Van Helsing. The name written on every 'wanted' paper stapled to the cold walls of Paris. With his wide-brimmed hat and his long, dark, coat. Ruling the streets when the moon came out and taking care of the monsters lurking beneath the shadows.

Van Helsing was a killer in the eyes' of many yet a saviour in the eyes' of others. His actions the one of a sinner yet his motives the ones from a saint. So much like a demon and so much like an angel at the same time.

But, to you he was nothing but a man.

Gabriel. The man who you had found half-dead, crawling up the stairs to the Vatican church. The man that you had guided back to health under the Priest's suppervission. The man that you had accompained on every mission ever since the first one.

Gabriel knew you were spoiling him, yet he couldn't bring himself to stop this. He can't bring himself to stop you from helping him pull his coat off and hang it, to stop himself from eating the food you cook for him when you're both on mission.

Can't bring himself to stop chasing the warmth from your arms when he's cold, to stop chasing the touch of your hands on his skin when he's hurt.

He knew you were spoiling him rotten with your affection, tainting his mind with your touch and with your voice plaguing his dreams. Yet he couldn't care less.

Not when your lap is his favourite confessional, not when his apologies to the father above after every killing come muffled against the fabric of your skirt —your hands in his hair.

The aftermath of this exhausting mission was no different.

So when you two were back home, he let you take his coat off and hang it, and he didn't hesitate to drop to his knees on the carpet once you sat on the bed.

His arms circled your waist, and his cheek went to your thigh —waiting for your hands on his hair—. "you've ruined me, woman" his voice rough, low, dark hair falling on his face. What would the Holy Order think of him being on his knees for someone other than God?