You know how Gothic/romantic horror is full of the damsel in distress trope?

Well...

What if it was a mansel in distress instead?

Just imagine:

A beautiful, distressed *man* in a loose, partly unbuttoned white shirt...

Running for his life, or trapped in a Gothic castle, or stalked by a mysterious monster, or whatever...

And getting all beautifully bloodied and wounded in the process.

Mmmmmm, yes please 🖤🤩

@dahalloween ★ DAY THREE || HERE LIES THE ABYSS: demons, spirits, ghosts and possessions… good and evil collide on the third day of the week, and your favorite characters find themselves trapped in the middle. are they stuck in the fade? were they struck by a spooky vision, haunted, or do they wind up being at the mercy of a desire demon?

Recommended Listening: Finish It - Clint Mansell

She sits on the edge of the cliff, hands on her lap. Wind through her hair, black strands streaming across her face. Brushing them back behind her ear, turning her head. “It’s you,” she says. Trevelyan takes a seat beside her. Hawke reaches out, points into the distance. “That ship is new.” Following the path of her finger, looking at a ship wrecked on rock. The gulls circle overhead as the sun begins to set, mirrored light on the water. She’s not sure where she is. If Hawke is here, then she thinks she must be in Kirkwall.

Hawke turns to her, and there’s something different about the woman. She could have sworn her eyes were blue, just as the Waking Sea below them. Now, they shine with flecks of green. Hawke reaches out, wraps a hand around her wrist. The grip is painful, nails digging into her skin. “Have you come to gloat?” Trevelyan is trying to reclaim her hand, but she cannot shake loose. “Have you come to check in on your sacrifice?” The anchor sparks, spits anger, but still Hawke does not let go.

“Did you tell Fenris? Did you write him?” Hawke is staring her down, other hand snaking out, and wrapping around Trevelyan’s throat. “Did you put pen to paper yourself? Or did you have someone else do it for you? Of course. It’s never you. Poor little Trevelyan,” Hawke snarls as her lip curls, looking at her with something like disgust. “Who did you sacrifice this time? Will Varric ever forgive you?” She squeezes harder, chokes the air from her lungs. “He’s going to find you,” Hawke tells her. “He’s going to come, he’s going to kill you.”

“I don’t want you here,” Hawke tells her as she casts her from the cliff. The sun is rising into green, there’s fog in her eyes. Water that isn’t water, a sludge that swallows her whole, drags her into the depths. She drowns as she wakes, gasping upwards in bed. Cullen is up almost immediately after her, instinctively reaching for the sword by the bed. She’s turning, kneeling, hands fisting in his shirt and he gives up his search, reaching out for her.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Hands slipping up her arms, pulling her in. Rubbing circles on her back as she buries her face in the crook of his neck, as she struggles to breathe. Coming quick and panicked, trembling in his grasp. The anchor glows troubled, rolls frustration. “It’s the dreams again,” he says. He knows as well as she how dreams can haunt a person. The specter of it hangs off of her during the day, the dark circles under her eyes escaping no one’s notice.

She nearly falls when she sees him. Sitting in the front hall, talking to Varric. There’s a heavy cloak on his shoulders, one that can’t hide the large sword on his back. White hair, fine markings. He turns, and his gaze passes over her. He’s here. She can almost hear Hawke’s laughter in her ears. Fenris has come. He means to avenge his Hawke. Trevelyan finds her way to Cullen’s office. “He’s here to see Varric,” he reassures her, “the dreams are just dreams.”

They gather at the tavern. They ask her to come. She sits near to him, fights the fear that worms in her chest. Fenris is talking quietly with Varric, laughing at something he says. Leaning back in his chair as his fingers find the condensation on the glass, wipe them away. He still wears it. That red around his wrist, the token she knows Hawke gave him. How many times had she read that part of the book? Trapped in the Circle tower, imagining the life of the Champion. “She asked to stay. Said it was – something she had to do. She said she was sorry,” it’s as though she hopes saying it might appease Hawke’s ghost. Remind her that it was her choice, not Trevelyan’s.

His face twists. “Why are you telling me this?” The words sound ripped from him, vowel after vowel, the ache in his throat, distress on his tongue. Trevelyan recoils, and she can feel Hawke’s hands around her neck again. Fenris turns away from her, pushes himself away from the table. Varric gives her a sorry look, goes after him. She buries her face in her hands, Cullen’s hand on her back.