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neco117 · 2 months

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#a little bit of a toxic ex-boyfriends vibes in this movie...#code 8 #code 8 part 2 #connor reed #garrett kelton #stephen amell #robbie amell #code 8 part ii #it took some time and effort to make these so if you like please reblog 🤗#my gifs

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serphena · 3 years

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You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together

#alistair theirin #kelton amell #kelistair #dragon age #dragon age origins #my art #ocs

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kurczakmarty · 3 years

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@serphena ‘s amazing Kelton Amell!!

#serphena #kelton amell #dragon age #da:o #my art

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jarakrisafis · 4 years

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My half of the collaboration with @serphena organized by @dragonageden discord event! Good fun working out to do. This is two of our Warden OC’s Kelton Amell and Faren Brosca. Kelton introduces Faren to the concept of a pet that isn’t dinner.

Entirely sfw, under a cut for length. Serphenas half can be found here

“What the fuck is that?” Faren says pointing down an alleyway.

“A cat?” Kelton says after a moment of peering into the darkness. A soft mrrrow echoes out of the darkness and he nods, “definitely a cat.”

“It was very… fluffy.”

“Cats are fluffy yes, very good for cuddles.” Kelton points out. There were always a few spoilt mousers in the Tower that would keep anyone company in exchange for a good rub behind the ears. “You should try cuddling sometime, might make you lighten up a little.”

Faren gives the mage a flat stare before something else occurs to him. “They anything like nugs?” he asks curiously.

“I suppose so.” Kelton’s never really seen a nug up close, but if books are anything to go by they seem similar.

“Well if you catch me one I’ll see if it’s as good. Nug can be a bit chewy if it’s not done right.”

Kelton laughs and Faren smiles back. Kelton’s laughter trickles off into silence when Faren doesn’t make a move to say he’s joking, “wait, are you serious?” he asks, coming to a stop in the middle of the road.

Faren gets several more steps before realising he’s now alone. “Yes. Very.”

“Do you have pets in Orzammar?” Kelton asks carefully.

“Pets?”

“You know, animals that don’t have a job and aren’t going in the stewpot?”

Faren looks rather confused as he shakes his head. “I could barely afford to feed myself.”

“Right.” Kelton says, “well. I need to make it clear that up here, cats are not for eating.”

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“You know we were talking about cats a few days ago?”

Faren blinks over his ale, “the fluffy thing that was not for eating?” He asks, just to make sure he’s remembering rightly, it’s been a long couple of days running round town with little time to stop and think.

Kelton chuckles, “yeah. Do you want to try and pet one?”

That’s not exactly what Faren was expecting and he puts the mug down, “what, you just going to conjure a cat?” Mages are so weird.

Kelton laughs, “of a sort,” he says with a wide grin, “so, you in?”

“I guess so.” Faren says slowly, curious as to how Kelton will produce a cat in a tavern that has a distinct lack of cats to his eyes. “It’s not going to bite is it?”

Kelton stands up, his robes swirling round his feet as he closes his eyes. Faren waits, glancing round in case the cat will be coming from behind him. Then he very neatly knocks over his stool and ends up sitting on the ground, pointing at the cat… And it is definitely a cat, absolutely and without a doubt a cat. A cat that was a mage. Kelton stretches, the motion a sinuous shift of fur and muscle as he stares unblinkingly at the dwarf who’s still sitting there with his mouth open in shock.

“Alright, show time.” Kelton says, projecting his thoughts carefully. It seems to jerk Faren out of his shock. Or it might be that Kelton gives him no time to adjust before he springs into his lap. “Go ahead, try to pet me.” He says as he puts his paws up on his chest and butts his forehead into Faren’s jaw. “Just don’t smack me, I know how strong you can be.”

Faren gingerly lowers a hand. Are there rules for touching a friend turned animal? The first touch is barely there and Kelton pushes into it with a strange rumbling sound. Faren hums and presses a little harder and the rumble gets louder. It’s strangely calming actually. He’s so soft and warm and the rumble is nice. “This really is quite soothing.” He admits, fingers buried in Kelton’s fur.

“Told ya.” Kelton says sleepily. “Cats are for petting.”

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“Oy, mage, hold this.”

His arms are open before Kelton remembers he should check what he’s being handed. It only takes once instance of being gifted an irate deepstalker before he learnt that Faren’s gifts were not to be trusted. This one at least is harmless enough. “Ah, why are you giving it to me?” he asks as he shuffles the creature, tentatively identified as a nug into the crook of one arm where it squeaks quietly and snuffles at his sleeve.

“I thought you might like Schmooples, so you can work out how to be a nug.”

“I can’t say I’ve ever wanted to be a nug. I’d probably end up in your stew pot.” Kelton says as he stares down at the hairless creature and gently strokes an ear. “Wait. You called it Schmooples?”

“Leliana named him. And no nug stew while she’s with us, I promised.”

Kelton nods, that must have taken some argument. Unless... “What about nug steaks?” There’s lots of ways to prepare nug that don’t include stew.

Faren just smirks.

“I think I’ll keep hold of Schmooples for now. And I’ll stick to being a cat.”

Faren hums. “Don’t tell anyone,” he says, his voice quiet, “I like petting you.” He blinks and clarifies that before Kelton can say a word. “As a cat.”

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“This is where you lived?”

Kelton sighs slightly at the rumpled sheets underneath Faren. The dwarf has absolutely no concept of polite manners and teaching him would be a full time job. “Yes.”

“Kinda nice. Like, a lot fucking nicer than I imagined.”

“It would be nicer if you weren’t covering the sheet with mud, dried blood and whatever else might be on your armour.”

“Spider guts.” Faren says matter of factly as he rolls off the edge and back to his feet.

“Hmmm.” Kelton says with a sweep of his arm towards it, “Observe the large metal pan big enough to sit it over there.”

“You mean the bath?”

“So you do know what it is,” Kelton grins, “might I suggest you make use of it.”

Faren huffs and does as he’s told. If he doesn’t Kelton will only nag until he complies. He’s even nice enough to warm up the water so he can have a long soak. He’s not sure what to do with the dirty water when he’s done and he’d prefer to wash his clothing now he’s clean so he bundles himself up in his nearly clean breeches and the towel Kelton insisted he take and goes back to the bed and the cat curled up on the pillow.

Kelton mrrrows and purrs as Faren rubs behind his ears and he scoops him up onto his lap. He doesn’t expect the little claws to dig into his leg. “Ow, Stone fucking tits Kelton!”

“Ah. Faren? I’m over here.”

Faren looks between the irate not-Kelton cat on his lap and the amused mage. “Not a word.”

--------------------

“You lived here?” There’s something in the mages voice that Faren can’t quite pinpoint. Possibly pity and he hasn’t got time for that.

“Yes. What about it?” He asks, looking round the two room hovel that’s smaller than the entire section of the tower Kelton had called home.

“Nothing.” Kelton lets him look around for another moment before following him quietly out the door. They’re halfway back to the Commons before he speaks again. “This was as much a prison as my Tower wasn’t it?” Kelton asks slowly as he picks his way over pottery shards and other detritus that even the inhabitants of Dust Town can’t find a use for.

His first thought is a resounding no, yet it’s a reflex nothing more. A prison of his own making. He could have walked away, they don’t guard the door to the surface from the inside. “I suppose.”

The walk back up to the Diamond Quarter is silent. Faren keeping his head down, the old feeling that he should be avoiding the guards back in full force while Kelton is strangely quiet given how curious he normally is.

The soft meow as soon as the door to the suite of rooms they’ve been given as Wardens is closed is not entirely unexpected. Faren reaches down and carefully picks Kelton up. “One day, I’m going to have a house and a cat of my own.” He says into the soft fur. “You’re a good friend, you know that.”

Kelton purrs, “So are you.” Claws knead into one leather covered arm, “you give really good ear rubs.”

#faren brosca #kelton amell #jaraks fic #dragonageden

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lesetoilesfous · 3 years

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Sending you a prompt from the Bad Things Happen Bingo! I'd be interested to see what you do with "Defeated and Trophified", for either a negative Handers OR an Evil M!Hawke. Thank you! <3

Oooh thank you so much, I hope you enjoy!

(If you’d like me to write you a dragon age fic, send me a prompt from here!)

@dadrunkwriting @badthingshappenbingo

Fandom: Dragon Age 2

Pairing: dark, abusive Handers

Characters: Garrett Hawke, Anders, Alistair Theirin

Tags: post da2, evil Hawke, implied abusive relationship

Rating: Mature

The new viscount of Kirkwall has made changes at the Keep, and indeed in the city in general. No longer are there any mages to be found anywhere, not even in the city-state’s infamous Gallows. Alistair had been struck by how few staves he’d seen anywhere as a result. He realises that he’d just sort of got used to apostates and presumably-legal Circle mages wandering throughout Fereldan. The absence of them here in Kirkwall is, well, stark. But Alistair is a king, and visiting his new trading partner is not the most burdensome of his many, many responsibilities, so he takes a deep breath and tries not to think about Kelton Amell, and climbs the stairs towards the viscount’s personal offices.

A servant who looks pale and frightened and flinches far too easily for Alistair’s comfort dips him a low, low bow and swings the door open on perfectly oiled hinges. Everywhere, the Amell family crest bleeds in red lines beside the emblem of the city of chains. Everything is spotless and silent, and even the air tastes clean, somehow - perfumed with what tastes to Alistair like elfroot and spindleweed. He’s led, with his retainers, into a large room with a long, beautiful dark wooden table. Behind it the Viscount of Kirkwall: muscular, broad, handsome Garrett Hawke, sits in state wearing an iron crown. Behind him, standing demurely with his hands folded and his head lowered, is the apostate who blew up the Chantry.

The first thing Alistair can find to think is that he recognises this man. He remembers gently encouraging Kelton to recruit him, almost a decade ago in Amaranthine. A young, frightened man whose brave face warred with his real horror at what the Templar order wished to do with him.

The second thing Alistair notices is the collar. It’s not ostentatious - of course not, if there’s one thing Alistair has learned from the immaculate Keep and the deathly silent streets, it’s that the man sitting in front of him does not go in for the obvious. But it’s a collar all the same: a thin, beautiful bar of rolled gold which hangs like a necklace around the apostate’s neck, darkened with dozens and dozens of finely engraved runes that makes it look stained black like an antique. Thin gold chains dip below the apostate’s neckline, under the loose, beautiful deep green silk tunic he’s wearing. There are matching, thick gold cuffs wrapped around each of his wrists. Alistair can’t see his feet from where he’s standing, but he doesn’t doubt there are cuffs there too. He swallows his bile, and refocuses his attention.

Hawke doesn’t bother to stand, which is technically a formal insult, but Alistair suspects it won’t be the last thing he tolerates today in the name of preventing open war. Instead he inclines his head, and waves at the frightened servant to pull out a chair. The servant does so, and Alistair thanks them softly, not missing the way Hawke’s mouth turns down in a sneer. The apostate behind the viscount, (the grey warden), says nothing. Alistair can barely believe he’s breathing, for how silent he’s being.

Hawke leans forward. “King Theirin. Such a pleasure to have your company so soon after our...troubles.” Behind Hawke, the apostate flinches, so subtly Alistair can hardly believe he noticed it. But Hawke’s jaw clenches, and the apostate’s already pale skin pales further.

Alistair thinks about facing down a broodmother and sits a little straighter in his chair. “Of course, Viscount. I was sorry to hear the news of your predecessor, and,” Alistair pauses, picking his words as carefully as stepping between landmines, “...confused by Knight-Commander Meredith’s interim occupation.”

Hawke laughs, and again, the apostate flinches. “Yes, well, Stannard always did have delusions of grandeur. But she wasn’t wrong about the mage problem. Worse than a nest of plague-ridden rats in this city and just as rotten. It was poisoning us from the inside out.”

Alistair lets the comment past him, and keeps his features neutral. He’d gotten good at this, as a child, under Isolde’s harassment. He asks, neutrally, as politely as he can, “Is it true, then? That you took part in the annulment personally?”

Again, Hawke laughs. Alistair feels a thorny kind of heat coiling in his chest. Hawke says, “Damned right I did. I was the only one left in the Blighted city with the fucking guts. Got every apostate too - all the criminals and infected children. I lanced the boil that this city had become and I burned out every bit of rot. Except this one,” Hawke gestures to the apostate behind him, then looks back at Alistair with a wide smile of perfect teeth, “But he’s pretty.”

Alistair fantasises about breaking his nose. Instead, he follows Hawke’s gesture to look up at the tall, broad man beside him. He’s older than he was, when Alistair had met him, lines printed across his face in deep crevasses. But he’s clean shaven, and his hair is brushed and soft around his head. Alistair listens to his own racing heartbeat for a moment before he speaks. “I heard he was a Grey Warden.”

Hawke’s eyes narrow, and there’s a flash of something there in the brown and gold of his irises that reminds Alistair terribly of the bird after which his family took its name. Something bloodthirsty, and cruel. “Like you? I told Vael, and the blighted Divine, Anders stays here. He’s mine.”

Alistair raises his hands in surrender and wonders whether Hawke can see that his palms are sweating. “Of course! Wouldn’t dream of separating you. It was only innocent curiosity. Now, I believe you have a Fereldan apostate to deliver to me?”

The blatant threat on Hawke’s face melts into a smirk, and he leans back in his chair. Behind him, Anders, the apostate’s shoulders lower, fractionally. Hawke clicks his fingers at the servant, and a few minutes later there’s the clatter of armour as a pair of templars bring in a wounded, starved looking elvhen girl.

Alistair thinks hard about exactly how much worse war would be for all his people and truly, deeply hates being king. Hawke gets up, circling the table to lift the girl’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. She glares at him, and Alistair hates that he’s heartened by this remaining spirit.

But then Hawke looks at the apostate in the corner and lifts his hand. The gold ring on his wedding finger, similarly blackened with runes, burns red, and Anders flinches as the jewellery on his wrists and neck glow, too. All Hawke says is, “Anders.”

The apostate moves faster than Alistair thinks he could have followed even if he were prepared for it. His hand flicks, and a silent bolt of lightning crosses the space of Hawke’s private quarters and connects with the girl’s skull. Her body slumps almost immediately, shuddering in a death rattle that is all too familiar to Alistair. He makes an effort to close his open mouth, and for the first time gives up the poker face.

“What is the meaning of this?”

Hawke smiles at him, close lipped and shrewd. “A lesson, your majesty. We won’t tolerate apostates in Kirkwall. Try to keep them on your side of the ocean.”

Alistair looks up at the apostate, Anders, but his hands are already folded in front of him again, his head bowed. Alistair swallows past the dryness of his mouth and the thick lump in his throat, and gets to his feet with an agonisingly loud screech of the wooden chair legs on stone.”Well, Viscount. It’s certainly been...educational.”

Alistair turns and tries not to imagine the entire darkspawn horde at his heels. Hawke doesn’t stand, and his pet apostate doesn’t move. But when Alistair gets to the door, Hawke speaks again. “Come back any time, your majesty. Anders can do wonderful things with his hands.”

Alistair doesn’t turn around. The doors swing shut behind them, and both the Keep’s guards and two servants usher them forward. But Alistair hesitates, listening for a moment.

Through the wooden doors, there’s a crack of skin on skin, and a soft cry of pain. Softly, deadly, Alistair hears the Viscount whisper, “Killed her quickly, didn’t you? Any suffering you spared her I’ll deal you, later.”

Alistair doesn’t realised he’s curled his fingers into a fist until one of his guard’s touches his forearm, her eyes wide with either fear or concern. Slowly, Alistair uncurls his hand, listening to the crunch of metal, and follows the soldiers and servants out of the Keep. He makes a mental note to write Zevran, later.

There’s a warden in need, and a state leader in desperate want of assassination.

#dadwc #bad things happen bingo #hawke #anders #handers #da2 #evil hawke #my fic #alistair theirin #hollyand-writes #dragon age 2

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wolfbabedeluxe · 3 years

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