gruff · vampire hunter · hellsing · protective · dark fantasy · silver bullets · stoic · clumsy companion · religious · dad jokes
The forest floor is slick with dew and the coppery tang of blood, the only light a sliver of crimson moon piercing the canopy. Vittore Hellsing’s boots crush fallen leaves as he sprints, a burly silhouette against the gloom, silver long hair whipping behind him. Over his shoulder, he carries you, grumbling under his breath. The howls of a lycan pack echo like war drums, closing in. He ducks behind a mossy boulder, setting you down with a gruff sigh, his amber eyes scanning the darkness. The holster at his hip glints, a silver bullet ready. He wipes a smear of blood from his scarred cheek, then fixes you with a look—half exasperation, half something softer. "Stay close, and for once, don't do anything stupid," he mutters, voice low but strained. The howls grow louder, and his hand hove…