Mastiff, Mabari (explicit) (solas bull)

31 July 2015

The collar, of course, was a no-go right from the start; both of them grimaced at the thought of it, too much by way of connotation and association. Shackles and orders and asit tal-eb, saarebas. The rest comes as constraint enough, besides, even if it lacks the physicality of worn leather and clinking tags.

Magic’s not so bad in bed, Bull had explained, if it’s got the kind of control you have. Solas had given that twitch of a smirk he does, where he hides it like he thinks it’s not worth sharing. Or that whoever would see it did not deserve its shine.

So: collars no, knees yes, and Bull sits back on his heels with his hands planted on the ground between his thighs and whines. Puppy eyes are hard with the kind of asymmetry he’s been dealt, but he puts extra effort into what he’s got, tips his one brow up at an angle measured out for pity and sweetness. Even down near the ground like this he’s got more than half Solas’ height, and that’s if Solas was standing; as it is, Solas has himself perched on a chair, delicate and light. Looking down at Bull like this gives him this sense of – not nobility, he’s not Dorian or Vivienne, even with his legs crossed at the knee and his chin tipped high. It’s the way he’s dressed, probably, with the hems ragged and the fabric stained. Still, there’s something in Solas’ posture that commands respect.

Bull’s happy to give it, here.

“Whining is unbecoming of you,” Solas says. His head tips to one side, peering at a new angle at Bull. He tsks a sound against the roof of his mouth. “You cannot possibly want for anything, after all. You’re fed, watered, you have things to play with. I could call you spoiled.”

Bull hangs his head further, shoulders slumping, whine stretching out long. It’s not really a whine by any definition: his voice can’t reach that kind of pitch, so it ends up more of a long rumble, a pathetic little purr. He stares up at Solas from across the few feet of distance between them. With the metaphorical leash in Solas’ hand, he doesn’t like for his dog to approach him unless invited. He doesn’t much like it without the leash, either.

Another tsk. Solas uncrosses his legs, deigning to lean forward. “It’s shameful how your instincts have been dampened. A natural predator, and here you are begging for attention. That is what you want, is it not? To be pet?”

They have tails for this sort of thing, you know, Bull had told him back when they’d started playing this game on the regular, stripping down before the stage was set. All sorts of colors, strung onto plugs. They’re pretty damn cute.

I hardly appreciate cute, Solas had reminded him. We will do without any props or costumes. Nothing can hide your horns or your size – it is the submission that makes you a dog.

Right, Bull had answered, and his throat had gone a little dry.

Now he forgoes any wagging of tails to perk up alert, to adjust his hands (paws) excitedly on the floor. He huffs a little wuff of a sound, but he waits for Solas to roll his eyes, a secretive smile coming to light, and pat his knees in invitation before he leans forward onto all fours and crawls up between Solas’s feet. It’s not easy to get the angle right, what with his horns always getting in the way, but they’ve gotten used to it enough that when Bull rests his chin up on Solas’ thigh, Solas shifts his posture smoothly to accommodate. His hand is smooth when it rests between Bull’s horns, fingers curling around the curve of Bull’s head.

“You’re disgusting, truly,” Solas says fondly. “All this affection will go to your head. “Next I’m certain you’ll be asking for a treat, as if you’ve done something to deserve it.”

True to form, Bull snuffles higher along the length of Solas’ thigh just as the mention of the word treat. Solas shoves at his forehead with the heel of his palm, making a disapproving noise in his throat. “I should think not,” he says. “You know perfectly well I don’t like my dogs slobbering on me. You will wait patiently as you always do.”

Bull may whine and lean his head heavy against Solas’ knee now, but when Solas strokes his hand across the scars on Bull’s face and cups his jaw, other hand working at the ties of his trousers, Bull only rears back as he’s been trained and lets his mouth hang open like a dog panting in the heat.

“There’s a good beast,” Solas always hisses when he wraps a hand around himself, eyes trained on the pink of Bull’s tongue. “Tame and obedient, you listen so well to me,” to me, to me, an echo caught on his tongue in the flare of climax, a rush of power from the hand he has caught around one of Bull’s horns, the words he has caught around Bull’s submission. Tame, safe, the syllables that soothe when Bull still hears the rumbling boom of a dreadnought going down. Bull swallows around the dryness of his mouth.

Solas comes on his tongue and on his cheeks and on his chin and Bull licks at his lips and pants still, barks a pleased sort of noise that Solas waves off with one hand, rests his chin on Solas’ knee to let Solas swipe his thumb through the come still hanging on Bull’s skin. He sucks Solas’ fingers clean and stares up hopefully after.

“You’ve had your treat,” Solas says, petting at Bull’s head and the back of his neck. “I don’t know what else you could want. Go, lay down.”

As ever, he only lasts some ten minutes of watching Bull curled on the floor with his cock hard between his legs before he permits Bull to grind against his shin, breath harsh and fitful when he comes. Those ten minutes of control are blessedly hard, but Solas murmurs “you waited well, little beast” with something approaching pride each time, and it’s worth it. It’s worth it.

It’s worth the ache of his knee when he stands after, too, shaking out his joints. “Damn,” Bull grumbles, “you’re gonna keep me down there for hours sometime, I know it.”

“A complaint or a challenge, I wonder?” Solas always seems so unruffled, even if he’s just had a tal-vashoth hump his leg. “Dogs aren’t precisely known for walking about on two legs.”

“I’ve seen some talented dogs,” Bull jokes, and Solas grants him half of a smile.

“That may be so,” Solas says, “but very few are known for being able to play chess sans voir. On that note, knight to D5. Goodnight, Iron Bull.”

It’s just like him to end a night of play with a chess move. Bull can only laugh.