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Thoroughbred

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"Good to see the old stables will be back in use," the delivery guy says when he drops off the hay. He must be local, but local covers a wide area out here. Their closest neighbour isn't even in sight on a clear day, nowhere near. "You got any in there yet?"

"Just the one," Will says, with a perfunctory smile. "I'd bring him out, but we've been for a ride and I need to rub him down and settle him. He's a little high-strung."

"Thoroughbred?" the guy says, and Will can't help but laugh.

"Oh yes."

His boots echo loudly across the yard with each step as he heads back to the stables.

"Did you hear that, boy?" Will shuts the door behind him and walks into the only occupied stall. "I wish I could show you off to him."

Hannibal is still breathing deeply, a fine sheen of sweat visible across his skin. Will pushes him hard; he's no show pony like some, he's huge and fast and powerful, and Will has never found a thrill quite like having all of that strength and grace under his command.

Will removes the bridle carefully, disengaging the soft bit and unfastening the straps. Hannibal's gorgeous mane is damp from exertion and the early morning mist, and he shakes his head as soon as it's free of restriction. Will rubs him softly behind one ear, watching him carefully.

"Can you imagine people seeing you as I do?" he says, and that gets him a whicker, a toss of the head. A rub of cheek against his arm. "You're magnificent."

The harness across his chest comes off next. It's handmade, beautiful supple leather with gleaming brass chain, but it can still chafe damp skin when it works loose on a ride. He unclips Hannibal's gloved arms from the back of the belt and unbuckles that too, draping it across the bench and wiping it down ready to polish later.

The gloves stay on, keeping his arms tied together behind his back, laced up above the elbow.

Hannibal stamps his hooves on the floor, kicking up wisps of straw and dust. He's restless now he's not so winded, impatient to be clean and dry. Ready for what comes after that.

"So demanding," Will says, but he picks up the body brush anyway, covering it with a soft cloth and tucking the ends through the strap along with his hand. He loops the long leading rein around Hannibal's neck and pulls him up until he lifts his head. "Hold still."

Will keeps the rein wrapped around his hand while he brushes, just keeping a firm enough grip to remind Hannibal where he wants him. He works in large sweeping strokes down from the shoulder, across the broad, strong back, down to the haunches, and Hannibal shivers and sways under his touch.

"That's it, boy," he says, soothing as he brushes. "I'll take care of you."

The cloth dries and the soft bristles underneath stimulate, so he's not surprised when he switches to wiping down Hannibal's chest and stomach to find his cock already hard and leaking.

"Getting a bit ahead of yourself there," he chuckles when Hannibal jerks his hips in Will's direction.

He runs the brush down Hannibal's flanks, following the line of muscles down his thighs to where the leather hoof boots start. He checks those as always, in case they need adjusting. Hannibal is going to be wearing them a while longer yet, but they're fine, if a bit dusty from the track and the stable floor. The metal shoes ring out against the tiles when Hannibal shuffles his hooves once more.

Will takes the brush away and folds his arms until Hannibal drops his head and pushes his leg against him. Then he stills, posture perfect.

"Good boy," Will says, and drops the cloth back onto the bench.

The brush only has soft bristles, but it's enough to smooth and de-tangle Hannibal's mane. It's growing nicely after all these months, and reaches his shoulders when Will brushes it out.

"Beautiful," Will says, and Hannibal gives a pleased whicker, tossing his head once more. "Just the tail now."

Hannibal's tail is a beauty, angled high and proud as befits a creature like him. Will grips the plug close to Hannibal's body while he brushes, and smiles at each sharp breath and shudder it forces out of Hannibal.

"You love it when I play with your tail, don't you?" He abandons the brush and twists the plug, sending the plume of hair flying to the right. "Shall we see how much you like it?"

His other hand slides around and finally takes hold of Hannibal's cock.

 

It started with the house they bought, run down but with the small block of stables to the rear.

Or maybe, if they really want to trace the roots, it started with the pig pen, the years of undignified restraints and masks, or Hannibal's hands taking the gun from Will in a stable much like this one. Anyone would have issues. Associations. And Will knows Hannibal will squeeze gratification from the smallest experience, good or bad. He lives life to the full, exploring every avenue for whatever entertainment or pleasure it might afford, and Will never fails to find it intoxicating.

It doesn't really matter. All that matters is that when Will's flicking through random channels one night and lights on a documentary about human ponies, something makes him watch.

"You'd make a lovely colt," Hannibal says appreciatively, coming to a stop behind his shoulder.

Will can see that. He's certainly roughly the build of the lithe young men on the screen. There's something less than satisfying to him about the older trainers and grooms with their young colts and fillies, though. It feels like they're missing something, all trotting along the same pathways. All conforming to some grand design that isn't his.

He looks up at Hannibal slowly, the thought still forming in his head.

"You'd be a stallion," he says, swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat, and that's when it really starts.

 

Hannibal's cock is so wet, so dripping with precome that it hardly even needs lube. Will squirts some on his hand anyway; he'll be glad of it soon.

"My perfect, gorgeous stallion," he says, squeezing his fingers around the base enough to make Hannibal twitch his hips. He loosens his hold and runs his hand up to the tip, massaging carefully. "You've been so good for me."

He loosens his riding breeches and tugs them down. Hannibal's not the only one who's hard, and he can see those nostrils flare again as he catches the scent of Will's arousal.

"I promised you more than my hand today, didn't I?"

He tugs on the rein gently as he walks over to the bench. Hannibal follows eagerly, stepping carefully with his hooves around the buckets and other stable junk in his path. At the bench Will lets the rein just trail over his shoulder while he bends over, clears a space for himself with a sweep of his arm.

This is the tricky bit, where Will always holds his breath and wonders if it would be easier to free Hannibal's hands. But there's something about the way that thick, hard cock bounces off his ass the first couple of times, about the lack of preparation, about the way Will has to wriggle and help, sometimes reach back and guide him, that helps with the fantasy. Helps him feel like Hannibal really is a stallion, and Will is laid out here waiting to be filled with an impossibly huge cock.

Waiting to be mounted.

It's awkward at first, Hannibal trying to keep his balance, trying to get the right angle, frustrated that all he can do is pin Will in place with his body. Then he's there, stretching Will open for him, hot breath on Will's neck making him shudder and moan. He thrusts hard, and Will gasps each time he's slammed against the wooden bench by the force of that strong, powerful body.

"I should put you out to stud," Will gasps out, near breathless from the onslaught. "They'd be lining up to be bred by you, fillies and colts alike."

Hannibal just doubles his efforts, making a point.

"Okay, okay. I don't really want to share."

Hannibal slows down then, nuzzles against his back. He pulls out slowly, and Will groans, feeling every inch of movement vibrate through him, pushing him closer to the edge. The slam back in is enough to lift him off his toes, make him cry out, and make him come all over the bench and Hannibal's discarded harness.

Will feels Hannibal's head rest against his back, cock still buried inside him. Hannibal always takes a while to get out of his pony headspace, so Will leaves him be, just savours the raw pleasure of being full, of Hannibal's warm, solid body now slick and damp all over again.

When Hannibal moves, Will's ready to unlace his arms, slip the restraining gloves off him, and pet his hair, his face. He leans on the bench and lets Hannibal nuzzle into his neck, stroking a hand over his back, down his sides, waiting until he can find his way back to words and human thinking.

Will likes to play a game with himself, trying to predict Hannibal's first words. 'Water', or more often 'wine', are popular choices, but given the state of them both, he's not surprised when Hannibal abandons those this time in favour of a sighed out weary request: "Bath?"

"Bath," Will agrees, and pulls him in for a wholly human kiss.