#johan liebert yapping

[riewritten]

◤─────• ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ •─────◥

「 little less human 」

JOHAN LIEBERT x FEM!READER

You’re being unmade by a ghost—touched 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.

EXPLICIT CONTENT BELOW. Read with discretion.

◣─────• ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ •─────◢

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 rhythm—that 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 synthetic—like 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.

​He doesn’t fumble, doesn't gasp, doesn’t 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 exhale—and 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, ah—Johan. 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.

​He 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.

​You lie there, breath hitching, feeling less like a sexual partner and more like a prop. An accessory to his existence.

​Then 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 shouldn’t have felt like this.

​To 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 jaw—he 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 part—and 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 you—he'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 ghost—touched by something that looked like a man but felt like nothing at all.

──────────── ׂׂૢ་༘࿐

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[riewritten]

My fave johan hc is that he isn't ticklish at all. You attempt to tickle him and he continues standing there like a rock

Johan doesn’t even flinch.

You dig your fingers into his sides, wiggle them beneath his ribs, reach for every place a normal human being would at least twitch, only for him to just stand there. Like he’s a marble statue dressed in polite smile. Full of silence, an amalgamation of stillness. Not even a breath caught between his teeth.

“Nothing?” you ask, breathless from the effort.

He tilts his head. “Nothing,” then gently removes your hands as if you were brushing dust off him.

You groan in defeat. “You’re impossible.”

Later, when you’re steps away from your front door, you feel something ghost-light touch the back of your nape.

You jump. Well, leap is a much better term; like a cat whose tail has been stepped on. Your whole spine jolts, shoulders snapping up as a startled sound escapes you.

Johan stands behind you, hand half-lowered, expression unreadable.

If he’s amused, it doesn’t reach his face. “Interesting,” is all he says.

You glare, cheeks burning. “Don’t.”

But tomorrow, the torture begins. It’s quiet and subtle as Johan is. Impossible to anticipate like he is.

He accidentally brushes your waist when reaching past you. It’s the barest sweep of fingertips, almost incidental, but it sends a sting of electricity straight through your nerves. Your muscles flinch before you can stop them, a tiny gasp catching in your throat. Your skin prickles, too sensitive, too aware of him.

“Johan!”

“What?”

“Don’t touch me there.”

Johan looked at the ‘there’ in question, and you swore you could tear apart the smirk that he made.

Later, his fingers happen to slip over the inside of your elbow as he hands you a book. Only a glide. Feather-light, even.

And yet the exact touch shoots up your arm like a spark climbing a fuse. Your knees nearly soften with how sharply it tickles—deep, not surface-level, it curls embarrassingly in your stomach and forces your shoulder to jerk up on instinct.

“Johan, you can’t just—“

“Hmm?” he asks, completely dumbfounded. When you figure he won’t admit he’s trying to tickle you even if you point a gun to his head, you sigh and leave the matter at hand.

The day after, he lands another attack: a casual touch along your ribs. It’s so gentle it shouldn’t even register.

But it does. Hell, it burns.

Not painfully though. You know the maddening, breath-stealing ticklish flare that makes you exhale too fast, chest tightening as your whole torso fights the urge to squirm away? It radiates outward, warm and unbearable, like bubbles rising under your skin.

Do you know what completely made you lose it?

It’s the lightest graze of his sweet fingers at your collarbone.

It undoes you completely, let it be known. Completely shattered. It rolls through you all at once, a shiver snapping down your spine, shoulders jumping as though you’ve been touched by static. Your breath catches in a helpless little hitch, cheeks warming at your own overreaction.

And after you twitch, Johan looks at you with that same serene blankness—as if he hasn’t just found every switch wired directly to your reaction.

“Please,” you beg off, “please forgive me for trying to tickle you last week, for fuck’s sake.”

Johan only blinks, serene as ever, voice soft with the kind of innocence that’s absolutely not innocence at all!

“Thou shall not enter a war you would easily lose,” he nonchalantly remarks.

You want to scream. Or melt. Or both.

But you don’t, because Mister Johan right here seems awfully unbothered. And thou shall win a war you have started.

It is until his pointy finger sends a sting of electricity straight through your waist yet again that you finally admit defeat. ##

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[riewritten]

daily reminder that johan liebert is 50 y/o this 2025

and your resident author is gnawing at her prison cell desperate to be let out because this deranged thing needs her old men enjoyer soul viscerally quenched. hence this headcanon. welcome.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ ━ the kind of life he’s living

Johan lives alone in an almost too modest apartment on the far edge of town. It’s rather… the kind of place where no one really looks at each other too long.

He keeps few belongings. If before, he tends to make his abode appear as though it was never touched and no one lived inside it, at least now he has some books, a kettle, a bed he barely sleeps in, and the gadgets he use for work. Nothing sentimental, though. Nothing in his current house could tie him to anyone or any period of his life, that’s for sure.

He works odd jobs remotely. Translation, data sorting, archival work, night shifts. Anything invisible. The boom of virtual assistantship as of late surely benefitted a recluse like him.

He’s still frighteningly intelligent, though, but the world has grown louder and faster. He decided to just spend the rest of his days watching it collapse like an empire from a hilltop. You see, he’s particularly drawn to reading about geopolitics, especially wars as of late. He never makes a stand, but rather watches the deaths unfold with a cold smile. Weird. Terribly weird.

He writes anonymously under various pseudonyms, mostly philosophy, political analysis, and commentaries on the international situation. His work circulates in obscure academic corners with a cult-like following.

At fifty, his edges have softened physically but sharpened psychologically.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ ━ that said, how does he look like in 2025?

His once-golden hair is now pale, washed-out blond with streaks of silver that catch the light.

His face holds lines that weren’t there before especially around the eyes. These lines make him look weary, although still in a strangely elegant way.

There’s a slight tremor in his hands, only noticeable when he pours tea or lights a cigarette (it appears that he’s more inclined to try vices now that can make his… life run faster). He thinks he’s lived long enough.

His clothing is simple: wool sweaters, worn coats, soft scarves. This guy buys only what lasts.

He’s still beautiful, aging like fine wine in fact. But the beauty now is cold, faded, and more resembles a human than an angel.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ ━ let’s try to put you in the scenario…

Perhaps you’re a neighbor who begrudgingly (at first) followed your parent’s command to give extra desserts to neighbors this Christmas season, and when you saw Johan open the door for you, you were too awestruck to even speak. Eventually, you’d become the one person who knocks on his door. Extra food from “your parent,” questions whether he has eaten, and more small talks just to linger longer than you should.

And that is where things unfold. At first:

Johan opens the door only halfway.

His voice is soft, polite, and unreadable; something along the lines of, “Oh, dear. You didn’t have to trouble yourself.”

He rarely takes the food immediately, and instead lets you hold it between you, suspended, to see what you do with the silence.

After a few visits?

He knows your footsteps. Your knock and there goes the breathing pattern when you’re nervous.

He lets you into the apartment, albeit never too far. You always stay by the table, by the window, but never past the threshold of his private rooms.

He makes tea for you, slow and quiet like some sort of ritual. Johan turns out to be a tea expert. You’d always come by to have his tea.

He asks gentle questions: “What made you come today?” Well, my mother said to bring this pie to you! “Do you always do this for people?” Ah, my family has a culture of being too kind to their neighbors. “Why me?” Because you’re a lovely neighbor, h-hehe! (sweats nervously)

He listens at your stuttering, just as if if you’re confessing even when you’re not.

Johan never outright encourages your visits, it’s just that he simply doesn’t stop you. He makes sure to smile only in a moment you’d deem rewarding. Pavlov effect. But, he remembers the smallest details you tell him, and he repeats them back on a random circumstance with uncanny accuracy.

You’d feel seen, dangerously so, and when your curiosity deepens (perhaps an “Oh, Johan! How do you always manage to always get things right about me?”), he begins to test you.

Leaving a controversial book out open on a page meant to disturb you.

Asking questions that sound harmless but reveal much.

Allowing silence to stretch until you fill it with something personal.

Your offerings of food eventually become offerings of yourself, bit by bit. And old Johan learns to accept them like they’re stuff to be added in his inventory.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ ━ what does he think of you?

He finds your curiosity rather touching. Naive.

He sees the innocence in your need to understand him.

He sees the hunger beneath it, too.

You remind him of people who walked into their own ruin simply because they needed to know what lay behind a closed door, but this time in his age, Johan isn’t leading you through it anymore. He’s past his prime, after all.

You’re walking in on your own and the old man is simply watching.

He’d never tell you he likes the food you bring. He’d never admit that likes the warmth you bring into his cold rooms. Or that he likes your presence more than he should. And that’s what will make his smile more rewarding, more unexpected and flattering on your end. This anticipation, this curiosity is the first step into a story you won’t know how to leave.

And Johan Liebert, even at fifty, knows how to let someone walk toward him willingly. ##

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[riewritten]

my ovulation this month coincidentally strikes the valentines week so to prevent pregnancy i will see u all on february 14

EXPLICIT CONTENT. Read with discretion.

special mention to @nefarra this is all her fault btw

[riewritten]

Sometimes I forget that Johan Liebert is canonically fluent in other languages.

Imagine him giving giving you one-on-one English classes for whatever shenanigans and one day you come at him with the fruits of his labor.

"Your English is getting good day by day. That's great. It won't be long 'til you say goodbye to my lessons."

"Really?" you gasp, clearly proud of yourself. "Hold on, how about I try to construct sentences while you correct my mistakes?"

Johan has always been the one to initiate an activity to gauge what you've learned, so needless to say he's amused to not humor your request. "Go on."

"I have a cat. His name is Johan. He's quiet but likes to cuddle a lot."

"No mistakes, but to sound more native, you can say it this way instead: I have a cat named Johan. He's quiet but likes to cuddle a lot."

"Oh! Okay, let me try again." You take your time before speaking again. "I want an old rich guy who give me money after he dies."

"No, you don't."

"Huh?"

"You wouldn't want that."

"Oh! Yes, I wouldn't," you agree, much to his relief. "But you were supposed to correct my errors, Johan."

"Yeah."

"And by that I mean grammatical errors."

"The correct way to say it is: I want a rich old guy who would give me money after he dies," he says, only to add, "But you wouldn't want that."

"I think I would like the idea though," you negate. "I need money, after all."

Only if you know that the person responsible for the economic crisis you're going through is right in front of your eyes. Fortunately, you don't know it yet, which explains why Johan can still be in front of you.

"Someone younger can give that with ease."

"Oh, yeah. I suppose, but..." you awkwardly start, "are we still doing the game or not?"

Well, only if you didn't make a sentence like that.

"Yeah," Johan chuckles almost nonchalantly. "I forgot I was supposed to do that."

[riewritten]

Do you know how in the past 2 guys would fight to almost death to win affection of a lady they both liked? I need this with Johan and Anna for scientific research

you know… my dear… you are tickling my brain

i tend to imagine johan and anna (who are both evil) possessing the dynamic of, “you walk your path of ruin. i walk mine. if the world collapses somewhere between us… that is simply the world’s misfortune.” like they don’t interfere with each other’s scope of monstrosity and, in fact, respect each other’s territory. given this, i wonder what happens if their interest lands upon the same individual. like;

what if you become the first variable that disrupts their “parallel coexistence”?

they’ve spent years walking separate paths of ruin. yet you are the first person who:

understands the languages of both monsters

reflects different things back to each of them

makes them feel seen in ways they didn’t expect

for the first time, their paths intersect. and it so happens that this intersection is something both monsters would like to orbit around.

johan might play the long logical game like the person that he is, but anna? i think she’d play the intimate emotional one.

you see… in my perspective, johan’s domain as a monster includes emptiness, detached philosophical destruction, and mind labyrinths. meanwhile, anna’s domain, i think, would be more aggressive and angry because she won’t be able to detach from her very personal resentment, inherited suffering, and intimate violence the same way johan did. after all, she’s not a physical manifestation of nihilism like johan is—she’s the monster who wanted to have a name so badly. that said:

johan takes you apart slowly, mentally, philosophically. i.e. throwing life questions his own strategic way… like the way he did with tenma

meanwhile, anna takes you apart emotionally, viscerally. i.e. making you depend on her, isolating you from everyone else until you are basically left with nothing but her

you’re not caught between two lovers here i fear… but rather two frameworks of destruction.

now, i’d like to posit that:

neither of them would try to “kill” the other to win over you. in fact, they don’t see each other as obstacles.

you choose johan? well, anna shrugs and continues tying your physical existence to her and her alone.

you choose anna? johan smiles and continues throwing questions that will permeate your mind until you can’t think of anything else but him and his avant-garde bullshit

they both follow you, interest never decreasing. they never make you feel like they’re competing because, girl, they don’t think they are in the first place. In their minds, you have enough space to belong to both, enough complexity to be held by both, and enough value to be touched by both their worlds

suppose they fight… i think it’d be beyond the typical cat fight. instead, it’s:

competing philosophies whispered into your ear

two different kinds of monster logic nudging your worldview

subtle attempts to reshape you in their image

quiet battles to see whose influence transforms you more

they don’t consider you a prize to be won. you are their actual field of war. and chaos is where monsters like them thrive. simply put, their rivalry is characterized to be silently creeping and purely ideological. johan would linger in your thoughts, anna meanwhile would be in your emotions. the twins will not be competing for love, but rather of correctness—of who possesses the sharpest of lines, of who affects you more. you are their magnus opum.

i’d also like to think you eventually (perhaps accidentally) become their only shared line of mercy.

they don’t hurt you

they don’t emotionally scar you as they do to everyone else. they both go slow about it (which honestly makes it more torturous on your end)

they both carve out a small, eerie “safe space” around you

you’re the only place on earth where their parallel monstrosities intersect without violence. eventually, this might lead them to have you as the axis point their myth (the monster from the east and from the west) revolves around. you become the line between them. the center of the compass. the one mortal both monsters turn toward.

when the monster of the east and the monster of the west both circle at the same point, everything else collapses outward. they’ll be orbiting you with a gravitational pull humans are not meant to withstand. the effect would be the world becomes physically unsafe for everyone else…. everyone except you. ##

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[riewritten]

Johan Liebert, who doesn't want you to love him, started to do everything he knew you'd hate as soon as he got to know you head to toe. His acquaintanceship with you was specifically designed just for that.

Any being Johan has loved—if he's indeed capable of such an act—always ends up hating his very core, and it is all in accordance with his will. After all, hatred has been proven to be much stronger than love in the grander scheme of things in humanity—or so Johan believes.

When he was a kid, he was more well-versed in navigating hatred than love (not that he had more people to love back then aside from his sister). Love was tiring; he always had to worry about his other half being caught by the monster that chased them. Love was temperamental; his other half erased his existence for good as soon as she knew of his ways (not that he'd ever take it against her, for that was the right call—he doesn't exist). And when he met you, his viewpoint of love was reaffirmed even further. Your previous relationships, romantic or platonic, had all taken a toll on you. Johan has heard plenty of stories about you being disappointed with the people you’ve tried to love. When they weren't able to do this or that. When you sleep at six in the morning, exhausted, because trying to understand their actions in the name of love had kept you up all night. How interesting; oh, how genuinely interesting, Johan had thought.

And it even becomes more interesting that despite all that, you're still someone who seeks love, who seeks to love and be loved. “Why?” he asks. How strange. “I just have a lot of love to give, is that too wrong?” you reply, smiling. And when Johan doesn’t answer, you add, “I’m just waiting for the right people who'd be willing to receive them." “Even if they have demanded a lot of your time? Even if they used you—repeatedly so—only to change their mind on you at the last minute?” he prompts, which then makes you gaze down for a bit. However, Johan doesn’t expect you to lift your head just as quick, with a nod and smile so bright, so contrary of him. “Yeah, even so, I choose to love and be loved.”

And so, amid the very clear stance, Johan still wants you to understand. Your thirst to love and be loved has gained his interest for quite some time now. He saw very well how genuine you were when you told him one night that he's your closest friend now, and you treasure him so much. But the morning after, he's suddenly not the approachable-mister-congeniality type of friend anymore. After showering you with friendly affection and being the best company you've ever had in your life, he now doesn’t acknowledge your presence when you try to make it known. Johan, much as he had never felt emotions so extreme, never thought he'd take pleasure in the way you looked at him, full of yearning and confusion. How pretty you are with glassy eyes, doing everything in your power to not let the tears fall, as people started avoiding you as well not long after he did. 

Don't you worry; he liked being near you, too. But you need to understand where he's coming from. Johan doesn't want you to love him, for love is weaker than hatred. As people say, 'hatred is something you can use, sculpt, or wield.’ Oh, hatred. You've been full of love despite how many times it humiliated you, but hatred will cradle you. It will make you understand his point. The contrasting characters you two have that ultimately keep your distance can finally be mended if you come to understand him.

Months later, your glassy eyes and yearning gaze developed into something more sinister, and Johan couldn't help himself but smile wider. Maybe you finally figured it out. How come all the exes you had told of him started disappearing one by one? How come the friends you'd grown distant to have started contacting you again—begging for their lives and apologizing for wasting your precious and benevolent love—only to be found dead the morning after? How come that with all these incidents, they never fail to mention a certain blonde man whom they call the devil? How come they all cried to you the same begging, "Please tell him to leave me alone," "I will be next!" "Oh god, oh god, he's here. Please, forgive me. I will love you better this time. Just please don't let him kill me!"

And the worst thing of all, because most if not all the victims contacted you before their presumed death, an inspector came knocking at your door one day, asking you to cooperate to avoid consequences.

You poor thing. Johan's sweet mourning lamb. There's nothing you can do. It's already been done. Don't worry. Once you get to understand his point, he will come back to see you again. And by then he'd be able to see how strong you feel for him.

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inspo:

[riewritten]

subjecting you (my dearest reader) to unimaginable horrors by having The johan liebert do this to you with no malice whatsoever

he just wants you to be happy as his dear friend because you went to him one night with your grievances and an additional disclaimer "sorry for bothering you i dont have a lot of people to share this with" and he perhaps thought that, after all, the sun also gets gloomy for not reaching every crevice of the earth with its rays. what more of you, a literal amalgamation of light and kindness in his eyes?