His first reaction is to bristle, because of course it is. The metal's not a touchy subject as much as the way it'd gotten into him, though, so Logan's posture relaxes slightly from its stiffness as he huffs instead. "What, you didn't hear the clang when I gave that striped motherfucker a headbutt?"
The bristling is interesting, and another thing Bull files away for analysis in the growing mental folder of this strange little man.
"Thought it might've been all his teeth smashing together. He only had two real ones left in his skull," he comments with an audible snort, nostrils flaring with the sound. "Must make swimming difficult."
Then again, Logan's certainly fit enough to carry his own weight on land. Still, that much metal must fuck around with buoyancy, so Bull would be surprised if he didn't sink like a stone.
... Good thing they weren't about to try sex in the nearby lake or anything so risque.
That has him turning, though just enough to give Bull a look out of the corner of his eye. "That's why I don't swim, bub."
Or he certainly tries not to. Though he can stay afloat if he expends enough energy, it's useless to go especially long, whether in time or in distance.
Besides, nothing's scarier than big bodies of water when you know you're prone to fucking drowning.
"What about you, huh?" He reaches for the whiskey again, deciding if Bull's not going to drink from it, he might as well take another gulp. "Were you huge before you knew how to fight, or are you huge because of it?"
"I was born big," he shrugs, ridiculously broad shoulders exaggerating the simple gesture by quite a bit. "Been apologising to my mother ever since I could talk."
Because can you imagine giving birth to this?
He then grins and adds, "Makes it harder to hide from fights, so I learned early and probably grew bigger for it. You'd think people would see the horns and maybe think twice before trying to grab me by the horns for a fight."
That has Logan looking up. Having never had horns, he can't say he knows how it all works. "Don't like when people touch them?" he asks, pointing up with the same hand that holds the bottle.
"I like when people touch them just fine," he answers slowly, tilting his head a bit to one side as if to show off his impressive rack. "They make great stirrups to hook their legs up on for a bit of oral play."
He lets Logan chew on that for a bit while he takes a swig of the whiskey, sighing roughly at the delightful burn. Then he continues nonchalantly, as if he didn't just throw out a random Iron Bull sex fact, "They're not too sensitive but they can itch something fierce when it gets too dry. Have to rub a balm on them otherwise I catch myself scratching them up against trees or walls."
It's tough when your horns are so damn big. It's why he gave up on shirts and just opts for a big cloak in winter, fashion be damned.
It's a good thing Logan's not the one with the whiskey this time, or else he would've choked a bit on it. He's not a prude so much as he is easily surprised by blunt admissions like that-- but he hides it with a brief shake of his head as he turns to look at the fire instead.
"Sounds terrible," he mumbles. "...the itching, I mean.
"I'll admit I ain't seen horns bigger than yours." Though Logan doesn't clear his throat, he does swallow as his own fingers flex. "Retractable claws don't get the same troubles."
"The itching's not so bad, especially if you get someone to help you oil these babies up before you 'get down' to business. Doesn't chafe their legs as much, then."
His eye glances down at the flexing fingers and he asks, "Does it hurt when they come out, or have you developed little microscopic sheath holes on your knuckles?"
Logan's head drops down quickly for a moment there in sheer surprise at the fact they're still on sex, but.
He eventually shakes his head. "No sheath holes.
"They cut the skin every time."
He pushes one claw out half an inch, blood pooling between the cut and the metal before the skin closes around the edge of it in his healing. Then it's pulled back in, and though that bleeds as well, it closes up just as soon as it started.
On seeing the claw, though, he leans in closer to watch it retract and how quickly the skin knits together.
"Accelerated healing. Now that's handy," he muses. "Does that only work for healing tissues that are still attached, or can you regrow parts if they get removed?"
A clinical line of questioning from a very... not-so-intellectual looking man, to be sure.
Scoffing at that, Bull just shakes his head and leans back in his seat, passing the whiskey over to Logan.
"You're not into pain, doesn't take a genius to see that." He then adds with a slight, knowing smile, "But you don't mind a bit of force, as long as it's on your terms."
The stocky man is all about control, as if he's got some wild creature trapped under his skin just gnashing at the tethers, ready to get out. That much had been clear in the brawl, the vicious intent just barely curbed to stop from turning the fight into a bloodbath. He hadn't been that eager to follow Bull, but after some careful nudging and cajoling, a big hand giving his shoulder a squeeze, he'd allowed it.
Said smile gets to Logan more than he's willing to admit.
"What are you, a psychologist?" And he reaches out to snatch the whiskey from Bull's grip. He wraps his fingers around the neck when he drinks from it-- one, two, three-- and it's enough that the tickle in his jaw and throat not only lasts for five seconds instead of two, but also lingers like real tactile memory.
Logan shoves the whiskey back, and if he had fur, it'd be standing just like the points of his hair do.
"Where the hell would a guy like me have studied psychology?" he shoots back, grin stretching over his scarred face.
"You're an interesting sort of guy. Was hoping you'd share a bit of your story with me," he shrugs, casually lifting the bottle to see how much liquor is even left. "Most fighter types locally go to the underground ring here, but your form's not sloppy enough for that. Not clean enough to be from a hobby, either. You jumped into the fight even if you didn't have to, but you're not some self-sacrificing hero-type. Too private for that kind of spotlight."
He stretches relaxedly, putting the bottle down on the ground between them and linking his fingers behind his shaved head, watching Logan's face. "You're interesting."
A brief pause, and then, just because he can, "Oh, and you have a sweet ass."
"Wh--" The compliment comes out of bumfuck nowhere, and Logan doesn't have the time or the thought process left to really look anything but bewildered (and a little embarrassed) by it. "Quit looking at my ass!"
Though it's less because of offence and more because of genuine inability to even think of a proper reaction to that.
"I don't have a story." Bringing a hand up, he presses it to his eyes. The other stays dangling between his spread legs as his forearm rests gently atop his knee. "I just... I was born in Canada and ran away from home as a kid.
"Assholes aplenty. Learned how to punch. That's it."
"After," he muttered. His hand slid slowly down his face, but stayed enough for the edge of it to reach the bulb of his nose and keep his lower half covered.
"...I was a sickly kid. Couldn't punch for shit."
There was a bit of discomfort at being so frank about his life, but this was mostly because no-one ever really thought to ask.
He scoffs, then brings his hand down from his face to punch Bull's knee (albeit light enough he's sure it won't hurt). "You just haven't seen me without the dentures."
It helps, though. Defensive as he is at being read so easily. Logan supposes there're a few perks to that. Like Bull knowing what to say, somehow.
"So?" Making a small upward nod of his head, Logan points at Bull with his chin. "You gonna fess something up, too?"
The big man just grins, playfully grabbing the hand that had punched his knee, his considerably larger, greyer one easily wrapping completely around Logan's before releasing it.
"You'd have to make some educated guesses first," he points out.
"Never met her," he shrugs. "When I said I apologised to her every day, it's always been in my head."
He scratches at his short beard and decides to explain a bit. "Come from a secluded community that didn't really practice 'conventional' family life. Kids all got grouped and raised together without meeting their parents. I'm on good terms with the woman who raised my group, and I guess she's the closest thing I've had to a mother."
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He'd noticed when yanking Logan out of the way of a chair being thrown.
"Got that metal from your claws all up inside you?"
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"Thought it might've been all his teeth smashing together. He only had two real ones left in his skull," he comments with an audible snort, nostrils flaring with the sound. "Must make swimming difficult."
Then again, Logan's certainly fit enough to carry his own weight on land. Still, that much metal must fuck around with buoyancy, so Bull would be surprised if he didn't sink like a stone.
... Good thing they weren't about to try sex in the nearby lake or anything so risque.
Pity.
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Or he certainly tries not to. Though he can stay afloat if he expends enough energy, it's useless to go especially long, whether in time or in distance.
Besides, nothing's scarier than big bodies of water when you know you're prone to fucking drowning.
"What about you, huh?" He reaches for the whiskey again, deciding if Bull's not going to drink from it, he might as well take another gulp. "Were you huge before you knew how to fight, or are you huge because of it?"
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Because can you imagine giving birth to this?
He then grins and adds, "Makes it harder to hide from fights, so I learned early and probably grew bigger for it. You'd think people would see the horns and maybe think twice before trying to grab me by the horns for a fight."
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"...what, they sensitive?"
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He lets Logan chew on that for a bit while he takes a swig of the whiskey, sighing roughly at the delightful burn. Then he continues nonchalantly, as if he didn't just throw out a random Iron Bull sex fact, "They're not too sensitive but they can itch something fierce when it gets too dry. Have to rub a balm on them otherwise I catch myself scratching them up against trees or walls."
It's tough when your horns are so damn big. It's why he gave up on shirts and just opts for a big cloak in winter, fashion be damned.
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"Sounds terrible," he mumbles. "...the itching, I mean.
"I'll admit I ain't seen horns bigger than yours." Though Logan doesn't clear his throat, he does swallow as his own fingers flex. "Retractable claws don't get the same troubles."
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His eye glances down at the flexing fingers and he asks, "Does it hurt when they come out, or have you developed little microscopic sheath holes on your knuckles?"
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He eventually shakes his head. "No sheath holes.
"They cut the skin every time."
He pushes one claw out half an inch, blood pooling between the cut and the metal before the skin closes around the edge of it in his healing. Then it's pulled back in, and though that bleeds as well, it closes up just as soon as it started.
"But I heal."
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On seeing the claw, though, he leans in closer to watch it retract and how quickly the skin knits together.
"Accelerated healing. Now that's handy," he muses. "Does that only work for healing tissues that are still attached, or can you regrow parts if they get removed?"
A clinical line of questioning from a very... not-so-intellectual looking man, to be sure.
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"Bone first. Then muscle. Skin."
Logan snorts, and the closest thing to a pout appears on his mouth. "I ain't givin' a demo for that, either."
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"You're not into pain, doesn't take a genius to see that." He then adds with a slight, knowing smile, "But you don't mind a bit of force, as long as it's on your terms."
The stocky man is all about control, as if he's got some wild creature trapped under his skin just gnashing at the tethers, ready to get out. That much had been clear in the brawl, the vicious intent just barely curbed to stop from turning the fight into a bloodbath. He hadn't been that eager to follow Bull, but after some careful nudging and cajoling, a big hand giving his shoulder a squeeze, he'd allowed it.
Bull could work with that.
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"What are you, a psychologist?" And he reaches out to snatch the whiskey from Bull's grip. He wraps his fingers around the neck when he drinks from it-- one, two, three-- and it's enough that the tickle in his jaw and throat not only lasts for five seconds instead of two, but also lingers like real tactile memory.
Logan shoves the whiskey back, and if he had fur, it'd be standing just like the points of his hair do.
"The hell did you take me here for, anyway?"
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"You're an interesting sort of guy. Was hoping you'd share a bit of your story with me," he shrugs, casually lifting the bottle to see how much liquor is even left. "Most fighter types locally go to the underground ring here, but your form's not sloppy enough for that. Not clean enough to be from a hobby, either. You jumped into the fight even if you didn't have to, but you're not some self-sacrificing hero-type. Too private for that kind of spotlight."
He stretches relaxedly, putting the bottle down on the ground between them and linking his fingers behind his shaved head, watching Logan's face. "You're interesting."
A brief pause, and then, just because he can, "Oh, and you have a sweet ass."
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Though it's less because of offence and more because of genuine inability to even think of a proper reaction to that.
"I don't have a story." Bringing a hand up, he presses it to his eyes. The other stays dangling between his spread legs as his forearm rests gently atop his knee. "I just... I was born in Canada and ran away from home as a kid.
"Assholes aplenty. Learned how to punch. That's it."
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Not that he'd protest having a closer look, but Logan needs a bit more coaxing for that.
"I'm gonna guess the military didn't teach you to throw the punches. That come before, after you ran away?"
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"...I was a sickly kid. Couldn't punch for shit."
There was a bit of discomfort at being so frank about his life, but this was mostly because no-one ever really thought to ask.
And Logan's not much of a sharer otherwise.
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Which explains the running away from home bit.
"That's rough."
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"But I'm fine." Or at least as fine as he'll ever be. Logan doesn't really know if PTSD ever goes away for good, but isn't hopeful about it.
He isn't hopeful about peace, either, but he'll appreciate whatever reprieve he gets.
"Two-hundred years means not much is surprising any more."
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"... You're looking damn fine for an old-timer," he offers, grinning again and waggling his brows for good effect.
Maybe the ridiculous statement will snap Logan out of his moodiness for a few seconds.
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It helps, though. Defensive as he is at being read so easily. Logan supposes there're a few perks to that. Like Bull knowing what to say, somehow.
"So?" Making a small upward nod of his head, Logan points at Bull with his chin. "You gonna fess something up, too?"
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"You'd have to make some educated guesses first," he points out.
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But Logan looks up at Bull's face, and really, he's drawing a blank for the most part, but at least one thing sticks out.
"You and your mum on good terms?" He'd ask if Bull had a father, but feels that might be too personal.
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He scratches at his short beard and decides to explain a bit. "Come from a secluded community that didn't really practice 'conventional' family life. Kids all got grouped and raised together without meeting their parents. I'm on good terms with the woman who raised my group, and I guess she's the closest thing I've had to a mother."
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