"You've seen my mess plenty of times, though," he says, managing to get a little further into the swing of this kind of needling the further they go into familiar territory. 'You're impossible' is a very familiar one by now - usually means Dorian's got no idea how to respond, which always feels like a little bit of a win. "So I would think you would be used to it by now. So it sounds a lot like you're giving up. Weird - I thought you were more stubborn than that."
Dorian is, in fact, quite stubborn and competitive, when the situation calls for it, which is why he heaves out another sigh, ignoring the warmth of his cheeks. Dorian is hardly a prude, but somehow, the Bull makes him feel like one.
"Fine." There's a touch of resignation in his voice when he utters the word. He pauses for a second, apparently judging that the Inquisitor and the rest of their party has wandered far enough ahead that they won't overhear Dorian's conversation with the Bull. Still, he quiets a little, just to avoid further involvement.
"I'm going to guess you're thinking of my staff." The answer is dripping with as much sarcasm as he can muster.
"Your staff?" the Bull says, voice getting proportionally as loud as Dorian's got quiet. It's a shame he can't see Dorian's face right now - keeping their faces covered is too important to take any of that cloth off even for a second, but still, he bets Dorian's expression right now would do a lot to settle - or at least distract - the Bull's mind. "Yeah, I bet that is pretty exquisite, huh? Not what I'm thinking of, but still, pretty good guess. It's good to hear you have that healthy self image going after all. Good for you, big guy. So, you want to keep going? What other parts of you do you think fit that description?"
Edited (thought of something bull could say that would wind dorian up more) 2021-02-16 02:50 (UTC)
Dorian shoots the Bull a look of alarm as his voice raises, and his gaze quickly darts to the rest of their party. He's not sure if they overheard, or if they even understand this conversation, but once again, Cassandra only glares at them while the Inquisitor discusses more history with Renn and Valta.
For a second, Dorian wishes the ground might open up and swallow him whole. There are certainly enough of those strange quakes that it might actually happen.
"I hate you," he quickly mumbles. Dorian feels he should call an end to the game now, but the Bull seems to be feeling better, and it would be immature of him, he thinks. Rather like a small boy bursting into tears and announcing he was taking his ball and going home when he doesn't get his way.
"You do have a pretty great nose," the Bull says, even if he can't see it right now. Better to be imagining that than thinking about all the other stuff a part of him wants to focus on. "Statuesque, I think, is the word for that one. But nah. Not your nose either. You want to go through your body parts one at a time and figure it out? Because if so, we might be doing this for a while."
"Come on, Dorian," the Bull says, and it's a lot easier to hear the amusement in his voice than the strain, now. That's nice. Maybe he should have started this earlier. He hadn't really thought about it. Too in his head, took a while to occur to him. "You think I'd sink that low? You've only guessed two body parts so far, what's your criteria?"
With as much as Dorian is sighing, one might worry he might be in danger of deflating entirely. Better to keep this going, better to keep the Bull distracted from whatever it was he was wrapped up in earlier.
And even if a portion of Dorian's mind is still dedicated to running through the old potions and glyphs he and Alexius had created on Felix's behalf, it's at least not an active concern.
"I believe this will be my seventh question, then. Is it above the waist?"
"No," the Bull says - and, considering all the to-do about asking that question in the first place, and the place Dorian's mind instantly went the first time he tried to guess in that particular area, the Bull says it with more than a little satisfaction. "It's down on your lower half."
Dorian lets out a noise that sounds suspiciously like an ugh, and he shakes his head. He's not sure what it says about himself that he knew the Iron Bull would've instantly gravitated in that direction. For now, Dorian would prefer to assume that it only means he has a decent idea of how the Bull's mind works – at least where his thoughts about Dorian are concerned.
"Why do I get the strong feeling that your answer is going to make me want to slap you?"
He lets out another exasperated breath before feigning a pensive air.
"Well, that at least narrows things down considerably, I suppose. Eighth question: are you thinking of my legs?"
"Another great option, but no. Why? Was your legs what you were ready to slap me for? I would have thought that was an innocent spot, sort of, unless you guys have some pretty raunchy leg stuff going on in Tevinter that I don't know about." In which case, the Bull's tone says, he wants to know about it asap. Important information.
"They can be," Dorian answers, allowing a bit of amusement to bleed into his voice. Lying about the Tevinter Imperium has quickly become a favored pastime – though the Bull is the one most likely to smell bullshit before any of the others.
"It depends entirely on whether or not one has seen a properly performed Dance of Ten Veils – though it tends to be banned from most respectable places. Too saucy, I suppose. It is quite alluring."
"Then I guess I'd have to see it before I can look at any 'vint's legs the right way. Too bad I don't know anyone who can do it, huh?" His voice is teasing and he takes a moment to grin at Dorian, even though Dorian can't see it, before he goes on. "So, it's not your dick, it's not your nose, it's not your legs. There any other body parts of yours that you'd like me paying special attention to?"
Dorian will never understand how it is that the Bull's use of crude language makes him feel like a scandalized Chantry sister, but somehow, it does. He feels himself flush a little, but he hopes the dim lighting of the hallways hides it well.
"I think it's more of a matter of what I wish you would pay less attention to, quite frankly." He sniffs a little haughtily, though the effect is dulled and muted by his face covering. "I suppose you can hardly be blamed, considering my perfection.
"But if that's the given criteria—" Dorian pauses, thinking it over. "You could stand to focus less on my ass, I suppose."
"There you go." While his voice isn't exactly as enthusiastic as it normally would be, it is appreciative. This particular go at winding Dorian up was more distracting than he'd expected it to be, and while it's a shame that it's over, it pretty much did its job. "I thought you were going to get that one sooner. You really think I should focus less on your ass, though, huh - so what part should I be focusing on instead? Pick one out for me to start out on and I can cycle through them."
"Sure, sure. I can add that in to the roster if you like. So, does this mean that it's my turn to start guessing which one of your features you want me thinking about, or would you rather keep telling me how you want to stagger me with that massive intellect of yours, just throbbing with all that magical know-how?"
"Kaffas," he groans. He tilts his head back to look up at the ceiling, as if offering a quick word of prayer to the Maker for patience. "It's impossible to speak with you."
Of course, Dorian says that, but he's done nothing to move away from the Bull, and neither does he seem inclined to do so. The Inquisitor may have asked the two of them along for their company, but her natural curiosity and eagerness to learn, to solve problems, fully has her attention. And she asked them along to protect her, and Dorian is confident that the two of them are tense enough to spring into action when necessary.
He adjusts his mask again – the thick material makes it a little difficult to breathe, but not impossibly so. Despite the discomfort, Dorian hasn't complained about it even once.
"How many of your waking moments are spent thinking about me? Or is it only when you're in my presence that you remember how sublime I am? Those pretty barmaids of yours would surely seethe with jealous, if they knew."
"Nah," the Bull says easily. Dorian might not have thought a lot about that comment but the part of the Bull's mind that's still trying to work like normal around all the other crap thinks he might as well make it something useful, a just in case thing to make sure Dorian's clear on how things are. Not that Dorian's ever going to necessarily take the Bull up on all those offers, but sometimes it pays off to take those early opportunities when you find them.
"They know better than to get like that about me. That's one of the first things I had to learn coming down here, how to nip that stuff in the bud before people get the wrong idea. They get possessive, they start lashing out at the people around them and then maybe morale among the people working in the tavern takes a hit, maybe that one barmaid can't get anything out of it any more because now she's all in her head about the whole thing - either way, there wouldn't be a point in spending that kind of time together if people were going to come out worse off than when they started. So, don't worry, the barmaids know better - you can give me a few more 'sublime' parts to think about without anyone wanting to, I don't know, start spitting in your ale for it or whatever."
He's startled that the Bull decides to explain himself – mostly because a part of him expected the Bull to continue to mercilessly tease him. Dorian still has no idea how to take the Bull's interest, nor does he know how to process how open the other man is with it. Southerners tend to care less about these things, he knows, if they even care in the first place, but the Bull takes things a step or two further.
So the Bull flirts with Dorian. The man also flirts with everyone, and Dorian is almost certain he's overheard the man making a few offers to Cassandra. As often as Dorian enjoys flattering himself, he feels he shouldn't assume he and the Bull have anything out of the ordinary, as far as the Bull was concerned.
"How remarkably fair of you," Dorian replies a little absently – mostly for lack of anything better to say.
He's quiet for a few moments, chewing over the Bull's explanation, before he frowns. He should leave it alone, but his curiosity gets the better of him.
"But surely you can't control how everyone might feel. Telling them not to get attached is all well and good, but I can't imagine it does much for actually preventing it. What happens if a pretty little barmaid with sparkling eyes and a shapely figure tells you one day that she wants more?"
"Ah..." The Bull starts thoughtfully, tilting his head one way and then the other while he thinks over it. "A lot of the time people are just in it for the thrill, so that doesn't really happen that much. When it does you can kind of see it coming, though, and a lot of that time you can nudge them into realising that you're not going to be what they need. When it's the romance itself that's the thrill that's not really that hard - when they want the whole, you know, 'wearing tights and making speeches in the moonlight, throwing love tokens off balconies' sort of thing, you can usually help them come to a conclusion on their own. Sometimes you do have to sit down and just talk to someone, though. That's always a little rough, but it's better to get it done one way or the other before the Chargers move on.
"Not that it usually comes to that. If it did I guess I'd have to start spending a whole lot more on prostitutes." He shrugs. "It's worked for me so far. That something you're worried about for your own sake? Because down south it's not that big a deal to just talk about things. The other person might not always like what you've got to say, but unless you're with some noble type that likes chopping heads off when they get mad, you can still say it. I can give you some pointers, if you ever need them."
As they're trailing after the Inquisitor, as the Bull talks about it all like it's so remarkably easy, for all that it's absolutely not, Dorian turns to stare at him. His eyes might be a touch too wide, his mouth just a little open beneath his mask.
Romance. What a trite, childish thing. Completely alien in Tevinter, of course; the most romantic stories one could hope for was trashy smut imported from the south for the express purpose of ridiculing it. Or if it were something endemic, it always ended in tragedy.
Dorian learned a long time ago that romance was a thing that happened to other people. Of course, that never seemed to stop him from secretly spiraling, from falling hard and fast for any man that offered him even the smallest kindness.
And the Iron Bull has been—
Dorian shakes himself refocuses on the path ahead of them. The dwarven ruins are winding, narrow things. He should be more interested in the architecture, he thinks, in the beautiful lyrium-infused lamps set into the columns – still working after all these years.
"I apologize for the lapse," he says briskly, and he applauds himself for sounding so nonchalant. "I was briefly waylaid by the thought of you in Orlesian frippery.
The Bull nods, smiling a little because his expression, even if Dorian can't see most of it, is going to help him come off casual, like he believes it. It's the whole topic, maybe, getting to be a little too much for Dorian and making him want to change the subject. Yeah there probably are certain times and certain places where Dorian can talk about sex pretty easily but the topic, the personal side of it with all its emotional little details and considerations, that's probably stuff Dorian isn't used to being able to just come out and say like this. The Bull's known that since he started flirting with the guy in the first place. It's at least a little part of the reason that the flirting worked so well. If that's all getting to be a little much for Dorian, having to confront the fact that all that can just be normal here, the Bull doesn't mind rolling with it and letting Dorian move the conversation some place else.
"Pretty distracting thought, I know. Probably works better as a fantasy, though. They don't exactly make tights in my size and that fancy Orlesian stuff always tears if you even look at it wrong, it's just a mess all around. Got high hopes for that shirt you said you'll design for me, though. It will be nice to have something I can wear two, maybe even three times before it gives up on me."
"You ought to consider adding some jewelry for your horns, you know," he replies easily – because fashion is always a safe topic, in Dorian's mind. "Certainly, having a fashionable shirt would help you fit in if you ever have reason to hobnob with the elite, but a bit of a bit of ostentation will show that you're successful, that you've done well enough for yourself that you've money to burn on ornamentation."
Dorian turns to look at him a little more fully – and even if their current kits don't reveal much, Dorian's seen enough of the man to have a decent mental picture as it is.
"Gold, perhaps. Or perhaps silverite or bloodstone?"
"Ah, I don't know," says the Bull, who always tries to stick with the kinds of disguises that he actually fits into. You have to navigate the fancy stuff sometimes but he's never done it as someone who's actually trying to blend in - even if that did fit who the Iron Bull is as a person, it wouldn't work. The only way it works if you embrace the fact that it doesn't, make a thing out of that instead. If this is what Dorian needs to talk about right now to get away from that other stuff that's still fine with the Bull, but the idea of trying to do himself up and actually be that kind of serious about it is kind of weird to think about.
"What kind of jewellery are you thinking? Anything that dangles too much would probably get in the way if I had to fight, and the kind of people who organise those kinds of fancy parties probably wouldn't even notice a pair of horn caps, even if it wasn't a pain to get them fitted. What kind of look do you want me to go for?"
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"Fine." There's a touch of resignation in his voice when he utters the word. He pauses for a second, apparently judging that the Inquisitor and the rest of their party has wandered far enough ahead that they won't overhear Dorian's conversation with the Bull. Still, he quiets a little, just to avoid further involvement.
"I'm going to guess you're thinking of my staff." The answer is dripping with as much sarcasm as he can muster.
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Dorian shoots the Bull a look of alarm as his voice raises, and his gaze quickly darts to the rest of their party. He's not sure if they overheard, or if they even understand this conversation, but once again, Cassandra only glares at them while the Inquisitor discusses more history with Renn and Valta.
For a second, Dorian wishes the ground might open up and swallow him whole. There are certainly enough of those strange quakes that it might actually happen.
"I hate you," he quickly mumbles. Dorian feels he should call an end to the game now, but the Bull seems to be feeling better, and it would be immature of him, he thinks. Rather like a small boy bursting into tears and announcing he was taking his ball and going home when he doesn't get his way.
"I don't know. Is it my nose?"
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He glances up at the Bull, eyes narrowed slightly with suspicion.
"I'm beginning to wonder if you even have anything in mind, or if you're just changing your answer as I come close to it."
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And even if a portion of Dorian's mind is still dedicated to running through the old potions and glyphs he and Alexius had created on Felix's behalf, it's at least not an active concern.
"I believe this will be my seventh question, then. Is it above the waist?"
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"Why do I get the strong feeling that your answer is going to make me want to slap you?"
He lets out another exasperated breath before feigning a pensive air.
"Well, that at least narrows things down considerably, I suppose. Eighth question: are you thinking of my legs?"
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"It depends entirely on whether or not one has seen a properly performed Dance of Ten Veils – though it tends to be banned from most respectable places. Too saucy, I suppose. It is quite alluring."
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"I think it's more of a matter of what I wish you would pay less attention to, quite frankly." He sniffs a little haughtily, though the effect is dulled and muted by his face covering. "I suppose you can hardly be blamed, considering my perfection.
"But if that's the given criteria—" Dorian pauses, thinking it over. "You could stand to focus less on my ass, I suppose."
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He sniffs again, lifting his chin in that self-arrogant way that tends to make Cassandra roll her eyes.
"As 'statuesque' as my physical form may be, I feel the need to remind you that I am staggeringly impressive beyond that."
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Of course, Dorian says that, but he's done nothing to move away from the Bull, and neither does he seem inclined to do so. The Inquisitor may have asked the two of them along for their company, but her natural curiosity and eagerness to learn, to solve problems, fully has her attention. And she asked them along to protect her, and Dorian is confident that the two of them are tense enough to spring into action when necessary.
He adjusts his mask again – the thick material makes it a little difficult to breathe, but not impossibly so. Despite the discomfort, Dorian hasn't complained about it even once.
"How many of your waking moments are spent thinking about me? Or is it only when you're in my presence that you remember how sublime I am? Those pretty barmaids of yours would surely seethe with jealous, if they knew."
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"They know better than to get like that about me. That's one of the first things I had to learn coming down here, how to nip that stuff in the bud before people get the wrong idea. They get possessive, they start lashing out at the people around them and then maybe morale among the people working in the tavern takes a hit, maybe that one barmaid can't get anything out of it any more because now she's all in her head about the whole thing - either way, there wouldn't be a point in spending that kind of time together if people were going to come out worse off than when they started. So, don't worry, the barmaids know better - you can give me a few more 'sublime' parts to think about without anyone wanting to, I don't know, start spitting in your ale for it or whatever."
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So the Bull flirts with Dorian. The man also flirts with everyone, and Dorian is almost certain he's overheard the man making a few offers to Cassandra. As often as Dorian enjoys flattering himself, he feels he shouldn't assume he and the Bull have anything out of the ordinary, as far as the Bull was concerned.
"How remarkably fair of you," Dorian replies a little absently – mostly for lack of anything better to say.
He's quiet for a few moments, chewing over the Bull's explanation, before he frowns. He should leave it alone, but his curiosity gets the better of him.
"But surely you can't control how everyone might feel. Telling them not to get attached is all well and good, but I can't imagine it does much for actually preventing it. What happens if a pretty little barmaid with sparkling eyes and a shapely figure tells you one day that she wants more?"
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"Not that it usually comes to that. If it did I guess I'd have to start spending a whole lot more on prostitutes." He shrugs. "It's worked for me so far. That something you're worried about for your own sake? Because down south it's not that big a deal to just talk about things. The other person might not always like what you've got to say, but unless you're with some noble type that likes chopping heads off when they get mad, you can still say it. I can give you some pointers, if you ever need them."
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Romance. What a trite, childish thing. Completely alien in Tevinter, of course; the most romantic stories one could hope for was trashy smut imported from the south for the express purpose of ridiculing it. Or if it were something endemic, it always ended in tragedy.
Dorian learned a long time ago that romance was a thing that happened to other people. Of course, that never seemed to stop him from secretly spiraling, from falling hard and fast for any man that offered him even the smallest kindness.
And the Iron Bull has been—
Dorian shakes himself refocuses on the path ahead of them. The dwarven ruins are winding, narrow things. He should be more interested in the architecture, he thinks, in the beautiful lyrium-infused lamps set into the columns – still working after all these years.
"I apologize for the lapse," he says briskly, and he applauds himself for sounding so nonchalant. "I was briefly waylaid by the thought of you in Orlesian frippery.
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"Pretty distracting thought, I know. Probably works better as a fantasy, though. They don't exactly make tights in my size and that fancy Orlesian stuff always tears if you even look at it wrong, it's just a mess all around. Got high hopes for that shirt you said you'll design for me, though. It will be nice to have something I can wear two, maybe even three times before it gives up on me."
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Dorian turns to look at him a little more fully – and even if their current kits don't reveal much, Dorian's seen enough of the man to have a decent mental picture as it is.
"Gold, perhaps. Or perhaps silverite or bloodstone?"
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"What kind of jewellery are you thinking? Anything that dangles too much would probably get in the way if I had to fight, and the kind of people who organise those kinds of fancy parties probably wouldn't even notice a pair of horn caps, even if it wasn't a pain to get them fitted. What kind of look do you want me to go for?"
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