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haiii again! im the one who asked for the sickfic he’s and like always you never fail to deliver! thank you so much for fulfilling my request! and trust me when I say that the content in your post was perfect! it was raw and precise (as always!). you wrote johan and put him in the context of a commonly used fanfic trope. you didn’t take him out of his bounds for his character, but you rather pulled the threading a bit looser to accommodate for the situational context at hand, whilst keeping his cold and separated persona intact! all of that to say! I loved it! again, thank you so much for satisfying my fantasies (lol) and taking out some valuable time for this prompt! i appreciate it so much more than words can say <3

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Hay I'm new here and I'd like to ask some questions, most are personnel. And sorry if my English is bad.

Will you write for anyone from monster other then Johan? If so? Who?

Will you write for anything other than monster? I remember reading you love breserk.

Do you only write only for they/them OC's or do you also write spisifixly for she/her and he/him?

Are there things and subjects you are uncomfortable writing?

(This one is more personal)

How did you manage to make Johan so close to canon? Your writing is so good I find myself looking through your posts more and more just to see more.

And lastly can I be 🪻-anon?

Hello! As for writing someone else in Monster, I’ve definitely thought about Tenma—maybe Nina—but I’d need the right spark of inspiration. I don’t like writing on autopilot. If I’m not genuinely compelled by the character or the dynamic, what’s the point? Half-baked just doesn’t cut it. This is a side hobby I’ve begrudgingly allowed myself to enjoy, so I’d rather keep it intentional, borderline obsessive—and of course, fun.

Outside of Monster, I’ve considered Berserk—it’s one of my all-time favorites. The catch? I’d only write for Griffith. He is my all-timer. I’ve also thought about Devilman, especially since fics for it are pretty scarce. And yes, you can probably guess who I’d write for there. I have a type—guilty as charged.

Though I post about Resident Evil sometimes, I don’t plan to write for it. I enjoy it in a different way… more as just a fan than a writer. Not every interest translates into creative fuel, and that’s okay.

I try to keep my writing gender-neutral so anyone can read and see themselves in it, though I do lean slightly toward fem, for obvious reasons. I’ll probably stick with a neutral tone overall, occasionally using she/her if the story calls for it.

There are definitely topics I’m not comfortable writing. I should probably make a pinned list to keep my page cleaner, but… effort. I won’t write anything involving noncon, incest, or pedophilic themes. It’s not just gross—it also feels deeply out of character (to me, at least). That said, when it comes to someone like Johan, I will explore darker themes: murder, manipulation, psychological abuse, and suicide. Never for shock value, and never romanticized. I just think it’s necessary to portray him with integrity. I want to do it right.

I’m really glad you think my take on Johan feels canon! I pull inspiration from a few places: obviously canon Johan, but also a less clingy Joe Goldberg, a more self-contained Patrick Bateman (less meltdown, more poise), and yes… very loosely, an Edward Cullen type—but only spiritually. Not in the glittery, mind-reading, brooding-in-a-tree kind of way. Hopefully.

And yeah… some of what I write is, unfortunately, inspired by lived experience. Don’t squint at it too hard. You know the kind of person who ends up being a life lesson? A long, drawn-out, teeth-gritting one? That.

Also… thank you so much, seriously. That means a lot. And of course you can be 🪻-anon! I’ll remember you.

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tiny nina ♡

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Premeditated crime w/ Raskolnikov

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Hi! I always look forward to your posts and enjoy reading them. I wanted to tell you that I really love your headcanons about Johan and your thoughts and posts about Monster.

I’m glad there’s someone like you who loves, analyzes, and explores this work and its characters so deeply. Please take care of your health and have a wonderful day! 💐🩷

Hey, thank you so much! It really means a lot to hear you enjoy my Johan headcanons!! I’ve honestly been obsessed with this story forever—shocker, I know—so it’s always nice knowing someone else gets it too. I’ll try to take care of myself, promise! Hope you have an amazing day too. 🩷

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You know what I thought about? What if Johan had a sassy S/O who had a very spicy mouth, like roast him type of person, can I request for headcannons of Johan with sassy S/O? 👉👈I feel like it would be so comical when he says something deranged like “You know that front door you forgot to lock-“ “shaddap.”

It’d be so funny to see his reaction to S/O being sassy 😭

He wouldn’t laugh or get offended—just go very, very quiet. Not out of anger, but curiosity. You cut him off mid-monologue. That’s new.

He’d test it. Say something calculated just to see if you’d bite back again. And if you do—without fear or bravado—it sticks.

It wouldn’t soften him, but it might keep him close. That kind of defiance is rare—and dangerous when it fascinates him. (Also… if I already tend to write readers with a bit of a mouth on them… yeah. That’s a personal problem. I’m so sorry.)

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☆jill valentine☆

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haiiii! wanted to start off with saying I love your interpretation of johan so incredibly much! I literally think he would literally act how u write him in canon lol. you are an incredibly gifted writer with a meticulous eye for detail and it comes to life whenever I read your posts! i have a first time request if you don’t mind! I would like to see how him (and reader!) would navigate falling sick. seeing as johan doesn’t allow being seen in a.p vulnerable position easily, how would he deal with being afflicted with something like a common cold or flu, that puts you in a vulnerable position? this could also be vice versa, how would he deal with a sick reader? sorry if this is long winded, it’s completely up to you to pick this up! I mostly wanted to just gush and praise your work since i think it’s amazing! <3

Hi! Your message made me smile so much—thank you. I’m seriously flattered you think my Johan feels canon-compliant. I really do try. The goal is always to keep him sharp without sliding into melodrama or making him weirdly soft. (Unless he’s sick. Then maybe just a little pathetic.)

And I’ll totally pretend I read your message once and moved on like a normal person… and not five times..

Writing a feverish Johan was oddly satisfying.

I had a lot of fun with it!

[Here]

And if it doesn’t live up to expectations… I respect that.

But also, I beg you: don’t tell me. Let me exist in peaceful delusion, just this once. 🩷

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Sickfic Headcanons: You vs. Johan—[requested]

You know the ship trope: ‘What if one of them got sick and the other had to play nurse?’

A fan favorite for a reason. So naturally, we handed it to Johan.

Because nothing says ‘healthy relationship’ like being spoon-fed broth by a man who once talked a guy off a rooftop…. and not to save him.

Comforting, right?

Johan Handling You Sick:

(You are the one who falls ill more often)

Unspoken Concern

If it’s just a cold? He’s gone. There are always other places to be.

But if you’re truly ill—burning up, barely lucid, shivering even under three blankets, failing to keep water down—he just might stay.

He never says ‘I’m worried’.

But he stays overnight without being asked. Pretends to read. Sits near but not too close. Rests in the chair like he’s asleep—but he isn’t. Not really.

He’s watching.

All the while, he’s listening—to your breathing, your coughing, to every small shift in the sheets.

Cools Your Skin Methodically

He uses a damp cloth folded into perfect thirds and lays it gently across your forehead, like it’s a ceremonial act.

He checks the temperature of the water with his wrist first, every time.

Never too cold. Never too wet.

If you start sweating, he wipes your neck with the same quiet precision, eyes fixed on your face, watching for every twitch.

Monitors Your Medicine

Every label is read with quiet intensity, dosage double-checked like a calculation that can’t afford to slip.

He doesn’t need a clock—his mind is sharper than any ticking hand.

When he hands you the pills, there’s a moment—soft, almost gentle.

“Take this.”

No threat in his voice. Not yet. Just calm insistence.

And if you refuse?

That’s when it changes.

No chatter. No hesitation.

Just one deliberate word:

“Now.”

No room for argument. No margin for delay.

His eyes lock on you—unreadable—as you swallow, measuring your compliance in milliseconds.

Waiting. Always waiting.

You Go On a Fever Rant. He Tries to Respond Logically. Bad Move.

You start rambling halfway through a fever-soaked hour: antibiotic resistance, billionaires hoarding meds, or that time someone said you looked like Gollum in high school.

He listens, carefully. Nods once or twice.

Then, quiet but firm:

“You’re overthinking.”

You snap your head toward him.

“Oh, great. Dr. Freud himself over here.”

He blinks, unfazed.

“I’m not diagnosing you.”

You scoff and roll your eyes.

“Oh please, analyze me more. Because what I really need right now is a TED talk from the walking encyclopedia.”

He sits across from you like he has all night—elegant, unruffled. One leg crossed over the other, hands resting lightly, as he waits you out.

Eventually, you groan.

“…Fine. Maybe I am spiraling. Happy now?”

“Your honesty is noted.”

Feeds You. By Hand, If He Must

You’re too sick to sit up straight.

You don’t even argue when he takes the bowl.

He doesn’t coo. Doesn’t coax.

Just holds the spoon up and waits.

No expression. No rush.

You groan, but take it.

Chew slowly. Swallow.

It tastes like nothing.

Your nose is blocked, ears ringing faintly.

“It’s not poison.” he says, voice level.

…Though the way he watches you afterward makes you wonder if he’s reassuring you—or reminding himself.

You Throw Up. He Doesn’t Flinch

You barely make it to the toilet. It hits hard—violent, sudden, ugly.

He’s in the doorway. Watching.

He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t ask if you’re okay.

Just stands there, expression blank, as your body folds forward.

Only when the worst of it passes does he move.

He crouches beside you. Wipes your mouth with a tissue.

You try to swat him away—too slow.

He stands. Washes his hands. Silent as ever.

Later, from the floor, you mutter, “So. I guess that kills whatever sexual tension we had left.”

He doesn’t look at you.

Instead, as he dries his hands—a faint smile, there and gone:

“You should drink something. You’re dehydrated.”

Then leaves the room.

You groan. Grab the nearest thing—a roll of toilet paper—and throw it at him.

Miss. Obviously.

Reads Aloud, Slowly

When you can’t think clearly, he reads to you—quietly, without flourish.

An old philosophy book. The newspaper in German. Sometimes even children’s stories in French.

His voice is low and rhythmic. He reads like you’re an audience of one.

It helps you sleep. He knows that.

And he always finishes the chapter, even if you drift off.

“You’re not listening anymore, are you?” he murmurs.

Then smiles to himself.

Good. You’re supposed to be resting.

And turns the page.

He Lies When You Need Him To

If you ask if you look terrible, he lies smoothly…. like it costs him nothing.

“You’ve looked worse,” he says.

“But never quite so charming.”

You glare at him, but it buys you a little strength. That’s the point.

You Let Him In

He doesn't say anything when you start running too hot, or when your breaths go thin.

But the blanket changes. The water's colder.

You don't even remember him leaving, but there are new pills by the bed.

He moves through your illness like it's a house no one else could live in.

You let him near. Let him touch.

Swallow the pills he brings. Sleep while he’s in the room.

It isn’t fear that startles him.

It’s this.

Your trust—so unguarded, so stupidly soft—unnerves him more than any threat ever has.

He Leaves Without Saying Goodbye

Once you’re past the worst, you always wake up alone.

He never says goodbye.

But there’s usually something left behind: his scarf draped over the back of a chair, your vitamins refilled—

a note you won’t find until hours later, slipped beneath the box of tissues on your nightstand.

You hate that you find that reassuring.

You Handling Johan Sick:

(Extremely rare, possibly once in your entire relationship. Johan is utterly unmoored)

The Logistics

If he doesn’t do his usual act—doesn’t vanish into some cryptic corner of Europe—you know something’s off-script.

He’s not here for soup and sympathy. God forbid.

Sentiment isn’t part of the equation.

He’s not here because he wants to be. That’s not how he works.

He’s here because this environment is sterile, quiet, predictable—

And you are, too.

The exits are known.

You ask nothing. Press nothing.

You toss a blanket over him like you’re covering a ticking time bomb.

Dim the lights. Keep the noise down.

Pretend this is normal.

Maybe the armor cracked.

Maybe you didn’t give him a choice.

Or maybe—for once—he’s just too tired to keep running.

He won’t say thank you. He never does.

But he doesn’t leave.

And that’s the closest thing to confession he’s ever given.

Initial Disbelief and Spiraling

At first, you think he’s faking.

A test. A trick. Some weird psychological game.

But then he shivers.

And doesn’t say anything when you touch his forehead.

“You don’t get sick,” you mutter. “What is this, some kind of performance art?”

He just blinks. Slow. Blank.

You narrow your eyes.

“Oh my god. You actually have a fever.”

You step back. Stare.

Then reach out again—fingers brushing just above his brow this time, hovering over the spot you know he hates.

He still doesn’t stop you.

Which somehow makes it worse.

Refuse to Leave When He’s at His Worst

He tells you to leave.

Doesn’t yell. Doesn’t have to.

You stay planted—arms crossed, jaw tight.

“No.”

He doesn’t turn toward you.

“You don’t want me to see you like this?” you scoff.

“Well, I already did. So that’s over.”

Then, quieter. Strained:

“You’ve seen me at mine. You didn’t leave. So don’t ask me to.”

Silence stretches. Long enough to sting.

His breath stutters—not dramatic, but enough that you hear it catch in his throat.

His hand tightens in the blanket. Not in anger. Just holding on.

Like he’s trying not to shake.

But he doesn’t say it again.

Which is as close as he gets to letting someone in.

Cool His Skin Without Touching Too Much

You’re tentative with his body.

Dab his forehead with a cloth, then his neck. His skin is clammy and oversensitive.

Work in slow, quiet movements. You feel you should apologize every time you brush too close.

“Sorry. I’m trying not to…”

He opens his eyes—barely. “You can.”

You freeze. Then keep going.

A little braver now.

You Adjust His Surroundings Like a Nurse. Not a Lover.

You move around him like a sleeping dog—aware of the teeth underneath the skin.

You dim the lights. Open a window an inch. Lay a folded towel beneath the glass to block the draft.

No talking. No fumbling. You don’t touch him unless you have to.

But the moment you think he’s sleeping?

You lean in closer than you ever have.

Just long enough to stare at the way the fever rounds him out.

Mouth slightly parted. Eyes fluttering.

Makes him look less like a loaded weapon, more like a man.

You back away before he stirs.

You Try to Take His Temperature and He Won’t Cooperate

He’s feverish but keeps his mouth shut when you try to use the thermometer.

“What are you, five?”

“Possibly contagious.”

“You’re gonna die just to prove a point, you stubborn bastard.”

Eventually you just shove it under his arm with a grumble.

He doesn’t resist. Just watches, faintly amused.

You Get Frustrated at How Quiet He Is

He doesn’t complain. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even breathe loud. Just the faint whistle in his nose now and then, or the occasional throat clear he never quite finishes.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

You stare at him from the chair, arms crossed.

“Say something,” you mutter. “Literally anything. Whine. Bitch. Tell me how horrible you feel. Be normal about this.”

Nothing.

“You already looked half-dead last week. This is just you doubling down.”

Your voice tries to land as dry. It doesn’t.

He hears the edge. The worry beneath the joke.

Doesn’t comment on it.

You Cook Something Plain, Then Bring It Without Comment

Nothing fancy.

Just rice in broth. Bland. Safe.

You don’t ask if he’s hungry—you know he won’t answer.

You set it on the nightstand and leave the room.

He doesn’t touch it right away.

But when you peek back in twenty minutes, the bowl’s been moved.

Half gone.

Spoon placed back inside, neat. A faint damp napkin beside it—used to blot at the nosebleed he won’t mention.

It’s the only way he says thank you.

Later, you take the empty bowl without a word.

That’s the deal.

‘Functional’

You come back with pills and water, the weight of quiet duty dragging your steps.

Medicine, to him, is just another stopgap in a long decay.

“Medicine,” he says, like it tastes foul. “A bandage. On a bullet wound.”

The phrase lingers.

Too specific to be careless.

Your eyes catch on him, flick—just briefly—toward his forehead.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t correct himself. Just lets the silence hang, daring you to draw meaning from it.

You don’t. Just shrug. “Yeah, yeah, I’m a real life-saver. But really, it’s about keeping you functional.”

He almost smirks—something faint, crooked. “Functional. A word that reduces us to machines. But machines, at least, continue.”

You hold out your hand, palm up. Steady. He reaches out, takes them without hesitation.

He never refuses what he can’t control. The pills slide in, cool against his tongue.

He swallows—deliberately. No gratitude. No disdain.

Just the twitch of an eyebrow. A silent truce. Calculated.

You sit back. Say nothing.

You Catch Him Out of Bed

You walk in and find him standing—barely upright—reaching for a book.

“Are you serious right now? You’re pushing 40 degrees—”

You glance at the cover. Camus.

“—and you’re trying to read The Plague?”

You scoff. “Little on-the-nose, don’t you think? Though I guess if anyone could relate…”

“He brings clarity in moments of crisis.”

“You’re going to bring me cardiac arrest.”

You make him lie back down. He doesn’t argue.

When He Says Something Too Honest

He’s still fevered. Pupils dilated slightly. Eyes rimmed red. You wonder if he’s sweating or crying.

You press a cold cloth to the side of his neck. He flinches, but doesn’t push you away.

Then, quiet—like he’s thinking out loud to someone long gone:

“Being cared for feels… fabricated.”

You pause.

His voice is hoarse, nearly inaudible:

“Like I’ve wandered into someone else’s memory.”

You blink at him.

“…What?”

No sarcasm. No sharp edge. Just confusion, soft and uncertain.

He doesn’t answer. Just turns his face slightly into the cloth.

Not to find comfort, but to vanish back into a time when care was a stranger’s mercy, not his own.

You Read to Him. But Feel Like a Fraud About It

You find the book half-slid from his hand.

He’s drifting—eyes half-lidded, lips chapped.

You pick it up. Hold it.

Of course it’s The Myth of Sisyphus.

Not a novel. Not even a magazine.

You sit in the chair across.

“I’m not doing the voice,” you mutter, flipping to where he left off.

“No dramatic French monologue. You’re getting me. That’s the deal.”

He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t move.

The text is dry. Detached.

You don’t even agree with half of it.

You stumble. Backtrack. Don’t bother sounding smart.

Halfway through a paragraph, you notice he’s awake.

His breathing stays even, but his fingers twitch.

Lashes flicker once. Then still.

He’s listening.

Not to the book.

To you.

You Catch Him Rereading the Same Chapter

It’s days later.

He’s upright now. Hair combed. Fever gone.

You come in from the kitchen and see him at the table—book open, head tilted.

You know that page.

You read it aloud. Twice.

Laughed through one of the sentences.

He doesn’t look up. Just says, “You skipped a line here.”

Taps it.

“Changed the word order, too.”

You frown.

“I was tired. And it was a stupid sentence.”

He almost smiles.

You fold your arms.

“What, are you critiquing my reading now?”

He shakes his head. Just slightly.

Still not looking at you.

Still rereading your version, not the original.

“No.”

A beat.

“I liked yours better.”

And that’s it.

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Old art from October that I didn’t post for whatever reasons

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Crybaby

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the insane experience of missing a fictional character . like you can always go back and reread the book , replay the game , rewatch the show or movie , you can always go back & see them , but you can never experience them & their story for the first time again . its absurd to miss them because they'll always be there , but you'll miss when there were still new things for them to say .

for a small time they were real & growing and changing and you hung onto every new word, but now all they can do is repeat the same story forever&ever & they're not real anymore because you know everything they're going to do. & you miss them. its fucked man...

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@important-cat-pics

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Drew it.

From this post

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Would you be able to wrote about how Johan and y/n talk about Nina and that bag of worms, lol just wondering!

He’s aware that speaking about his sister is, in a way, revealing himself to you. They’re inseparable in his mind—so fused that even naming her feels like pulling apart something he’s spent years keeping sealed shut. Letting you see that part of him risks unraveling not just the image he’s shown you, but the one he’s built for himself.

He doesn’t want your sympathy. If he talks about her, his tone stays controlled—maybe even edged with a little bite. As if compassion is some contagious disease he’d rather not catch.

He prefers to call her Anna, not Nina.

Anna is her original name: the one from their shared childhood and the Red Rose Mansion.

It ties her directly to him, to the trauma they both emerged from.

Using Anna keeps her frozen in that role: his twin, his mirror, the one who shot him.

It preserves the idea that they are the same before she tried to become someone else.

Nina, to him, feels like distance:

It’s the name she took to live a new life, to be someone else.

A sign of independence, resistance, separation.

To Johan, this may feel like a costume she put on to run away from their shared truth.

If You Ask Him:

“What was her name?”

If you ask at the wrong time—when everything’s wound too tight….

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then:

“Her name?”

A soft laugh, barely there.

“Would that help?”

A pause.

He looks at you. Flat. Measured.

“She was real. That’s what made it unbearable.”

And if you push—

A long pause. Then:

“What difference would it make now?”

“You think knowing changes anything?”

A breath.

“You’ll believe whatever makes it easier.”

“And you’ll call that the truth.”

If you ask at the right moment, when there’s a quiet but real sense of mutual understanding—not interrogating, just… there—

That’s when he’s most likely to tell you.

Not like it’s important.

Like it was always waiting.

“Anna.”

He says it like the word tastes unfamiliar. Like he’s testing the shape of it again.

No explanation.

No warning.

Just, after a while:

“She left it behind.”

“But names don’t bury anything.”

And then:

“That’s how I know she remembered me.”

He doesn’t say it cruelly. But it is.

You might not even register that he told you.

Because he doesn’t linger.

The moment just… keeps moving.

If Asked What Happened Between Them:

“We made a deal.”

Pause. Flat, measured.

“She kept her promise. I didn’t.”

After a breath, almost like revealing something he’d rather keep hidden:

“She was supposed to forget me.”

“But I made sure she never could.”

In A Rare Moment Of Introspection:

“Sometimes I think I imagined her.”

His voice is quiet. Not wistful. Just curious.

“Maybe there was only one child. And we split it in half to survive.”

A pause. Then, the faintest curl of a smile.

“That would explain a lot, wouldn’t it?”

On Why He Doesn’t See Her:

“If she sees me, she’ll remember.”

“And if she remembers, we go back to the beginning.”

Pause.

“She’s tried before. That was enough.”

On The Red Rose Mansion (Indirectly):

“There was a place that made her.”

“Locked doors. Broken things behind them.”

He tilts his head slightly—curious, not nostalgic.

“It didn’t hold her. It just needed her still.”

“Some places don’t let go. Even when you leave.”

If Asked If He Ever Hurt Her:

“Yes.”

Simple. Immediate.

“But not like the others.”

“I never lied to her.”

A pause. Barely a smile.

“That’s what made it harder.”

If You Get Too Close to the Truth:

Maybe you say something like:

 “You talk like you wanted her to hurt you.” 

“Why?” 

He responds with:

“She gave me what I asked for.”

His voice doesn’t waver.

“You don’t get to resent a wound you chose.”

“You carry it. That’s all.”

If Asked About How She Managed Without Him:

He pauses, eyes unfocused—like he’s watching a version of the past he no longer believes in.

“She survived.”

Flat. Certain. Almost indifferent.

A beat.

“That should have meant something.”

His tone doesn’t shift, but something in the air tightens.

“But it doesn’t.”

He glances away, almost as if the rest isn’t meant to be heard.

“Survival only proves the body stayed alive.”

“It says nothing about what remains of the rest.”

And softer, more to himself than to you:

“She left it behind.”

“I took it with me.”

If Asked How She Saw Him:

He doesn’t answer right away. Not even because he’s avoiding it, but because he’s weighing it—like the truth is something sharp he’s deciding whether to hand you.

“She saw me before I knew what I was.”

His tone is even. Careful.

“And remembered what I’d already tried to forget.”

He looks down, just once. Not in shame, but in calculation.

As if he’s trying to fit something broken into a shape it no longer holds.

“Tried to salvage what I hadn’t already ruined.”

A breath.

“She hated what I became.”

Then, quieter. Not regretful—just honest:

“Maybe she was right to.”

“What Were You Two Like Back Then?”

He blinks, slow and deliberate, like he’s drawing a curtain back on something he shouldn’t look at too long.

“There was sun in her eyes.”

A pause.

“She kept tripping, but she laughed anyway.”

His voice is even. Controlled. But something in the air still tightens.

“Completely unaware.”

“We ran, chasing something no one else could see.”

He shrugs almost imperceptibly.

“For a moment, it looked like happiness.”

Then his gaze sharpens—on you, or maybe nowhere at all.

“But it wasn’t.”

“It never was.”

Selective Detail, But Never Lies

Johan is not dishonest when speaking of Nina/Anna. He may omit, but he does not fabricate. In a way, it’s one of the few things he refuses to corrupt.

His stories come as small, vivid fragments…. specific and fleeting:

“She always hated the cold.”

“She used to call the neighbor’s dog ‘General.’ Said it was a soldier, though she never said what it was fighting.”

Tiny details that carry too much weight.

___________________________________________

He doesn’t grieve her.

That would suggest something ended.

And between them, nothing ever really did.

[callingitquits]

Erm Johan body?