For your From Mare with Love may I request a Van Helsing story where the reader is the latest unfortunate victim of a priest who believes any woman who he is attracted to has to be a witch because he is so pious. She was born with a gift which ties her to nature so it was easier for the priest to make his claims. Van Helsing saves her and she ends up joining him and helping him in the future

— My Bed in Hell

☆ ── 💌FROM MARE WITH LOVE

If I make my bed in hell, behold, You are there.

Familiar sprays of light from a high moon paint the forest in a menagerie of shadows. A free canopy of green overhead veils any trace of low stars that threaten to fall, trees of every kind stand quiet – sentinels to deep secrets lingering within the thick darkness.

Occasional breeze kicks up the song of rustling branches, the forest floors' energy moves with the scant presence of creatures venturing out for their own breed of social hour. 

The loudest sound is the heavy weight of his horse entering the quiet scene of forest with every step, the stillness ripped away with every one of the steed’s sharp breaths.

The air is chilled. Every hot breath is noticed, the animal’s heartbeat almost tangible deep in his chest as he pulls up to a brisk top, head pulled back on the sharp bit against his teeth. 

Gabriel’s hand is hard on the reins as his eyes cast through the small clearing of the wood — it’s a decent fortress of limbs and foliage, thin and thick varieties of tree making it nearly impassible, at first blush.

Mostly dark save the chiaroscuro of light falling through the canopy of leaves, it would serve well for the respite they needed. 

A few hours of sleep would do everyone good, he can feel the brash exhaustion of the animal in his hands, his temper on blade’s edge with every shift of the animal’s weight. Himself, he can barely manage the ache of a headache spearing through his temple—even in the low light of the moon, everything is painfully white-hot. 

Her head lolls against his shoulder lifts when his tongue tsks the animal to a still, Gabriel’s hand falling to hers wrapped around his middle.

Able to feel the shift of her eyes, the kick of her heartbeat is all but tangible against his back as she considers the small forest clearing —fear.

It jumps like a cat into her blood, thick. Tart. 

Giving her hands a light squeeze, he rests his hand against the horn of the saddle.

“This will do until the morning,” he gestures around the clearing, nodding to the thick willow’s low branches, “I don’t believe anyone will pursue the depth of the forest at this hour. We should be safe.”

Even though he’s spoken with surety, he can feel her bristle at the lack of confidence of his verbiage.

“Should be?” Settling softly behind him, she angles her head around his frame to offer a suspicious look. “Oh, that’s reassuring—either we are, or we aren’t, I don’t do the entire vague, in-between-the-sheets thing.”

It takes all the strength he possesses not to laugh at her way with words — it’s certainly odd, how she speaks. So loose and free, as if there isn’t a bone of hesitation in her entire body. 

Her breath is heavy as it slips from her, her tone taking to a quiet Gabriel didn’t expect.

“I don’t hear the dogs anymore. Maybe they are gone.” Gabriel can hear her swallow the break in her voice, the tremble of her words low against his back.

His chuckle is light, placating. 

“Precisely,” a wry smile as he pats her hands, still bunched around his waist. “Hold fast, I’ll assist you off.” 

Swinging out of the saddle, he adjusts the reins in his hand and offers his other to her. Considering it for a moment, she slips her hand into his and angles to slip off the animal, using him as a counterbalance. Her feet find the forest beneath them, her warmth assaulting at so close a distance. 

Her radiant scent is sharp beneath his nose, hanging there like the low fruit of Eve. It’s a sweet floral he’s never before smelled in his time, but that was tracking — nothing about her was usual.

By her own admittance, by Christ Himself she swore, she was not from here. Not in a sense of residency within city lines or territories, never so simply — she was not from this time, this age.

From beyond the stars, beyond the sensical. 

Standing there in the rain, weeks before — in the long shadows of the Church’s persecutions, she’d confessed, seeking redemption. Compassion, maybe even sense.

As if he were a priest, a man worthy of such a view of the heart. 

His own demons haunted him, licked at the secrets entombed within the very marrow of his bones — but she’d spoken to him like an equal. A friend. Not a martyr or a demon, not an outcast.

She’d seen someone worthy of revelation, there in the rain, of the childlike innocence she carried between each word, every confession.

A lily among valley thorns, certainly — a lamb among wolves. 

They called her a witch, to be burned at stakes unforgiving. But in its place he saw revelation, a bold light given by the grace of heaven — very few things were in between heaven and hell, but she was one of them.

Perhaps the only thing.

For uncountable lifetimes he’d been born in hell, racing in and out of darkness. And through such peril, there had been the promise – hope. Faith. That things would change.

Evidence of things he did not see, merely felt. 

And here she was.

If I make my bed in hell, behold, You are there —

Certainly, Master. And You have sent someone to deliver me from such eternal struggle, such lostness.

It had only taken lifetimes, but — Providence.

Always Providence. 

If he weren’t a man of the impossible himself, it would still be difficult to deny – her story, that is. It was no small wonder, the perception of her as a witch. From personal experience he knew the Church feared what it did not understand, despite the order of God Himself. People were a fickle thing, certainly, prone to their own misgivings and terrors. 

And claiming to pass through time, casting out the demonic, predicting things about the world – terrors indeed. 

Her hand lingering against his chest is almost inferno, burning like the pits of hell he’d so often envisioned in his nightmares. But nothing about her was devastating, save perhaps her beauty—such loveliness.

A rare and almost visceral kind of beauty that, on occasion in their short acquaintence, left him breathless. Choking on everything and nothing, unable to think past the ache in the low of his gut, the throb of heat in places only confessed to God. 

Each passing minute at her side was wild. Unpredictable to a fault. He’d learned things one could only ever dream. 

Her hand pulls away and it empties him of any courage. Eve in all her radiance could not have compared, as she moves to run fingers through the animal’s mane, brush noses with the stallion's snorting, lathered nose.

Even in the shadows of the thick night, her smile to the horse is brilliant, enough to leave him agog, chest hollow. 

Managing a rough cough, he pats the animal’s thick neck reassuringly, draping reins over the saddle. Retrieving his pack, Gabriel guides the stallion to one of the small trees.

Tying off the reins securely, he gestures for her to come with a wave of his hand, ducking low under the fronds of the Goliath willow. 

Like a veil, he parts its foliage with his hand and beckons her with a crooked finger.

“We’ll rest here until morning,” dropping to a knee, he beds down the floor of the forest for them, “I will keep watch -- keep away those things that creep along in the night," his lighthearted chuckle rousts a warmth in his chest he finds amusing, but a glance her direction cuts him dry.

Even in the shadows of the willow, he watches her expression change.

“You’re not resting?” Concern floods her expression, stirring the depth of his belly.

“No,” he challenges firmly, settling in against the base of the tree. “One of us should stay awake to keep watch — you never know what lingers in the thick wood.” A quicksilver smile, as he cards his gloved fingers through his hair.

Sighing deeply, Gabriel gestures to the spot beside him. Her eyes move from considering him to his suggestion, before cutting back to the smile teasing the corner of his mouth.

Ah, yes. Her honor. “No harm comes to you, surely you know this. You have my word.” Hand against his breast, his lips curl in another quick, coy grin.

“Mhm. Convinced of it, I'm sure.” Everything about her tone suggests otherwise, pulls a chuckle from him.

A sharp breath pops between her lips, and she moves to sit beside him, wrapping the thick wool of his riding cloak around her. 

He feels her fall against the strength of the tree, her deep breaths coming more steadily as her heart begins to settle. 

Minutes pass between them as the forest accepts their presence, returning to its tranquil state of living in the night — the occasional buzz of an insect, the faraway snap of wood high in the trees.

Intrusive sound in the small clearing is reserved only for the horse, who investigates his tie with a snort, and their breathing. 

Crossing a foot over the other, he bristles a little when her weight shifts to lean against his arm.

“Gabe?" The sure strength of her voice is quiet, now, lost in the growing darkness of the woods beyond their haven — her hand moves to rest against the front of his coat, he can feel her playing with the stitching in a way that is not offensive. 

Before he knows it, his arm lifts to allow her ever closer. “Hm?” 

Her head angles to peer up at him as she settles in, a soft look about her eyes more dazzling than any star he’d seen overhead.

Alive for lifetimes, he’d rarely ever witnessed such beautiful things so close at hand — the cosmos, only ever. 

Captivated, he gently lifts her chin up and back, considering the plush curve of her mouth — how she fits so divinely at his side, unlike any other woman alive.

His tongue burns with the desire to taste her, he can barely think past the racing blood galloping in his ears. He can feel her pulse hammering just in the light touch of his fingers, more of a permission than most men required. 

Her fingers curl into the front of his shirt, roughly in a way that sends him spinning—a state Gabriel Van Helsing rarely, if ever, feels.

“Thank you, for everything,” her gaze becomes low beneath her fan of lashes, soft features nearly glowing in whatever light the moon lends, “I’m—I’m scared, Gabe. But without you, I’d—” 

The corner of his mouth lifts, amused. He knows how difficult this is. But it isn’t necessary, it never will be.

Nothing has to be so complicated when it, instead, is so beautiful. 

“I know,” pulling her a little closer, his hand gently pulls through her hair, eyes wandering the lines of her features. How the Church could deny such a thing he’d never understand—purely angelic. Wholly divine.

Fully his, “There’s little to fear, darling — I am here, by the hand of God. Even in hell.”

His tongue skates his bottom lip, easing into the idea of her heart thrumming like a scared rabbit against his ribs.

“You needn’t worry about a thing.” 

The soft inhale of breath, when his mouth slants against hers. Her pulse gallops as she folds against his chest, clinging to his clothes like they are lines of life — her mouth parts him for like she’s viewing the world for the first time.

Forbidden fruit, he swallows her moan with a sweep of his tongue. Hard, hungry, he steals from her every breath, every skip of her heart as she melds into his hand, pliable. 

Divinity is in the way she feels, he thinks — the design of God, the holiness of innocence. 

If I make my bed in hell, behold, You are there. 

@sidkneeeee

@thevoicefromanotherworld

@misscrissfemmefatale

@eternallyfrustratedwriter

@permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88

@laaadygisbooornex3

@itsafullmoon

@kmc1989

@steviebbboi

@matronmothercrone