#milkymaccha

“She’s a hart, Lavellan and Dennett both say so.”

“She doesn’t even have stripes,” Dorian protests. “She has spots.”

“She’s still a baby.”

“She hasn’t even got antlers.” The little creature looks impossibly tiny and fragile cradled in Bull’s big hands. She blinks at Dorian with wide brown eyes. “Maker, where would antlers even fit?”

“Hey, I didn’t have horns at first either. They’re something you gotta grow into.” Bull strokes her forehead with a finger. She bleats at him, and he smiles, soft and wide. “And you’re gonna have some badass antlers when you’re bigger, aren’t you? Yes you are. You’re gonna be so awesome.”

Dorian snorts, then pauses. “I do hope you’re not planning on her sleeping here.”

“Why not?” Bull keeps smiling at the little thing.

“She’s a hart, a wild animal! You can’t house-train her like a… like a lap-nug!”

A stubborn look settles on Bull’s face. “Watch me.”

The hart starts to wriggle, and Bull puts her down on the mattress between him and Dorian, holding one arm out to keep her away from the edge.

She snuffles at the blankets, then Bull’s hand, and then Dorian’s leg. She tugs at the linen of his robes with her teeth, but decides it’s not worth the trouble to try to eat it. Her tiny hooves poke him as she climbs onto his lap to investigate the metal of his buckles. She feels much larger when she’s standing on him than she looked next to Bull.

Cautiously, Dorian strokes the side of her neck. She sighs, in a way that he thinks is happy, and leans into his hand. “That’s a good sign, right?”

“Yeah! You’re doing great.” Bull grins, and then kisses Dorian, careful not to disturb the small animal on his legs.

She honks at them long before Dorian thinks the kiss should end.

Sera calls Dorian Imekari’s “no-fun dad.” He prefers to think of himself as her responsible guardian who doesn’t feed her pure sugar, Bull, because harts aren’t biologically capable of eating Orlesian guimauves. He tries to find acceptable scholarly sources on the rearing of young harts, but the Skyhold library has less than nothing. Dennett’s best guesses and Lavellan’s memories of her clan’s halla are all he has to go on. Thank the Maker she’s already old enough to have weaned off her mother’s milk.

Bull pets her and holds her and talks to her constantly, and is generally smitten. He carries her in a sling on his back sometimes, because she’s spoiled rotten after a week. Dorian has absolutely no business imagining Bull with children of his own, but that doesn’t stop him.

from this list <3

It’s a frigid night in the Emerald Graves, the last of the leaves finally starting to fall. The forest, so lush and green in the summertime, when the Inquisition had first set up camp, is bare and dry. The wind kicks up the dead leaves on the ground, making strange noises, and cuts right through the blanket he’s repurposed into a cloak.

Winter is different here. It’s missing the heavy, humid pressure that built and built until the skies over Seheron opened, drenching the island with days of unabaiting rain. Winter had been a time of planning, of lying low and waiting out the storms, of stories and songs around the kith’s fire, kept burning all night to drive away the bugs.

The gnats and beetles that lived here had long since vanished. No dragonflies hum by the stream south of the camp and none of the small Southern centipedes have found his bedroll in weeks. He’s glad of that. They might have fewer legs and less venom than their Seheron cousins, but they’re just so creepy.

But he’d trade an unexpected tentmate or two for air that wasn’t so dry and cold it made his nose bleed, for fewer dead leaves on the ground and more cover. He’d even prefer the snow of the Emprise to this wicked cold.

Dorian prods at the embers of the fire next to him, making the sparks jump. The camp is quiet, most of the scouts and sentries bundled up three and four to a tent. Why he and Dorian are still out here, when neither of them even have to stand watch, he’s not quite sure. There’s better things they could be doing.

“When this is all over,” Dorian says, restarting the conversation that Bull’s been avoiding for weeks, “Where will you take your Chargers?”

“Nevaara, maybe.” It’s not true. “Somewhere with actual walls.”

Dorian reaches into the fire with his bare hand, and pulls out a coal. Bull stares at it– the way it seems to pulse red and white, how it doesn’t even singe Dorian’s skin. “Nevaara is a decently civilized place, it’s true.” He cups his hands around the coal and breathes gently on it, holding it close to his face.

“Maybe the Anderfels,” Bull says. “Meet Grim’s family.”

“I’m sure they’re lovely people. Do you suppose they’d like me?”

“If you put your mind to charming them.” Bull watches the strange, faint shadows the glowing ember casts on his face. His eyes are dark, the curve of his lips seem sharper. “You ever been to the Anderfels?”

“I’ve never had the pleasure.” When he speaks, the coal glows brighter, like his magic or the air from his lungs is nourishing it. “What would charming them look like? Complimenting their humble abode, eating their food, playing with their many stoic blond children?”

“Being there,” Bull says before he can stop himself. Dorian’s eyes stay trained on his tiny piece of fire. “Coming with us.”

The fire jumps and crackles as the wind picks up again. Dorian turns the ember over, lifts it up to eye level on his open palm.

RULES: 1. answer the questions given by the previous person 2. write 11 new questions 3. tag 11 people

Questions and answers undercut. ^__^

milkymaccha reblogged your photo and added: “Prev / 14 / Next  // Read from the beginning when you don’t have...”

I love how Dorian’s dead buddy just… casually... waves at them

HA, it’s the “gentle slapping” sound that makes it in that mix l o l

I noticed that, too. I always get excited when I see that there are new fics in the Adoribull tag, but then there is... well, no Adoribull content (or just a tiny bit) :(