Sleepy Fox Hollow whistle tones

the earth around her is still wet from the fall of rain—beige hooves squelch through patches of mud as she stalks her way through the clearing. dark clouds loom at her back, passing her with the fresh gust of wind. it is humid; a swirling and swimming vortex of warmth that clings to an unshed winter coat uncomfortably, seeps into loose tufts of golden and ivory fur.

her head swings low as she moves, ears swiveling and she dodges through tall brush and undisturbed grass, taking chunks of it as she goes. soon, she realizes she is not alone. there is a man standing a few leagues from her with a coat like the storm clouds that she’d passed minutes ago. her head lifts, she does not speak. not yet. let him come to her, so that she may pass her judgement of him.

---

@Colosseum

he spotted her through the tall grass—soaked legs, rain-slicked coat, head low like she hadn’t quite decided if she belonged here or not.

colosseum lifted his head. tail lifted. ears forward. he arched his neck and stepped into view, letting his body do the talking. no rush. just presence.

a low nicker thrummed from his throat—invitation, not demand.

the wind swirled her scent toward him, thick with distance and dampness. he drank it in, lip curling faint in a flehmen, testing if she’d bled yet, if she’d run, if she’d bolt.

he circled once, slow and wide. gave her space, but not too much. made sure she saw the breadth of his shoulders, the churn of muscle under hide.

his eyes flicked once behind him—searching for @Fancy in the brush. if she saw this, she’d already be weighing the girl’s worth.

her head and ears follow him as he rounds her, cautious of the space between them, eager to maintain it. she could see the strength in his form as he paraded around her, corded muscle rippling through his shoulders and haunches. a big bastard, this one, but he made no true effort to flaunt himself. a wise decision, she thought.

sky-blue eyes meet chocolate, assessing. her nostrils flared, billowing air from her chest. she figured that she knew what he wanted—whether he would get that was undecided. her hooves drag beneath her, twisting to face him headon.

"sundown."

the painted thing was all clean lines and wind-stung grace, eyes like river ice—sharp, unmoved.

colosseum paused mid-step, one hind hoof still sunk deep in the loam. the mare turned to face him, not flinching, not folding. a quiet flare of her chest, a challenge without teeth.

he stood tall, ears flicking, eyes steady. the curl of his lip softened, though the sinew in his neck stayed drawn tight, like a bow held at full draw.

she gave a name.

sundown.

it hung there between them, hot and slow. he didn’t answer. didn’t need to. names were for knowing, not claiming.

he stepped once more—forward this time. not circling now. direct. his nostrils flared in turn, pulling the scent of her skin through the wet air.

then he stopped. a stallion’s length away. enough for space. enough for her to leave, if she wanted.

behind him, a distant shuffle. fancy, maybe. or one of the colts.

he didn’t look back. she was taking his attention.

colosseum. guess she deserved to know.

her name was offered, and he gave his own in return. fitting, she supposed. gingerly, he comes closer, a step in her direction this time, but gives room for rejection still. it is most unlike past experiences. a blonde tail flicks behind her, knocking a fly from her hindquarters as they stare each other down.

by now, most stallions would make an attempt to assert themselves—he does not. refreshing. to express her concealed gratitude, she bridges the gap. a small step forward as she stretches her neck to meet him, breath his scent.

colosseum caught the shift.

the step. the stretch. the slow reach of her neck through the thick, wet air between them.

not submission—no. something better. something earned.

his own head dipped in kind, the swell of his neck rising like a wave behind it, cresting over broad shoulders that flexed with the ripple of movement. he let her breathe him in—salt, dust, bark, blood. the kind of scent that stuck in your memory like burrs in a winter coat.

and then he moved.

not at her. around her.

his body swung wide in a sharp arc, hooves slicing the earth beneath, tail snapping like a war banner in the breeze. his gait rolled into a slow, exaggerated walk—each step a study in control and power. muscles rolled like smoke under his skin, legs lifting high as if the ground wasn’t worthy of his tread.

his mane lashed across his neck, dark and wild, tangled by storm winds and stubborn pride. he threw his head once, sharply, catching the air in a showy toss, then planted his feet square, chest out, a statue carved in bone and bruise.

he turned just enough to catch her eye again—chocolate, molten with the heat of the hollow—and let her see him.

all of him.

if she wanted a stallion who could command the sky, she’d found him. and he hadn’t even started.

his nose bumped her, pink on gray, and she responds with half a squeal, a single foot raising to paw the ground in a large arc. her head tosses, ears flitting and hooves shifting, moving to the side, then close again.

calm. settling. he retreats now to do what he did not earlier. parades before her with pride, and seeing him once more, she cannot find it in herself to blame him.

he is built like a beast, but a handsome one. handsome enough to excuse his boasting. sundown nickers in response, knocks her head in what appears as a nod, and she comes forward again. ”good.”

his touch had landed, light and brief, but the reaction—ah, that was worth more.

the squeal. the pawed ground. the shift of hips and teasing space. he felt it spark through his chest like flint to stone.

colosseum didn’t chase.

he stepped back with intent, letting the weight of her gaze fuel him. neck arched, tail lifted, he moved like the earth should part beneath him—slow, rhythmic, a thunderclap in motion. every line of his frame flexed under the show: strength, balance, bloodline.

he let her look.

her nicker met his ears like music, and he answered with a low breath, deep and warm, ribs expanding with quiet triumph.

she stepped again.

and this time, he met her half way. a snort against her neck as he bit at her withers. mine.

her puffs into her neck. there are teeth at her shoulder, coaxing, coaxing. she does not leave the intent behind it unansweredacquiesces him, taps him with the side of her muzzle before raising her head to groom him in turn, pick away at the loose hairs clinging to his withers.

he wanted, and she would give. his, until he gave her reason to depart from him. his, because he has earned a sliver of her respect in his performance. she inhales his scent, and then someone else. multiple someones, to her disappointment. it was always a pity, the greed of stallions. she tries not to allow that fact to cloud her image of him so soon.

colosseum chuffed—hot breath rolled from his nostrils against her neck, warm and grounding. her scent clung now to his chest like dust from a hard gallop. familiar. claimed.

his teeth grazed her shoulder again, softer this time. coaxing, not taking. and when her muzzle found his withers, picking gently through the thick mess of winter’s remains, he stilled. let her. accepted her in kind.

she gave herself in the way mares did—not all at once, but in deliberate pieces.

he’d earned a piece today.

but hers wasn’t the only scent here.

he lifted his head, ears twitching, catching the faint stir of hooves somewhere deeper in the vale. fancy.

with a grunt, he nudged sundown’s neck once more—firmer this time—and stepped away. his pace was slow, commanding, meant to be followed.

but if she was to stay, the lead mare would need her scent too.

fancy didn’t share space.
fancy decided who was worth sharing it with.

he seeks to guide her with the pointed press of his nose at her neck, and sundown does not deny him this as they pivot, turning away from where they stood to walk back the way he came from. to meet the others. very well.

fade!