#but neither of those are like. canon canon since i don't have my own adequate research on those. i am most likely neurodivergent but i dont

[realjem]

me circa early 2021: yeah so i made some characters but im not gonna make em tragic or anything! i dont get why everyone talks about torturing their ocs all the time lol

me now: ouuh... i thuink i gave her depression

[fogdraws]

A Softening of The Brain

A Sherlock Holmes fanfiction based in "The Valley of Fear"

“John.” The sound of my first name stopped me on my tracks; Holmes never used it, as did the costume go. “Would you be afraid,” he whispered, “to sleep in the same bed of a lunatic, a man with a softening of the brain, an idiot whose mind has lost its grip?” This could have so many implications, so many ways to interpret it, but no matter what sense I made of it, there was only one answer. “Not in the least,” I said with some difficulty, regaining the breath I had lost before. “Sherlock, I'd never leave you.” That, I turned to regret just after it came out of my lips — too revealing. Or... what if that scene from the canon had another meaning? One that's more... romantic.

Or... Read it down here! vvvv

It were odd times, the days I'd passed at Birlstone, investigating the murdering of Mr. Douglas. Odd would not suffice; I had witnessed some things that I would really rather not.

Now the moon was high and I laid down in a double-bed — the best we could find in this small thing they call town — with a book resting on my lap, its words stubborn to be read. My mind, nevertheless, was still racing, taking every chance to turn to Holmes’ being: what would the man be doing right now?

It is of Holmes' doing, this disappear-first-explain-after situation that keeps doing numbers to my heart, as much as it is of my doing to let myself worry about him. How could I be tranquil when I don't know of his well-being?

The detective had gone out after saying something very sparse about the case — mysterious and dramatic, just like always. Maybe he'd come back today, maybe tomorrow, maybe a week from now. No one knows; sometimes I think that neither does he.

I had just put the book onto the bedside table when I heard Holmes’ shoes hit the ground: slow and light, much like he does when he knows I’m supposed to be asleep. Of course, he knows I’m not. He knows pretty much everything — lying is not an option really, but you can make do with omitting half of the facts and hoping he’ll buy it.

Accepting the false as truth for your own self, sometimes, serves as a better lie than conjuring anything new. Protecting it, controlling yourself where you can, and letting yourself when it’s convenient to do so. That, I should say, I have acquired quite the ability to do since I’ve come to live with Holmes.

The old door clicks open and Holmes’ face pops out of the slit of light that comes out of it. His thin aquiline nose is beautifully contoured by the dim illumination, making his face look absolutely otherworldly against the brute finishing of the inn’s walls; I ended up staring for more than would be adequate. The world was still hazy from my tiredness, and the words, hard on my tongue.

“Hey, Holmes”, I started, “have you found anything out yet?” His tall, lean figure turned away for a second, sending my mind into a rush, longing for his gaze: I hadn’t seen him enough, observed him enough. The excuse I created then was that I worried only for his well-being, that I’d felt the need to look over for any wounds as is the first instinct of a proper doctor. That would be set to be a doubtful truth for me and for the world.

My eyes are startled as a dim candle is lighted by those delicate, though strong, fingers of Holmes’, sending me flinching slightly, the sleep still washing out my mind and senses. All of the sudden, he is coming closer to me; I sit up.

Now, I’m wide awake — his head is so close to mine that I can feel his controlled breathing. Holmes certainly doesn’t feel mine, for it had stopped completely at some unknown point, out of some feeling I couldn’t acknowledge without it becoming too evident.

I take in his face, his smell, his heat: no one would look at him from a distance and think Holmes a man of such comforting ways. As little as his sole presence was enough so that you could relax and feel like yourself again. This man really is majestic.

“John.” The sound of my first name stopped me on my tracks; Holmes never used it, as did the costume go. “Would you be afraid,” he whispered, “to sleep in the same bed of a lunatic, a man with a softening of the brain, an idiot whose mind has lost its grip?”

This could have so many implications, so many ways to interpret it, but no matter what sense I made of it, there was only one answer. “Not in the least,” I said with some difficulty, regaining the breath I had lost before. “Sherlock, I'd never leave you.” That, I turned to regret just after it came out of my lips — too revealing.

“Ah, that's lucky,” was the last thing any one of us uttered that night. Maybe both of us were afraid of what could come out of further conversation. I, certainly, was.

In the most absolute silence — Holmes had this kind of disturbing ability to do little to no noise — and in almost pure darkness, he started undressing himself slowly, until only the boxers remained. This inn of ours, see, had the worst bathrooms any of us had ever seen (and that says a lot, considering that we both had our fair share of doubtful stayings), which made changing inside them virtually impossible.

That meant we had to change in the room, something that wasn’t really a problem before, since we made the effort to be alone while doing so. But now, I deduced, it was too late at night. And we were tired. And we weren’t seeing much because of the darkness. And we were friends, for god’s sake! Two men, just that. Partners, only at work.

A nightgown was put over his long body. I turned my face towards the wall: allowing myself to such temptation was not an option. To Holmes, probably, this was an act done with no ulterior motives, but to me, oh, to me, it was torture! A display of everything I could never dream to have, right in front of my nose. Sherlock seemed embarrassed too; the whole ordeal was done quickly, and I am grateful, for if it was to go on for longer still, I would bear it no more.

The bed was a double one, but still rather small. I’d suggested that I sleep on the floor, but Holmes refused, claiming that the hard floor would cause my shoulder to hurt. Then, he said he’d do it instead, but I also didn’t let him. We had stared at each other for some seconds, before going back to whatever we had been doing before; the decision was made, and there was little to do but accept it.

The candle was unlit: we were now in complete darkness.

A newly-familiar weight settled just beside me on the bed, moving the covers until they covered us nicely. The atmosphere was cold, but in this old small place — full of cracks and pests and whatnot, the air dusty with misuse — I felt more than sufficiently warm. Comfortable. Cosy. Holmes' knees gently touched my sides, and somehow his hand ended up close to my arm, knuckles barely touching my bare skin; I dared not to move.

When I woke up, Holmes was closer, much like we gravitated towards each other during the night: just enough that I could feel his breath on my shoulder, his hand laying limp on my chest and moving with the rise and fall of it. It was impossible to say which one of us did it. Maybe both.

Laying very still, should I wake him up, I admired the mess of strands that was Holmes' hair. Dark and flowy, they framed his face nicely as if each one of them were just meant to be there.

I dared to push a loc off of his eyes. At that, they opened, causing me great panic — which I would not dare to show — grey irises barely visible before closing again in a lazy motion. Holmes' slumber is light, I should've remembered. The palm of his hand stiffened and was swiftly removed from where it laid.

Minutes later, the detective jumped off the bed and went on to his day, like nothing ever happened this last night. I accompanied him, as I always do, and it was a great day with great discoveries, as it always is with him. But I would not let it be.

I got in the room first; Holmes had gone on another errand I'd never hear the resolution. Sat upon the bedsheets, I awaited his presence in uncontained anxiety, mind trying to make sense of what I had heard yesterday. What had he meant with it? My thoughts kept turning to improbable possibilities, which I quickly shut down, only for them to arise, once again, minutes later — things that were but figments of my fierce imagination. Images of bare shoulders, parted lips and thin hands aroused my mindscape at every opportunity; this man, Holmes, tested all and every one of my limits without even knowing he was doing so.

After what seemed an eternity, Holmes' figure entered the room with an unprecedented heaviness. Living with the detective had its advantages: since staying at Baker Street, I had become more observant, and did as much as picking up some skills from him. As my heart raced, I looked up and saw his face go through a plethora of emotions when spotting me, like his did the very same. “Are we not discussing what you said yesterday? At night.” I said, words hard to find in an aching throat.

Holmes gave a violent start. “I did not mean anything by it, for I didn't think before talking.” The detective finished his point with the clink of metal on wood, putting down the candle he held with force. It almost went out. “It's best you forget it ever happened, Watson.”

“No, we are not letting this pass. Holmes, hear me. No one says something like this with no end in mind. You must be aware I'm here for you. Always. Forever.”

“Do not press your head to this matter, Watson. It isn't worth your time.”

“Was it about the way I write your character in The Strand? I do not think you of any bad. I am not leaving you, no matter which kind of insane you must think you are. What would be so dire that it’d make me flee?”

“Please, John.”

“It's only for the public! You know that. You've said it yourself: I romanticise everything, see facts that aren't there; make up thoughts I didn’t have. Omit the ones I have, even!”

There was a pause; silence. Silence, only in words, for his mind seemed ever so active, and he made it as to go away, exit the room more than once, never going through the action of fully turning around. Holmes’ lips parted a few times before he was able to direct his speech at me again.

“It's not that, Watson.” A pause. “It is that I am no normal person. Should anyone see me as myself, I would be promptly dead, and my reputation, ruined. You needn't have any more preoccupation than what you already have with this case.” At that, Holmes turned his head around to face anything but me.

“Then I don't know what to think anymore. Is this what you want of me? Confusion?” My voice cracked in distress. I didn't notice when I had gotten up, nor when I’d placed myself so close to Holmes’ figure. The candle flickered, encasing him in periods of light and shadow; but never taking away those eyes, that mouth, that nose, all features as though they were sculpted by the most skillful of artists.

“No! It is, John, that you matter so much to me, that you make me sick of the heart, of the brain and of the body.” That forced a breath out of my ribcage; my mind raced with no ending line.

“I… what?”

Holmes seemed physically struck with the realisation of what he had really professed, the gravity of his words. For a man whose whole ordeal was calculating the possibilities — the words — before doing — saying — anything, he sure did look surprised by his own self, eyes darting all over me in a panicked frenzy: deducing what I would say or do next. Holmes had told me, before, that I was one of the few people he couldn’t read all that easily. That made me interesting, according to him.

What I would say next was, indeed, a good question. I, myself, had no idea what to think. Blood pumped through my veins quickly, and I felt hot all over — had Holmes meant what I thought he did? I took one, two steps closer to Holmes' figure; our hands brushed slightly, sending chills down my spine. “Sherlock.”

Holmes backed away slightly from me. “This is wrong,” he warned in a sorrowful tone, much like he mourned something that could never be his. Something I also did for the longest while, since meeting the detective; discovering we both felt the same agony, over the same problem, was positively soothing.

I glanced at Holmes lips — thin, but almost welcoming, as if they were meant to meet mine. “I know.”

“You're staying?”

I placed both hands on Holmes’ clothed chest; it rose and fell erratically, almost in synchrony with the beating of the heart that lay inside it. Mine must’ve been doing the same.

“Only if you want me to.”

Holmes’ lithe hands moved to cover my own, holding them tight. We were close, closer than we had ever been, as the detective inched forward and did what I had yearned for so long: our lips met and gave way to a chaste kiss, leaving me breathless and desperate for more.

“Oh, I surely do,” Holmes answered before pressing his lips against me again, this time more passionate. I let mine part, allowing his tongue to slip inside, and kissed back. It was better than anything I could ever imagine, heat surging deep in my body as we moved in unison.

That night, we went to bed early, but not to sleep.

[madarasgirl]

A Night for Hunting Ch.22 -Hell on Earth

C/W: Alucard (Ultimate) x F!Reader, Millennium, Nazis, canon-typical violence WC: 5256

I’m trying to control my bad habit of switching perspectives within a scene, which I used to do liberally when it was between only Alucard and the Reader. It was an easy and quick way to include Alucard’s POV as well. But from here on, the Reader only knows what she knows, so I’ll behave myself…

The Millennium characters are some of the hardest to write since they’re like caricature villains at their best. I don't even like the Millennium cast besides the Captain.

Excerpt under the cut

Your gaze roamed the crowd of warmongers onstage. The Major, a brutal looking woman covered in tattoos holding a scythe, the Doc, the boy with cat ears. Your eyes paused on a behemoth of a man. He was as tall as Alucard. Shaggy white hair peeked out, but his features were otherwise obscured by a cap. You felt his gaze and suppressed a chill. 

Horrifying power wasn’t necessarily evil. It was simply horrifying. But these Nazis, they were evil. And there were few things in the world as dangerous as people who believed they were right.

"And why am I here?”

"What a question. I did not expect Alucard to suffer a daft woman. You are here to be a witness to our drill. That is, after you help us invite Alucard to participate.”

All this was...training? The callous truth was worse than the assumption that you were only to be the hostage who lures Alucard to wherever their prepared ‘battlefield’ would be.

The Major liked to monologue. One of those self-important men who talked a lot, but said very little. “We have allies throughout the world who would join our cause. Decades of painstaking data collection to engineer ever greater troops. We have built monsters, though we aim towards true Midians. Train them, equip them, and command them. No longer is simple warfare adequate for our needs. Gentlemen, I call for a Great War, worthy of one in Hell itself. We are the Letzte Battalion!”

“Krieg, krieg!” The crowd chanted.

“Yes, then war it is… I expect the world to burn.”

In the calm before the storm, suddenly you saw him for what he was. The Major was only a man. Once upon a time, he was human, and like many others, he desired the powers and temptations of immortality. He may be the worst yet, arrogant beyond imagination and ambitious. Alone he was no match for Alucard, but how many vampires did he have in this army?

You were not strong in body, but words were a weapon you wielded well. The Nazis did not respect meekness. Neither could you be brazen in your disrespect. This was almost a reminder of home, the games of Hellsing’s staff, except no one was here to defend you at all. The atrium was silent after the delivery of the Major’s speech. The vampires below thrummed with soundless anticipation for the war to come.

"He isn't a monster, you are," you said, braving the Major's mercurial moods by stating the truth.

~To be Continued~

Ch.23 -The Art of War

[gra-sonas]

I know I’m being stupid but it really annoys me how much some Alex stans care about F*rrest while constantly talking sh*t about Michael. They go on and on about how great F*rrest is and how he and Alex deserve to be happy together, and Michael should be miserable when he sees them. Like I get they’re mad at him for choosing Maria, and they can ship whatever they want, I don't care but I wish they would stop putting Michael down to make F*rrest look superior. (1/2)

It's not like Michael was a jerk for funsies. He is traumatized, he was a victim of a hate crime ffs and he was hurt by Alex hiding him, walking away from him for 10 years and rejecting him again in S1. We know why Alex did all of that but Michael doesn't. I just can’t understand all this love for a character who has like 5 minutes of screen time with no backstory except being a Long, and the hate towards a main character we know, who has been through so much pain since he was a child. (2/2)

Hi nonnie!

I get why you’re upset. While Michael’s definitely been an ass to Alex this season more than once, it wasn’t just for the sake of being an ass, he had A Lot™ going on, and thanks to the writers, no time (or help) to deal with any of it in an adequate fashion. That doesn’t make his behavior okay, but he’s far from being irredeemable imo. He’s got a lot of growth to do still, but I believe ultimately Michael is a good person, and I’m sure he will be a great partner for Alex one day.

Am I mad at him? A little, yeah. Do I hate him? No, not one bit. I love him, and I want him to become better, bc rn, he’s hurting and he still hasn’t unpacked even a fraction of the trauma life’s heaped on him.

But that’s me (and you, obviously!), and while it makes me sad to see rather negative comments about Michael, I can understand why some fans are kinda fed up with him (at least for now).

Ngl, last year, after the S1 finale, I was mad at Maria. Her betrayal (that’s what it was imo) hurt, and I just couldn’t understand why she’d go behind Alex’s back like that. And there were quite a few people who felt similarly. And there were posts about it, there was “spite fic”, there were all kinds of things going on in fandom, and I’d lie if I didn’t admit that reading those posts and fics felt good at the time. It helped me deal with my own disappointment, it felt cathartic.

Sadly, over the course of the last unbearably long hiatus, some of that dislike turned into outright hatred and racism towards Maria, and I don’t think the character has recovered from that yet. :(

Michael’s an overall well established and well liked character tho (ALSO, HE’S A DUDE) and I don’t think the current level of Michael dislike will ever even remotely reach the levels of dislike people had (and in some cases still have) for Maria, nor will it do much (if any) damage to him in the long run. In fact, I think that most fans are willing to forgive him, or already have forgiven him.

Anyway, as for putting one character down in order to lift another up - it sucks (way more when done irl tho), sure, but like I’ve pointed out above, a little spite goes a Long (ha!) way and it can feel very cathartic.

I think many of us this season had at least one, if not several moments, where we would’ve LOVED to see Michael be put in his place, for someone to tell him he’s an ass and ask him what makes him think hurting Alex like that is okay. We didn’t really get that, neither did Alex get a chance to move on until the last moment.

On a very abstract level, it’s a somewhat similar situation to the one we had last year. The show’s left us hanging, it didn’t address Michael’s asshole behavior on screen in most cases, and all that pent up disappointment’s lead to some (comparatively mild) Michael backlash.

As for Forrest: he's still pretty much a blank sheet. We know very little about him as a person, but we’ve seen him make Alex smile and look genuinely happy in a season that didn’t give Alex many happy moments to begin with.

It’s easy to project a lot of good things, positive character traits and whatnot onto him, because so far canon hasn’t told us otherwise, and he comes with zero emotional or traumatic baggage. The only canon blip on the radar so far is his Deep Sky ring, but since the show hasn’t addressed it in S2, there’s no real reason for fans to take it into account either.

And apart from the kiss at the end of S2, canon hasn’t told us anything about what their relationship will be like in S3, which means right now, the sky’s the limit and every possible future for Forlex can be freely explored in fics and fanworks without paying much attention to canon. That’s a pretty cool premise for Forlex shippers.

Malex shippers on the other hand are dealing with a triangle situation during a hiatus for the second season in a row. And if fans take the S2 finale as their jumping-off point for fanworks, there’s two options to deal with it: either more than the 2x13 Forlex kiss never happens, or Forlex happens and in order for Malex to get together, a Forlex break up is inevitable. And that sucks tbh, bc I think most of us at least like Forrest and don’t necessarily want to see him hurt.

But it's the situation we’re dealing with, and I just hope that since many Forlex shippers also seem to be Malex shippers, the rift between both groups isn’t or won’t grow as large/deep as the one between Malex and M/M shippers, and maybe the urge to be a little spiteful will mellow down over the course of the hiatus.

Hopefully we can all agree on being kind to each other and just let everyone like what they like (PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD), and as long as anti-character stuff or character negativity is tagged properly, I don’t see why we shouldn’t be able to make it through another long hiatus without igniting fandom war 2.0.

I’m sure, Alex Manes would approve! ❤️