Millennium headcanons: One thing they never shared with anyone

The major: Cannibalized a dead soldier's arm once. They weren't even out of food and desparate or anything, he just wanted to know how it tastes.

The doctor: Went out drinking once, blacked out and woke up with his septum pierced. He hasn't been out drinking since

The captain: Is perfectly capable of learning german and speaking, he just doesn't want to.

Rip Van Winkle: Insists she only likes opera and classical music, but likes jazz too. No one must ever know.

Zorin Blitz: Knows all of the things in the list because she likes snooping around in people's memories.

Schrodinger: Actually hates anime but has to be quiet about it because his loser fathers would disown him.

Jan Valentine: Is the one who pierced Dok's septum. It was a dare by Luke that earned him 5 dollars and a cig.

Tubalcain Alhambra: Everyone assumes he's an older gentleman, but his appearence is mostly the result of bad habits. In other words, physically he's 28 but looks 40.

Luke Valentine: Has successfully infiltrated several conspiracy groups (flat earth, fake moon landing, chemtrails etc.) for shits and giggles, but actually became quite notorious in the scene.

SECRET SCENES OF HELLSING THE DAWN (Ova III)

At the end of the third episode of Hellsing Ultimate, in addition to the credits, very short scenes of Hellsing The Dawn are shown (which, however, have not yet appeared in the prequel):

1- In one of these incredible scenes it is possible to see the Major, the Captain, Doc, Rip Van Winkle, Zorin Blitz and 14-year-old Walter C. Dornez admiring one of the Nazi airships (probably shortly after its construction was finished, as the airship appears to be inside a huge warehouse). That, of course, will be one of the airships with which the Millennium organization will escape to South America in 1945:

2- In another scene it is possible to see Alucard (no longer in his female form) being shot by Nazi soldiers. However, in the next scene, the same soldiers are shown dead and impaled by long sticks (implying that Alucard killed them just as he used to kill his victims when he was Vlad The Impaler many centuries earlier):

3- In this other scene it is possible to see Doc's laboratory in Warsaw completely destroyed:

You can find these scenes by clicking on this YouTube Link:

Hellsing's Captain

Incredible art by ケースワベ【K-SUWABE】 on Twitter

@nuclearforest and @rotten-hearts-sharp-teeth it's your masterpiece fanfics' fault I am thinking so much about this character

I have a prompt for you if you're interested! It's for the Captain (of course) in canon (Millennium war vet). I love your stories and I love spamming your inbox haha 🥰! The prompt is preferably the Reader talking to an enemy about our favourite werewolf.

"He (Hans) isn't a monster. You are."

Thank you for everything you write!!!!

I'm interested!! Had a fun short idea with this one-- I hope it's at least a bit entertaining :)

As far as the canon request, i kept it as close as possible for this idea-- altho it still hinges on the idea that he doesnt die to fire. There isn't much romance (maybe if you squint) but there is a bit of gun violence below the cut.

You are a collector of broken things. Just about everything in your humble abode has a story: found broken and then lovingly restored bit by bit. Your favorite dresser. The TV stand that somehow mixes art deco and nature-themed maximalism. The mismatched set of chairs around your refinished kitchen table.

There was art in making something broken into a whole piece again, so when you-- a lucky survivor of the London Incident, as they were calling it-- find a broken man as just a head and a torso still somehow alive, it only made sense to keep him.

Sure, it was a pain in the ass smuggling him back to your little home in the woods. And an even bigger pain, still, to nurse him back to health, he seemed like a fitting addition.

Didn't speak at all, but he was good enough company and liked to linger as a shadow in whatever room you were in. One of the few times you got any input from him was when he'd spelled out his name with his finger on your palm. Hans.

But for as weird as he was, he was harmless. A burnt out super soldier of whatever sort were clashing in the streets and causing all sorts of mayhem. You didn't stick around to watch, but he seemed to be built like one. He was heads taller than you with a stubborn supermodel physique, thin waist and defined abs refusing to cave no matter how richly you fed him. And on top he's got a shock of white hair and tired red eyes-- clearly ain't human, but not something you'd care to press him for.

The first time you see him shift is a bit of a shock. One day he's staring at squirrels fighting in a tree outside your home, and then the next thing you know he's breathing hard and has a pair of canine ears perched on top of his head. And even when you ask you don't get a lot of answers from him, but you do start to leave corn out for the deer so he can sit by the window and watch.

He still moves a bit stiffly in his new arms and legs-- so maybe that was it. A broken old war dog content to live out retirement in your cabin in the woods and watch animals out of your living room window and clean up in the kitchen after you cook a meal.

He was the neatest roommate you've ever had.

That said, folks start coming by. It's not bad. One maybe ever few months. The first knocks on your door and point blank says you've got a monster in your home. You simply reply that you don't really care-- that he isn't hurting anyone-- and sent him away.

So that men sends his friends at all hours of the day. Some knock. Some you catch by just feeling something off in the air. You've even woken from dead sleep to find one speedwalking up your driveway.

They aren't always unpleasant, and most stand down when staring a double barrel shotgun in the face, but there are a few that have ended up as fertilizer in the garden. You didn't really like to think about it, but there were few other options.

So when another comes by one evening, long after old man Hans has gone and crawled into the nest he made I'm the corner of your bedroom (funny that he didn't like to sleep alone), you slip up to the door with your shotgun in hand to answer.

"Well hello," you drawl, "how can I help you?"

There's a stern man on the other side in a suit. They always seemed to be in suits. He's got jet black hair lined with streaks of grey and his face is wrinkled with laugh lines. Inside, you wonder if he's got kids or grandkids.

"Hello," he grunts in greeting, "seems you've got a monster inside. I've been sent here to exterminate it."

"I wouldn't call him a monster," you coolly reply, grip tightening around the shotgun in your hands, "he's a senior trying to live out his retirement."

"He's a war criminal," the man corrects with a shake of his head, "he's with the group responsible for the attack on London." The gun holstered in this man's belt draws your gaze for a second, with his hand stuck in his pockets just below.

"Seems like a retired war dog to me," you assert, "I don't discriminate when I take in the broken."

"He's a monster and needs to face justice."

The man before you can't know the hair thin scars littering Hans' skin. The way he flinches when something bangs. How he hides in his nest from the rare thunderstorm and curls up as tightly as he can, reliving something you can't begin to guess at.

"He's not a monster," you narrow your eyes, "I'd think that to be a better description of you if you try to take him." With that he draws, and you have no hope in raising your shotgun first, so you let him shoot.

Bang.

It's deafening-- probably has the poor guy sitting bolt upright in his bed with wide eyes and a heaving chest-- but you just shrug it off. Doesn't really hurt much any more, either, as silver hisses in your skin before being forced out of the hole as your flesh knits back together. Even at close range, it isn't enough to kill you.

Looking over his wrinkles again, eyes wide with shock and mouth twisted in terror, you just shake your head. "I won't say anything of it if you leave him here," you offer, "but if you insist I'm sure the garden will love you."

He shakes in his nice shoes, training fighting the human instinct of terror, and inevitably turns to beat a hasty retreat as if he hadn't just shot you in your doorway. At least you don't have neighbors, leaving the pair of you the only witnesses to the little exchange. Hopefully they'd stop sending folks like him and you could rest just a bit more easily.

Shaking your head, you go to put your shotgun back in its home in the rack and pad your way up the stairs. Surely enough, Hans is in your room with wide eyes and a heaving chest, stuck in some perpetual memory that has him twitching and whipping his head back and forth.

"Hey big guy," you say in your most gentle voice, "he's gone now. No blood this time." His eyes fixate on you, staring clean through. "Nothing to worry about." You step into his space and reach out to put a hand on his head, petting him between those wolfish ears. "This one ran."

With that, he seems to deflate slightly, calming until his eyes take on their same sad droop and his shoulders a downtrodden hunch.

You pop down next to him into his nest and lean onto a pile of pillows, opening your arms. He leans closer, poking around the new hole in your shirt with his nose before deciding that you're alive and well and dropping his head on your chest.

For what it's worth, you manage to bite back a chuckle at his sweet concern and bring your hands up to hold his head to you where he can listen to your heart beat away in your chest and he can relax with your fingers running through his hair and nails against his scalp until the tension drains from his body and he's left resting against you.

He'll stay like that for the rest of the night, desperate for your reassurance of safety. Some monster he is, you figure, but he's all he needed to be and then some. Just some big, broken company that fit right in at your home.

You get exactly ONE (1) bad quality drawing of a dog catching a squirrel. And a high def of said dog. Grave robber doesn't deserve high quality art.

Can I please request an HC with a Foreigner Darling with Nanami from JJK, Captain from Hellsing and Byakuya Kuchiki from Bleach?

Nanami's got some knowledge of foreign cultures, but he doesn't speak English that well and if you speak any other language, he doesn't understand. So conversations will be in either simple Japanese or English, or he'll use a translator app. He tries to learn about your culture and incorporate it so you don't get too homesick. He also teaches you Japanese if you struggle with it and is a much more patient and kind teacher than how he is with the kids at Jujutsu High lol. He likes the idea of marrying you, but he leaves what kind of wedding he'd have up to you: Japanese traditional wedding at a shrine, a Western style wedding, etc. He just wants you to be his wifey/househusband, the ceremony itself is less important to him. Ideally he wants a more private ceremony though, just because he hates big parties with a bunch of guests...or one particular guest named Gojo who he knows would make a special day much more annoying. The Captain has little conception of cultures outside of what he knows of Milennium's German roots and hazy memories of Werewolf culture with his own people. And because he doesn't speak, you would think he doesn't understand language; in reality, he understands many languages but just doesn't speak them. So he can understand what you say even if he doesn't ever respond. He tries to give you little trinkets or items to remind you of your home, like books or food. He isn't sure how you're supposed to treat a mate, especially one that is a human. But doing things like this is probably good, right? Byakuya would be a bit angsty about it, because he's a noble and he knows firsthand how much pushback he got for marrying a lower-class woman like Hisana. Despite his love for her and for you, he knows that a foreigner would be borderline unacceptable to marry. So he would try to resign himself to pining from afar and keeping a distance, but that makes his obsession worse lol. He would eventually decide to court you anyway and damn the consequences or criticism from the other nobles in and out of the Kuchiki family. But he would also insist on training you in everything a Shinigami nobleman's wife would need to know: calligraphy, flower arrangement, tea ceremony, wearing kimono, dancing and playing instruments, etc. He wouldn't force you to assimilate and abandon your own culture or anything, but he would press the issue that being his bride (even if you didn't even ask for that) has responsibilities. But he trusts you to do them and loves you regardless. He tries to learn about and participate in your culture, too. Ie. if you're Mexican, he wants to make an ofrenda next to the family altar for Dia de los Muertos. If you're Black he refuses to do anything with your hair that you don't want, and he snaps at anyone who comments about it; he's very quick to remind them that for all his faults, Kaname Tosen was a very refined man who never looked "sloppy" or "unkempt" with his hair worn in dreadlocks. He learns about matryoshka from a Russian Darling and makes a new line of Ambassador Seaweed nesting dolls.

child’s play

Panty & stocking + Hellsing Ultimate part 2

I’m starting to believe that kouta hirano had a thing for , glasses, gloves and trench’s coats

And long hair

Early 2000s/late 1990s anime that is now on the verge of ‘forgotten’ status

I’m talking about those nostalgic analogue animations, or when the anime industries were facing a strange identity crisis of digital or analogue. I don’t know about you, but looking back, that period of anime certainly was the most mature I’ve ever seen, even compared to most shows ever released in the past decade or so.

Once more, this one’s a personal list of shows I remember just as some have never even heard of them

Romeo x Juliet

Earth Girl Arjuna

Last Exile

Noir

12 Kingdoms

Ergo Proxy

Escaflowne & Vision of Escaflowne

Blood+

Hellsing

Argento Soma

Elemental Gellade

Black Cat

Sorcerer stabber Orphen

kobato

Eden of the East

Fullmetal panic

Gankutsuou: Count de monte Cristo

xxxholic

Nodame Cantible

Mushishi

Baccano

The Irresponsible Captain Taylor

RahXephon

.hack//sign

Kare Kano

Martian Successor Nadesico

Claymore

You are under arrest

Ghost hunt

And that’s all that I can remember.

enjoy.

ps. a few of these are a bit on the mature side, so research with caution

Millennium headcanons: Their parents and life growing up

Since yes I do have thoughts on that tw for multiple counts of unhealthy to abusive parenting, patricide and matricide, fratricide and talk of nazism (without endorsement)

The major: Inspired by his Coyote backstory but not so similiar. Was raised by his mother, who was part of the early national socialist political scene, before it rose to power. Unfortunately, she died when he was around 12 years old. Max was taken under the wing of one of his mom's "friends" from the political circle, but wasn't particularly close to him. His closeness to the "higher-ups" of the nazis would fortunately grant him some privileges later on in life.

The doctor: Was raised as the only child of a middle class family. His parents were people driven purely by logic and void of emotion, which led to them verbally and occassionally physically abusing him under the guise of "motivating him". This greatly impacted Av's mental state, and his own parenting style later on. He would eventually be unable to take it and would sign up to fight in the first world war, still as a teenager, just to get away from them.

The captain: Grew up in a small village, circa the middle ages. I imagine his childhood was more or less normal and happy. He was the oldest of many siblings, and to this day sees some of them in Schrodinger. When he was of age, he left home to pursue finding a job. He still misses his family, and hopes they lived an easier life than him.

Rip Van Winkle: Was the youngest of three sisters (inspired by a fairytale trope). I headcanon her family is descended or related to a knight bloodline, and was quite wealthy. Not aristocratic but definitely upper-class. Because she took after her father way more than her sisters, she was daddy's girl, but her relationship with her mother was more difficult, especially as puberty settled in. She also had a turbulent relationship with her sisters, because they sided more with her mother and viewed her as the "rebellious, delusional airhead" of the family. Her ultimate "rebellion" would be when her father helped her secure a job as an SS officer.

Zorin Blitz: Was abducted as a baby by a witch. The witch would call herself Zorin's mother, and would raise her as her apprentice, along with several other girls in a middle of nowhere rural area. Her environment growing up would be extremely "kill or be killed" and she would watch her "sisters", those who weren't strong enough to keep up, die one by one. She realized that eventually, it would only be one of them who would survive, and she would have to make sure it would be her. So she started strenghtening herself, deceiving, lying to the others, pitting them against each other, and killing them off herself until she stood alone. She killed her "mother", freeing herself from her control, and went to pursue something better.

Schrodinger: Was created in a test tube, as the ultimate weapon against Alucard (haha get it. hellsing ultimate). In his younger years, he was isolated from the rest of Millennium, even kept as a secret to most, and raised primarily by Dok. When he was eventually let around the other members of Mill was coincidentally around the time his "unruly" phase kicked in, which sent Dok spiralling and essentially flip-flop between blaming himself and blaming everyone else for "corrupting" him, when all it essentially was was a normal phase for a child. Schro never had friends his age, only adults, so he would have a hard time communicating to other teenagers, I imagine.

Tubalcain Alhambra: If there's one thing I'm clueless about it's the state of Brazil circa the first half of the 20th century. But I like to think he was born into some-semi influential family (perhaps one who owned establishments like hotels, casinos, etc.), and grew up a socialite. Maybe he's not even brazilian by origin, his name sounds more middle eastern than anything to me, maybe he just happens to reside there. He probably has the skills resources to control the government and the media at least to some level. Probably to the level that they don't care about his family housing literal nazi refugees on their property. Yes that is my headcanon. Tubalcain was Millennium's landlord and you won't convince me otherwise.

The Valentine Brothers: They aren't biological brothers, but their parents were both single with a kid and got together, so they're step-siblings (valentinecest still sucks stfu). Both of their parents were absolutely terrible, terrible enough for the brothers to set their house on fire when Luke was 18 and Jan was 15, to make the authorities think they died along with their parents, and go pursue a life of crime instead.

There lived a certain man in Germany long ago He was big and strong, in his eyes a flaming glow Most people looked at him with terror and with fear

-

This is my first edit, so I'm not an expert in making videos (unfortunately). I'm sorry if the images and sentences are a bit uncoordinated. I find this beautiful song (Rasputin by Boney M.) really fitting for the Captain!

"I am the Bird of Hermes.

I eat my own wings…

to keep myself tame."

Requesting the feral werewolf prompt please 👀

Rotten you've murdered me with that lovely fic you wrote with the same prompt and I need you to understand that I love Barrett with all my heart and am firmly in camp "simping for Barrett"

Anyway the prompt and the fic are below. It's a twinge of dubcon and a pinch of something rough because Hans isn't really as much a gentleman as his son, but c'est la vie. (Really, I promise you're just in denial that a werewolf you've known for all of 5 seconds is an enticing prospect for the evening.)

-

werewolf x gn!reader

It was a chilly autumn night with a smattering of stars overhead with a glowing full moon seen through a break in the thinning, colorful canopy overhead. You were alone, intending to enjoy the last camping trip of the season, but a howl over the horizon had other plans.

A wolf.

The howl was a wolf; could be nothing else. But you’d been a responsible camper and packed your food away well, up in a tree and away from your tent. So there was nothing to worry about and you could sit by the little fire you had built by the front of your tent in peace. Bundled up in a fluffy sweater and warm pants it was a nice night, a time to see the moon and stars before returning to society and losing the awe-inspiring wonder of the night.

It was long past the time for s’mores and you were almost at the bottom of your cup of tea—the one thing between you and crawling into your tent and curling up in your sleeping bag for the night—when it emerges.

The creature in question was most certainly not a wolf, heralded by heavy footfalls and crunching leaves before it bursts into the clearing. It stands on two legs, fur glowing a white silver in the moonlight and hiding what was sure to be the powerful form of an apex predator. Its claws were long and sharp on both its paws—hands?—and feet. When it levels you with its crimson stare and huffs out a puff of mist, a shudder rolls down your back.

There wasn’t much hope for running, given that it had bounded into the clearing in the blink of an eye, so you just clutched your almost empty mug to your chest and looked desperately up to the stars for mercy. Maybe it would go for the food.

It looks like it will for a moment, turning its head up and sniffing at the air, black nose wiggling, before turning down to look at you once more. Something imperceptible shifts, and your eyes skim down its form to see a spot of red peeking from its fur, low and between its hips. That couldn’t be hunger for food.

So you do the only thing you can, set your mug on the ground and avert your eyes in a vain attempt to preserve your decency before you feel a breath disturb the hair on the top of your head. Quick and silent, you shriek in surprise only for it to grab your upper arm in one hand and haul you to your feet like you weigh nothing.

The wolfish beast’s nose twitches again as it sniffs, poking its head into the crook of your neck before dropping lower. It—he—gets down onto one knee and sticks his nose right into your crotch. He’s got no qualms nuzzling into you, despite the fact that you grab his ears in each hand and try to pull him away, scolding him for being a bad dog before a snarl shuts you up and you just try to curl in on yourself.

It’s deep and commanding. The thing between his legs just keeps growing and all you can do is bury your head in your hands and try to ignore that his warm muzzle is starting to arouse you. He must pick up on it, too, and sticks his nose back between your legs to root around before, in a flash, using his free hand to shred the waist of your pants and tug them from your form.

With the force of his blow your legs give out and you’re held up by his arm. Embarrassing enough to be caught by a horny beast in the woods and to have it an enticing prospect, but then the damn creature stands to its full height, heads taller than you, and takes your other arm into his hand, compressing you. Before you can demand to know what his plan is (surely it couldn’t answer anyway) he tosses you into the air, maybe just to hear you scream, and catches your hips to hold at eye level.

You dangle backwards uncomfortably, jolting when he presses his nose into your naked core. And then, a curious lick. Sinfully good, you shudder under his gasp and start to plead that he just put you down before you have to face the fact you want him to do this. But he just licks again and again, either uncaring or not understanding your hesitation.

Warmth starts to build with arousal, and your pleas fade to mindless panting just by the time his long, flat tongue catches on your hole. The gasp you make seems to encourage him, and he dives in voraciously, pushing his tongue into your body and tasting all you have to offer. By then you turn your head, terrified but enthralled by the prospect he’s preparing you, and see that the red cock between his legs had grown to its full size and was hanging down, heavy and throbbing.

His musk hits your nose a moment later and, unconsciously, you start to buck your hips back to him. The strange wolfman takes that as his cue to all but drop you to the ground, manhandling you onto your hands and knees and spreading your cheeks to get a good look at you. When he growls you shudder, lowering your front and presenting yourself, face aflame with embarrassment. At least you were alone.

He seems to take that well, settling over you and aligning his cock with your entrance before pushing in. That’s where his generosity ends. He’d prepared you, got you into position, and pushed into you with just enough time to adjust. It was his turn to enjoy things, he decides, before sinking his fangs into your shoulder and arching his back over you, starting at a brutal pace.

You only manage to shriek, almost crying out in pain as he ruts into you to chase his own high. Shouldn’t feel good, but you start to adjust to it and his pace, arms shaking as he leaves more and more of his weight to you. You can feel something swollen push teasingly against your entrance, warm length sliding in and out of your prepared hole.

Can’t even push back into you with his teeth locked into your shoulder as he snarls in your ear, but all too soon he’s reached his end, forcing that swollen bulb into you—and you almost cry out again, arms giving up and letting him push you into the dirt with a heft that almost chokes the weight from your lungs. But all the same he just keeps rocking into you, knot at the base swelling as he starts to pup his seed into you. He keeps going right through your orgasm, thighs finally shaking as you gasp for him, and only stops once he’s too swollen to move.

It's a stretch that hurts, but at the very least he releases your shoulder from the grip of his jaw and turns his head to the air to howl. At that proximity it’s almost earsplitting, but you just drop your cheek to the dirt and breathe deeply, facing parts of yourself you hadn’t really wanted to. And he keeps you stuck there for far too long under the stars, but at least he is warm against your bare cheeks.

When he finally shrinks enough to pull out, you can already feel his seed starting to slip out and drip down your thighs. He pulls away, stranding to his full height to stretch, and you take that as your chance to scramble to your feet and run, only for heavy footfalls to pick up behind you a moment later when he decides to give chase.

He follows for a while before finally deciding to close into the kill, simply speeding up to snatch your hips and lift you from the ground, immediately pulling you onto his hardened cock again. Almost needless to say, it is a long night with that horny bastard. You pass out, just before the sun starts to rise, and you wake up back in your tent, sprawled across a very warm and broad chest. It’s a dude and his hair is white.

Your legs and pelvis are incredibly sore—regardless of how good everything had felt—and you swear to yourself that he’s going to be the one carrying all your belongings back to the trailhead that day.