Spitfire had had too much to drink. She realised this as soon as she stumbled into the hotel lobby and the room swayed alarmingly, her hooves threatening to slide out from underneath her. She staggered, but Soarin’ was quick to tighten his hold on her to keep her from falling.

It was probably for the best that he’d convinced her to walk back instead of flying.

“You okay?” he asked.

Spitfire waved a hoof absentmindedly at him, and almost fell over again. “Fine, I’m fine. You worry too much.”

He muttered something under his breath, too quiet for Spitfire to hear. She was just about to ask him to repeat it, but then he started tugging her towards the stairs, and she had to immediately divert all her attention to staying upright. Her upper body seemed much heavier than usual, and with every step she swayed and had to correct herself, usually bumping heavily against Soarin’. He didn’t complain, though. He never did.

After what felt like an age of trying to keep her balance, at last they stumbled into her room and over to the bed, Spitfire dropping gratefully onto the soft and welcoming mattress, giggling as she almost pulled Soarin’ down with her.

“We made it!” she exclaimed, only half-joking.

“Somehow,” he answered, glancing around the hotel room. It could have been anywhere, the furniture so carefully picked out to be entirely non-descript and devoid of any character.

Soarin’ frowned at the bed. “Why’d you get a double? Expecting company?”

“Ah well, you know me. Spitfire the Stallion-killer, right?” She laughed even though she didn’t think it was funny, and Soarin’ rolled his eyes. “Aw, don’t be like that.”

He ignored her. “I’ll see you in the morning, alright? Make sure you drink a ton of water, or you’re going to hate yourself when you wake up.” Soarin’ gave her one last, disapproving look, and then turned and headed for the door.

“Hey, hang on a minute,” she called. Spitfire had no intention of letting him go that easy.

He stopped and sighed heavily. “It’s late, Spitfire. Scratch that, it’s early. I’d like to get some sleep before we head off tomorrow.”

“You’re tired?” she asked.

“Very.”

Spitfire smiled. “But your room’s so far away.”

“Spitfire…”

“And my bed has so much space. Easily enough for two of us.”

“I’m not-”

“Come on, Soarin’,” she said, slipping off the bed and ambling unsteadily over to him, putting as much sway into her hips as she could while staying upright. “It’s been a while since last time, hasn’t it?”

Too long. The last time had been almost two months ago, after their last show in Cloudsdale. She’d had a few stallions (and a mare) since then, but they never came close to Soarin’.

“Listen, I-”

“Please, Soarin’,” she murmured, giving the edge of his ear a gentle nip. “Don’t leave me alone tonight.”

Spitfire knew she would have him with that even before she saw the last shreds of resistance drain from his eyes. It wasn’t the sultry walk, it wasn’t the ear nip, it wasn’t even her whispered words, not exactly.

She had him because it was her, and if there was one mare Soarin’ could never abandon, it was Spitfire. She had him even before she leaned in and kissed him, when he made no move to pull away, all the fight gone as she lifted a hoof to caress his face. She could always have him if she tried hard enough, and usually that wasn’t very hard at all.

The kiss grew desperate, each of them eager and wanting, and once again Spitfire was reminded of how much she’d missed this. Soarin’ was always so passionate, even his kisses filled with a kind of sincerity that her other flings failed to match. They were attracted to her body, and her reputation. Soarin’ was attracted to Spitfire, all of her, completely and utterly.

She loved it.

Soarin’, the one stallion she could always fuck without regretting it in the morning. She turned him round slowly, leading him with the kiss so expertly that she doubted he even knew what she was doing until she gave him a hefty shove.

His eyes went wide with panic as he fell backwards, flailing his legs comically until he landed on the bed with a ‘flumpf’, his wings sprawled beneath him almost as stiff as his stallionhood. She jumped on him before he had the chance to recover, the heat of the moment beginning to sober Spitfire just as lust started to cloud her mind again. His length pressed against her stomach, so hard and hot, twitching at the touch of her fur as she moved to kiss him again.

Why did she wait so long? It was a question she always asked herself every time they ended up in a hotel room together, or after a show once the other Wonderbolts had left, or that one time in the back of the carriage taking them to Canterlot, when she’d had to shove a hoof in her mouth and bite down so hard that the coach ponies wouldn’t hear her, her thighs trapping Soarin’s head between them. And every time she asked herself that unanswerable question, until it was driven from her mind by other, far more pleasurable feelings.

Spitfire was already sick of asking it tonight, so she broke the kiss and slid down off the bed, making sure to press tightly against his stallionhood with her body as she did so. She wanted him to feel it.

She smiled as she locked eyes with him from between his legs, but Soarin’ still seemed reluctant; a little too tense, faint traces of doubt in his eyes. Spitfire was going to change that.

She started with a kiss. Soarin’ hadn’t been ready for that, it seemed, his hindlegs freezing at her touch. Before he had the chance to calm himself, Spitfire followed with a single, long lick from base to tip, tasting him as much as pleasing him. She was rewarded with a grunt for her efforts, the first crack in his otherwise flawless facade of resistance. He did it every time, and though it was never more than a token defence Spitfire always took great pleasure in tearing it down. Tonight he was making it almost too easy.

By the time she reached the swell of his flare, Soarin’ already seemed to have composed himself again, staring blankly up at the ceiling and pointedly avoiding eye contact. Spitfire refused to accept anything less than his full attention. She wanted him to watch her as she ran her tongue up his length, to see the lust and desire in his eyes, for him to run his hoof through her mane and accept everything she gave him. Spitfire knew just how to get it.

His flare was big, but Spitfire knew she could take it. When her lips closed around him he shuddered, and she could tell that any of his remaining uncertainties were melting away under the caress of her swirling tongue. She wasn’t entirely sure why Soarin’ was always so hesitant in the beginning. Perhaps it was because she was his captain – that would be intimidating to most ponies, she supposed, though Soarin’ had nothing to worry about. Spitfire always left their trysts more than satisfied, and tonight was shaping up to be no different, judging by the hot ache between her legs as Soarin’s stallionhood twitched in her mouth.

And before he had the chance to gather himself, Spitfire took him as deep as she could, diving down on him. Soarin’s hips bucked slightly when she did, and she would have grinned were her lips not wrapped tightly around him. That was good as a surrender. He was hers again, at least for tonight.

Because it was only ever for a night, Spitfire assured herself as her tongue lavished him with attention and affection, Soarin’s jaw clenching as he tried to suppress another grunt. It had to be. It would never – could never – be more than a wild moment of passion, even if it was one Spitfire knew they both needed. It was the culmination of all those glances at each other in the locker room, of the hardly-masked flirting, of the simple closeness that came from being Wonderbolts together. Eventually that melting pot would always boil over, and they’d end up here, Spitfire swallowing far more than her pride as she played with him. It was only ever Soarin’, though. There was never that same spark with anybody else, the one that drove Spitfire to keep crossing the line that a captain really shouldn’t and pull Soarin’ into her hotel room to rut her until she couldn’t walk right. Other stallions and mares never scratched the itch the way Soarin’ did, no matter how many times she tried.

But it was hardly a one-way street, Soarin’s hoof at last coming up to clutch at her mane, so tight that it was clearly taking all he had not to start shoving Spitfire down onto him. His previously stifled grunts had become full groans now, and each one sent another hot wave rippling over her skin, and no matter how tightly she held her hindlegs together it would still be obvious to anyone how turned on she was. Even Spitfire could smell her excitement in the air now, and Soarin’ couldn’t keep himself from bucking his hips up every time she lowered her head. He was close, but Spitfire knew she could keep him like this for a few moments yet – he was an open book to her like this, every twitch and moan like a well-rehearsed play, and she was waiting for the perfect moment to stop and leave him teetering on the edge, close enough for him to beg for more.

But not to give it to him, of course – they still had the whole night to go, and Spitfire was far from done with him. So when his hoof gripped her mane tightly, desperately, his hips bucking weakly upwards as Soarin’ tried to push himself over the edge, Spitfire stopped. She pulled away, granting him one last lick from base to tip, savouring his low groan of disappointment and need.

“Don’t stop,” he muttered.

Spitfire smiled, giving the gentlest of brushes with her hoof. They both knew she wouldn’t listen to that, not now he’d admitted his surrender to her. She always got her way in the end. But even though he hardly needed much persuading, Soarin’ was the only one who tried to put up even a token resistance. Any other stallion she brought into her bedroom was only ever too eager, both to please and to please themselves, but not Soarin’. She never knew why, not even now as she climbed up and straddled him, his stallionhood pressing insistently against her thigh. Perhaps that was part of the reason she enjoyed taking Soarin’ so much, no matter how many times she pulled him into her room and rutted the night away. Then again, if he was going to pretend to deny her, Spitfire wished he’d put up a bit more of a fight. It took all the fun out of it when he gave up so easily.

Well, she mused, maybe not all the fun.

She pulled him in close for another kiss, and this one went on for maybe a few moments too long, Spitfire enjoying it a little too much.

You always enjoy Soarin’ a little too much, don’t you?

She shook the thoughts away before they could set in. Just for once Spitfire wanted to enjoy the night without the guilty flash that always crept up on her eventually.

What do you think would happen if news got out that the captain was sleeping with the team?

I’m not, it’s just-

What would happen to Soarin’?

No. She wasn’t going to justify that with an answer. Spitfire was too drunk and far too turned on to let those niggling doubts stop her now. She’d held back, she’d done her best to wait as long as she could, but she’d had enough. Enough of the faceless and nameless stallions that all merged together in the bedroom, a blur of unmemorable, unimaginative and often disappointing sex. She needed Soarin’, right now, and she was going to have him. This time was for her, and for him, and no one else. Especially not for that voice in her head. And so she lifted herself up, wings fluttering slightly in anticipation, giving Soarin’ a warm smile.

“Ready?” she asked. She didn’t really need to. They both knew. They never got this far otherwise, but she still wanted to see it, that he was as eager for her as she was for him.

Soarin’ nodded silently. He never answered that question with words, no matter how many times she asked. Spitfire would have liked him to, even just once, to hear him whisper a confirmation. Maybe next time. There would always be a next time, Spitfire was sure of that. She couldn’t have kept herself away if she’d wanted to. And as her smile widened and she lowered herself onto him, guiding him in with a hoof and gasping as he slipped into her, any lingering uncertainty was forgotten. This was what she wanted. Forget what any other pony would think, what the other Wonderbolts would say if they ever found out. At this moment she wouldn’t have cared if they did. This was worth it.

Soarin’ grunted beneath her as Spitfire sank down, his stallionhood filling her ever deeper, biting her lip to hold back her own moans as best she could. And then their hips met, and she could sink no lower, and Spitfire had to take a moment to try to get herself under control. She wanted to savour this, to take her time, even though her body was insisting she throw that restraint aside and buck the life out of him right now. She probably would have done, too, were it anypony else. But Soarin’ was worth waiting for.

Spitfire allowed herself to start gently rolling her hips, nothing more really than shifting her weight forward and back, but that was more than enough to start with. His length pressed against her in all the right ways, a perfect fit, as if she was moulded around him. Soarin’s hooves came up to her hips, clutching but not guiding her, still letting Spitfire have her way, as always. For now this slow, gentle motion was enough, enjoying the feeling of warm fullness that no toy could truly replicate, enjoying the view beneath her as Soarin’ closed his eyes and sighed in the way that only a deeply satisfied stallion could, enjoying the taste of him that still lingered on her lips.

Yes, she concluded, as the warm waves of pleasure began to roll through her whole body now, no longer confined to her marehood but spreading and covering her like a blanket as she began to rock back and forth, starting slow was definitely worth it. It hadn’t begun like that, not at first.

At first they’d fucked each other in the shower room at the academy, and neither of them had lasted long. They were young, and it was almost expected. As the years passed their encounters grew more long lived, less desperate and more passionate, though that deep, fiery hunger that pulled them together in the first place had never really died. It was the reason they were here now, the bedsprings starting to creak beneath them as Spitfire’s movements grew stronger and surer. She had learned to relish every moment spent satiating it.

They were rutting now – properly, or at least she was rutting him, her gyrating movements from all but forgotten in a rush of need, each time she drew herself up filling her with a sense of longing and want and emptiness, only to be immediately replaced by pure satisfaction and pleasure as she dropped back onto Soarin’ again.

And then he grew tired of being led, and as she rose up his grip around her waist tightened and pulled her back down, Soarin’ thrusting up at the same time to push as deeply into her as he could. It was unexpected, it was sudden, and it was so fucking good. This time Spitfire couldn’t hold back the loud moan, and she let it out with a gleeful smile.

“Fuck, Soarin’, how do you always do this to me?” she breathed.

He didn’t answer, of course, instead simply letting Spitfire lift up again before pushing back into her and sending another shuddering wave through her body, right to the tips of her wings. In some ways she wished he would answer, because she still didn’t know. From the first time she’d caught him looking at her in that flight suit with that dumb, blank look that meant he could only be thinking about one thing, but probably hadn’t noticed she’d already been staring at him; from when she’d pulled him into the shower room, feeling his eyes on her flanks but finding herself actually wanting him to look, flicking her tail from side to side to give him the briefest of glances of what he wanted to see; from when he entered her under the rushing water, pushing her up against the cold wall tiles; from all the times since then in countless hotel rooms; to right now in this moment, and she still didn’t have the answer to that question. But in other ways, Spitfire didn’t care. It was a question where the answer wasn’t as important as the question itself, and as long as they could have these nights, Spitfire didn’t need to know why.

Her back arched after a particularly powerful thrust, followed by a sudden spinning sensation as the world flipped itself over. For a moment Spitfire thought the drink had caught up with her again, but then her back hit the mattress, and Soarin’ was on top of her, kissing and biting her neck, and his nips were a little too hard to be called loving.

Spitfire wasn’t about to complain, though – the tiny, sharp bursts of pain only made her more sensitive, each new wave of pleasure even more intense in contrast. The sensations began to roll together into one, and Spitfire wasn’t sure she could tell the difference between them anymore, or even if there was a difference. It was all part of it, all as important as the rest, and she loved it all in equal measure.

Soarin’ pounded into her, so hard that it shook the bed and filled the room with the sound of their bodies coming together. Her wings tried to flap weakly, but they couldn’t manage more than a slight twitch against the mattress. Once, when they were younger and stupider, they’d attempted to make love in the air, the way that pegasi were supposed to have mated centuries ago. It was a terrible idea; they’d crashed and almost gotten themselves both killed. But they hadn’t, and Spitfire had to admit there was an incredible freedom to that which she’d never been able to replicate – the wind ruffling her mane as Soarin’ pressed himself deep inside her, somehow managing to distract her from what should have been second nature. This was the complete opposite, though not bad for it. His weight held her down as much as his hooves as he took her roughly, no longer the hesitant, almost reluctant stallion she’d been riding a moment ago. Her wings only helped him, stiff and useless, trapping her instead of the freedom they usually granted. But it was okay. Because it was Soarin’, it was more than okay. She wanted it.

Sometimes the other stallions grew stifling when they tried this. Sometimes Spitfire was filled with the sudden urge to buck them off, kick them away, the feeling almost claustrophobic in its intensity. It was why she preferred to be on top, so she always felt in control. Soarin’ was the only pony who could never make her feel like that. Even now, wrapped around him so tightly, she only wanted more of him, pulling him closer with every thrust, her marehood clenching around him when he withdrew, begging him to stay inside for just a moment longer, not to leave her like that. But of course it would be only a moment before he thrust back in and she’d shudder and throw her head back and call out his name. He would twitch in answer and push deeper and growl with desire.

Faster and faster, and Spitfire could do little more than be swept along in his hooves, a rising pressure between her legs signalling the first hints of the inevitable. And it was inevitable, it had been since they’d stumbled back together, since Spitfire had decided that tonight was going to be one of those nights, the nights that she’d fight through her hangover in the morning to remember.

It started so slowly she almost wouldn’t have noticed, had she not been ready and waiting for it. A warmth, blossoming out from her marehood across her skin, almost like somebody – Soarin’ – running their hooves gently over her body, reaching everywhere and everything, whispering across her fur and making it all stand on end. And then all at once the heat became a fire, and Spitfire shouted out in bliss, and there was nothing but the two of them, entwined so tightly she couldn’t be sure who was who anymore, they were one and the same, and she trembled against him.

Don’t let go.

As if he would, but she couldn’t help thinking it anyway, the last thought before her mind went blank again and another wave, even stronger than the first, crashed over her and gave her no room for anything else. Don’t let go, because if you do I might lose myself here.

Soarin’s grip tightened, and she knew he was at his limit even before he let out a half-gasp, half-shout and buried himself in her for the last time. Her body was already so hot, and he only added to the fire, right up until his stallionhood gave one last twitch and he collapsed on top of her, his weight heavy but just as comforting.

And when at last her body settled, her heart finally slowing, the blood still pounding in her ears, Soarin’ had rolled off to her side, and she already missed his touch. She stared up at the ceiling, memories of his lips against hers filling her thoughts, and she wanted nothing more than to sidle up to him and press herself against him, and for him to roll back over and kiss her and hold her as she sank into sleep.

But the moment had passed, along with the almost feverish desire that had possessed them. He’d stay with her tonight, in the same bed but not sharing it with her, not really, and in the morning he’d leave before she even woke up and they’d act as though this had never happened. So it went, so it had always been.

That’s not quite true, though, is it?

No, it wasn’t. Not at first. At first it had been just like that, all cuddles and love and bathing in the afterglow. Spitfire missed that. But as the time between their lovemaking had grown, so had the distance between them afterwards. The more things stayed the same, the more they changed.

Maybe it was too late to make that gap smaller again.

“Thank you,” she whispered into the dark.

The dark had no reply.