Catch

Sun vs. Moon

Celestia and Luna stand inches apart on a great green sweep of manicured courtyard grass, their spiraled horns crossed overhead like clashing medieval lances.

The Sun glares. “You’re looking well this afternoon, baby sister.”

The Moon smirks. “Likewise.”

Five rows of armored sentries stand at Celestia’s back, and Shining Armor stands among them, half-grinning with a mix of worry and amusement. Part of him fears the that sisters' hard looks will escalate into hard blows, and while that would make an amazing story to tell his wife back home in the Crystal Empire, it would also cause the destruction of the entire capital city, along with much of central Equestria.

Watching the royal sisters now, his view partially obstructed by Celestia’s buxom rear, he pictures the Sun and Moon locked in such a struggle, battling with bare hooves and naked limbs instead of world-breaking magical spells. Though Celestia looms taller than her sister, and her chest flares out with a broadness to rival any member of the Guard, there is a daintiness about her that Luna lacks, a frailty waiting to be exploited.

As Shining pictures them tumbling on the grass, their swollen sexes hidden by filmy lingerie, panting, limbs entangled, the royal sisters engage in small talk that flirts with aggression. Luna’s words are especially sharp, her tongue acting as a whet stone, giving each uttered syllable a cutting edge.

Celestia steps closer as she speaks, her glare intensifying.

Seated off to the side on a luxuriant quilt, Princess Twilight Sparkle clears her throat—loudly—then flips to page 134 of Commander Hurricane’s The Art of War. The sound dispels Celestia’s hostile glare. She takes a pacifying breath and tries to restore her regal demeanor, even as Luna’s smirk dilates into a gargantuan grin.

“Damn,” mumbles a pegasus guard standing in line beside Shining. “Royalty for a year and the little upstart is already putting The Big Bright in her place. And just look at the curls in that mane. The brat wears her crown well.”

Shining jabs an elbow into the guard’s shoulder. “Eyes to yourself, Long Sword. That brat is my baby sis.”

“Your baby sis is all mare these days. And you know, I’d feel a lot more comfortable about wanting to rut her brains out if I knew I had your blessing, Shine.”

“Sure thing, Long. I mean, how could I live with myself knowing I’d made you so uncomfortable?”

“We could tag team her if you want. I know how you royalty types like to keep things ‘inside the family’, if you know what I mean.”

“Wow, Long. Just… wow…”

Shining chuckles to himself, shaking his head in mild derision. But as silly and crude as Long Sword can be at times, he is right. Twilight is maturing more and more every day, and Shining isn’t getting any younger himself. She is an Equestrian princess, and he the ruler of some faraway empire made of ruby office buildings, sapphire churches and emerald concert halls. Everything has changed. Everything is still changing.

But the Day of the Duel is exactly the same, and Shining Armor is grateful for that much. Once a year on the anniversary of Luna’s return, she and her sister select their mightiest warriors and pit them against one another here in the courtyard. The fighting is good for stirring his long dormant warrior’s blood, but the ritual surrounding the contest is what Shining cherishes above all else. He loves the shoulder-to-shoulder closeness of standing in line beside his fellow Guards, each stallion a mirror image of himself—all electric blue manes, set jaws and bodies cut from the purest ivory.

And he loves the tickle of pruned grass beneath the frogs of his hooves. The grass here is no softer or greener than the plants growing in the Crystal Empire, but this particular patch of green is pregnant with memories of his carefree youth. It is a youth that is fast escaping him with every sunset, as if the years are sinking below the horizon, dragged down and burned to cinders by Celestia’s winking ball of fire.

But mostly he loves the sameness he shares with the Guardpony standing beside him. On the day of the Duel, all Guards are stripped of their titles and ranks and stand as equals at the back of their matriarch. Today Shining Armor is not a captain or a prince. Today he is just another soldier, dressed in the same golden armor as his brothers.

“It’s your turn to decide this year’s rules of engagement, baby sister,” says Celestia.

Luna scowls at her sister’s use of the unbecoming title ‘baby sister’. Her words are sharp and curt: “Three rounds. No armor. No weapons. And the winner takes the loser however he pleases.”

An aggravated huff proceeds, “Honestly, baby sister. I wish you’d outgrow your adherence to that filthy old custom.”

“Some customs are worth adhering to.”

“No. I won’t allow that filth in my kingdom this year.”

“Our kingdom, Celestia. And it is my turn to set the rules. If you don’t like my terms, you are free to forfeit the competition.”

Celestia forces a composed look. “Fine. Do whatever you like, then. That has always been your way, hasn’t it, baby sister?”

Before the sting of the comment fully sinks in, Luna steps forward and drives her forehead into Celestia’s, eyes brandishing a threat her glowing horn intends to uphold. “You watch your mouth, you callow little—”

Twilight clears her throat a second time. Without looking up from Commander Hurricane’s teachings, she flips to page 145. A headshake evinces her disapproval.

Shining Armor smiles at all of this, amused by the trio of silly immortals. On the Day of the Duel, Celestia and Luna never fail to set aside their regal demeanors and squabble like the children this country never allowed them to be. And Twilight is right at home in her role as mediator, with her impassive face, and her book, and her golden crown that reminds Shining so much of his wife.

This is how he wishes to remember them—his family. Tomorrow he must return to the Crystal Empire and rejoin the supreme fantasy of that glimmering nation, with its polished roads, polished towers and polished citizens. Tomorrow he will wake to the sterility of spotless castle walls, and to the sing-song chime of Cadenza calling him “My handsome Prince,” as she presses his work uniform with a steaming iron. But today he is free of all that. Today he will do battle for the fragile ego of a goddess, and there is no place in Equestria he would rather be.

“Go ahead and choose your champion,” says Luna. She steps away from Celestia, her mood blackened from having stood so close to the sun.

Celestia backs away as well, drawing closer to her soldiers. “Shining Armor,” she says, “to my side at once.” Shining breaks from the line and lopes up beside her. “Face me, sentry.” He follows the order. “Now remove your helmet and kneel.”

With his helmet resting on the grass beside him, Shining stifles a grunt as Celestia stomps the back of his head, driving his muzzle into the grass. The sensation of her weight bearing down on his skull makes him clench with a co-mingling of dread and zeal. The feelings battle deep in the pit of his stomach, each fighting to drive out the other.

“Where is your place, little Dove?” Celestia address her sentry in the flat, authoritarian voice of a conqueror.

“At my brother’s shoulder.”

“And what is your title?”

“Guard.”

“And your name?”

“The same as my title.”

“Excellent.” She cups Shining’s chin and lifts his head. “Do your princess proud, little Dove.” A peck on the cheek displays a motherly kind of love, as tender as it is platonic.

“You’ve trained your Doves well, Celestia. But surely they must grow weary of their cages.” Luna glances over her shoulder and eyes her gaggle of Leather Wings, beaming with motherly pride as she watches them loaf about on the grass, and play-fight, and bicker, and grope each other as if hidden away by their mother’s precious night. “My Bats have never known the confinement of a cage. I find that freedom keeps the blood hot.”

“A soldier requires discipline,” says Celestia.

“And a fighter needs only the passion in his chest and the strength in his limbs.” Luna’s gaze falls on a single Leather Wing: a stallion with a purple-black coat dressed in matte armor. “Come here, Naught. Your mother has need of you.”

Naught ambles up to Luna and, to the disgust of Celestia and her Guards, pulls his mother into a deep, open-mouthed kiss. His tongue laps at hers for a long moment, hungry for a taste of alicorn, then leaves her mouth and trails down her neck. He kisses and nibbles his mother’s succulent throat, then stops when he notices Shining Armor staring at him.

“Oh, he’s a cute one, Mother. Can I have him?” His nocturnal eyes gleam with lust and menace.

“Only if you win, baby.” Luna places a hoof on Naught’s chest and gently pushes him away. “Defeat Shining Armor, and you will be free to take him however you like.”

Naught steps away from Luna, drawing closer to Shining and Celestia. “The Shining Armor,” he says, blinking with astonished eyes. “Yeah, I thought I recognized you. You look different without your fancy purple armor. Cuter. Weaker.”

Butterflies flit through Shining’s chest at the sound of Naught’s husky growl, and immediately he is glad that Luna choose a stallion this year. His tail wags absent his will, and the Guards at his back grin and chuckle quietly, amused by their captain’s blatant arousal.

“Remove your armor, little Dove,” Celestia orders.

Obeying, Shining unlatches his cuirass and shrugs off his breast and back plates, revealing a robust chest and muscular shoulders. Once finished undressing, he stands nearly naked before his goddess, clothed in only his hind greaves, hind shoes and a snug-fitting undergarment that bulges where it cups his stallionhood.

The Leather Wings whoop and whistle.

The Guards remain silent.

“Strip for Mommy,” Luna says with an impish grin. “And go slow, baby. I want to enjoy it.”

Taking his time, Naught glides out of his armor like some exotic reptile shedding its skin, becoming lighter and newer as he discards the dead hide. The body that emerges from beneath the old matte skin is rugged in all the right ways. Scars fork across dense muscles like lines on a physical map, charting the ins and outs of a landscape marred by years of battle. The lines bend and curve as he swaggers toward Shining, his movements creating new roads, new rivers, new mountain passes. He stops just shy of meeting the Guard, eyes beckoning his opponent to cross the remaining distance.

Celestia and Luna return to the bench-like thrones resting on the backs of their soldiers. Both sides retreat several paces, granting the Dove and the Bat greater room for their duel.

Shining stares down Naught. Tiny whirlpools churn his blood; fires rage under his cheeks; a mallet repeatedly bangs his chest. He hasn't felt like this since last year, when he faced Luna's ex-champion: a raven-haired beauty named Thirst. Thirst is a mare, Naught a stallion, but the difference is utterly lost on Shining. Sex and gender have little to do with his arousal where battle is concerned.

He steps forward to meet his opponent, hyperaware of the wind massaging his coat. At this distance, it is clear that Shining is the larger, heavier fighter. The difference in size is slight, but it’s still enough to make Shining frown inwardly, as he dislikes fighting smaller opponents.

As they wait for Celestia to give the order to begin, Naught licks his lips and slowly mouths the words “break you”. His musky scent flits up Shining’s nostrils, and the eager Dove wishes for a few dozen sunrays to pierce the overcast sky. He longs for warmer weather, wanting to work up a good sweat with this cocky Bat.

“Our pets are waiting, Celestia,” says Luna, lounging on her throne, her long body stretched from one end to the other.

The Sun rests her chin on an upturned hoof and says, “Begin,” the word plain, masking her budding excitement.

Before Shining can move a muscle, Naught lurches toward him, the motion awkward, and his head swings forward, his brow striking the Dove’s nose with a sense-jarring crack.

Shining staggers backwards, dazed. He doesn’t see Naught spring upright on his hinds—doesn’t see the midnight-purple fores reach for his exposed neck, or the leathery wings flare out and pummel the empty air. But he feels them. The limbs are warm with hot blood, and hard from years of battle, and coiling around his throat, and hoisting up, up, up into the twilight sky—and the bat wings are beating like mad.

A laugh catches his ear—a tiny “heh” that is almost a grunt—and then air rushes by as the ground leaps up and clubs the top of his head. His vision blurs. In the distance, garbled cheers pound his eardrums, and he is faintly aware of a crushing weight on his stomach.

His bleary eyes snap open to find Naught sitting astride his barrel, his front hoof cocked, right shoulder drawn back, eyes leering with ill intent.

The hoof shoots down in an arc and cracks Shining in the cheek, turning his head. Seeing stars, he raises both fores and shields his face, blocking a second punch meant for his chin. His pulse spasms into a speedy throb, and he tries to ignore the heat of arousal blooming in his loins, making his undergarment feel tight.

A third blow bounces off his high guard, then two forehooves sail down at once and snag one of Shining’s fetlocks. They yank his foreleg straight up, pulling it across Naught’s chest, and in the same motion, not missing a beat, the Bat pivots around his opponent’s caught limb, throws his left hind across Shining’s neck and falls to his back, clamping his thighs around the snared foreleg. Pinching the prize between his stifles, he braces Shining’s elbow against his pelvis and arches his back, grunting as he crosses his iron shoes. His hips drive toward the sky, and pain floods Shining’s elbow joint.

A grappler? Those are rare among the Leather Wings. This will be fun.

Displaying his superior strength, Shining grabs hold of Naught’s crossed shoes and sits up in the foreleg-bar, his tight abdominals flexing and showing beneath his coat. He fights up to his haunches, then his stifles, then his back hooves, grimacing, the hold intensifying as he rises… rises… and then lifts, hoisting Naught off the ground and bearing his weight with only one foreleg.

The Leather Wings boo.

The Guards remain silent.

Celestia fires a smirk at her sister, chin resting on her hoof.

Sensing the impending slam, Naught breaks the hold, flares his wings and zips away. He comes to a stop several paces from the Guard, hovering, his chest racked with a sudden fit of dry heaves.

“Tell your gutless Bat to sheathe his wings,” says Celestia, flinging the angry words at her sister.

“And why should he do that?”

“If my Dove is to fight without his magic, then your Bat should go without his wings. It’s only fair.”

“It’s only fair.” Luna’s taunting inflection rips a chorus of laughter from her Leather Wings. Their shoulders shake as they point or clutch their sides, cackling at the expression on Celestia’s face. Long Sword offers a hostile snort, but the other Guards remain still as statues.

Shining shakes out his sore elbow, enjoying the Leather Wings’ haughty attitudes. Though he would never admit it to his princess or his brothers, he loves Luna’s Bats. They are the only ponies in Equestria brave enough, or perhaps foolish enough, to jeer at Celestia, and there’s something wildly sexy about that kind of witless courage.

He watches them have their fun for a moment longer, then fixes his gaze on Naught. New excitement dances along his length, driving him to speak.

“Permission to speak freely, your Highness.”

The uproar dulls at the sound of his imposing voice.

Celestia looks down her nose at him. “Permission granted.”

Shining snorts, pushing a jet of steam from each nostril. “Let the Bat fly if he wants to. It wouldn’t be much of challenge otherwise.” His front hoof rakes the ground, the gesture more bull than pony.

Without waiting for Celestia’s response, Naught flares his wings and hurls himself at Shining, snarling, his iron shoes grazing the tops of grass blades. A sidestep makes his wild haymaker a miss, and a swift kick to the barrel sends him careening. Snorting, he flies higher, circles, then swoops down like a falcon, forehoof cocked, right shoulder drawn back.

Standing upright, Shining rolls with the diving cross and launches a counter uppercut, catching Naught flush in the barrel. The Bat’s stomach folds around his forehoof, and a steamy gasp flies from Naught’s mouth, the air caressing Shining’s cheek. As the blow launches Naught backwards, Shining bites his tail and gives it a swift jerk. It goes taut before snapping back like a bungee cable, and Naught stifles a hurt cry when Shining’s outstretched foreleg clotheslines him across the eyes. His body back flips in midair before crashing to the ground.

The momentum in his favor, Shining pounces on Naught’s back and sneaks the crook of his elbow under the Bat’s chin. A croak vibrates in Naught’s throat. He grabs at the bicep swelling against his jugular, wheezing in panic even before Shining cinches in the sleeper hold.

Shining Armor is no sadist, but a rush of something headier than simple adrenaline courses through his blood as the Leather Wing struggles beneath him. He grips his own bicep with one knee and places the other behind Naught’s head, driving the Bat’s muzzle into the dirt as he flexes every muscle in his forelegs, squeezing, wringing oxygen from his opponent’s lungs. His member stiffens against Naught’s lower back, engorged by the thrill of domination.

“You give?” He lets the question roll off his tongue like morning dew off the face of leaf, already aware of its answer. The Leather Wings have the pride of apex predators. They rarely submit to their opponents, especially when said opponent is a Guard. Their tenacity makes them fun to dominate… and even more fun to break.

Shining plasters Naught’s ear with a scorching pant, then digs his iron shoes into grass and sits up straight, wrenching his opponent’s stomach and chest off the ground. Leaning back, he bends the Leather Wing’s spine as he continues squeezing his neck, choking and stretching him all at once. Naught stifles a cry as Shining curves his spine like a bamboo shaft, too proud for bellows or bleats, even as he attempts to swallow snatches of air.

The Dove presses his burning cheek against Naught’s, holding him close. “That tight enough for you?”

“F-fuck… you…”

“That’s the idea, tough guy. But I’m afraid I’ll be the one doing the fucking.”

Shining leans back further and gives Naught’s writhing body a playful wiggle, teasing his matriarch with the tantalizing sight of one brawny stallion dominating another. Adjusting his hold—wrenching harder, squeezing tighter—he glances over at Twilight, who feigns disinterest behind her book. He almost laughs at her prudishness.

“You should order your Bat to submit, baby sister, before my little Dove injures him,” Celestia taunts.

Luna ignores the verbal jab and goads Naught to fight back, the words “gutless” and “worm” sneaking into her supposed encouragements. He pulls harder at the biceps locked around his neck, but a touch more torque on his spine turns the tugs into halfhearted slaps. As he taps, Shining shuts his eyes and redoubles his efforts, letting his stiff rod throb against Naught’s back for a moment longer.

“You feel that?” he grunts, rubbing his member against Naught. “I’m gonna love shoving that up your ass tonight.”

When he feels Naught beginning to pass out, Shining starts to release him, but a biting “Continue,” halts the action. The order comes from Luna. On any other day he would be expected to follow such an order without question, but today his allegiance lies with the Sun and the Sun only. He looks to his matriarch with pleading eyes. Shining Armor is no sadist, and while it’s true he takes a certain pleasure in dominating his opponents, it is equally true that he does not wish to seriously injure them.

A curt, “Barbarian,” slips past Celestia’s lips, aimed at her sister, and Shining takes this to mean she wishes for Naught’s release.

The Leather Wings shower their brother with insults as he lies wheezing beneath the victorious Guard, calling him weakling and coward. Shining rises and offers Naught a friendly hoof, but the humiliated Leather Wing ignores the gesture, choosing to totter up under his own power.

“Were you worried he might break the spine you so clearly lack?” The Leather Wings cackle at Luna’s jab. Naught wipes dirt and tears from his face, rattled.

“Good first match. You’re a hell of fighter, Naught.” Shining extends his front hoof in a show of good sportsmanship. Naught bats it aside, then staggers toward his fellow Leather Wings, greeted by taunts and cackles and swats to his flanks.

Shining returns to his brothers as well, greeted by stillness and silence.

It’s sunset when the fighters meet again on the battlefield, rested, blood swirling in their veins as they once again lock eyes. Naught’s previous cocksure aura is gone now, snuffed by one of pure anger. A smattering of welts and bruises add new color to his flanks, marking where his family beat much of the pride from his spirit.

Shining measures his opponent with caution, sure that Naught will hold nothing back during this second round. He rises to his hinds and strikes a boxing pose, the stance more minotaur than pony. Naught strikes his own upright pose, hovering, his iron shoes centimeters above the ground. Shining recognizes the stance. It’s a griffin martial art, extremely rare, and when translated into Equestrian its name means “Floating Butterfly” or “Stinging Bee”.

Shining has only faced the style on one other occasion. He was beaten soundly. This won’t be easy.

This time Luna utters the prerequisite “Begin,” and Naught darts in with all the speed and craft of a swooping Wonderbolt. His right hoof is a blur that whips Shining’s head to one side, his left a rib-bruising silhouette. The punches come from all directions, hard and fast, and while Shining defends well enough, Naught repeatedly whizzes out of danger before the Guard can mount any counter attacks.

Growing frustrated, Shining wings a wild haymaker, expecting Naught to dart straight up or drift back. To his surprise, the Leather Wing glides inside of the blow and headbutts him between the eyes. As he reels, Naught sneaks both forehooves behind Shining’s head and drives a stifle into his left side, folding him double. His breath catches, his lips sputter. He tries to shove Naught away, but the same stifle shoots up a second time, this time catching him under the jaw.

Teeth rattle in Shining’s skull. One flies loose and tumbles about inside his mouth, tasting faintly of blood. He spits it from a smirking mouth, elbows tucked close to his body—and Naught doesn’t catch his mistake until it’s too late. At range Naught’s greater mobility gave him in the advantage, but those two stifle blows have brought the fight in close—and Shining’s left is cocked, his shoulder drawn back, waist primed to swivel.

An uppercut digs into Naught’s gut.

A counter hook catches Shining on the jaw.

Sweat flies.

They trade blows on the inside—a harrowing mistake on Naught’s part—and after several exchanges a crippling right sneaks past his guard, catching him flush on the jaw. His head lolls, he wobbles, falls—and then Shining is on chest, pelting him with a hailstorm of lefts and rights.

A black front hoof slaps a black face, the gesture a physical display of Luna’s dismay.

The Leather Wings groan.

Twilight glances up from her book, her attention drawn by the strangely alluring drumbeat of hooves battering flesh.

When Naught is good and dazed, his wits a long forgotten memory, Shining scoots up his body and sits astride his face. With a shuddering breath, he clamps his forehooves together behind Naught’s head and hikes it up between his thighs. His erection pulses against Naught’s muzzle as he pulls up with both hooves and drives down with his hips, smothering the trapped fighter, crushing and humiliating him.

“Give,” Shining breaths, enjoying the feel of Naught pushing at the back of his thighs. Muffled curses dissolve into his muggy crotch, and he pinches his quads together, trying to snuff out the tiny sounds. Looking down his own chest, he marvels at the sight of Naught’s grimacing face, the Bat’s shut eyes and sweat-drizzled brow the only features still visible.

Celestia’s breathing quickens, as does her pupil’s, the two alicorns drink in the image of their champion having his way with Luna’s underling.

Winking at his aroused matriarch, Shining drops onto his side and straightens his hinds, crossing his iron shoes behind Naught’s head. He loosens his grip and lifts the trapped head for a moment, admiring Naught’s blue cheeks, his furrowed brow, then returns his victim’s face to its prison of rock-hard muscles. His burly inner thighs flex against Naught’s cheeks, and his glutes tense, then slacken, then tense again as he plays with the trapped fighter.

He is sure of his impending victory when Naught’s teeth sink into his stallionhood, ripping a strident “Bastard!” from his throat. Fighting the urge to release Naught, he rolls to his stomach and clenches harder, his tight, dimpled rear on display for his matriarch’s titillation.

Naught bridges and shoves at Shining’s hips, his senses clouded by the stink of musk and the taste of sweat-stained arousal. The headscissor tightens as Shining’s weight bears down on his skull, but he keeps the stiff member clenched between his teeth.

“Aaaah… Come on… submit…” Shining groans, tears wet the corner of his eyes. His grip slackens… slackens… slackens…

Then a hard jab to his rear makes him jump, and his hinds splay wide enough for Naught to pop his head free. He scrambles up to all fours, wings flapping to aid his ascent. Just as Shining pivots on his hip and throws a sweeping kick, Naught springs off the ground, hopping over the attack, and then drives both front hooves into the Dove’s underbelly with a stomach-turning crunch.

A floating rib snaps.

The Leather Wings holler.

Shining clutches his barrel. Rolls to his back. Groans.

Capitalizing on this moment of weakness, Naught grabs hold of Shining’s hinds and tucks each hock under his leg-pits. A wispy “Heh” drifts off his tongue as he steps one hind over the Guard’s back, turning him and then plopping down on his tailbone. His front hooves clamp together against his chest, and he leans back, far, curving the Guard’s spine while lifting his pelvis off the ground.

Shining covers his mouth, attempting to stifle a humiliating bleat.

“Hmmmm… That’s so hot. Again. Louder this time.” Naught rocks his shoulders back, and Shining bleats again, louder, as if purposely following Naught’s command. He tries to rise up on his fores, but the Leather Wing’s tail lashes around his front fetlocks, binding them with manacles of fine coal-black hair. He writhes and whimpers like a bear cub caught in a hunter’s trap, but his pride as a Royal Guard keeps him from submitting.

Luna and her children feast on the titillating sight laid before them: the great Shining Armor trapped and helpless, humbled, his spine curved in a crescent shape, his thighs shuddering, his rigid shaft tenting his undergarment, pulsing, huge and elevated and on display for the Moon’s pleasure.

Naught glances down at the engorged cock, then up at his matriarch. “You like that, Mother?”

Luna answers by splaying her hinds, showing off the glistening pink of her mound. She kicks off one of her gilded shoes, licks her front hoof and slowly traces the line of her slit from top to bottom. “Break him, baby,” she purrs. “Break him for Mommy.”

Enlivened by his mother’s command, Naught releases Shining’s left hind and wrenches harder on the right, deepening the curve in the Dove’s backbone.

Shining bellows. He struggles to free his front hooves, needing them to tap out. “I… I give…” he stammers after several seconds, embarrassed by his verbal surrender.

Naught ignores him.

“Aaah… please…” Shining groans. “I give up, Naught… You win…”

“Touch yourself.” Naught aims the command at his mother, who follows through without needing to be told twice, or once for that matter. Lying on her back, she hangs one hind over the edge of her bench-like thrown and goes to work fondling her clit. The pliable frog of her hoof attacks the hardened nub with quick strokes, and she moans with none of the reservation displayed by her sibling.

“Break him, baby,” she whimpers, her throat convulsing with pants. “Break him in half for Mommy.”

Obeying, Naught cranks harder on the trapped limb. His free hoof sneaks between Shining’s splayed hinds, stroking the Dove’s hard shaft and swollen balls.

“The match is over, baby sister!” Celestia barks. “Call off your bat before I—”

“Wait… just… ahhh… just a little longer…” Luna moans. She attacks her clit for a moment longer, then her stomach sucks in and she comes with a breathy moan, squirting into her hoof and coating her inner thighs with muggy juices. Her wings twitch, shaking loose a sprinkling of raven black feathers.

As Luna shudders, her body racked with orgasmic aftershocks, Naught gives Shining’s spine one last crank, ordering him to bleat out his submission again, to beg. And when Shining complies, his pride forgotten, Naught releases the beaten Dove with his hallmark, “Heh.”

Shining remains face down on the pruned grass, clutching his pain-racked tailbone. His broken rib throbs.

A hoof nudges his back, and he turns over to find Naught standing above him, extending a helpful foreleg. Shining smiles at the gesture, but gently nudges the limb aside.

“I’m done,” he pants. “You cracked one of my ribs, there’s no way I can handle another round.” He rolls back to his chest and splays his hinds. “You got me, Naught. I’m all yours.”

“Shining Armor, stand up this instant! Your Princess demands—”

“Oh, give it a rest, Celestia,” Luna interrupts. “Your little Dove has lost.” She turns to Naught and coos, “Go on and have your fun, baby. Mommy wants to watch.”

Naught glances down at Shining’s prone form, then up at his mother and fellow Leather Wings. “I only fuck fighters I beat.” Without warning, he stomps a heavy front hoof between Shining’s shoulder blades, making him cry out in shock and pain. “You hear that, Prince?” he growls, his voice low and smoky as he crouches and blows the words into Shining’s ear. “You owe me one more round. Rest up. We’ll settle this another time.”

Shining totters up on three legs, the fourth clutching his cracked rib. “Next year, then?” He offers Naught a hoofshake to cement their promise, but the Bat ignores it. He turns his back and trots off toward his family, one last airy “heh,” flitting off his lips.