The Other Side of the Coinby GrimmChaptersHeadsTailsAfterHeadsSpitfire 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. TailsSoarin’ 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. AfterSoarin’ groaned, covering his eyes to shield them as best he could from the morning sun lancing through a gap in the curtains. It was far too bright. His head throbbed at the slightest movement, and the inside of his mouth tasted like dry mould. The worst thing about hangovers, in his opinion, was that they always felt so deserved. This one especially so. He groaned as he pulled himself upright. His one solace was that Spitfire would be feeling just as shit as he was, at least once she woke up. Soarin’ glanced over at her sleeping form. Ever ungraceful, her limbs sprawled all over the place, a small puddle of drool beneath her open mouth. Soarin’ hesitated a moment before grabbing a tissue from the bedside table and wiping it up. Spitfire groaned, but didn’t wake up. At least that was easy; Soarin’ was glad the much larger, now sticky puddle between them on the sheets wasn’t his problem. He dug his hooves into his eyes, as if that would somehow calm the pounding headache. Well done, Soarin’, you’ve done it again. Yes, he had. And he would be lying if he said he regretted it. Oh, he would, in time, but not yet. Not until Spitfire woke up and acted as though nothing had happened, as though last night meant nothing. Sometimes he wondered if she just forgot. She’d drunk enough, it wouldn’t have surprised him. The worst was when she woke up before him. It was rare, but sometimes Soarin’ went just as overboard, and when he woke up she barely even looked at him, and he had to leave wordlessly, as though he was some fucking stud for hire. He couldn’t deal with that today. Best to be gone before she woke up. He gave Spitfire one last, long look, brushed a loose strand of her mane out of her eyes, was rewarded with a particularly unladylike snort, and then headed towards the door, where he could start forgetting about this as soon as possible. “Soarin’?” He stopped. This was new. Soarin’ turned as Spitfire yawned loudly, stretching her hooves above her head. “Hey,” he said, dumbly. “My head hurts,” she muttered. Despite himself, despite everything, Soarin’ smiled. It was something Spitfire would have said all that time ago, or at least, the way she said it was like that. He couldn’t really pinpoint what had changed, perhaps just that she was talking to him at all, but something made her seem more… genuine than she had for a long time. “You’ve only got yourself to blame,” he chided. “I told you to drink some water.” “It wouldn’t have helped,” Spitfire grumbled. “And besides, I was occupied.” His smiled faded. “Yeah.” She looked at him thoughtfully, long enough for him to feel uncomfortable. “What?” “Nothing,” she said, and then her eyes lit up. “Hey, let’s do something today.” “Something?” “You know, go out, just you and me. Go for a walk, maybe find a cafe and get something to eat. I’m not fussy.” Soarin’ frowned. “You’ve never asked that before.” “No, I haven’t.” She shrugged, letting the bedsheets fall away from her bare shoulders. “But you know, I think I want to start doing things differently.” “We’ve got a carriage to catch,” he pointed out. She sighed heavily. “Our next show’s not for a week. I think we deserve some time off, don’t you?” Spitfire slipped out from between the covers and over to him, stopping so close from Soarin’s face that all she would have to do is lean in another inch and they’d be kissing. Again. “So, how about it?” She placed a hoof gently against his chest, and that was something else she’d never done before, or at least not for a long while. It was too caring, the kind of touch a mare would give a lover, not a… whatever he was. And yet here they were, and Spitfire leaned in to murmur into his ear, so close that her lips brushed softly against his fur. “Sound good to you?” Her breath was warm, and so was she, and Soarin’ swallowed. It did. It sounded perfect. “Yeah, I think it does,” he answered with a grin, and on the other side of the coin Spitfire smiled too. Maybe it was too late to make that gap smaller, but she was damn well going to try.
HeadsSpitfire 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.
TailsSoarin’ 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.
AfterSoarin’ groaned, covering his eyes to shield them as best he could from the morning sun lancing through a gap in the curtains. It was far too bright. His head throbbed at the slightest movement, and the inside of his mouth tasted like dry mould. The worst thing about hangovers, in his opinion, was that they always felt so deserved. This one especially so. He groaned as he pulled himself upright. His one solace was that Spitfire would be feeling just as shit as he was, at least once she woke up. Soarin’ glanced over at her sleeping form. Ever ungraceful, her limbs sprawled all over the place, a small puddle of drool beneath her open mouth. Soarin’ hesitated a moment before grabbing a tissue from the bedside table and wiping it up. Spitfire groaned, but didn’t wake up. At least that was easy; Soarin’ was glad the much larger, now sticky puddle between them on the sheets wasn’t his problem. He dug his hooves into his eyes, as if that would somehow calm the pounding headache. Well done, Soarin’, you’ve done it again. Yes, he had. And he would be lying if he said he regretted it. Oh, he would, in time, but not yet. Not until Spitfire woke up and acted as though nothing had happened, as though last night meant nothing. Sometimes he wondered if she just forgot. She’d drunk enough, it wouldn’t have surprised him. The worst was when she woke up before him. It was rare, but sometimes Soarin’ went just as overboard, and when he woke up she barely even looked at him, and he had to leave wordlessly, as though he was some fucking stud for hire. He couldn’t deal with that today. Best to be gone before she woke up. He gave Spitfire one last, long look, brushed a loose strand of her mane out of her eyes, was rewarded with a particularly unladylike snort, and then headed towards the door, where he could start forgetting about this as soon as possible. “Soarin’?” He stopped. This was new. Soarin’ turned as Spitfire yawned loudly, stretching her hooves above her head. “Hey,” he said, dumbly. “My head hurts,” she muttered. Despite himself, despite everything, Soarin’ smiled. It was something Spitfire would have said all that time ago, or at least, the way she said it was like that. He couldn’t really pinpoint what had changed, perhaps just that she was talking to him at all, but something made her seem more… genuine than she had for a long time. “You’ve only got yourself to blame,” he chided. “I told you to drink some water.” “It wouldn’t have helped,” Spitfire grumbled. “And besides, I was occupied.” His smiled faded. “Yeah.” She looked at him thoughtfully, long enough for him to feel uncomfortable. “What?” “Nothing,” she said, and then her eyes lit up. “Hey, let’s do something today.” “Something?” “You know, go out, just you and me. Go for a walk, maybe find a cafe and get something to eat. I’m not fussy.” Soarin’ frowned. “You’ve never asked that before.” “No, I haven’t.” She shrugged, letting the bedsheets fall away from her bare shoulders. “But you know, I think I want to start doing things differently.” “We’ve got a carriage to catch,” he pointed out. She sighed heavily. “Our next show’s not for a week. I think we deserve some time off, don’t you?” Spitfire slipped out from between the covers and over to him, stopping so close from Soarin’s face that all she would have to do is lean in another inch and they’d be kissing. Again. “So, how about it?” She placed a hoof gently against his chest, and that was something else she’d never done before, or at least not for a long while. It was too caring, the kind of touch a mare would give a lover, not a… whatever he was. And yet here they were, and Spitfire leaned in to murmur into his ear, so close that her lips brushed softly against his fur. “Sound good to you?” Her breath was warm, and so was she, and Soarin’ swallowed. It did. It sounded perfect. “Yeah, I think it does,” he answered with a grin, and on the other side of the coin Spitfire smiled too. Maybe it was too late to make that gap smaller, but she was damn well going to try.
