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Monster Naoki Urasawa - Blog Posts
"I forgive you"
Who am I, really?
Кто я, на самом деле?
You have become more than my father
Ты стал мне больше, чем отец
The series of art on Johan's personality continues, thanks for the likes and reblogs, this is very important to me!!
!TW: blood
Me and Anna in the whole world...
Я и Анна, во всём мире...
Just start read The Master Keaton by Naoki Urasawa, and i had an idea...
#sketch for idk #i really dunno what to do at work #Tenma just like Black Jack ahaha
Goodbye, mother
Прощай, мама
I freaking love it when characters love dieter. I LOVE YOU DIETER😭😭😭🥺🥺🥺🥺
If Johan Libert has a Grimore
“Silent watcher” Kenzo Tenma x F!Reader
genre: fluff, slight angst to comfort. cw: slight spoilers, anxiety, dealing with trauma, post canon au
The second week of October in the foothills of southern Germany was overcast. From the small open balcony, where her feet were freezing from standing for so long, there was a view of the misty plain a couple of dozen meters down the slope. She rested her shoulder on the door frame, slightly leaning to the side, and dispassionately watched the drumming raindrops. The humidity of the air provided a sense of coolness with each breath, as if reaching the alveoli directly, and the rhythmic pounding of the drops hitting the surface was pleasantly calming.
Once she hated the rain. But then something changed. No, the rainfalls did not become less frequent, less gray. She became different.
From a warm awareness, a shadow of a smile appeared on her calm face, and her auditory receptors were distracted by another monotonous sound. The rustle of the rain slowly began to replace by the rustle of a pen sliding over paper, coming from the bedroom they shared for the duration of their stay in the hotel. Her bare feet carefully stepped over the wooden sill, not wanting to feel the still fresh pain of hitting it last night, and found themselves on a room’s floor which was only a couple of degrees warmer than the wet tiles of the balcony. Her hair, slightly fluffed up by the moisture, kept trying to get into her face as her quiet steps made their way towards the desk.
He had once loved the rain. But then something had changed. No, the rainfalls had not become less frequent, less gray. He had become different.
The black ink of the pen traced the lines of the German alphabet evenly on the expensive coated paper. He wanted to focus on the unwanted mail, just not to hear it, just not to remember it, just not to see it. The meaningless advertisements and annoying requests for interviews that he had finally learned to ignore seemed to be a salvation for him at such moments. Focusing on the calligraphic handwriting, on the work of the hand, writing the letters with excessive diligence, he was distracted. Perhaps this was partly why he decided to connect his life with neurosurgery. Endless hours of painstaking manual work freed him from the need to live in the present. The brain was busy, the heart also temporarily fell quiet. The silence lulled.
Kenzo continued to write out template phrases of greetings, apologies, farewells. It seemed as if just a little more and he would go to the neighboring rooms, collecting advertising letters, and would write responses to them, signing them himself as Mr. N or Mrs. T. He himself, also not noticing, slightly blushed from excessive efforts, completely immersed in routine work.
The pen froze only for a moment, when a cool trace of someone else's palm remained on his hot cheek, on the opposite temple - a slight imprint of cold lips.
If someone had been watching them through the window that overlooked the shallow slope, they would have been reminded of Klimt's "Kiss". The play of temperatures descended on his collarbone, diving under the collar of his wide shirt along with a woman's forearm, as cold as the pads of her fingers, which still tormented the capillaries on his cheek with a chill. The rain was disgusting to him. The rain was mixed with blood, hatred, the sticky and tenacious nightmare of Ruenheim. But now only it gave him another moment with her, another joyful moment of life. Another second, minute, hour, day spent with someone who truly knew him. Love in the present, not the future and not the past.
And only the rain could paint their "Kiss".
English is not my first language, but I’m pretty fluent, so had to use translator and correct some mistakes, would love some feedback :)