the morning, Elias. After a few sips of tea, Johan suggested, “Stay here tonight. The dream can’t follow you here.”

You nodded, thankful, but the lurking question was still in mind: Why? Why would the dream not follow you here?

But Johan knew the veracity of his statement all too well, albeit lost at how and why he was acting so unlikely of his character. You came to the right place, indeed, for the monster won't reach you if he’s here. No monster would dare, that much he knew, as much as he had liked the intrigue of other beings becoming a master of Johan’s own game. “Want to tell me what happened?”

You shook your head, unable to form words.

He stayed silent, as though waiting for you to form your thoughts. And when you failed, he just moved to sit beside you instead, not daring to ask questions or try to pull answers from you.

His presence was quiet but steady—a calm in the storm even—that you couldn’t help yourself but rest your head against his shoulder. He didn’t move away; if he was surprised or irked, he showed no sign of it either. 

Perhaps the only lurking question in his head was that; how do people usually do this? His hand hovered for a moment before he rested it lightly against your back, his touch—perhaps—was perceived by your brain as a silent reminder: Go on, I’ll stay as long as you need.

"Thank you, Elias," you mutter. "And sorry. I'll make it up to you."

Despite Johan feeling all too unfamiliar—not only with the name but with the mere act of being thanked—he didn't show it upfront. It's as if he's a mere watcher, an observer seeing how things unfold. He's definitely not someone to be thanked, he's sure as hell you're not thanking him—as in the person that he is—but rather the person that he's showing in front of you, as Elias Meyers, as the neighbor you had quite taken a liking with.

However, he's not that kind and caring to not use it for his own gain yet. "Show yourself up on my doorstep again once you're all better, preferably with a breakfast at hand to save me the hassle of cooking for myself."

"Tch," you chuckled and rolled your eyes at how silly the payment had sounded, but you nodded anyway. You miss bugging him during the day.

For hours, the two of you sat there, the world outside forgotten. And for the first time in a long time, you felt like you weren’t carrying the weight alone. You ended up falling asleep on his couch, the blanket he draped over you smelling faintly of the pinewood walls of his cabin.

TAG LIST 🏷️ @chxrry-writes @nefarra @ellabellapumela @skexxll @melonvrs

by the way, FOR MY OIL WELL FIRES LOVERS, allow me to cook... read more here ;) also saying this before anyone asks; no i don't want to continue this yet im sorry. maybe after i finish oil well fires? but if someone wants to then pls do and pamper me some johan liebert fluff :( i am so sad

@xeiin-n @s0m4-sh4rk | SUBSCRIBE/UNSUSCRIBE TO STORIES

[slayerxz]

⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ icons - ( johan, monster).

▸ desculpe o sumiço gente 😥 e desculpa não responder as ask jajajaj, mas eu voltei 🥵👍

[sweetlywriting]

Normal

Johan Liebert x reader

Synopsis-You’re a college student struggling to keep up with the work of your prestigious law school, luckily an intelligent man named Johan Liebert has volunteered to tutor you.

A/N-gn reader, sfw as always, surprisingly no violence for a Johan piece lol, I’ll write another part of people like this.

He seemed very normal, but deep inside he had always struck you as an enigma.

You went to the same college. It was a old and presitigous law school and you were barely passing, having hit the lows of college. That was when you first noticed him. He was first to arrive and last to leave the class. He knew all the answers and was practically invisible. But far more importantly, after school tutoring was required after failing so many classes. You held your head in shame walking to meet your new tutor, not happy to get lectured by one of your pretentious classmates who probably bought their way in.

“You’re Johan right?”

"Yes. I will be tutoring you until the next exams"

He had a smooth coyish voice and a measured smile. There was just something about him that felt affinitic and made you want these quick criminal law study sessions last so much longer. His help really was raising your grades, but that only meant that you’d see him less. So you painstakingly circled D when you knew it was A. And it worked. Your professor shook his head and assigned you another semester worth of tutoring. This time twice a week much to your excitement.

“It seems I’m not quite as effective teacher as I thought I was.” He said sighing.

“No-“ You started to rebuke him only to see that if he knew it was working and you just acting like a school kid over some silly crush, he’d likely stop tutoring you.

“Hm? Is there some other reason for your failure this semester?” He said with a small smile.

You swallowed. Was it that obvious? It was as if he could read your mind but instead of simply telling you, he wanted you to tell him yourself in the most complicated and equally uncomfortable way possible.

“I think it’s just the administrative law that I’m struggling on.” You said with a nervous laugh.

His face flickered through emotions you didn’t recognize but he eventually put his usual smile on and brought out a administrative law textbook. Phew. You had gotten away with it but wouldn’t likely be as lucky next time.

It felt a little silly, but you had started to wear the colors that matched what he had worn to the lectures, and showing up early so you could sit closer to him, and even looked for his name on the club sign up sheets, just to see if you could catch a glimpse of him and his ever mysterious personal life. He was addictive, the way he walked, the way he talked. You had never met someone quite like him.

There was a pop quiz on Friday and some nice senior had luckily tipped you off, so here you were studying with Johan.

While you had failed so you could spend more time with him, you worked hard to get here and certainly didn’t want to get kicked out.

“Administrative law, isn’t something that usually lawyers deal with because they directly challenge a law or order created. Cases like these take a while to get resolved and have a plethora of rules.”

“What type of lawyer do you want to be?” You blurted, interrupting his sentence and tearing his eyes from the textbooks and folders and notes littered on the table.

“Hm?”

“I was just curious I mean you’re proficient in almost all of the different types you could choose whatever you find the most interesting-“

“I don’t want to be a lawyer.”

You blinked dumbly back at him. But before you ask he already responded.

“Can I ask you something?”

“S-sure”

He leaned over the table, hands on both sides of your chair as he casually moved a strand of your hair back and whispered in your ear.

“Have you ever thought of becoming something bigger? Something more . . . unorthodox?”

He slid a folder from underneath the others closer to you and you peered at the hundreds of newspapers clippings, and the crime on each one.

"I hope one day, you can understand.”

His lips grazed your ear for only a second, leaving you in a confused daze.

Perhaps not normal.

[a-murderous-cocoa]

Roberto being stepped by.....??? Based on this fic https://archiveofourown.org/works/43910892

[evilcatcreature]

I would like to say that but I can't honestly claim that when the character is Johan

you might like the same character as me but i like them in a far more concerning and deeply controversial way than you ever will