brushoff | tlv ic contact

Okay, that one's on him. Sweeney's eyes slip up under their lids while he clarifies.

"These." He hisses the word. "These are trousers." Not even blue ones. It's not that he hasn't or wouldn't wear jeans, it's just not the current case, and there's a flicker of indignation. Sweeney lets the thought pass and slides his gaze Dorian's direction.

"I dread what ya'd tuck me inta, given free rein."

That said, he does possess nice clothing. Breeches, vest, and frockcoat, fit for a faerie ball. Even made his own shoes. Fuck, he doesn't miss wearing those fucking hose.

Dorian frowns, making a performative little 'hmmm' as he looks over Sweeney. "Tight shirt," he says. "Oxford, button-up, not too tight that it gets a little Chippendale but tight enough that it doesn't leave much to the imagination. Trousers, freshly pressed. No tie, I don't think you'd wear one in the first place, but perhaps a vest? That's if the occasion is semi-formal, of course. If informal..."

He gives Sweeney a very dramatic once-over before deciding, "Sweaters. I think you'd look good in a more fitted type of cashmere sweater."

Sweeney doesn't actually hate the idea of a suit, in the right context. He's resigned himself to the inevitability that it will happen at some point while he's here. Or at least, he hopes he's around long enough to, if only because it means avoiding Hell or Nothingness. Nothing in his affect implies that he isn't perfectly open to the notion.

But the word 'sweaters' puts an immediate twist of disgust into his features. Cashmere isn't bad, but it hardly gives the rest a pass.

"So I can do what? Sit in the den read the newspaper with a fuckin' snifter?" If he's looking to drink brandy, it probably means it's straight from the bottle.

"So you can stay warm while showing off what's important," Dorian shrugs. "Look at you. You're built like a brick shithouse. The last thing you want to do is hide all that away. But you also don't want to look too desperate. A thin sweater, nothing bulky or nothing overly knitted, would help keep you warm while also telling the world that you could crack a walnut by squeezing it."

It's obvious he's given a lot of thought to this.

Amusement sinks his dimples while his tongue worries at his molars. Sweeney lifts his glass for a sip, his gaze lingering on Dorian.

"Ya sayin' ya wanna watch me crack nuts?" he pokes with a crinkle of question in his brow.

Things with Dorian are weird. Not bad, just weird. After Flotilla, there's a strange comfort with him. Sweeney supposes there's only so much fucking you can watch a man do before there's some level of intimacy, if only enough to know Dorian's lechery is tempered with respect. Sweeney doesn't mind the objectification; there's an understanding of where chips lie on that front.

And if there was ever cause to change his mind, he knows damn well Dorian knows how to work a prick with ample skill.

Unsurprisingly, Dorian didn't pick up on the innuendo until Sweeney says it. He lets out a sharp little bark of laughter, shaking his head as he grins.

"If you let me watch, I won't say no."

Another chuckle rattles. "Oh, that'd be the day." Sweeney muses over a sip of his drink. "You watchin' me instead." He seems dubious about the idea.

"Don't know if ya could manage ta sit an' just watch, keepin' yer hands an' everythin' else to yerself."

"I don't know," Dorian teases. "I can be a well-behaved boy when the situation calls for it."

He would be terrible at just sitting and watching and they both know it.

"Uh huh." They certainly both know it. A brow is arched by the suggestion it might be otherwise.

"I ain't tantric or anythin', but I'm still confident I'd manage longer than you could."

"Don't make a challenge if you're not willing to put it to the test."

Dorian grins, grabbing his bottle of wine to top off his glass.

"Wouldn't think of it."

He'd probably do it anyway, just not intentionally enough to call for thinking about it first. Sweeney kills his glass and reaches for his bottle to see it refreshed.

"S'spect ya'll keep plenty busy while I work up the nerve." You know, fucking lots of people in the meantime.

"I try to keep busy," Dorian admits, with a little shrug. "But annoyingly, I'm not as busy as I'd like."

Elias and Pagan. Just two people who he's enjoying fucking at the moment. He's used to more. There should be more.

Sweeney can relate, if on a smaller scale. His pool has fewer to start with, but also... fucking folk is complicated here. He's not 100% confident the 'just sex' thing is workable. But in for a penny...

"I'm sure ya'll manage. Keep distracted with somethin' else 'til more options come along."

He pauses briefly. "Does seem like a handful'a pretty fellas showed up as of late." Pretty enough to start looking like girls. Sweeney doesn't like that shit at all. The world is already confusing enough for him as it is.

"I do not know what the Admiral did to bring on so many good looking Asians, but I am not complaining."

Is it possibly a little gauche to point out that all the Asians are ridiculously good looking? Yes. Is it also true? Also yes. For some reason, it's the white guys winning the 'who looks most like your awful uncle' award.

"Honestly, I suspect the Admiral has a type."

He chuckles and brings the glass back to his lips before speaking over its rim.

"Noticed that a bit myself." Sweeney's eyes roll beneath there lids as he takes a drink.

"Course, that type seems ta share it, so maybe he just likes a good show." All he can do is shrug.

"An' I ain't in a place ta cast stones." Not about that, for damn sure.

"Oh I am certainly not casting stones," Dorian points out. His expression shifts to a wry grin as he continues. "After all, the more attractive men there are, the more I get to look at them. Oh no, the Barge is full of hot men, whatever shall I do."

He is blatantly being a shit for the sake of being a shit.

"Just a burden ya gotta bear." His voice is cheeky and his glass full enough that he has no need to worry how big his swigs are.

"Strange, given his fancy fer blondes when it comes ta lasses." After a moment of reflection, he has another realization.

"Or ones that are really young." Hmm. "'especially when they ain't gonna get any older."

He knew the Admiral was a creeper. But seriously.

"You know, you're not wrong about that point," Dorian frowns. "We've got plenty of men in their forties here but with the women, they're either under thirty or over a hundred and just look like they're thirty. I think Quigley might be the oldest of the non-immortal lot and even then, she can't be more than forty."

Based on the frown and the little wrinkle of Dorian's nose, he also thinks that's a little creepy.

Sweeney shrugs while his brain continues to sort through faces. He's shit at gauging human ages, but there are general categories, like young, too young, that's a hard yes, that's a hard no, sure, sure if I'm drunk enough, sure if I'm bored, sure if I hate myself at the time, old, older, really old, WTF.

"There was one older cunt when I first got her, but I ain't seen her since." Gertrude had definitely made an impression. She had had a very strong opinion about the appropriateness of his walking back from the showers to his cabin without his clothes on. It's not like he was exposing himself; he was carrying his towel and clothes, so his prick was readily covered. And it was just down the hall.

"Guessin' she's fucked off."

One older cunt when he first got here, oh hey wait a moment...

"I think I know who you're talking about. She was from Jon's world, right? Er, Archivist Jon, not any of the other ten billion Johns we've had on the ship."

White men are boring with their name choices.

"I'm fairly certain she left a while ago. She would have had something to say with all the nonsense Jon and Elias have gotten up to since then."

Johns and Daniels; Sweeney had already run into that confusion.

"Fuck if I know." One shoulder shrugs. "Didn't give her name, just a piece of her mind 'bout me inflictin' my lily-white ass on her delicate sensibilities."

Dorian nods. And then, with a sage little frown, he points out, "She'd probably hate me."

Sweeney chuckles and bounces his brow at Dorian over the rim of his glass.

"No doubt." Because obviously. He drinks and sighs.

"Fuck, I don't know how a prude survives in this fuckin' place." His gaze slides up to the ceiling. "Not sure how that new blonde's gonna fair." Sweeney shakes his head.

"She didn't seem any less affronted by seein' a fair bit'a skin." You know, because he was in the shower. She was the one who couldn't work the fucking thing.

New blonde. She.

"Wait, are you talking about Petronilla? The one who's even more ye olde timey than the sailor boys."

He nods once. "That's the one." Sweeney shrugs in a moment of consideration, remember trying to gauge what she'd been hiding under all those layers.

"Ain't sure 'bout where she is on fuckin', but she seems fine 'nough with murder."

And for all his impulses, even Sweeney knows he should weigh that amount of crazy before he sticks his dick in her. May not stop him, but he should at least think about it first.

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