Chapter ONE
"Everywhere we go-oh!"
"EVERYWHERE WE GO-OH!"
"Ponies wanna know-oh!"
"PONIES WANNA KNOW-OH!"
"Whoooo we a-are!"
"WHOOOO WE A-ARE!"
"Soooooo we tell them!"
"SOOOOOO WE TELL THEM!"
"We are the Wonderbolts!"
"WE ARE THE WONDERBOLTS!"
"The high-flying Wonderbolts!"
"THE HIGH-FLYING WONDERBOLTS!"
Soarin' chanted along with the other Wonderbolts, his skin cooking under his new tracksuit as he jogged near the end of the pack. When Rapidfire gave him the suit earlier this morning, the teenybopper-like squee that flew from his lips would have been right at home in the front row of a Sapphire Shores concert. Not his most dignified moment, to be sure, but at least the team leader hadn't been present for that outburst. Phew. The last thing he needed was Spitfire thinking he was just another groupie looking to rub shoulders with the stars.
"Pick up the pace, cadet," Spitfire shouted from overhead, wings beating as she hovered above the jogging pack. "And quit daydreaming on my track. This is a workout, not a stroll down memory lane."
In the three months he had been training with the Bolts, Soarin' never once saw Spitfire jog along the track during a morning endurance exercise. And not because she thought herself above her teammates, but because she rose earlier than the others and did her jogging at first light. Though she believed in leading by example, she refused to do so at the cost of her authoritarian veneer.
"A good general must wear many helms", her old drill instructor had taught her, during her days as a grunt in Celestia's Royal Guard. "And for any unit to work, the subordinates must feel that their leader simultaneously walks among and above them."
Soarin' knew nothing of leadership himself, but the other cadets often gossiped about Spitfire's Guard training. They claimed the brass had been deliberately grooming her to seat a high office, before the romance of the wild blue called her elsewhere. Others swore she was a deserter with enough friends at Canterlot Castle to keep her out of prison, but Soarin' didn't believe any of that nonsense.
"Yeah, Fallin', pick it up!" laughed Fleetfoot as she darted by to lap him. "I've seen corpses move faster than you!"
Soarin' did, however, believe all the nasty gossip about Fleetfoot. According to the rumor-mill, she had grown up a poor foster filly on the streets of Manehattan, and had been arrested a dozen or so times before joining the Bolts. For a mare fast enough to be a Wonderbolt, she had been awfully good at getting herself caught.
The rookie grit his teeth and chased after her, his blood popping and hissing with fury. Fleetfoot was the worst thing about the Wonderbolts. She awarded him the nickname "Fallin'" after an especially mortifying mishap on the Dizzytron, and had been heckling him non-stop ever since.
"Cut the crap you two!" shouted Spitfire as both Soarin' and Fleetfoot broke into a full gallop. "Quit wasting energy down there! It's not a race!"
Oh, but it was. It had been since day one with these two.
Soarin' weaved between established Wonderbolts and fellow prospects alike, his eyes narrowing with focus as he gained on Fleetfoot. He concentrated on her lissome form, envious of the speed and muscle coordination that comprised her fluid stride. With the top half of her track suit missing, sunlight shimmered on the hairs of her river-blue coat, her white-water mane and tail. For a pegasus, the blue that colored her coat bore little resemblance to the sky. At rest her fur made Soarin' think of a placid lake or a serene pond, but in motion she was a current, a violent surge of water racing down a raging rapid.
"Flying ponyfeathers, now that's just adorable," said Fleetfoot, tossing a glance and a smirk over her shoulder. "Little Fallin' here thinks he can outrun the fastest sprinter on the Bolts. That's hilarious. Hey, Rapidfire, isn't that hilarious."
"I'm busting a gut," said Rapidfire from a few paces behind, his flat tone suggesting that no such guts were indeed busting. He didn't look like much of a flier, his build too thick and rotund, almost buffalo-like, but Soarin' had seen him keep pace with Spitfire during cloudbusting exercises.
Both Soarin' and Fleetfoot, the rookie and the veteran, advanced far ahead of the pack. When he finally caught her, she cocked her head and said, "First to lap Rapid wins! And since I'm in a generous mood, I think I'll give you a head start. Does five seconds sound fair?"
Soarin' was at a loss. He had no breath for speaking at this speed, and wondered how Fleetfoot could manage it with such ease.
"You're right," she said when Soarin' failed to answer. "Better make it an even ten." The rookie ran ahead as Fleetfoot laughed and skidded to a sudden stop. He disliked her laugh. It was too high and too mean, the cocky jerk.
Spitfire's sunbeam glare seared the back of his head, singeing individual hairs. Soarin' knew he was making an ass of himself -- again -- but his nerves ran run away with him just the same. Literally.
He'd never been a good loser, not since flight school and years of being picked last for sports. Unlike Fleetfoot and Rapidfire and the others, the young Wonderbolt prospect was no talented athlete, no genetic lotto winner or recipient of any natural gifts. He was skilled. Trained. He wasn't born a high caliber athlete; he'd worked hard for this.
The rookie lowered his head, putting his nose to that all too familiar grindstone, and plunged down the track. Sweat beaded on his face; sweat rolled down his neck and shoulders; sweat pooled under his leg-pits, staining his tracksuit with dark circles.
He was at top speed when the clamor of charging hooves sounded from behind. The pack came into view again, and so did a steadily jogging Rapidfire: Soarin's finish line. But now his adversary was coming into view as well, slow but steady, a silver-blue silhouette at the edge of his peripheral vision.
Ponyfeathers, she was fast. And in the one or two seconds it took the veteran Bolt to surge past the rookie, overtake Rapidfire and claim an easy victory, Soarin' felt lost and betrayed. Every coach he'd ever had until joining the Wonderbolt Academy had fed him the same lie: that when it came down to the wire, the pony that wanted it more would always win.
But that wasn't true. In that moment Soarin' had wanted to win this stupid, pointless race more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life. But Fleetfoot was faster, better, would always be better, and no amount of wanting anything would ever change that.
He skidded to a brusque stop after lapping Rapidfire, exhausted, but not so tired that he couldn't rip off his track jacket and fling it into the dust. Huffing and puffing, he wiped a waterfall of sweat from his brow and stared down at nothing in particular. He stood still for a long while, then kicked his jacket aside, a terse "Ponyfeathers!" escaping his throat.
"Not bad, Fallin'," said Fleetfoot, panting less than a foot from him. "You gave me a little scare back there. Emphasis on little."
"Enough with the Fallin' crap already," he snapped. "It's not funny any more."
"Yeah, you're right; it is a lame nickname. I think I prefer Fallin' Short." She gave him a teasing shove.
"I said quit it!" He tried to shove her back, but Spitfire dropped between them, wings flared like two bright yellow yield signs. She ripped off her sunglasses and fixed Fleetfoot with a glare. Her eyes were miniature frozen suns lodged in an angry scowl, bright but icy cold.
"You all done making an ass of yourself?" she said.
"Nah," said Fleetfoot, her composure as cool as Spitfire's glare. "I think I got a few more minutes in me. I'll let you know when I'm all done though." Her grin was slight but unwavering.
"You just earned yourself another fifty laps."
"Ah, lighten up. I was only busting the new guy's balls."
"And now you're up to a hundred. But by all means, keep running your mouth, smart ass."
"Please. I could do one-fifty in my sleep."
"Then I'm sure you can handle two hundred, since you're so fresh and wide-awake after that invigorating little sprint."
Fleetfoot was still catching her breath. She didn't look terribly 'fresh' or 'wide-awake' to Soarin'.
"Two hundred it is, boss," said Fleetfoot with a mock salute. She purposely bumped Spitfire's shoulder as she swaggered by, but kept going like nothing had happened. Soarin' might have been new to the Wonderbolts and their power dynamics, but he knew a challenge when he saw one.
Spitfire answered the challenge. She spun around and grabbed Fleetfoot by the shoulder, halting her. "Cool it." Her voice was stern. "Enough with the pissing contest, alright. Just cool it."
"I'm cool, boss," and she was, or at least she played the part well enough. "Cooler than a mountain stream..." Her wings flared to catch a near-nonexistent swell of air, and Soarin' didn't once see her flap as she drifted further down the track. Amazing. He wished he could pull a stunt like that.
"And you," said the team captain, whirling on Soarin'. "You're with me. You and I need to talk."
But they didn't talk, at least not at first, just flitted off toward the sky where Spitfire brooded in silence. The quiet was agonizing, and waiting for the team captain to dole out his punishment was worse.
While Fleetfoot had taken great pains to clearly define their relationship -- she the tormentor and he the endlessly tormented -- his bond with Spitfire was still, for lack of a more clever phrase, up in the air. For the first few weeks she had been everything he'd expected her to be: stern, short with the new cadets, always barking orders and throwing her wait around. But she'd softened after those first hellish weeks, and Soarin' sometimes caught her tossing him interested glances during his more vigorous workouts.
But then, she did that to all the new recruits, and not just the stallions either. He wasn't sure what to make of that.
They were drifting high above the academy when Soarin' plucked up the courage to ask, "So... am I in trouble?"
"I haven't decided yet," she answered. "But don't worry. If you are, your punishment won't be as severe as Fleetfoot's. I expect that kind of horsing around from the cadets, but she's been with us for awhile. She should no better."
"Right..." said Soarin', unsure if Spitfire was even talking to him. "What's the deal with Fleetfoot anyway? No offense, but she's kind of a jerk."
"Don't let her get to you. Tormenting the newbies is just her way of saying hello. It means she likes you."
"Funny way of showing it."
"She'll grow on you. Fleet's still fairly new to the team herself, and isn't quite past the 'something to prove' stage of our relationship yet."
Soarin' remembered how she had shoved by Spitfire. He had yet to see anything half as bold from any of the others. "Maybe she does," he said. "She doesn't seem all that special."
"Actually... she kinda is." Spitfire found a cloud to land on and beckoned Soarin' to join her. The cloud was only about as big as a loveseat, and he could feel her body heat warming his skin. They were so close. He tried not to tremble or vomit or do anything to earn himself another embarrassing nickname.
"I'm proud to admit that Fleetfoot is the team's most talented athlete. What she did just now -- giving you that head start and still smoking you by a good five or six seconds -- I could never pull a stunt like that, even on my best day."
"Really?" Soarin' was astonished. "But you're Spitfire! The Wonderbolt!"
"And don't you ever forget it, Fallin'." On her lips the taunt didn't sound like the insult Fleetfoot had intended it to be, but a petname, the sort a mare gives to her lover. "I do alright, but Fleet is special. She makes me look like an amateur every year at the derby, and that crack about her jogging a hundred and fifty laps in her sleep wasn't all hot air. Take a look for yourself, you'll see."
Spitfire cast a proud gaze down at the jogging track, and Soarin' followed her eyeline, his own stare falling on Fleetfoot. She'd removed the rest of her tracksuit in a futile effort to cool off. Her pace had slowed from a canter to a near trudge, and she was all alone now; the others had finished their workout and hit the showers.
But as haggard as she looked, Fleetfoot kept flowing onward, a trickle of a stream sluicing along parched earth. Soarin' marveled at her stamina. He'd been doing a lot of that for the past nine months here at the academy: marveling.
"Whoa," he said. "How does she do it?"
"One step at a time, I imagine. No different from you or me." Spitfire turned her head and arrested Soarin' with those blistering sun-fire eyes. He couldn't look directly at her; she was burning too brightly.
"Nah, she's way different from me." He hid his shame behind a wistful smile. "I'd have dropped half-dead after the first hundred laps. I don't have talent like that. Never have."
"Shut up." Spitfire laughed and gave his shoulder a playful punch. It stung more than he expected it to. "Mr. 'Best Young Flier three years running' over here. Don't even try feeding me that I-got-no-talent crap."
"I mean it," he countered sharply, though his mood had brightened a bit. "I had to bust my ass for those three wins. Back in high school I always got picked last for sports."
Spitfire raised an eyebrow. "No kidding? I would have pegged you for captain of the football team. A real Letterman-Jacket-wearing douche bag."
"Not even close. Try head of the chess-and-games club. Glasses, braces and all."
"You wear glasses?"
"Contacts now. And I had a retainer until my sophomore year in college."
Spitfire giggled, the sound uncharacteristically cute. "Now you're just fishing for compliments."
"Am I getting any bites?" He grinned at her, and she grinned back, her cheeks flushing. So bright. So lovely.
"I hate the way you look at me," she said after a brief silence. "And not just me, but Fleetfoot and Rapidfire too. You look up at us like we're standing on some unreachable mountaintop."
"Well yeah," said Soarin'. "The Bolts are my heroes. I'm lucky to even be sharing the same air space as you guys."
"Stop that." Spitfire looked down at her hooves and shook her head, seeming suddenly upset. "I'm not your hero, okay. I'm just a pony, not some fanboy's wet dream."
"I didn't say anything like --"
"And you weren't chosen by luck," she interrupted. "You're here because the team wants you here, even Fleetfoot. We all put it to a vote, and when your name came up, hers was the first nod of approval. Rapidfire wanted to cut you three months ago, and I was still undecided. Fleet tipped the scale. If not for her, we wouldn't be having this conversation right now."
Soarin' looked down at the track, and at Fleetfoot. She was still running. "Really?" His eyes dilated wide. He was marveling again.
"If you don't wipe that stupid look off your face, I'm gonna do it for you." Spitfire stood up, eyes flashing with the same authority she'd displayed down on the track. "On your hooves, cadet. If you want to be a Wonderbolt you'd better start acting the part."
Soarin' bolted upright. "Ma'am, yes, ma'am."
“Flying ponyfeathers." She looked him up and down, shaking her head in disapproval. "We gotta loosen you up some, get you comfortable with seeing yourself as our equal." She glanced down at Fleetfoot. "On me, Fallin'. And keep your mouth shut."
Soarin' watched Spitfire's blazing banner of a tail flag as he followed her down to the track. He was downwind of the captain, and a breeze carried her natural scent to his nose, a sweet mixture of sweat and summer romance.
"That's enough for one morning, Fleetfoot," said Spitfire, hovering above her fellow Bolt as she jogged.
"The Tartarus it is. I still have thirty laps to go."
Spitfire dropped in her path, halting her. "I said stop. I'm planning to break in the newbie here, and I want you there to oversee the session."
"The usual?"
"The usual."
Fleetfoot's eyes flicked to Soarin, then back to Spitfire, then back to Soarin' again. "Yeah, okay," she grumbled reluctantly, though her eyes relayed a different message entirely. Soarin' was no expert at reading ponies, but he knew excitement well enough when he saw it.
Chapter TWO
Soarin' wasn't crazy about the way Fleetfoot leered at him as he trotted into the gym. With the gangly looks of his awkward teenage years behind him, the young athlete had grown used to mares expressing a certain... interest in his handsome face, healthy mane and well-muscled physique. He was not, however, accustomed to being drooled over like a slab of meat on a griffin's dinner table.
"You mind?" he said, jogging in place to warm up. Fleetfoot looked just as breathless now as she had on the track, though for a different reason entirely.
"Not at all, Fallin'. And I hope that's not tissue paper filling out those shorts."
A younger Soarin' might have turned scarlet at such a comment, but he wasn't that stallion anymore. For the most part. Still, he didn't see why he couldn't wear his tracksuit for this part of his training, and he hoped his flight-suit wouldn't be as tight as these shorts. They molded to the contour of his croup and flanks, and made quite the show of his crotch.
The outfit's only saving graces were its color scheme and pattern: blue with yellow streaks of lightning. In a way, the embarrassing shred of fabric made him feel like a Wonderbolt.
Warming up was more difficult than it should have been. The air blowing in from the ceiling vents kept his muscles cold and tight. Or was that his nerves? They felt frayed thin, their fibers unraveling as if a pair of giants had substituted his body for a length of rope during their game of tug-of-war.
The giants were named Fleetfoot and Spitfire, and they'd been pulling him in opposite directions since day one. On one end he had the team captain's encouraging words, ensuring him of his own ability, and on the other, the white-water rebel, unmanning him with her taunts and her japes and now her leer.
Spitfire claimed Fleetfoot had tipped the vote in his favor, but what if she'd only done so because of his looks? He could think of worse fates than being reduced to so much fodder for Fleetfoot's appetite, but he hadn't come here to chase skirts, or to have skirts chase him. He didn't need these distractions.
But sadly, Soarin' had always been prone to distraction. He was a magnet for such ills, and right now one more was swaggering into the gym. Spitfire was dressed in the same too-tight togs as him, and she wore them much, much better than he ever could.
"What did I say about staring at me like that?" Her tone was business as usual, but the slight grin and almost demure eye-glint undid much of the effect.
"S-S-Sorry, ma'am!" he blurted. He had to look her square in the eye -- directly into the sun -- in order to escape the magnetic pull of her shapely forelegs. They were designed for motility, those legs, bearing a sylphlike trimness that scoffed at natural forces like drag and gravity.
Her eyes had their own pull to them, more gravitational than merely magnetic.
"Don't 'sorry ma'am' me," said Spitfire. "On the mat, Fallin' Let's go."
Soarin' joined his team captain at the center of a blue-and-white vinyl mat. It yielded wherever he stepped, but only slightly and briefly before reclaiming its original shape. The yet-to-be Wonderbolt smiled. He hadn't stood on a wrestling mat since his days at Canter U.
Fleetfoot must have gleaned the nostalgia twinkling in his features, because she nudged Rapidfire and said, "Look at that, Fallin' here even knows how to roll. Can I pick 'em or can I pick 'em?" She was sitting off to the side on a bench used for weight training, with Rapidfire towering behind her.
"Herrmm," said Rapidfire, his voice a low earthquake rumble, as if little tectonic plates were shifting in his vocal cords.
"I rolled a bit in my college years." Soarin' was still looking at Spitfire, as if it were her comment he was responding to. "Not the best time I ever had. But fun. Kinda."
He had wrestled for all of his junior and senior years at Canter U, but quit after getting manhandled one too many times by his naturally stronger earth pony opponents. It was their sport, he finally conceded after two years of middling success. Afterwards he sought out a new athletic pursuit, one better suited for his lean frame and honed flying skills. One where he could shine.
"Yeah?" said Spitfire. "I learned to roll when I was with the Guard, combat training and all that. So why'd you give it up?"
Soarin' scratched the back of his head, eyes cast down at the mat. "Kept getting my tail handed to me, I guess. My league was crammed with earth ponies. They're just... stronger, you know?"
Spitfire came closer. "They are, but that isn't why you kept losing." She cupped his chin and raised it, so that their eyes met again. "You kept losing because you looked at those earth ponies the same way you look at me and Fleetfoot and Rapidfire. They were better than you because you decided they were, and they pinned you before the match even started." A coy smile, a slight head tilt. "I'm right, aren't I?"
She was, but the rookie wasn't about to admit that. "Why did you quit, then?" he asked," neatly deflecting her question.
"I didn't. Me and Rapid still roll whenever we find the time. And Fleet, too. When she's in the mood to get her tail whipped."
"Buck off," Fleetfoot snorted, though her grin was good-humored enough.
"Really? You mean you wrestle with..." His voice trailed off as his neck twisted toward Rapidfire, slowly, as if fearful of what he might find looming behind Fleetfoot.
"She wins, too," said Fleetfoot. "Though not as often as she'd like."
"Herrmm," was all Rapidfire had to say on the matter.
"So why are we about to do this?" asked Soarin'. "What does wrestling have to do with being a stunt flier?"
"Everything," said Spitfire.
"Dramatic much?" Fleetfoot chimed in with a shrug. Spitfire shot her a quick glower, but otherwise ignored the comment.
"Every feat of athleticism utilizes the exact same skill set." A switch had flipped in Spitfire's head, and she slipped back into the authoritarian role of team captain. "And until you master the most important piece of that skill set, you can forget about ever putting on a flight suit.”
"And what piece is that?"
Spitfire jabbed his brow with the point of her forehoof. "Mental toughness. Wrestling isn't about strength, and stunt flying isn't about speed or coordination. Both, like all sports, are almost a hundred percent mental."
She replaced the jabbing hoof with her own brow and marched forward, muscling Soarin' back on his heels. "When Rapidfire over there gives the word, I'm gonna come at you full force, and I'm gonna toss you around like the scared little colt you are, and I'm gonna do it because I know I can.
"And I need you to do the same. Don't think you can beat me, cadet. Know it. Know it like you know the sky is blue and the grass is green. 'Cause if you keep looking at me like I'm your superior, I will be, and I promise this won't be fun for you. Understand?"
Soarin' swallowed a lump in his throat. "Yes."
"Yes what?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"That's more like it. And one more thing, Fallin'," she said, treating the insult like a pet-name again. "Try to stay focused." She shut her eyes for a second and pecked him on the mouth.
Fireworks exploded between his ears. He was still leaning forward and kissing at empty air, eyes shut, when Fleetfoot shouted, "The boss said focus, Fallin'!" She sounded disgruntled (well, more so than usual anyway), though Soarin' wasn't sure why.
"Yeah. Yep. Focused," he said, eyes snapping open to find a sudden scant yet unwanted distance between himself and his captain.
The fire in her eyes had cooled to an arctic chill. She wore many faces, this Spitfire, and burned at a myriad of temperatures. Sometimes she was a forge fire, her heat needed to soften ponies for pounding and reshaping. Other times she was a candle in a dark room, more bright than hot, and fragile, burning with a guiding light.
But now she was a cold flame, a touch of frostbite, her focus so frigid that it burned. Spitfire. Soarin' was afraid and all a flutter at once. Before joining the academy, he'd never met a mare like Spitfire.
"Hey, boss. Don't start without telling Fallin' here the stakes."
And then there was Fleetfoot, with her liquid stride and her white-water mane and tail, flowing, always flowing against her leader. She was a current that couldn't be boiled to vapors, and Spitfire a flame that refused to be doused. It was no wonder they butted heads so often.
A fiery gaze met a liquid one, and the result was steam. "We'll be rolling for the usual stakes," said Spitfire.
"Hear that, big guy?" Fleetfoot grinned and nudged Rapidfire with an elbow. "The usual."
Rapidfire gave his typical "Herrmm," though this time one corner of his mouth crinkled with a hint of amusement.
"The usual?" Soarin' took his eyes off Spitfire, not liking Fleetfoot's leer. "What's the usual? Should I be --"
"FIGHT!!!" The boom of Rapidfire's voice jolted Soarin'; it was a thunderclap breaking across a clear blue sky.
Spitfire bull-rushed him. She was fast, as expected, but the rookie reared upright in time to meet her charge. Her shoulder hammered his gut, making him regret the move for a painful cluster of seconds. But the pain ebbed, and his stance flared wider as he bent forward to circle his fores around Spitfire's barrel.
He was surprised by how quickly the old grappling instincts returned, how easily those long buried muscle memories resurfaced. Spitfire drove him back several paces, but she was airborne before her forelegs could snag a blue-furred hind, her heels arching overhead as Soarin' suplexed her. Her back crashed to the mat with an unceremonious thud. But the throw did little more than surprise the captain; she scrambled away before the rookie could capitalize on his short-lived advantage.
As good as that first throw had been, Soarin' had to admit it felt lucky. Spitfire would be on guard now; the next takedown wouldn't come half as easily. Though he was in the best shape of his life, his grappling was rusty, and Spitfire was sure to be in top form if she'd been practicing with Rapidfire all this time.
And then there was that cold intensity to worry about, chilling his skin until it started to peel. She was so focused. So here, in this moment, while Soarin' was elsewhere, still lingering a few minutes back in time, wondering what that kiss had meant.
The second rush forced him to find some semblance of concentration. They clinched, but only for as long as it took Spitfire to circle-walk Soarin' and take his back. He clutched her fetlocks with the bends of both knees, expecting a throw, but she swept him instead, kicking out one of his hinds and planting him face down on the mat. He knew how to counter from there, or at least his body did, but the speed and strength of that takedown gave him pause.
Horse apples, her technique was sharp. She had been practicing.
A sudden pang of doubt made him hesitate, giving Spitfire time to snare both his fores in a full nelson hold. Supple hinds circled his barrel and clenched hard. The subtle grooves texturing her inner thighs popped with new definition, and her tight rear clenched tighter, creasing her shorts.
Soarin' groaned into blue vinyl, panicking. Memories of being dominated by earth ponies swam through his mind, and his forelegs flailed as if to shoo them away. He flexed his shoulders, his back, his own subtle muscles rippling. But it was no good; he'd never break the full nelson with sheer strength alone.
"Come on, Fallin'!" Fleetfoot shouted from her bench. "Don't let the boss shove you around! Her ego's big enough as it is!"
Great, and now he had Fleetfoot acting as his one-mare cheering section. He tried to scrounge some pittance of strength from her encouragements, but the image of her liquid smirk filled his mind instead.
"You gave me this hold, Fallin'." Spitfire's voice smoked into his ear, low and breathy. "You gave it to me. Didn't even make me fight for it. I want you to think about that while you're slapping the mat."
She rolled onto her side and pulled her hinds taut, wringing more air from Soarin's diaphragm. Light blue flesh pursed against the ridges of the captain's brawny inner thighs. The pressure was enormous, but the sight of her flexing quads stirred warmth beneath Soarin's stomach. He couldn't help but stare down at them, aroused by the sight of his own body being crushed.
"See something you like?" A speckling of playfulness seasoned Spitfire's voice. Her grip slacked a as she panted into his mane, though her fetlocks remained crossed. "Go on then. Take a closer look." She flared her elbows and pushed down on the back of his head, driving the point of his chin into his sternum.
"Damn it, Fallin'! Quit bucking around!" Hearing Fleetfoot curse him was almost reassuring; the sound of it seemed to reestablish some unspoken natural order.
After adjusting her bodyscissor, Spitfire rolled to her back and resumed squeezing. It was worse now, every bit as asphyxiating as it had been, but more crushing as well, more grinding. Every sane part of him wanted to give in to this new pressure, but he held on, though why he couldn't say for sure. It might have been his desire to impress his future teammates, or because some part of him really did believe he could win... or at least wanted to believe.
But it was likely more fundamental than that. More chemical and carnal. Hiding behind those first two desires was a third, this one evinced by the heat burgeoning in his lap, the firmness stretching his nylon shorts.
"You give yet?" Spitfire's voice was a grunt, a whisper, a puff of smoke.
"The buck he does!" shouted Fleetfoot, answering in Soarin's place. He didn't care for the abrasiveness of his new cheering section. But he didn't tap out either.
"Have it your way then." Spitfire broke her full nelson and swung out from beneath Soarin's back. Laying beside him now, her bodyscissor still in place, she snagged his fore at the fetlock and pulled it across her chest. Soarin' bridged in frustration, only for his hips and rear to be dragged back to the mat.
"Tap," she ordered again. "Just give it up, Fallin'. I was wrong about you, you're not Wonderbolt material after all."
Despairing and in terrible pain, Soarin' moved to slap his hoof against the thigh crushing his middle, but stopped shy of grazing skin.
Spitfire favored her body locks a tad too much, he realized. Had he been rolling with an earth mare from his college days, she would have finished him with a choke after taking his back. And if Spitfire was as seasoned as he expected, she'd have done the same.
So what was her game then? Had he been rolling with Fleetfoot, he'd have taken this reluctance to end things as a desire to toy with him. But Spitfire wasn't the sadistic type. She wasn't holding back with her body lock, but she wasn't going for the kill either. Was she encouraging him then? Giving him a fighting chance?
Soarin' shut his eyes, clenched his teeth and dug deep, searching for that special part of himself that both Fleetfoot and Spitfire seemed to believe in.
And then his eyes flashed open. He didn't find any profound answers, any magical missing puzzle pieces. But he found something.
Pushing off his left hind hoof, he rolled into Spitfire so that his chest met hers. He felt her heavy heartbeat, her slightly ragged breathing. She was growing tired from the work of flexing and squeezing, but fatigue didn't stop her fores from lashing around Soarin's neck, catching him in a front-facing sleeper hold.
The pinch up top was tighter than the one down below. Both biceps and quads expanded by centimeters to crush Soarin, to smother him between mounds of writhing muscle, but the biceps were fresher, stronger, and targeting the more vulnerable weak point.
The closeness of their embrace seized Soarin' and pulled him stiff at both ends: front and back. The bulge between his hinds ached in its nylon prison, wanting out, and his wings went rigid in an embarrassing display of arousal. He heard Fleetfoot laugh and Rapidfire "herrmm" and Spitfire grunt and pant and --
Wait... his wings were stiff? His wings. That was it.
He rolled facedown, planting Spitfire on her back, then started flapping. She was heavier than she looked, and hoisting her off the mat took some doing, especially in his weakened state. She caught on quick enough and broke her hold, but by then it was too late. Soarin already had her by the barrel, his shoulder buried in her gut as he plunged back toward the mat.
Soarin' was no sadist, but the bone-jar rattle caused by the collision of mare and vinyl felt amazing. Spitfire's body jerked beneath him, and her limbs went flaccid like yellow streamers before slapping against the mat.
"Hahaha! Did you see that! Tell me you saw that!" Fleetfoot had Rapidfire by the shoulder and was shaking him, but her eyes never left Soarin'. He sat upright on Spitfire's chest, sure of his victory now. But the moment he pinned her fetlocks to the mat, she bucked and rolled, toppling the rookie from his mount.
They clinched again, fores entangled in a violent struggle for dominance. The grappling was fast and furious now, all instinct and intensity and raw passion, with a only smattering of technique to hold it all together.
Soarin' was exhausted, but so was Spitfire. He could do this.
He was still struggling to find a decent grip when a yellow foreleg slipped between his thighs. He shuddered under the rough touch, then squealed as Spitfire flipped him to the mat with a sloppy crotch lift.
"Aww, and you were doing so well, too." The words smoked out as she pinned him in side-control. As Soarin' tried to bridge out, she snatched a foreleg and tucked it between her thighs, then snaked her fores around his head and squeezed. "Such a waste of talent. But oh well, there'll be a dozen more just like you lined up by tomorrow morning, and a dozen more like them the next day."
Tears beaded in Soarin's eyes as Spitfire slowly -- tortuously -- compressed his skull between a compact bicep and the side of her body. Her leg-pit smothered his groans and bellows, his pants and ragged attempts to inhale. Each failed breath carried a sharp sweat-reek to his nostrils, and the heat of her body against his was almost worse than the pressure. Soarin' felt like somepony had shoved his head in a microwave oven that was imploding one... grueling... second... at... a...
But as painful as it was, she was still giving him a chance. She held nothing back in her attempts to flatten his skull, but his neck was right there for the taking, and just a few pounds of pressure would have knocked him out cold.
"This isn't fun for me either, Fallin'," she said, only a trace of a lie in her voice. "I was really looking forward to flying with you, but the terms are the terms." He drove the flat of his hoof into her cheek and pushed. His effort made her smile.
"I never did tell you the terms, did I?" she grunted. "That hardly seems fair."
Ponyfeathers this was impossible. After all this time Spitfire hadn't weakened or slowed enough for him to seize control. And he was tired himself, and hurting, and despairing all over again...
"If I win, I get to kick you off the team," she continued. "But if you beat me, not only do you get to stay, but I promise to let you..." Her lips grazed his ear, and the rest was a promise for him and him alone.
That was all he needed to hear.
Digging deep again, Soarin' found his second wind, and a bit more too. His foreleg straightened and locked out, shoving back Spitfire's face. He forced her head up and her neck straight, then jerked his hips off the mat and swung his hinds up in a tight arc.
She read his attempted scissor hold, as he suspected she might, but evading capture meant breaking her own headlock. As she scrambled away, Soarin snagged her tail and wrenched her back. He stood her upright, mimicked her full nelson hold and suplexed her, slamming her head into the mat.
The blow stunned her, maybe long enough for Soarin' to score a pin, but he wasn't about to chance her kicking out. A quick turn planted her flat on her chest, leaving her helpless to stop the future Wonderbolt from applying a boston crab submission hold.
She was his plaything now, completely at his mercy, but the throbbing between his thighs put him in no mood for games. With both hooves secured under his opponent's chin, he tilted her face toward the ceiling -- stretching her neck nice and taut -- and rocked his shoulders back.
"Tap." It was a command. He was the captain now, giving the orders.
"Make... me..." Her voice was a guttering flame. Defiant till the end. He'd expected nothing less.
Leaning back an inch further, he put a deep crease in her spine, her neck folding, chest jutting out like a hill turned sideways. Still, she refused to tap out. He could bend her all he liked, he realized, but she'd never break that way.
His hooves fell away from her throat latch, only to be replaced by the bend of an elbow. Her mouth hung open in a breathless plea as one firm bicep curled against the side of her neck. A second mass of muscle joined it soon enough, and Soarin' couldn't hold back his smile as he felt the air and fight drain from his opponent's body.
He held the pose. Waited. It didn't take long.
Soarin' nearly came the second she tapped on his hip. In his zeal, he shoved her to the mat, caught her in a bodyscissor and squeezed a little longer, just to make sure she knew which of them was in charge. She was stubborn about giving up a second submission, but a jolting thigh-crush and a terse "Again!" forced her hoof.
The hold fell away seconds after, and so did her shorts, and so did his. He wanted to say something dirty when he saw that Spitfire was as wet as he was hard, but nothing especially clever or sexy came to mind. A clumsy, "can I?" slipped out instead, and a just as awkward "Yeah," flitted back to him.
He shoved his way in from behind, the two of them moaning almost in unison.
"I've wanted you for so long," Soarin' said, his words still fumbling out in a clumsy mess. "Since day one I've --"
"Then shut up and fuck me." She rocked her body against his, urging him, pleading, and he answered by pulling back and driving home once, twice, three times... again and again, until counting became pointless. His pelvis pummeled her ass cheeks, and his balls slapped slick flesh as he pinned down her shoulders and worked her over.
Ah, flying ponyfeathers. He'd meant to start slower than this, to take his time, but the wrestling had made him too horny for that, and Spitfire was too tight. She squeezed his shaft with new muscles, her pussy clenching as hard as her hinds had. Soft whines and whinnies flitted up from beneath him, and two semi-folded wings twitched against his chest.
Their bodies rolled together, their sweat dripped and mingled, and the smell of it all was head-swirling. Again Soarin' thought to say something dirty that would make his impromptu partner even wetter, and again he faltered. He never had been good at dirty talk.
"Oh, Spitfire," was what he settled on, loving the taste of that name on his tongue. It was a crisp and savory spice, almost hot enough to make his eyes water, almost, almost. "Spit... Fire..." He moaned the name again, and that was it -- anymore and his tongue would start to burn.
The yellow wings shuddered harder now, and without thinking, he grabbed them, pulled them straight and tucked them under his fores. Then he tossed his head back and pounded a chorus of loud whimpers from his partner. Her eyes bolted shut, but Soarin's remained open, fixed on the place where his cock met her soaked pussy. He watched his own length vanish and reappear, vanish and reappear, vanish and reappear -- the urge to burst mounting with every stroke.
His cock appeared less and less as the strokes shortened, and soon he was hardly pulling out of her at all.
"Oh fuck... Spitfire..." he moaned again, braving the spice's rising heat. It burned, but was well worth it.
And to his surprise his partner called back, neighing "Soarin'!" as she came with a shudder. It was the first time since day one that he'd heard her say his name. Not cadet. Not Fallin'. But, "Mmmmm, Soarin'..." And again: "Soarin', Soarin', Soarin'..." On her tongue, the texture of the name matched its meaning. It was light and breezy and whistling off toward some faraway wild blue yonder.
He almost didn't give himself enough time to pull out. Clutching his cock, he groaned and popped and coated Spitfire's lower back, his seed gushing out in long, fluid ropes. He was still gushing and convulsing after he collapsed on her. The two of them plopped flat on the mat, sweaty and spent, cadet laying atop his captain.
"You lasted longer than I thought you would." said Spitfire, having caught her breath.
"Yeah? While fighting or fucking?"
She tittered airily but didn't answer, leaving Soarin' to puzzle over that one himself.
"So..." he started slowly, as if afraid to finish. "...Does this mean I get a flight suit?"
She laughed again and stroked his cheek. "Fleetfoot was right. You really are slow." Then she stood up, shrugging him off with surprising ease, and started for the door. "Hit the showers and get some rest. Practice starts first thing in the morning... Soarin'."
A pause. An over-the-shoulder wink. And then she was gone.
Rapidfire trotted up behind the rookie. He said nothing, only patted his withers with a broad hoof and followed after Spitfire.
Fleetfoot was already gone.
Epilogue
The track beckoned Soarin from his bed. After everything that had happened today, and over the course of these last few months, he couldn't sleep. And how could he? Starting tomorrow, he would be a Wonderbolt.
He walked out to the track. His limbs were sore from rolling with Spitfire, but he didn't want to fly; he'd miss too much of this moment if he flew and he needed this to last. The wind was a cool blessing from on high, the moon a silver medallion in the sky. Soarin' could hardly wait for dawn. He was done with silver things now, all done. Tomorrow he would be a Wonderbolt, and finally deserving of gold.
Mmmm, gold... He thought of his team captain and carried on.
Voices rang out as he neared the track; apparently a few others shared his plans for a late night jog. As he came closer, the voices became clearer, more familiar. One was a crackling torch in the night, the other a crashing wave.
Fleetfoot and Spitfire were both wearing their flight suits, minus the masks. They were arguing, and neither noticed Soarin's approach. He stood still. Watched. Listened.
"...You didn't have to storm out before the end like a big baby," said Spitfire.
"And watch you have your way with another recruit? Gross. Thanks but no thanks."
"Oh, come off it Fleet. You were cheering for him the whole time, and you know what happens when they win."
"You mean when you let them win," said Fleetfoot smirking.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yeah, I'm sure. It would have gone differently if you would've let me have him. You know, like you promised." Fleet ran a frustrated hoof through her mane and looked off at the sky, a huff puffing off her lips.
"Oh, crap," said Spitfire. "Did you want...?"
"Shut up. You know I did."
"Fleet, I'm... I'm sorry."
"No you're not."
"Don't tell me how I feel about this."
Fleetfoot opened her mouth to say something, but shoved Spitfire instead. "Just piss off. It's like two in the morning what're you even doing out here?"
"Checking up on you. Rapid says you've been staying up later and later, always studying and training."
"Just keeping ahead of the competition." She jabbed a hoof in Spitfire's chest. "Boss."
Sun-fire eyes flashed down at the hoof, then back up to its owner. "Rest is part of training, too. We have a big show coming up and I need you on point. No slip ups like last time."
Fleetfoot snorted and drove her brow into Spitfire's. "That was the cadet's fault, the one you picked and I had to cut later. I. Don't. Slip."
Spitfire didn't budge. "Just come inside, Fleet. Please. You're gonna run yourself ragged out here."
"And drop down to your level?" Her laugh was obnoxious and forced. "In your dreams, boss. Why don't you go cuddle up with Fallin' and listen to him go on and on about how great you are."
"You know what?" Spitfire's smile was sly. "I think I'll do that. He loves the saying my name, you know. 'Spitfire,'" she taunted, mimicking Soarin's voice. "You should have stayed and listened. 'Spitfire, Spitfire'..."
For a second Soarin' was sure Fleetfoot would pounce on the team captain, but she only said, "Like I give a crap. Fallin's got no moves. You just let him win so he'd fuck you."
"No, he beat me fair and square," she insisted. "But you know, there was this one cadet I liked so much that I let her win, just to get her on the team. White mane, reckless, bit of an attitude. Maybe you know her?"
Fleetfoot laughed aloud, and just like that, the conversation's entire tempo changed. "Shut up. No you didn't."
"Oh, but I did." Spitfire closed on her teammate grinning impishly. "The team needed her, so my pride had to come second. And I'm glad I let her win, because she's been the best addition to the Bolts since."
"Really?"
"Really." Spitfire punched her friend's shoulder. "Now let’s get you inside and warm in your bed."
"Wait," said Fleetfoot. "Let's say, hypothetically speaking, that this white-haired pony were to return for a rematch. What would you say to her?"
"I'd say bring it on."
"Oh, it's been brought." Fleetfoot smiled as she ripped off the top half of her suit and flung it to the ground. Spitfire did the same, and then they were a tangle of limbs and grunts, rolling and tumbling, a cloud of steam that wouldn't rise.
Soarin' considered staying to watch, but then remembered that neither mare could be boiled or doused. He went back to bed, deciding he'd rather not stay up all night.
