Sleepy Fox Hollow [m] mafic ii

colosseum caught the warning squeal with a glint in his eye—chin lifting just as her hooves struck air beneath it, not in fear, but in understanding.

not yet.
not quite.

prove yourself, storm-man.

he huffed, thick and amused, dust pluming from his nostrils. she spun, plume raised high like a banner of war, her breath a ribbon of heat wrapping round his ribs.

beautiful.
dangerous.

his hooves shifted, a heavy sidestep and a slow arc that mirrored her circle with one of his own. his body low-slung, muscles coiled beneath roan hide, tail flicking once behind him. not chasing. enticing.

when she whinnied—clear, bold, herself—he felt it hit his chest like a drumbeat.

he moved again.
approached again.

but this time, slower. respectful. with the reverence of something ancient, remembered not by thought but by blood.
his muzzle brushed the edge of her mane. gentle now. drawn with restraint hard-earned from a thousand generations of stallions who’d known the meaning of no, and the sweeter reward of yes.

this was their dance.
and he would follow her lead until she let him claim the rhythm.