nibbling | open post pt. 2.

"I can manage," Bull says with a wave of his hand to try and cover the flat note in his voice.

He gathers up all the fabric and follows Pennygood to whatever curtained off area they have to change in. It's not spacious. Bull throws everything to hang over the top of the curtain rod and starts to undress. Not that he has much to take off.

The first outfit is the easiest to put on; the blue shirt has no sleeves, horizontal clasps all the way up the front that he just has to force closed over the expanse of his chest. Tries on a long plum coat along with it, and a tighter pair of pants - maybe a little too tight, he can't imagine living his life in these without tearing them. The colours and embroidered patterns don't match, but constructing a nice outfit isn't his job, he's just gotta show them what the clothes look like, so he comes out and spins for Pennygood and Astarion, feeling like a dick. The next set is equally mismatched but fits a little better, a longer shirt in red and gold.

The third outfit, though, that has a white shirt that goes over the head, and there's a clear, "Aw, crap," growled from behind the curtain as Bull tries to stretch the neckline to wiggle it over his left horn and just gets it stuck on there, stretched and uncomfortable. Qunari even have a saying about this, the equivalent of "getting caught with your pants down".

Astarion, waiting not-so-patiently against the wall, stops his restless (read: bored! Bull is taking so long in there) fidgeting only at the sound of 'aw, crap'. Pennygood hears it, too, and looks vaguely alarmed. "Sir, is everything all right in there?" he asks, obviously more concerned about the state of his product than whether Bull is okay.

"Nothing to worry about, I'm sure—" Astarion says, rudely peeking behind the curtain without even warning Bull or asking if he's decent. Look, Bull's clearly not shy; he walks around with his tits fully out. At the sight of him, shirt caught on those fearsome horns of his, Astarion barks a laugh.

"Gentlemen?" Pennygood asks, clearly growing more worried about his precious clothing. You break it with your giant horns, you buy it is not an official rule here, but he thinks surely it would hold up, right...? "Is there a problem?"

"Nope!" Bull calls back, and then to Astarion, hissed lower, resisting the urge to physically haul him, "Get in here and help me." Asshole.

He's gonna pay for this later but he drops down onto one knee, the other one creaking ominously, since his brace is on the floor with the rest of his shit. Without his pants on the massive spiderweb of white scarring over his left knee speaks of yet another bad old injury. But Astarion is right that he doesn't seem bothered to be caught in nothing but his subligaculum.

The whole thing could be kinda fun under other circumstances, but is mostly annoying right now. He tips his head forward so Astarion can free the shirt without tearing it. Muttering to himself. "Stupid fuckin' shirt necks with no give. Woulda looked great in that one." Big white billowy shirts are basically the formalwear he'd choose for himself, though probably a little too pirate captain for their purposes.

Fucking hells. Astarion does not want to waste their precious coin on some expensive shirt that Bull has torn apart with his horns. He's already running through excuses—Pennygood should have known better, and it's his fault for giving them a shirt that wouldn't stretch over the head!—as he approaches, hardly precious about Bull's state of undress. He's seen a lot of people naked over the years; he can't remember the last time it actually excited or embarrassed him. Most of the time, he doesn't feel anything about it besides blissful numbness.

He is actually quite entertained by this particular situation, though, and although Bull can't see it with the billowy shirt hanging over his face, the corner of his mouth curls up in (somewhat malicious) amusement.

"How long have you had horns, and you're still getting things caught on them?" he chides, reaching out to pluck carefully at the shirt, taking special pains to touch only the fabric and nothing else. While he's not precious about seeing people naked, he's still not the biggest fan of touching them. This is, of course, a ridiculous way to try to get the shirt off, and he ends up getting it more tangled in Bull's horns than it was before.

An exasperated sigh. "Stay still," he demands. ...Then, tapping a horn with one fingernail: "Have you any feeling in these?" Just so he knows before he starts, you know, getting all up in there.

Hey, he doesn't exactly wear a lot of shirts to get in the practice with getting them on. But there's a real scolding Tamassran note to Astarion's voice so he doesn't, for once, chat back. Keeps still when he's told to keep still.

"No more'n a fingernail," Bull promises. That is: the place where they join into his skin (and into his skull) has nerves, so if there's a lot of pressure they get that pulled-wrong feeling, but he doesn't really even feel the tap except as a tiny reverberation.

Untangling the fabric from Bull's horns is a little like coaxing a lock open, all subtle movements and careful arranging. He actually feels a strange sense of satisfaction when the shirt finally comes loose, like he's accomplished something, the same feeling he gets when he hears that telltale click of a bolt opening.

Holding the shirt up: "Pity. I rather liked this one."

Edited (hello.... punctuation) 2025-10-04 14:27 (UTC)

"Me too," Bull says mournfully, looking up at the shirt in Astarion's. "Buuut, probably not the right look for the job."

He braces a hand on his knee and hauls himself back up to standing with a grunt and a huaaghh. "Thanks, though." He picks through the clothes to try and find something he hasn't already tried on. Straight-faced: "Woulda been a tough sell, pretending to be a banker with clothes on his horns."

"Hm." The white shirt discarded carelessly, Astarion tosses a pair of trousers very unceremoniously at Bull. They look a little too short, but he can't pretend to be a fancy banker type pantsless, either. A moment later, he nudges Bull's brace with his foot. "So, what's wrong with your knee?"

"Really, the knee?" Bull asks, surprised, because Astarion has never asked about all the other ways his body is visibly fucked. If there's an angle, he can't see it.

He pulls on the pants. "Old scars, that's all. Fractured by some frost magic, waited too long to see a healer. Brace hides the limp, stops people from clocking it as a weak spot. Hey, these are all right." They fit, and he doesn't hate the mid-calf look.

He's a little concerned about Bull's ability to run should the need present itself, actually, but he doesn't bring it up so as not to spook him off of this little misadventure. It'll be fine, probably. And if not, well, Bull has shown himself perfectly capable of smashing a few skulls.

Astarion shoots him a discerning look, eyes flicking up and down to take in the trousers. Definitely too short, but he can at least get those tree-trunk thighs in them. "You look very..." A pause. "Jaunty." It's not said without some amusement, though; the look is far from what Astarion would choose for him given the opportunity, a little goofy, but it's not bad. It could work.

Another pause, thoughtful, before Astarion rudely tosses him another shirt. "Red is your color, I think."

"If you say so," says Bull.

No trouble getting this one on, and Bull does it up with a low Hrm, rolling a shoulder to feel how the material pulls — but it fits, not swashbucklingly loose but not constricting, either. There's a crispness to the cut of the thick fabric that mean his shoulders probably look great. It's a good choice.

It feels like a costume, but he can live with that.

"You like all this stuff, huh," he remarks idly. "Fancy clothes."

Yes, red is definitely Bull's color, sharp and striking against the paleness of his skin. Not the pink he'd requested—seriously or not; Astarion has a little bit of trouble telling with his eternally nonchalant delivery—but close enough. He gives Bull an approving once-over, pleased with the outfit selection. It's the first one so far that hasn't clashed horribly, and although the short pants are a little silly, one could easily mistake it for a fashion choice.

"Fancy clothes, expensive wine, shiny things," Astarion rattles off. All things that he covets and doesn't get to have. This is the closest he's gotten to shopping for luxury items in a long time; his own clothes are impeccably taken care of, but well-worn all the same. "What can I say? I'm cut out for the finer things in life."

The Iron Bull will remember that. It's not like they have coin to spare right now, can't risk coming up short. But he might keep it in mind, for, you know, once they're in Thedas. If they pull this off, he's gonna need to find a way to say thanks.

"Sure," he says, "You've got the looks to pull off rampant hedonism. But I meant — the eye for fashion. That's a skill." He knows because he doesn't have it. "If you told me you worked in a place like this it wouldn't surprise me, that's all."

Anyway, he's going to start changing back into his normal clothes. "Let's get these."

"Mm," Astarion approves, "you know, it's rather fun to throw money around."

He's having fun buying fancy things, even for someone else! Of course, he wishes it were for himself, but this has to be the next best thing. And it's sort of enjoyable to dress Bull up like an oversized doll. One could almost believe he actually is a mannerly banker and not a mercenary.

Through the curtain, Pennygood asks, still nervous about what Bull's horns might have done to his stock, "...Any update, gentlemen?"

"As much as I'd love to watch you undress," Astarion says, "there will always be time for that later. I'll go flash some coin, hmm?"

Bull is plenty aware that his skin hadn't phased the elf for a second, no blush, no lingering little peeks that the serving girls back home would do or the transfixed disgust of nobility. So the feeling that sparks in him when Astarion flirts back a little is mostly curiosity, always fascinated when he thinks he's spotted the edges of some kind of mask. One day he'll stop wanting to unpick this guy's whole deal.

"Yeah," he agrees, "Stop checking me out and go pay the guy." If nothing else he'd like the elbow room back.

Bull follows him out not long after, back in his circus tent pants, the outfit they've chosen in hand. Back in the act from before, though he's dialed back the misery now that the guy has a shirt to wear. Makes sure to thank the tailor and Astarion effusively before they go.

As they walk out, Bull's new outfit in a pretty little bag, Astarion feels surprisingly... well, not optimistic. That's a shade too far. But he doesn't feel entirely dreadful about this plan, which is a novelty all in itself.

"So," he says, hands clasped behind his back, "I suppose I should tell you about our mark." The last thing he ever wants to do in his life is think about Dufay, but sacrifices must be made. "You'll be talking to an awful, stuffy, snot-nosed chamberlain named Dufay."

It's obvious there's no love lost between them. Astarion wrinkles his nose just saying the name; Dufay, like it's a swear. How many times has that pompous snob called him a brat? He isn't entirely wrong, admittedly, but at least Astarion isn't the one willingly kissing Cazador's boots.

"It's an estate in the Upper City. Dark, foreboding. You can't miss it."

"Great," Bull says, to dark, forboding, pulling a face that's the opposite of great. "Okay, let's talk about the stuff that can kill me. Say this Dufay guy mistakes me for the assassin that killed his grandmother, what's he do about it. Hit me with a fireball? Call some kinda guards?"

A pause. Obviously, Astarion has not thought this far ahead.

"Well, you're quite difficult to mistake for anyone." Not a lot of eight-foot-tall men with horns and an eyepatch around here. "And, honestly, I can't imagine he cared very much for his nana."

"Astarion." Bull gives him an unamused look. Apparently he hasn't forgotten his name after all. "You know what I mean."

"Don't say Astarion like that," he snaps back, mostly to give himself time to think. In a poor imitation of Bull's low and somewhat irritated voice, "Astarion."

Hands on his hips, he blows a strand of silver hair out of his face like this is all a big inconvenience to him. Cazador is probably who Bull should be most concerned about, considering his aptitude for magic and inclination for murdering, but there's the vampire spawn, too, and probably some other thralls—

If he says all that, Bull won't want to do this anymore. "I'm not... entirely sure what the security situation looks like. But I'm sure it's nothing to worry about—Dufay is an inveterate idiot. As long as you look the part, which you do thanks to me, it'll go off without a hitch."

He won't say Astarion like that if Astarion doesn't keep dancing around information like it's a game. He misses, briefly and sharply, the Chargers, who may have all been eccentric outcasts but they knew how to report to him. Because they knew some intel might be the difference between living and dying.

Bull heaves a sigh. No, Krem would tell him he's overthinking it. It's not wetwork. Rich aristocrat with a dumb servant. Astarion's the one who'll be risking his skin when he steals the key. This is a different thing, it's not practicality, he's — nervous.

"Yeah," he says, "Okay yeah." Making himself buy into it because what the shit other choice does he have. Keep living in this city and saving a hundred coin here and there? There's not a lot of people anywhere who're hard up enough to hear of some shithole on a different plane and say, I'll help you out if you take me too. "Without a hitch." He's the Iron fucking Bull, if it goes balls up he'll just kill everyone.

"I'll go tomorrow," he decides. "Might get someone from the Guild to pass a message. Probably better if you're not seen swinging by my rooms so much. And I've got some other uh, leads."

Astarion wonders if he should mention that he'll be there while this all goes down, just locked in some dilapidated dormitory or serving as the master of the house's entertainment. He doesn't. It's too humiliating.

"All right." And then, a moment later: "What leads?"

Tutting, he scolds, "Don't keep it to yourself. We're partners in this, dear. We share things." Obviously, he would never, ever keep anything important from Bull!!!

Unfortunately this works on Bull, even knowing real solidarity is probably poor odds with Astarion. "Guild stuff. I think I can get a fake key," Bull says. "That or I end up with a real key and we hit two vaults. But I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to be a mark, which is fine. Free fake, you can swap it for the one you're taking."

And he's not done, carries on talking. "Plus I'm gonna see how much I can get Nine-Fingers to loan me. I've done some solid work for her, and she thinks she can tell when I'm lying." Owing money to the Guild is a quick way to lose kneecaps but he's planning on taking his all the way back to Thedas. If they're going to rob people, they might as well rob as many people as they can. "Oh, and I want the diabolist to message those Circle mages. If that's okay with you." Shockingly, not sarcasm, or at least, undetectable sarcasm.

Astarion stares for a moment, eyes narrowed in suspicion. If anyone's ever sincerely said if that's okay with you to him, it had to have been so long ago that he no longer remembers. He's hesitant to take it seriously lest Bull burst out laughing the next second—oh, you really thought I cared what you think? Then again, he doesn't want to overreact out of paranoia and look a fool, either.

"I—" He stumbles over his words, uncharacteristically nervous. How do people tolerate this? Someone acting nice—or at least, not completely awful—is a fucking minefield. "Yes." Clipped, a little awkward. "That would be... fine."

Then, moving swiftly along so that he can't be embarrassed: "And a fake key will do just fine. It'll give us quite a bit more time. Dufay isn't smart enough to tell the real one from a forgery."

Maybe. He's, like, 75% sure.

Bull knows a lot about reading people, ferreting out their secrets and tells to get an idea of the bigger picture of someone's psyche. Habit to do it, like figuring out how he'd kill everyone if a fight broke out. But Astarion looks startled, for a brief flash, and Bull has to reluctantly acknowledge he has no idea what goes on in this guy's head.

"Good," he says. Gonna judge the man's stupidity for himself before he makes the call, but he seems happy Astarion's on board with all his scheming. Reaches out for the bag of clothes, since they're almost back at the Mermaid and he assumes Astarion once again won't stick around. "Talk tomorrow. Go relax, say goodbye to your city."

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still me.