Soarin’ hadn’t had enough to drink. He knew that well before he dragged Spitfire up the hotel steps, hoping to Celestia she wasn’t going to throw up. It wouldn’t be the first time. It seemed as though they’d at least make it to the room before that happened tonight, though Spitfire nearly fell over once they made it into the lobby. If Soarin’ hadn’t been holding her up, she would have.

And she’d wanted to fly back.

“You okay?” he asked, knowing she wasn’t. He’d just had to carry her through the town; it was a stupid question.

Spitfire waved away his faux concerns, slumping more heavily against him. “Fine, I’m fine. You worry too much.”

“Yeah, I do,” he muttered. She didn’t hear him, but it wouldn’t have mattered even if she did – in the morning she’d have forgotten all about this. Drinking always gave Spitfire a selective memory.

Soarin’ began pulling her towards the stairs, desperate to get her to bed and out of his mane as quickly as he could. It didn’t help that he’d had plenty to drink as well, and each time Spitfire stumbled she almost sent both of them tumbling to the ground. He gritted his teeth and focused as best he could, and miraculously they made it back to Spitfire’s room without falling over.

One last effort to get her to the bed, and she almost yanked him down with her once they got there. But then he could finally let go, massaging his aching shoulders and relishing his newfound freedom.

“We made it!” shouted Spitfire gleefully.

“Somehow,” he answered, taking the opportunity to glance around her room. She always got a nicer one than he did. It made sense, he supposed – she was the team’s captain – but right now he found it particularly undeserved. Even her bed was nicer than his.

“Why’d you get a double?” he asked. “Expecting company?” He hated the question as soon as it was out of his mouth.

“Ah well, you know me. Spitfire the Stallion-killer, right?” She cackled, until she saw his expression. “Aw, don’t be like that.”

He shook his head. “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.” Privately, Soarin’ was pretty sure that all the water in the world wouldn’t save Spitfire from a hangover. Part of him hoped for it.

As he turned to leave, Spitfire called out to him.

“Hey, hang on a minute.”

He ground to a halt. Soarin’ had almost believed she wouldn’t do this tonight. “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 gave him a knowing look. “But your room’s so far away.”

Stop.

“Spitfire…”

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

Please stop.

“Spitfire, I’m not-”

“Come on, Soarin’.” Spitfire clambered off the bed, and he had to resist the urge to run over and steady her. Instead he watched her slowly close the gap, watching the sway of her flank, the swish of her tail, right up until she was close enough to lean in and whisper in his ear. “It’s been a while since last time, hasn’t it?”

Had it? Soarin’ wasn’t so sure. Truth be told, he’d tried to put the last time out of his mind, as he did every time. Another mistake in a string that he kept making, and everything was pointing to him making another one right now. He had to get out while he still could.

“Listen, I-”

Spitfire nipped his ear, silencing him with a sharp, sudden sting. He shuddered, and Soarin’ couldn’t tell if it was from excitement or revulsion. Probably both. “Come on, Soarin’,” she murmured, and he hated how much that sultry voice got to him, how it made him want to do anything and everything she asked. “Don’t leave me alone tonight.”

And as soon as she said that, Soarin’ knew it was too late. Spitfire closed her eyes, leaning in for the kiss, and he didn’t stop her even at the bitter taste of stale alcohol. He didn’t stop her when she lifted a hoof to his face, stroking and simultaneously holding him tightly against her, as if he’d pull away if she didn’t.

But of course he wouldn’t, not with Spitfire. Not after she’d pleaded for him to stay. Not tonight.

And when her lips parted and the kiss grew more passionate, Soarin’ let it. When her hooves became restless, beginning to travel over his shoulder and against his neck, he let them. He couldn’t have stopped them.

This is the last time, he assured himself, as he did every time. Just this once, and never again.

Caught up in his empty promises, he didn’t see the mischievous glimmer in Spitfire’s eyes until it was too late. She pushed him, catching him completely off-guard and sending him tumbling backwards. His short journey to the floor was interrupted by soft bedcovers as he sank into Spitfire’s mattress. He hadn’t even realised she’d turned him around.

She was on him before he could even begin to protest, Spitfire’s body pressing against him as she hooked a hoof behind his head and kissed him again. She was warm and soft and just heavy enough, making him shudder at the gentle brush of her fur against his stallionhood.

Oh goddess, she was always so hard to say no to, his eyes drinking in her flanks, the way they swayed gently as she shifted atop him. He’d always found it near impossible to tear his eyes away, even when they’d first met all those years ago at the academy. Back then had been no different; almost every stallion (and even a few of the mares) had snuck glances at Spitfire when they thought she wasn’t looking, and the skin-tight uniforms they’d worn had only made her curves that much more pronounced. Soarin’ had been the only one stupid enough to stare for long enough that she caught him looking. He’d expected her to be furious, maybe even to hit him, but instead she’d just shot him a devilish smile, actually flaunting herself even more for his benefit, and later that day they’d fucked each other senseless in the shower room, until they collapsed exhausted onto the tiles and let the water rush over their entwined bodies.

That was the first time. Soarin’ had been very wrong when he’d thought it would be the last.

And here they were again, the soft movement of Spitfire’s fur against him snapping him back to the present as she slid off the bed, settling herself between his legs and looking up at him with the smouldering gaze she saved exclusively for the bedroom.

But not exclusively for him. Soarin’ had long since lost count of the ponies Spitfire brought back with her, along with any desire to remember them. Putting them out of his mind was always difficult, though, even as Spitfire’s lips pressed against his length, making him start at the sudden touch.

And as her tongue began to run slowly upwards, eliciting a grunt at the wet warmth, it was Spitfire’s other flings that Soarin’ saw. He saw her leading them back to her room, perhaps guiding them with meaningful flicks of her tail, perhaps hanging off them blind drunk, as she had done tonight. He saw her giggle and kiss them on the muzzle before kicking the door closed behind them. He heard them through the walls on the nights he’d been unfortunate enough to have the next room along – the rapidly creaking bedsprings and groans of the stallion, Spitfire moaning lustfully along with them as Soarin’ buried his head between his pillows in a vain attempt to block them out. Most nights that happened he’d take a long walk, letting the night air ruffle his feathers as he enjoyed the deep silence that belonged only to the earliest hours. Sometimes it rained. Soarin’ would go out anyway.

It wasn’t until Spitfire’s lips closed around his flared tip that Soarin’ was able to focus back on the mare in front of him now, instead of the stallion that walked in soaking wet and freezing cold just before sunrise. And now it was almost impossible to think of anything else, Spitfire’s mouth shoving those memories to one side as her tongue danced against him. She made it so easy to forget. Soarin’ grunted, clenching his teeth as he thrust his hips upwards a little, instinct finally getting the better of him and urging him onwards. And oh it was tempting for so many reasons, so hard to hold back, every part of him itching to surrender to it, to just give in and grab Spitfire’s head and pull her down onto him and make her take it deeper than she ever had before.

He even entertained the idea a little, his hoof reaching around to clutch her mane, knowing all it would take was a little force, the smallest amount of effort in her submissive position. Soarin’ would never do it, but even just imagining it pushed him that little bit closer to the edge Spitfire was already bringing him so close to.

And just as Soarin’ was about to splutter out a warning of how close he was, Spitfire pulled away, giving him one last, affectionate lick as she did so. A pang of desperate longing hit him then, and he hated it. He hated how much he wanted – needed – her to keep going, and how she could make him feel that way every time. But Soarin’ couldn’t help himself. He needed her so badly, his cock almost painfully stiff as her hoof traced its length.

“Don’t stop,” he breathed.

No, don’t stop, don’t ever stop. If you stop then I have to stop too, and then I start to remember. Then I have to be the stallion you keep throwing away again.

…

Please don’t stop.

But Spitfire did anyway, because they both knew this is right where she wanted him, practically begging her to keep going. She always loved that, and Soarin’ could never manage to deny her it no matter how hard he tried.

So when she moved up the bed to kiss him again, Soarin’ let her. When Spitfire’s hooves held his face so tightly, the kiss becoming close enough that he could feel the warmth in her cheeks, Soarin’ let her. And when she rolled her hips against his, dampening his fur, he more than let her. Her tail flicked impatiently, and deep down Soarin’ was gratified to see that slightest slip in her self-control. She wanted this as much as he did, perhaps even more – she just never seemed to regret it afterwards.

Spitfire lifted herself up, her wings giving a brief flutter as she smiled down at him.

“Ready?” she asked.

And of course he was. Soarin’ was always ready, always for her. From the first time she’d asked him that; water pouring over their interlocked bodies as Soarin’ glanced nervously at the shower room door, the thought that somebody could just walk in and interrupt them simultaneously terrifying and insignificant when she looked at him like that, her gaze burning with raw lust.

He nodded, as he had done that first time, and every time since, and Spitfire’s smile widened before she leant in to kiss him again, lowering her hips. She guided him into her with a hoof, dropping so slowly, biting her lip as he entered her. Spitfire always liked to start slow, gently. It never ended that way.

But right now she was still keeping her control. Everything at her pace, her whim. Her command. I tell you to jump, you say how high. I tell you to fly, you say how fast. I tell you to lie still while I fuck you, you say nothing at all. Even when her composure faltered slightly – Spitfire letting out a long, shaky breath as she sank lower, lower – there was still an air of restraint and self-control. Soarin’ wished she’d stop trying to hide her excitement; she was so wet it already betrayed her.

Their hips met at long last, Soarin’ hilted fully inside her, and for all his protest he did love this moment. The calm before the storm, together, Spitfire wrapped around him in every way. Her tongue was nothing compared to this, each twitch of his length reciprocated in kind, each slight movement met with a tightening around him as Spitfire squirmed. But then there had to be something, didn’t there? Something that kept him coming back, time and time again no matter how much he told himself not to. And though this moment wasn’t the reason, it would serve as a good enough excuse.

Spitfire started to move, the gentlest of bucks, barely lifting herself but just rocking backwards and forwards, and that was already too much. He rested his hooves on her flanks, not to lead her but just to feel them as they moved, and also simply as something to hold onto.

He needed that, because a low, dark impatience was starting to rise through him. She was teasing him, after all this time, after telling him how much she needed and wanted him, and she was teasing him. That was all this was, all it could be, Spitfire moving just enough for him to feel it and urge him on without granting any real satisfaction, all as her own laboured breaths showed just how much she was enjoying it. Even when at last she began to ride him, it was with that same, slow control. She was in charge, and every one of her movements and sultry glances insisted on it.

Soarin’ hated it. She’d already made him wait so long, made him watch her bring so many others back with her, and even now she was still holding back. Still making him watch. Did she do this with the other stallions? he wondered. Did she hold them down and give them nothing, taking everything for herself? It wouldn’t surprise him. Spitfire was always like this, even if it hadn’t been that way at first. At first they were the perfect mates for each other, giving and taking in equal measure, pouring everything into every moment. They had been almost inseparable outside of the bedroom, and adventurous and lustful and passionate between the sheets. But not anymore.

It was almost pathetic how easily he could pinpoint when it had changed. Spitfire had made captain, and the Wonderbolts had grown more and more popular under her leadership, and Soarin’ had been relegated to little more than her toy; to be used whenever she felt like it and discarded afterwards, at least until the next time she had an itch that no other stallion could scratch. And Soarin’ would let her. He couldn’t stop her. He was as much to blame as she was for letting her treat him like that. If he couldn’t stand up for himself, he deserved everything he got. It was no wonder she used him like this.

But not tonight. If she was going to use him, then he was damn well going to enjoy himself as well. Enough teasing. Enough of her flaunting herself, enough of those smiles that dared him to object, as if she was so far above him. She lifted herself up, and before she could sink back onto him Soarin’ tightened his grip and pulled her back down, thrusting into her as deeply as he could.

She moaned loudly, wantonly, and a savage burst of vindictive pleasure filled him. No more denying it, no more looking down on him, no more taking everything for herself. Spitfire was the same as she always had been, deep down, and what she wanted was for him to fuck her like he used to, and Soarin’ had every intention of doing just that.

“Fuck, Soarin’,” she breathed as he buried himself into her again, “how do you always do this to me?”

He wished he knew. He wished he knew so that he could tell her and she could stop dragging him down with her, so they could stop this long term relationship of one night stands. But at the same time he wished he would never know so she would never stop. Soarin’ didn’t think he could survive the nights he had to bury his head between his pillows if he could never have her like this again.

But have her he did, and he was determined to take all he could from it. Soarin’ would let Spitfire pull herself up, so tight around him as she pulled away, as if her body refused to let him go. And then he would thrust himself upwards, all the way to the hilt, and she would gasp and shudder and flap her wings, as much a slave to her needs as he was as they dropped back to the bed only to repeat the whole thing again. And each time he would be more aggressive, rougher, harder, and it still wasn’t enough.

Because Soarin’ was still the other side of the wall, listening to her moan around some fucking nobody that she’d forget about completely the next day. Soarin’ was still wandering around in the cold rain, mane plastered to his face and trying not to think about why he was out so late. This could never be enough to make up for that, this moment of weakness, or whatever Spitfire would call it to make herself feel better. As long as she could call it a mistake, right up until she decided she wanted him again.

He couldn’t stop thinking like that, no matter how hard he fucked her. She was on top of him still, still holding him down in her own way, and Soarin’ couldn’t keep going like this. And so, after a particularly deep thrust, one that made Spitfire gasp and flit her wings, he rolled over, bringing her with him. She didn’t try and stop him; in fact Spitfire simply looked confused at first, but when she realised what he’d done she smiled, and looked up at him with half-lidded eyes, her cheeks flushed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her like this, with the barest hint of some affection other than raw lust in her expression. But he did remember it.

He remembered their ill-fated attempt at mid-flight sex, how the branches had broken their fall when they’d crashed through the forest canopy, rolling to a stop in each other’s hooves in a thick pile of leaves. How she’d looked up at him after, so full of life and love. This was close, but still not quite the same. This time Spitfire’s eyes were glassy and slightly unfocused from drink. This time her expression was filled with a kind of uncertainty, and Soarin’ hated looking at her like this.

He buried his head in her neck, kissing and nipping, biting perhaps too hard. Or maybe not hard enough. But as long as he didn’t have to look at her, as long as he could bury himself in her fur, her smell, her warmth, it didn’t matter. If she could pretend, then he could too. He could pretend this was the Spitfire he loved, not the one he knew now. He could pretend this Spitfire loved him back just as much, just as she used to, and that she didn’t have to drink herself stupid before she wanted him.

But no matter how much he pretended, Soarin’ knew that this couldn’t be called making love. There was too much anger and strength in his thrusts to call this anything other than fucking, the bed creaking and shaking beneath them, and of course that was exactly what Spitfire wanted. That was the reason she pulled Soarin’ into her bedroom, why she coaxed him to stay with her body and murmured teases. Not because it was him, but simply because he was someone. And goddess forbid Spitfire had to spend the night alone, right?

Fucking Spitfire. It was always her, had always been her, the only mare he’d ever had eyes for, the only mare he loved. The only mare he hated. He wanted to hurt her. He wanted her to hurt the way he had, and still did, even right at this moment. In many ways, this moment hurt the most.

But he could never do that, not to her. And so instead he fucked her, and his anger became rough, hard thrusts, and she only moaned louder. He knew Spitfire inside and out, and when her wings started to twitch beneath her he knew she was close. That was her tell, and Soarin’ only sped up, his own peak not far behind. He would have liked to say he was ignoring her pleasure and focusing on his own, but he would have been lying. Instead he was waiting, purposefully trying to draw out her orgasm so he could feel it one more time. He wanted to watch her face as she came – the only thing that never changed, the way she screwed her eyes shut and bit her lip and shuddered and laughed and came alive in his hooves.

And then she did, with one last shuddering gasp, and for a moment she was just as beautiful as she had ever been, the years and drunkenness falling away from her features in her ecstasy. That was Spitfire, the one he knew. The one he missed so much.

She was so tight now, her body begging him to finish, pulling him in and refusing to let go, and with a gasping cry Soarin’ joined her, instinct driving him in as deeply as he could as he filled her, his mind at last going blissfully blank as he held her tightly against him, and for some reason she felt so small in his hooves, as if she was about to slip out from between them.

And then the moment passed, and he was himself again. Spitfire sighed contentedly beneath him, then disapprovingly when Soarin’ rolled off her and pulled the sheets over his shoulders. But she didn’t move, or say anything. Of course she didn’t.

He stared at the wall. The only other option was at her, and that was as terrible a thought as it was tempting. Once, she’d asked him if he loved her. Now he couldn’t even look at her afterwards.

“Thank you,” Spitfire whispered into the dark.

Soarin’ had no reply.