the following fanfictions are arranged by RATING then WORD COUNT. if you're 17 and below, please DO NOT CLICK the fics labeled as [đđđđđđ] or [đđđđđđđđ].
â§ÍâşË*ｼŕźâž JOHAN LIEBERT â˝ŕźď˝Ľ*Ëâşâ§Í
DRABBLES, IMAGINES & HEADCANONS đ˘Ö´ŕťđŚ
⧠BROWSE HERE
FEM!READER and GEN NEUTRAL!READER. in no particular sequence. some contents are tagged suggestive/mature. proceed with caution.
ââââââââââââ
ONE SHOT đ˘Ö´ŕťđŚ
⧠DESCENT [đđđ]
GEN NEUTRAL!READER. 8.5k words.
INFO. post-canon, modern era, manipulation, middle-aged johan
⧠QUESTIONS WITH NO ANSWERS [đđđ]
GEN NEUTRAL!READER. 6k words.
INFO. post-canon, developing friends, eventual romance, domestic fluff, soft johan with male-wife characteristics
⧠CHAMOMILE TEA [đđđ]
GEN NEUTRAL!READER. 4k words.
INFO. post-canon, neighbors, domestic fluff, comfort, romance but only if you squint, a bit self-indulgent
⧠HOW LOVELY IS YOUR DWELLING PLACE [đđđ]
FEM!READER. 1/2 chapters, 4.5k words, on-going.
INFO. modern college AU, reincarnation and introspection of grief.
⧠STUCK [đ-đđ]
FEM!READER. 4/? chapters, 13k words, on-going.
INFO. modern AU, isekai lol, most literal reader-insert i've made so far.
⧠MERE DROPLETS CAN STILL MAKE A GLASS FULL [đđđđđđ]
FEM!READER. 3/3 chapters. 14k words, finished.
GENRE. angst, modern AU, age gap, eventual smut
⧠HUMMING IN DOOMSDAY [đđđđđđ]
FEM!READER. 2/? chapters, 12k words, discontinued.
INFO. canon AU, my projection of erwin smith lives movement.
⧠EDGE OF THE PRECIPICE [đđđđđđ]
FEM!READER. 6/? chapters, 31.5k words, on-going.
INFO. modern AU, scouts as armed rebels against the reiss monarch, manipulation and mind control.
⧠DUSK IN THE BRIGHTEST [đđđđđđđđ]
FEM!READER. 33 chapters, 170k words, finished.
INFO. canon & modern college AU, slowburn! erwin smith being a sneaky man popping out of a nightmare (literally). has explicit content. my first fanfic so expect the low qua writing :')
ft. JOHAN LIEBERT, NINA FORTNER & KENZO TENMA
INFO. canon divergent AU, found family trope, tenma saved the twins from the border even before gen. wolff could get them
⧠JOHAN, ANNA, & NINA AS CHAOTIC TRIPLETS [đđđ]
ft. JOHAN LIEBERT, ANNA LIEBERT & NINA FORTNER
INFO. canon divergent AU, fan art w/ headcanons, red rose mansion wasn't that traumatic and kinderheim 511 didn't happen
doodles for a VERYYYY yummy priest! johan/reader au HERE by @riewritten (this is such a good concept it's been stewing in my brain ever since I read it)
ABOUT TO LOSE MY DAMN HEAD WITH HOW GODLY THIS IS DHSJSNHSSHAHSHSHDHEHDDHS like i love u. i love u so much for dis. also give me all the songs you listened to while making this art pls i beg
⼠"It feels like I ruin everything I touch."
"You are so very welcome to test that theory with me."
⼠"I'm not good for you."
"I don't want good, I want you."
⼠"Don't be stupid."
"Then stop making it so tempting."
⼠"Don't look at me like that."
"Then how should I? Because no way I'll voluntarily stop."
⼠"I'm going to break your heart."
"And that moment, when you squeeze it real tight and it's about to shatter, will be the greatest moment of my life."
⼠"You're making a mistake loving me."
"Then let's hope I'll keep making it until the day I die."
⼠"There's nothing special about me."
"Are the polar lights any less breath taking simply because they are a natural occurance?"
⼠"You're wasting your time."
"With you? Happily."
i think i've mentioned before about opening slots for commissioned writing but i didn't push it through bc i kinda hate the thought of commodifying this specific hobby (because then, it would stop being a hobby for me). but god i'm so in need of money. i want to be able to provide for myself and the lifestyle that i want (which is actually pretty simple really--pay rent on time, buy food, afford meds and therapy) but the thing is i can't!! i caaaaan't think of anything else, too!!
that said, until i am able to make this blog nothing but a hobby again without any need of commodification, i am opening 20 slots for writing commission. here are the things i have in mind.
character x original character/selfship
character x character
this can come with any themes as you prefer (yes, though i have preferences on what and what not to write, i don't quite have the liberty to do so)
Youâre being unmade by a ghostâtouched by something that looked like a man but felt like nothing at all. OR: You're having sex with Johan except you're more scared than horny.
The room is suffocatingly quiet, the only sound is the ragged hitch of your own breath against the stillness of his.
Having sex with Johan feels like having a mannequin doll maneuver you as if you're not human too, as if you're less than a thing yourself.
Indeed, you feel your center quivering as he moves with a slow deliberate rhythmâthat you don't deny. His fingers are covered by your essence, too; a heavy, grounding weight in and out your core that pins your whole body to the mattress. He smiles whenever he feels you clench on him, or whenever you moan a bit too loud. He teases you just right whenever he feels your hips trying to meet his pace.
But there's something wrong, something you can't deny.
It's not that he's rough. In fact, he's terrifyingly gentle, but it's rather the gentleness of a collector handling a rare, fragile antique.
Beyond its physical sensation which is, by far, feeling normal so far (like you're having a sex with a normal person and you're positive you're going to cum), the texture of this experience is wrong because of Johan himself. There's a distinct lack of humanity in the friction. His skin is too smooth, flawless to the point of feeling syntheticâlike cool, polished porcelain against your own sweat-dampened flesh. How can you not let it bother you when his smile is so flat, his teases empty, and his eyes utterly void? Hell, you can't even bring yourself to look at him in the eye when he pulled out his fingers and licked it clean before you. More than anything, you just bent your head away from him and let out a moan in hopes he wouldn't notice that small moment of wanting to stop out of jitters.
âHe doesnât fumble, doesn't gasp, doesnât lose his rhythm when he lined up his dick to your entrance either. In fact, as soon as he slides himself in your core, he lets out a ragged exhaleâand this, by far, is the most human response he has ever given yet.
"Are you okay?" Johan asks while slowly pushing himself in.
No, I'm scared. My heart is beating fast. I'm scared. "Y-yes, ahâJohan. Feels good," you cling to his shoulders in support. "Please keep going."
"Yes," he cups your cheek then, "my good girl."
Physically, the remark made you wetter. But deep in your mind, the condition of you being his brought overwhelming fear to your nerves. To belong to someone this inhuman? You close your eyes shut, hoping he doesn't sense the voices in your head screaming, okay, let's stop this. Oh no, stop, stop. Please stop. I'm scared!
When he feels you have adjusted to his size, he starts moving with the hydraulic precision of a machine, every shift of his weight calculated for maximum efficiency.
âHe reaches out, fingers wrapping around your wrist. Only that he doesn't hold your hand; he moves it like its will lie upon his and not yours. He lifts your arm and places it above your head, adjusting the angle slightly as if he were posing a mannequin in a shop window to catch the best light.
âYou lie there, breath hitching, feeling less like a sexual partner and more like a prop. An accessory to his existence.
âThen he asks, "Is this better?"
Stop. Just fucking stop. "Yeah, hah, this is good."
Why stop, when he sounded polite? You better cease asking yourself, however, because deep inside you know: he wasn't asking if you felt pleasure, he was asking if the mechanism was functioning correctly.
God, it shouldnât have felt like this.
âTo distract yourself from vocalizing your looming regret, you stare up at him instead, right at his beautiful, sculpted face that showed no strain, no flush of desire. With your mouth open, his hand locks to your jawâhe tilts your chin, while his other hand shifts your hips so he can thrust deeper.
"Look me in the eye," he whispers. It's not a request.
Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no.
You force your eyes open, meeting his. That's the hardest partâand he doesn't close his eyes either. He doesn't lose himself in the sensation the way you're beginning to (only that it's difficult to reach your peak when you're this scared).
But you can't make it known.
Of course you can't; Johan is watching youâhe's studying the way your breath catches in your throat, the way your fingers dig fruitlessly into his shoulders. You have to keep going and pretend you're feeling nothing but pleasure, even if his gaze is pale, abyssal blue, clear and unclouded by lust. Even if he's looking at you right now not like a lover, but a man observing a fascinating collapsing mountain.
He shifts, presses closer, and the sudden friction drawing a sharp gasp from your lips. He absorbs the sound, a faint, ghost of a smile touching his lips.
"You're trembling," he notes, voice steady, devoid of the raggedness tearing yours apart.
Your confusion then starts, whether to feel more of the physical pleasure or the emotional fear.
He reaches for your other hand as he lurches, interlacing his fingers to yours to pin you further to the bed. His grip is firm, inescapable (much to Johan being petite and feeble-looking, moreso when naked). He's not just touching you this time around; he's dismantling you, taking you apart piece by piece through this physical act to rummage what you really feel inside.
The pleasure is there, sharp and undeniable, but it's edged with fear that prevents you to fully relish the moment. To be this close to him is to be consumed.
And he can't know you're bothered by that. He can't know you're scared.
You arch into him, seeking an end to the tension, but he controls the pace, he keeps you suspended on that precipice, he forces you to endure his complete, undivided attention.
Even as he lets out a short moan then spills inside, he doesn't let you move your hands away, doesn't let your eyes stray far from his. Trapped, bound together, all to be consumed by him.
As if he's curious to see how the human body bends and reacts while he remains entirely separate from it. As if he's not human himself.
You're being unmade by a ghostâtouched by something that looked like a man but felt like nothing at all.
Youâre being unmade by a ghostâtouched by something that looked like a man but felt like nothing at all. OR: You're having sex with Johan except you're more scared than horny.
The room is suffocatingly quiet, the only sound is the ragged hitch of your own breath against the stillness of his.
Having sex with Johan feels like having a mannequin doll maneuver you as if you're not human too, as if you're less than a thing yourself.
Indeed, you feel your center quivering as he moves with a slow deliberate rhythmâthat you don't deny. His fingers are covered by your essence, too; a heavy, grounding weight in and out your core that pins your whole body to the mattress. He smiles whenever he feels you clench on him, or whenever you moan a bit too loud. He teases you just right whenever he feels your hips trying to meet his pace.
But there's something wrong, something you can't deny.
It's not that he's rough. In fact, he's terrifyingly gentle, but it's rather the gentleness of a collector handling a rare, fragile antique.
Beyond its physical sensation which is, by far, feeling normal so far (like you're having a sex with a normal person and you're positive you're going to cum), the texture of this experience is wrong because of Johan himself. There's a distinct lack of humanity in the friction. His skin is too smooth, flawless to the point of feeling syntheticâlike cool, polished porcelain against your own sweat-dampened flesh. How can you not let it bother you when his smile is so flat, his teases empty, and his eyes utterly void? Hell, you can't even bring yourself to look at him in the eye when he pulled out his fingers and licked it clean before you. More than anything, you just bent your head away from him and let out a moan in hopes he wouldn't notice that small moment of wanting to stop out of jitters.
âHe doesnât fumble, doesn't gasp, doesnât lose his rhythm when he lined up his dick to your entrance either. In fact, as soon as he slides himself in your core, he lets out a ragged exhaleâand this, by far, is the most human response he has ever given yet.
"Are you okay?" Johan asks while slowly pushing himself in.
No, I'm scared. My heart is beating fast. I'm scared. "Y-yes, ahâJohan. Feels good," you cling to his shoulders in support. "Please keep going."
"Yes," he cups your cheek then, "my good girl."
Physically, the remark made you wetter. But deep in your mind, the condition of you being his brought overwhelming fear to your nerves. To belong to someone this inhuman? You close your eyes shut, hoping he doesn't sense the voices in your head screaming, okay, let's stop this. Oh no, stop, stop. Please stop. I'm scared!
When he feels you have adjusted to his size, he starts moving with the hydraulic precision of a machine, every shift of his weight calculated for maximum efficiency.
âHe reaches out, fingers wrapping around your wrist. Only that he doesn't hold your hand; he moves it like its will lie upon his and not yours. He lifts your arm and places it above your head, adjusting the angle slightly as if he were posing a mannequin in a shop window to catch the best light.
âYou lie there, breath hitching, feeling less like a sexual partner and more like a prop. An accessory to his existence.
âThen he asks, "Is this better?"
Stop. Just fucking stop. "Yeah, hah, this is good."
Why stop, when he sounded polite? You better cease asking yourself, however, because deep inside you know: he wasn't asking if you felt pleasure, he was asking if the mechanism was functioning correctly.
God, it shouldnât have felt like this.
âTo distract yourself from vocalizing your looming regret, you stare up at him instead, right at his beautiful, sculpted face that showed no strain, no flush of desire. With your mouth open, his hand locks to your jawâhe tilts your chin, while his other hand shifts your hips so he can thrust deeper.
"Look me in the eye," he whispers. It's not a request.
Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no.
You force your eyes open, meeting his. That's the hardest partâand he doesn't close his eyes either. He doesn't lose himself in the sensation the way you're beginning to (only that it's difficult to reach your peak when you're this scared).
But you can't make it known.
Of course you can't; Johan is watching youâhe's studying the way your breath catches in your throat, the way your fingers dig fruitlessly into his shoulders. You have to keep going and pretend you're feeling nothing but pleasure, even if his gaze is pale, abyssal blue, clear and unclouded by lust. Even if he's looking at you right now not like a lover, but a man observing a fascinating collapsing mountain.
He shifts, presses closer, and the sudden friction drawing a sharp gasp from your lips. He absorbs the sound, a faint, ghost of a smile touching his lips.
"You're trembling," he notes, voice steady, devoid of the raggedness tearing yours apart.
Your confusion then starts, whether to feel more of the physical pleasure or the emotional fear.
He reaches for your other hand as he lurches, interlacing his fingers to yours to pin you further to the bed. His grip is firm, inescapable (much to Johan being petite and feeble-looking, moreso when naked). He's not just touching you this time around; he's dismantling you, taking you apart piece by piece through this physical act to rummage what you really feel inside.
The pleasure is there, sharp and undeniable, but it's edged with fear that prevents you to fully relish the moment. To be this close to him is to be consumed.
And he can't know you're bothered by that. He can't know you're scared.
You arch into him, seeking an end to the tension, but he controls the pace, he keeps you suspended on that precipice, he forces you to endure his complete, undivided attention.
Even as he lets out a short moan then spills inside, he doesn't let you move your hands away, doesn't let your eyes stray far from his. Trapped, bound together, all to be consumed by him.
As if he's curious to see how the human body bends and reacts while he remains entirely separate from it. As if he's not human himself.
You're being unmade by a ghostâtouched by something that looked like a man but felt like nothing at all.
Oh, to be touched by a ghost. Uâre gonna reach the height of pleasure at the cost of being devoured.
But if weâre underneath him already, guess we gotta power through the âclinicalâ precision of the interaction. Intimacy with Johan really is a psychological game â but the more horrific thing is realizing itâs that feeling thatâs gonna get you offđĽš.
To be this close to him is to be consumed
Itâs the only way the common (wo)man can experience the caresses of someone like Johan Liebert. You leave yourself because uâre in communion with a specter.
Youâre being unmade by a ghostâtouched by something that looked like a man but felt like nothing at all. OR: You're having sex with Johan except you're more scared than horny.
The room is suffocatingly quiet, the only sound is the ragged hitch of your own breath against the stillness of his.
Having sex with Johan feels like having a mannequin doll maneuver you as if you're not human too, as if you're less than a thing yourself.
Indeed, you feel your center quivering as he moves with a slow deliberate rhythmâthat you don't deny. His fingers are covered by your essence, too; a heavy, grounding weight in and out your core that pins your whole body to the mattress. He smiles whenever he feels you clench on him, or whenever you moan a bit too loud. He teases you just right whenever he feels your hips trying to meet his pace.
But there's something wrong, something you can't deny.
It's not that he's rough. In fact, he's terrifyingly gentle, but it's rather the gentleness of a collector handling a rare, fragile antique.
Beyond its physical sensation which is, by far, feeling normal so far (like you're having a sex with a normal person and you're positive you're going to cum), the texture of this experience is wrong because of Johan himself. There's a distinct lack of humanity in the friction. His skin is too smooth, flawless to the point of feeling syntheticâlike cool, polished porcelain against your own sweat-dampened flesh. How can you not let it bother you when his smile is so flat, his teases empty, and his eyes utterly void? Hell, you can't even bring yourself to look at him in the eye when he pulled out his fingers and licked it clean before you. More than anything, you just bent your head away from him and let out a moan in hopes he wouldn't notice that small moment of wanting to stop out of jitters.
âHe doesnât fumble, doesn't gasp, doesnât lose his rhythm when he lined up his dick to your entrance either. In fact, as soon as he slides himself in your core, he lets out a ragged exhaleâand this, by far, is the most human response he has ever given yet.
"Are you okay?" Johan asks while slowly pushing himself in.
No, I'm scared. My heart is beating fast. I'm scared. "Y-yes, ahâJohan. Feels good," you cling to his shoulders in support. "Please keep going."
"Yes," he cups your cheek then, "my good girl."
Physically, the remark made you wetter. But deep in your mind, the condition of you being his brought overwhelming fear to your nerves. To belong to someone this inhuman? You close your eyes shut, hoping he doesn't sense the voices in your head screaming, okay, let's stop this. Oh no, stop, stop. Please stop. I'm scared!
When he feels you have adjusted to his size, he starts moving with the hydraulic precision of a machine, every shift of his weight calculated for maximum efficiency.
âHe reaches out, fingers wrapping around your wrist. Only that he doesn't hold your hand; he moves it like its will lie upon his and not yours. He lifts your arm and places it above your head, adjusting the angle slightly as if he were posing a mannequin in a shop window to catch the best light.
âYou lie there, breath hitching, feeling less like a sexual partner and more like a prop. An accessory to his existence.
âThen he asks, "Is this better?"
Stop. Just fucking stop. "Yeah, hah, this is good."
Why stop, when he sounded polite? You better cease asking yourself, however, because deep inside you know: he wasn't asking if you felt pleasure, he was asking if the mechanism was functioning correctly.
God, it shouldnât have felt like this.
âTo distract yourself from vocalizing your looming regret, you stare up at him instead, right at his beautiful, sculpted face that showed no strain, no flush of desire. With your mouth open, his hand locks to your jawâhe tilts your chin, while his other hand shifts your hips so he can thrust deeper.
"Look me in the eye," he whispers. It's not a request.
Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no.
You force your eyes open, meeting his. That's the hardest partâand he doesn't close his eyes either. He doesn't lose himself in the sensation the way you're beginning to (only that it's difficult to reach your peak when you're this scared).
But you can't make it known.
Of course you can't; Johan is watching youâhe's studying the way your breath catches in your throat, the way your fingers dig fruitlessly into his shoulders. You have to keep going and pretend you're feeling nothing but pleasure, even if his gaze is pale, abyssal blue, clear and unclouded by lust. Even if he's looking at you right now not like a lover, but a man observing a fascinating collapsing mountain.
He shifts, presses closer, and the sudden friction drawing a sharp gasp from your lips. He absorbs the sound, a faint, ghost of a smile touching his lips.
"You're trembling," he notes, voice steady, devoid of the raggedness tearing yours apart.
Your confusion then starts, whether to feel more of the physical pleasure or the emotional fear.
He reaches for your other hand as he lurches, interlacing his fingers to yours to pin you further to the bed. His grip is firm, inescapable (much to Johan being petite and feeble-looking, moreso when naked). He's not just touching you this time around; he's dismantling you, taking you apart piece by piece through this physical act to rummage what you really feel inside.
The pleasure is there, sharp and undeniable, but it's edged with fear that prevents you to fully relish the moment. To be this close to him is to be consumed.
And he can't know you're bothered by that. He can't know you're scared.
You arch into him, seeking an end to the tension, but he controls the pace, he keeps you suspended on that precipice, he forces you to endure his complete, undivided attention.
Even as he lets out a short moan then spills inside, he doesn't let you move your hands away, doesn't let your eyes stray far from his. Trapped, bound together, all to be consumed by him.
As if he's curious to see how the human body bends and reacts while he remains entirely separate from it. As if he's not human himself.
You're being unmade by a ghostâtouched by something that looked like a man but felt like nothing at all.
đđđ đđđđ đ đđđđ | READ ON AO3
Ë Âˇ .â đđđđđđđđ: YOU, a college student in Frankfurt, start receiving emails that embarked the dim of normalcy you worked so hard to build on your own; starting from a message claiming you as the light amidst the hell of Kinderheim, who came just in time to bring a paradise of doomsday and grime, something that pleased the monster inside him. Initially, you thought of reporting the email as spam until another ding came: the monster, so pleased and full, is aiming to return the favorâsomething to flesh out the paradise you had granted him back at Kinderheim.
Ë Âˇ .â đđđđđđđđ: fem!reader. since this was originally @dodo123 headcanon request, you'll be interacting with characters TENMA, LUNGE, GRIMMER, with the main one being JOHAN.
Ë Âˇ .â đđđđđđđđ: explicit language, canon-typical violence, stalking, manipulation, obsessive tendencies, paranoia, abduction, threats of sexual assault, among many things that might arise. SUBSCRIBE TO STORY
SNIPPET . . .
"Kinderheim 511, hm," the mighty Detective Lunge sipped his tea languidly, pretending to ponder about it when he already figured it out even before bothering to see you. "Well, as the legends say, hatred is created when people gather and this Johan just took advantage of it. But see, it's all thanks to the one who'd bother giving himâa measly little kidâsome oil to light everything up, don't you think so?"
You gulped, trying your best not to stammer. For reasons still unknown, even the mere mention of that institution churns your stomach in huge disdain and apprehension. "Who would give Johan such privilege?"Â
"Who else?" the detective quipped then called your name, just as if everything was nothing but an amusing tea time story for him, just as if it's not something imperative in finding who you are, of who Johan really is, and whyâdespite the familiarity of fear etched in his name and your survival instincts kicking inâyou can't stop drawing yourself closer to him. "That's when you enter the picture, young lady."Â
CHAPTER LIST . . .
01 THE BURNT SANCTUARY CRADLING CHILDREN'S CORPSES
đđđđđđđđđ đđđ | READ ON AO3
JOHAN LIEBERT x GENDER-NEUTRAL!READER
Ë Âˇ .â đđđđđđđđ: 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.
Ë Âˇ .â đđđđ: 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. Johanâor the man who used to be Johanâstood 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.
JohanâEliasâhad 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 hadnât 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, âExcuse me, Sir.â
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.
âHere,â Johan said softly, handing the ball back.
The boy smiled, and Johan felt something shiftâa 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 didnât understand.
One day, the same boy from before approached him again.
âMr. Meyer,â the boy said, using the name Johan had adopted. âCan you help us build a raft?â
Johan blinked, surprised. âA raft?â
âFor the lake. We want to float it across and see who can paddle the fastest.â
Johan hesitated. He had spent so long avoiding attachments, avoiding the messiness of human connection. But something in the boyâs earnest expression made him nod.
As they worked together, something unexpected happened. Johan began to laughânot the hollow, calculated laugh of his past, but something genuine, something that startled even himself.
Months turned into a year, and Johanâno, Eliasâbecame 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 didnât 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.
âMr. Meyer,â the boy asked, âwhy do you live here all alone?â
Johan smiled faintly, his gaze fixed on the horizon. âSometimes, people need to start over.â
âBecause?â
âNo reason, really. They just need to. Maybe to see the world a lot clearer than they did in their old livesâŚ?â
The boy nodded, not fully understanding what his blonde friend was on.
Years later, Johanâs presence in the village becomes a story the locals would pass downâa 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 nameâquite surprised that monsters like him didnât actually need to consume anotherâs existence just to gain one. For the first time, he was simply a man, trying to liveâat 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.Â
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 mightâve been too cozy for someone like him, and yet his resolve was unwaveringâhe is Elias Meyer, and Elias Meyer is an existence that would be always bound to leaveâit 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 solitudeâeven to the point of owning a cabin at the edge of townâwould have no say once faced with your resolute extroversion.
You perceived Elias as that tall, blonde man whose face looked carved from stoneâa beauty so ethereal itâd be a waste if he wasnât 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 couldnât.
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 couldnât 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 excitementâElias is doomed to be your project.
The first morning you knocked on his door, you had a basket in handâfreshly 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.
âGood morning, my new neighbor!â you chirped, holding the basket out. âI figured you might want some breakfast.â
He stared at you for a moment, his gaze cool but not unkind. âIâm fine. Thank you.â
âOh, come on, you havenât even tried it yet!â you insisted, pushing the basket forward. âI made it myself.â
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.
âThank you,â 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 didnât 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 changesâwith how he lingered a little longer at the threshold, and with how his eyes softened just the slightest when he saw you.
âYou really donât have to do this,â he said one morning, as you handed him a bowl of steaming soup.
âI know,â you replied with a grin, âbut I want to.â
He stared at you, as though trying to puzzle you out. âWhy?â
âBecause you look like you could use a friend.â
The words seemed to unsettle him. He didnât reply, but this time, he didnât close the door right away.
Weeks passed, and your morning visits became a routine. He started inviting you insideânot 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 didnât press him for details; you could tell he valued his privacy, and you could at least respect that despite the things you couldnât.
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.
âThey reminded me of you,â you said, setting the basket on his table.
He gave you a strange look, his lips twitching as though he didnât know whether to laugh or frown. âWildflowers reminded you of me?â
âSure,â you said brightly. âTheyâre quiet, but they still make the world a little more beautiful.â
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 smileânot a ghost of one, but a real, genuine smile. It was fleeting, but it made your chest tighten in a way you didnât quite understand.
âYou should smile more, Elias,â you blurted, which in turn dissipated Johanâs smile with a clear of his throat.
âNot my thing.â
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 heâd been to accept your kindness at first.
âWhy do you keep coming here?â he asked suddenly, his voice low but steady.
You blinked, caught off guard by the question. âWhat do you mean?â
He hesitated, searching for the right words. âIâm not the kind of person people like you should want to be around.â
You tilted your head, studying him. âWhat makes you say that?â
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. âWe all have pasts, Elias. But that doesnât mean you donât deserve a future.â For a moment, he looked at you as though you were something incomprehensible, something he couldnât quite believe was real.
The days turned into weeks, then months, and slowly, Johanâor Elias, as you knew himâbegan to change. He still valued his solitude, but he didnât seem to mind sharing it with you.
He never told you the full truth about his past, not that you ever asked. You didnât need to know who he had been to see the man he was becoming.Â
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 theyâre doing well and good, then heâd be quietly taking his leave again, right? Under what instances must his agenda change?
It started the first morning you didnât knock on his door. Johan didnât think much of it. People had lives, after all. Perhaps youâd 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 heâd grown accustomed to. When it didnât come, he stood there for several minutes before stepping back, unsettled.
By the third day, Johanâs thoughts refused to quiet. Something about your absence gnawed at him, a peculiar weight in his chest he couldnât name. He hadnât realized how much heâd 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.
âAre you there?â he called, his voice steady but quieter than usual.
There was no answer, but the light inside didnât 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 entirelyâsmall, vulnerable, broken in a way he hadnât 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 mustâve 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. âYou didnât come this morning,â he said softly, as though the words themselves might shatter you further.
âPlease, donât look at meâŚâ Slowly, you turned to look at him, your face streaked with tears as you realized that it was Elias before you, the last person youâd expect to visit you such an hourâwith a face hinting concern, no less. âIâm sorry,â you whispered, voice raw. âI... I didnât mean to worry you.â
âYou donât have to apologize.âÂ
He crouched beside you, his expression calm but intense, his pale blue eyes fixed on yours. He didnât move for a long moment, his mind working in ways it hadnât 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 didnât 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.
âDo you want to talk about it?â 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 didnât press you, didnât 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 youâve been bringing to his door first thing in the morning. Much to his surprise, he sees the familiar basket on the edge of your kitchenâtwo 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; itâs 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 timeâsince Johan had escaped that dreary hospital bedâthat he had gotten confused about which voice heâd let take over inside his pretty little head. Â
Without a word, he handed the mug of tea to you, fingers brushing yours briefly. âDrink,â he nonchalantly said. âIt will help.â
You hesitated but took the cup, your hands trembling slightly as you brought it to your lips. After youâd finished, Johan stood and moved toward the kitchen again. You watched him, confused, as he opened a few cupboards and began preparing somethingâtoast, simple and unassuming, but warm. When he returned, he set the plate in front of you without a word.
âYou donât have to eat it now,â he said, his voice softer than before. âBut you should eat something.â
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 youâd be a crybaby. As much as youâd 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 unfamiliarâa 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 didnât let it consume youânot if he could help it.
A few days passed, and your routine of appearing before his door first thing in the morning still hadnât 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.
âIâm sorry,â you whispered, clutching the edges of your cardigan. âI had... a bad dream.â
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 didnât ask what the dream was about as he could sense the weight of it in your shoulders just wellâit was in the way you hugged yourself, in your trembling as if the nightmare still had its claws keeping in its wake. It wasnât an unfamiliar sight. Itâs just that he didnât know what to say; it's been decades since he had comforted someone who just woke up due to their own plaguing demonsâit 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.
âYouâre safe now,â he managed after a while, voice steady and calm, as if willing you to believe it.Â
âAm I?â you blankly stared down the ground, letting the smell of chamomile permeate your senses. It wasnât long until your words sunk at you: Crap, he might think Iâm being sarcastic, and so you muttered, âSorry.â
âFor what?â
âI didnât mean to bother you, I just... I just didnât know where else to go.â
"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, âStay here tonight. The dream canât follow you here.â
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 heâs here. No monster would dare, that much he knew, as much as he had liked the intrigue of other beings becoming a master of Johanâs own game. âWant to tell me what happened?â
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 steadyâa calm in the storm evenâthat you couldnât help yourself but rest your head against his shoulder. He didnât move away; if he was surprised or irked, he showed no sign of it either.Â
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 touchâperhapsâwas perceived by your brain as a silent reminder: Go on, Iâll 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 unfamiliarânot only with the name but with the mere act of being thankedâhe 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 himâas in the person that he isâbut 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 werenât 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.
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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
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THE WORST KIND OF NOTHING 10 ă CHAPTER DIRECTORY ă
ERWIN SMITH & FEM!READER & ZEKE YEAGER
â BLURB: You were the only one they managed to seize out of Zeke's underlings, and oh; how impressed the Commander was at your unwavering resolve. How great it'd be for him to have youâa potentially unbreakable toolâat his very disposal.
â TAGS: Manga S4 spoilers, Canon AU â The Attack on Liberio Failed, Violence, Psychological Warfare, Manipulation, Character Study
â READ ON: AO3 | QUOTEV
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COMMANDER ERWIN'S office stood in its nighttime glory, and so much of the dossier in his possession permeated your silly little mind like worms eating up a rotting corpse. The contents munched you whole, tore you apart bit by bit. No training or mind conditioning could snap you out of it, really, and thus you remained unmoved even after Commander Erwin had twisted the knob of his own door.
Hell, you didnât hear the door open.
You didnât hear him breathe. He was simply there, a monolith in the dim light, and he was watching you dissect your own history.
Only the sound of the door being closed by him alone snaps the realization into place: the Commander before you doesn't look angry as you speak, nor does he look triumphant. He's rather... unsurprised.
You pressed your back against the bookshelf, stood frozen by the bookshelf, the confidential dossier burning against your fingertips. You expected his interrogation, or perhaps for the guards to treat you like an actual prisoner again. Maybe you're about to be brought again to the torture chamber down the barracks.
Oh please no, you tell yourself, not when you just remembered what you've been living for.
The Commander stepped forward, and floorboards groaned softly under his weight. Surprisingly so, he didn't call for the guards nor did he draw a weapon. Instead he moved with a disturbing, predatory calm, closing the distance between you. And then, when he deemed the distance enough, he simply stopped in front of you. He glanced at the file you were holding, then back up to your face, then a sharp, knowing smile.
The knowing smile in itself forced your spine to straighten despite the urge to just kneel and beg for forgiveness. You forced the tremor in your hands to cease by gripping the document until your knuckles turned white.
After all, there was no exit in this. To run would be to admit guilt; to freeze would be to admit fear.
Smoothly and full of grace, the Commander removed his green cloak and folded it meticulously over the back of his chair before speaking: "I wasn't aware I had issued a security clearance for that specific shelf.â
His voice, much to your terror, was level and devoid of anger. It's the voice of a man discussing the weather while holding a blade.
And so you channeled the 'Krista' you had been mimickingâthe polite, submissive prey. What else can you do in this situation, really?
"I-I have no excuse, Commander." Your voice cracked. âI got too ahead of myselfâŚâ
ââToo ahead of yourself,â huh,â Erwin muses. âHow so?â
"To think that I'm allowed to read on any shelves I come across j-just because you allowed me once, in your office.â
"So you decided to read field reports on military espionage, eh?" The Commander's blue eyes swept over you with a clinical, dissecting interest. He looked at the dossier in your hand, then back to your face. "A curious choice for light reading."
Your heel hits the wood of the bookshelf. Nowhere left to go.
"You see, if youâre going to commit treason in my officeâŚâ
The Commander holds onto your fingers gently, and that alone was enough to remind yourself how badly you've been shaking.
â...at least have the constitution to hold the paper still."
"I'm not committing treason," you managed to whisper, though the resurfaced memories of your mother, the warrior training, and the lies were screaming in your head. You clamped them down. "When I realized that the dossier was about me, I merely started t-to... audit its accuracy."
A flicker of amusement crossed his face. "And? Did my scribes capture the essence of the 'Captured Liberio Asset' to your satisfaction?"
"That my mother, like countless Eldians in Liberio, was killed undeservingly." As soon as you said that, the shaking stopped. You closed the folder shut, slow and deliberate, finally feeling like a step forward in dismantling a bomb. "And I, her only child, never came from nothing."
"So what? We all come from somewhere," Erwin countered smoothly. "Even rats come from the gutter before they find their way into the pantry."
The insult was delivered with such civility it took a second to sting. He was testing you. The Commander was prodding the bruises of your memory to see if youâd snap.
You swallowed the insult and lifted your chin, "Only that I'm not a rat, Commander.â
"You're in a room you shouldn't be in, scurrying in the dark while the house sleeps." He tilted his head. "If you're not a rat, then perhaps you're an Anti-Marletan Volunteer spy like others assumed. And I treat spies with significantly less hospitality than I do houseguests."
He reached for a carafe of water on his desk and poured two glasses. He pushed one to the edge of the desk, opposite him.
"Sit."
It was not an offer.
And thus you walked to the chair despite your legs feeling like lead. You sat on the edge, ready to bolt despite knowing too well you wouldn't make it three steps.
"Drink," he commanded. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
I have, you thought. I saw myself. You took the glass. The water shook as you raised it to your lips.Â
"The good news, however, is that you have an opportunity," he said softly. "Most prisoners found in this position would be dragged to the cells below immediately. I, however, am tiredâbeing summoned someplace past evening and all. And I find your sudden literacy... compelling."
Commander Erwin tipped his head sideward, gaze heavy, stripping away the layers of your performance.
"Pray tell," he continued, "as soon as you realized what you'd been reading, why didn't you run when you heard the door handle turn? The window was unlatched. You could have slipped onto the roof."
"I..." You paused. Why, he asked? Of course you're too prideful to admit you'd been slick and didn't even hear him. "I didn't check the window."
"Mistake number one," Erwin noted as if grading a cadet. "Always secure your exit before you secure the prize. Panic makes you clumsy. Clumsiness gets you killed."
"I'll remember that," you murmured.
"See that you do." He leaned forward, the shadows casting his face in sharp relief. "This file... it says you were a Candidate. A child soldier."
He didn't ask it as a question. He stated it as a fact he had known long before you opened that folder.
Your breath hitched. "And you didn't tell me, even when you realized that I had no recollection of it all."
"Well, it's not like I hold any responsibility to do so now, is it? Iâm a Commander, not a confessor," Erwin sardonically replied, watching you over the rim of his glass. "Do tell, why would I even compel myself to share it with you? What makes you think you're worth it?â
He's asking you what you can do for him if you know this information, huh.
âBecause not depriving me of my past makes me an ally instead,â you said through gritted teeth. âNever shall you fear my loyalty to the likes of Zeke again. What do you take me for?â
âInformation is my weapon, you see. Spending it on a prisoner who might simply be feigning amnesia to lower my guard would have been... fiscally irresponsible.â
You lowered your head, letting your shoulders slump just enough to suggest a weight too heavy to bear. It was a calculated postureâthe universal silhouette of a broken child. You needed him to see the girl the dossier spoke of, not the anomaly he's merely examining.
"I didn't feign it, Commander," you whispered, allowing a tremor to bleed into your voice. "Zekeâthat sick in the head bastardâhe told me my life began at the port. He told me I was born from the blood of the people I killed." You looked up then, meeting Erwinâs gaze with eyes glistening with seething anger.
This anger was real, that much you know.
What Erwin doesn't know, however, is that you have the capacity to immediately weaponize your own sob story to diffuse the situation completely.
"H-he looked me in the eye for all this time and let me believe I was a monster because it was convenient for him."
Erwin didn't offer a handkerchief. He didn't offer comfort. He simply observed the display, analyzing the variables.
"The Warchief has a penchant for theatrics, that I observed." Erwin noted dryly. "He prefers puppets to soldiers. Puppets don't ask questions about their mothers."
"He stole my name," you crouched closer to the desk, invading the predator's space just an inch. "He stole my history. He kept me empty so he could fill me with his own script."
"And now?" Erwin asked, his interest piqued. "You have read the script. You know the playwright is a liar. What does the puppet do when she sees the strings?"
This was the test. You knew it. If you answered with pure emotion, he would dismiss you as unstable. If you answered with pure logic, he would distrust you as a spy. You had to thread the needle.
You took a breath, steeling yourself. You thought of your motherâs journals. You thought of the tree she wrote about, the one hidden somewhere on this island.Â
"I stop dancing for him,â you answered simply, naturally.
You needed to stay here. You needed access to this land, and Erwin Smith held the keys.
âYou see, Commander, I know it; you want to use me as much as Zeke does." You added, dropping the facade of ignorance. "You want to know how valuable I am for Zeke considering his actions concerning my welfare as of late."
Erwinâs expression didn't change, but the air in the room shifted. The temperature dropped.
"Zeke wants me blind and obedient. You, on the other hand, just want me effective,â you said, holding his gaze. "What makes me worth the information I just sneaked into? For starters, I'd rather be a weapon in the hands of an honest thief than a little lamb for a liar.â
Erwin crouched, palms clasped on the table, now immersed in the conversation. âDo expound.â
âZeke erased me. You, on the other hand, sought my life before the Marleyan port. And you kept where I could reach, deliberately so, even if you didn't share it. That makes you the safer bet."
It was a gamble. You were offering him an alliance born of spite, knowing that a man like Erwin Smith would trust vengeance far more than he would ever trust loyalty.
"Safer, huh,â the Commander repeated.
Then, he stared at you for a long, silent moment. The air in the room grew heavy, suffocating. Then, the corner of his lip quirked upward.
"Good," he said. "Then stop shaking.â
This time, the tone of his command was different. It wasn't an order to a prisoner; it was an invitation to a conspirator.
"If we are to discuss your... change in management, you will need to be calm about it."
He then signalled the conversation was over. The dismissal was as abrupt as his entrance.
"Now⌠Leave the file, go back to your room. If I find you wandering the halls again at this hour, I won't be as conversational."
You stood, legs trembling, but you forced yourself to walk to the door with dignity. As you reached for the handle, you hid the thought that bloomed in the back of your mind: You shall use the Commander the same way he intends to use you. Use him to find the tree. Let him think he owns you, all to prove your mother right.
And so you turned your back towards him again. âWe're gonna talk about this again, right?â
This time, Commander Erwin gave you a genuinely amused smile.Â
Your chest begins to ache at that smile, but this time, the pain is different. It's not the pain of forced submission, but rather the agonizing pain of conscious choice.
You have your identity this time, and so now you're a willing prisoner. The leash that has been making your chest ache is now a culmination towards the next major steps of your life.
âWell, it's been a while since I've come across a good gambler.â Erwin leaned on his office chair, clasping his hands on the back of his neck with a smile. âCome back here when you're well rested."
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