If Your Love is Irradiated, Prepare for the Fallout

by Regidar

Rating: mature
Tags: Sex, Spitfire, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark, Soarin, Fetish, Comedy, Non-consensual, Random, Violence
Length: 3247

Spitfire fucks a nuclear warhead.

Nuclear weapons have always been a turn on for Spitfire, so when it comes to her attention that an atomic bomb left over from one of Celestia's New Year's Eve extravaganzas is for sale on the black market, she scoops that shit up like a dog turd on her front lawn.

content warning: non-con, flippant abuse, general edginess

Originally written in 2012. Rewritten in 2015, 2018, and 2020.

why i spent so much time on this one could never truly guess

Published 2020-02-24 01:10:02 UTC
Last updated 2020-02-24 01:10:02 UTC

She Lived One Hell Of A Half-Life

“Wow, that was a great show, wasn’t it?” Soarin' grinned as he slid out of his jumpsuit. Spitfire nodded assent, her gaze distant and unfocused. The other members of The Wonderbolts were already gone, off to pursue their out-of-career lives instead of lurking around the locker rooms like anti-social shower goblins. The two remaining were in the changing room, which consisted of the common area and two shower stalls on each side: left side for the males, right side for the females.

“I wonder what it is they do,” Soarin' said aloud, looking back at Spitfire, who was packing away her things. “You know, Fleetfoot and Rapidfire. Do you know what they do after shows and events?”

Spitfire snorted. “Probably something stupid; you know how they’re always going on about dumb stuff.” Spitfire screwed up her face and stuck out her tongue, adopting an exaggerated mockery of Fleetfoot’s lispy voice. “‘Oh, hey Thpitfire, you wanna come have drinkth with uth?’ ‘Oh hey, Thpitfire, you wanna buy thome cookieth for my thithter’th daughter?’ ‘Oh hey, Thpitfire, would it be alright to thkip praaaactith? My thithter’s daughter ith in the hothpital.’ ‘Oh hey, Thpitfire, I really can’t come in today, I need to be at my neitheth’s funeral.’”

Soarin’ chuckled sensibly at Spitfire’s excellent parody of their teammate. Wiping away a small tear from his eye, he sighed wistfully. “Heh… it’s funny because she has a speech impediment.”

“Don’t be an ablist, Soarin’, it’s only funny because she’s an idiot,” Spitfire said scornfully, looking upon Soarin’ with utter disgust as he flaunted his perfect pronunciation skills like a big ol’ weiner. “Her disability has nothing to do with this.”

Soarin’ looked down at the floor, thinking of all the damage he personally had done to the entire speech-impaired rights movement by making one misinformed statement like the self-pitying loser he is. His thoughts of suicide were interrupted, however, as there was a knock on the door. Spitfire grinned.

“Oh, I bet it’s here!” Spitfire scampered to the locker room door; sure enough, when she flung it open there stood a mailpony, staring blankly and listlessly ahead.

“Delivery for Spitfire S. Fire,” droned the mailpony in the tell-tail voice of a stallion whose soul had been sucked out of him via his anus by a grinding, uncompromising job full of unfulfilling grunt work and steadily lowering wages.

“What’s here?” Soarin asked. “Also, why are you having mail delivered to the locker room?”

“I recently came to the conclusion that I spend most of my time in this locker room,” Spitfire said. “I’ll just end up sleeping in here sometimes and not even realizing it.”

“Holy crap,” Soarin’ said, eyes wide in alarm. “Spitfire, are you homeless? You know, you can always come live with me—“

“What? No, I’m not homeless!” Spitfire said, glancing at Soarin’ from over her shoulder as she was meaning over to sign the package release form. “In fact, I have like, five homes. I’m the captain of The Wonderbolts, I make bank.”

“Wait, five homes? I barely make rent on a studio apartment,” Soarin’ said, his brow furrowing. “How much are you getting paid? Because I don’t think we’re getting paid the same amount.”

“That’s confidential,” Spitfire said dismissively. “Besides, if you have an issue with your payroll, take it up with The Equine Resources Department.”

“We have an Equine Resources Department?” Soarin’ asked hopefully.

“Yup, sure do,” Spitfire said. “It’s right there to the left, first door to the right when you walk in.”

Soarin’ smiled, almost skipping to the next room as he was unable to contain his happy humming, his physical festivities accompanied by a little ditty of his own composition:

“Finally gonna make minimum wage
No more late nights or anxious days
Gonna make minimum wage at last
Finally gonna get some meat on my ass

Making ten bits per hour
It’s gonna be great
I won’t even care if the pay’s late
Making ten bits per hour
It’s gonna rock
All you poor losers can suck my—“

“Okay, we get it,” Spitfire groaned.

“I’m not finished!” Soarin’ shouted at her. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and exhaled. He put a hoof to his mouth, cleared his throat, and parted his lips, before falling silent again.

“You ruined it,” Soarin’ grouched, scowling at Spitfire.

“I don’t care,” Spitfire responded uncaringly, attempting to use her wing to grasp the quill the mailpony was levitating a few inches above the release form. Soarin’ made a small indignant noise in her direction, and sulked off into the next room.

“For the record,” Soarin’ said, poking his head around the wall. “It was ‘cock’.”

“What was?” Spitfire asked, barely paying attention as she attempted to trap the quill between her hooves.

“The next part of my song!” Soarin’ cried. “It’s like you don’t even pay attention when I talk! Or sing, in this very specific case!”

“Right, you have fun with that,” Spitfire said, glowering at the elusive quill. Soarin’ groaned, and slipped back into continuing his quest for minimum wage and maybe a real healthcare plan (he shouldn’t get his hopes up, though). “You were flat, by the way.”

“YOU WERE FLAT!” screeched Soarin’ from the other room.

“Can you just do it for me?” Spitfire, now free of her irritating colleague, asked the mailpony.

“Why don’t you just use your mouth like a regular non-unicorn?” the mailpony deadpanned, intentionally and deliberately oppressing Spitfire with culturally ingrained unicorn supremacy.

“I don’t like getting feather-fuzz in my mouth,” Spitfire said, grunting as she focused all of her energy into moving the quill at a painstaking pace across the parchment. After a good few minutes, Spitfire’s name was scrawled completely illegible upon the paper.

“Wow, I know we’ll take literally anything as a signature,” the mailpony said, looking over the ink-born abomination. "But this is really just pushing the limit."

“Alright, you can go now," Spitfire said.

"I mean, seriously,” the mailpony said, looking down at the signature again, grimacing histrionically at the sight of it. “This is kind of why I didn’t apply to that job at the Planned Parenthood Clinic, so I wouldn't have to see messy abortions like this.”

“How long have you been waiting to use that one?” Spitfire asked.

The mailpony shrugged. "Lost track. Nopony I've delivered to has been this bad at writing before.”

Spitfire glared at the mailpony, who left without further comment. When she was sure he had truly gone, Spitfire peaked her head around the corner and giggled brightly. “Yes! It’s here! It’s finally here!”

“Okay, so I went where you told me to go and all I found was a massive turd in stall three,” Soarin’ said as he re-entered the locker room, looking downcast as ever. “Are you trying to tell me something? I feel like maybe that was intentional.”

“Soarin’, stop your bitching for a second and come look at this!” Spitfire exclaimed jubilantly.

Soarin’ stepped from the locker room into the hallway, and gave a long, hard look at the package. “What is it?”

“What else could it be, Soarin’?” Spirefire said, sneering at her emotional punching bag. “There’s only two things that come in boxes this big: Saddle Arabians and Warheads. And you know what I always say: ‘The only’—“

“—‘Good Saddle Arabian is a dead Saddle Arabian’, yeah, I know,” Soarin’ finished. “Racist bitch,” he muttered under his breath before narrowing his eyes at the box. “Wait. You ordered a warhead? What the hell do you need a warhead for?”

“Sexual gratification,” Spitfire said. “Now come on, open the box. I haven’t got all day.”

“Why do I have to—wait, hold up. Sexual gratification?”

“Do I look like Fleetfoot? I know you understood me.”

“Well, I heard you but—” Soarin’ frowned. “Where did you even get a warhead, anyway?”

“Remember Princess Celestia’s New Years Eve Party? Surplus.”

Soarin’s eyes went wide. “So that’s what happened to Griffonstone,” he said softly.

“Anyway, open it up! My meatflaps are salivating like a rabid dog.”

Soarin’ grimaced. “Please never say that again. Besides, you’re the one who ordered it! Why do I have to open it?”

“I’m the captain, Soarin’,” Spitfire said, rolling her eyes. “If I died, you’d be in charge, and think about what a disaster that would be. Conversely, I can always just replace you with that Rainbow-haired cunt if I need to.”

Soarin’ pouted. “You’re not very nice to me.”

“Preposterous,” Spitfire retorted loftily with a wave of her hoof. “If I weren’t nice, would I have got you this safety equipment for opening the package?” She gestured to the side of the box.

Soarin’ crept over to the equipment in question. “This is a pair of sunglasses and a napkin,” he said, holding them up in his hooves.

“Oh shit, I’m sorry,” Spirefire said, reaching over and taking the sunglasses. “These are actually one of my better pairs, I didn’t mean to put that one in there.” She slid the sunglasses she had been wearing earlier down from their resting place on her forehead, and then placed the second pair she had confiscated from Soarin’ over those.

Soarin’ shot his captain a dirty look, and sighed, placing the napkin over his head. Spitfire snorted.

“You think that’s going to help you?” she scoffed. “Idiot.”

“Where do you think I should place it, then?” Soarin’ said, before a sudden and swift tsunami of agony and pain rippled up his body from his backside.

“Right there, abouts,” Spitefire said, her hindlegs winding down from the swift buck. “It’s the most important part of the stallion, after all. You need more help locating them? They’re kinda small, so I figured—“

Soarin’ limped over to the box, napkin trailing from mane as he went. “I don’t care,” he whimpered, tail tucked between his legs. “I’m just going to open this, and then I’m going home.”

“No, you idiot!” Spitfire screamed, but it was too late. As Soarin’ tore into the box, thousands of tiny spiders poured from the interior and began to move as a black wave towards his rump. Soarin’ screamed, falling to the ground and slamming his body against any surface he could find in a vain attempt to squash the advancing arachnids.

“You dumbass, that’s why you wear the napkin!” Spitfire shrieked. “That way, they can’t burrow into your scrotum and lay their eggs!”

“GET THEM OFF!” Soarin’ screamed.

Spitfire watched her colleague thrash and writhe on the ground, her pussy foaming like a latte. After a minute or seven, she trotted off into the locker rooms once more. She returned but a moment later with a gallon of Whoreox™ brand bleach, coating the stallion from head to hoof.

“Th-Thank yo—AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

“Yeah, it’s going to sting a bit.” Spitfire disinterestedly inspected the underside of her hoof. “But hey, better than spiders, right?”

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

“Pussy,” Spitfire said under her breath. She walked to the box, which now had a suitable tear in it, and apathetically dismembered the rest of the cardboard. Upon first catching a glimpse of the magnificent object inside, her mouth fell agape.

It was truly a thing of beauty; the bomb was bigger than she was, all shiny and chrome, sparkling as though it were made yesterday. She could feel herself salivating from both ends as she came closer and closer to her revered object, eyes wide and sparkling.

“W-Why…” Soarin’ choked. “Why spiders…”

“Don’t you know anything about nuclear physics?” Spitfire shot at him scornfully. “The spiders are the source of the bomb’s nuclear fusion!” She hit the side of the explosive with her hoof, an atonal, muted thump emanating from it. “They place the spiders inside of an empty shell, and they build a miniature society inside; then you wait a few months for their society to discover nuclear fusion, and then you’re ready to go sling ‘em at Saddle Arabians!”

“Do they work on other ponies too?”

“Well, yeah, but I don’t see why we’d bomb anypony other than the Saddle Arabians. Except you know, as a New Year’s prank or something.” Spitfire lowered her head as her expression darkened. “Damn dirty gryphs.”

Soarin’ looked up from his pathetic puddle on the floor, the formerly blue stallion now whiter than Montana. “Why do you hate the Saddle Arabians so much, Spitfire? What’d they ever do to you? I mean, I know you were in a special unit back in Operation Desert Horn, but…”

Spitfire stared blankly at the warhead, her hoof still resting against the side. She blinked once, her breathing growing shallower, her pupils mere pinpricks.

”Oh dear sweet Celestia, what are they going to do to him? Put that blade down!”

“They’re sending us back home in pieces to try and intimidate the princesses! They just sawed through Dust Bolt’s neck on FILM!”

“They wouldn’t—OH FUCK THEY ARE! OH C—“

Wet vomit hitting dirt. Echoes colliding through the cave.

“Quick, Cadet Spitfire! You’re the only one who they haven’t broken both their wings yet! If you fly out of here fast enough, you should be able to—“

“قد يأتي السلام والحب إليك”

“OH SHIT! RUN, CADET! GET HELP!”

SHRRKTKTKT. SHRRRKKTKKRRTKTKTKT.

“GET HELL—GRK—KGLL—RRGGH—Khhhhhh—”

“I dunno, they look funny and smell bad,” Spitfire said with a chuckle, snapping out of her flashback as easily as a serrated saw slices through the flesh, viscera, muscle, and bone of a superior officer’s neck.

She fluttered up into the air, resting daintily along the top of the WMD. She ran her hoof along the smooth metal shell, shuddering in pleasure as she pressed her body against the cold metal. She thrust her hips down, tail hiking as she ground her backside against the warhead, moaning softly.

“W-What…” Soarin’ said, looking up at his captain through the tears in his bleach-stained eyes.

“Mmmnh…” Spitfire snorted softly, biting down on her hoof as her burning lips pressed with immense satisfaction against the chilly, smooth surface of the bomb. “Oh, fuck yes…”

Soarin’ weakly pushed himself to his hooves, staggering back and forth as he watched Spitfire vigorously hump the outer casing of the atomic weapon. Her tail swung up and down as she slapped the top of the warhead with her flanks, a small splash of juices splattering Soarin’ across the muzzle.

“Well, that’s lovely.” Soarin’ dragged his hoof down his muzzle, still watching Spitfire wrestle with the warhead. Her thighs, toned and tight from endless flight drills, clenched tightly against the sides of the weapon, the intense heat from her hindquarters assuaged by the cool metal. At least, for as long as Spitfire could keep her thoughts off of the spiders inside, hurriedly progressing through the bronze age at an accelerated rate, ticking down the hands of the proverbial doomsday clock.

Spitfire felt a shiver run through her so powerful she was left dizzy, and not entirely sure she hadn’t dislocated a rib. “F-Fuck yes! Dear Sweet Celestia, holy fuck—”

Her hooves slid between her thighs, edges desperately pushing and grinding up against her winking clit as she beat her wings desperately to keep herself sitting upright.

“Fuck me, mommy!” Her eyes shot wide open—staring directly ahead, unblinking—her jaw popping open and her tongue lolling down her chin. “I’m tho thorry!” Swallowed a mouthful of warm, slick saliva. “Ah~I’ll never look at daddy that way again! I’ll never do anything with him again! Please! Please, I’m a good filly...” She hung the final syllable out in the air, letting it ring in a terrifying siren song as her legs hugged tight around the sides of the WMD, her pussy lips trembled against the cold metal shell. Her eyes rolled back in her head as her hooves curled in on themselves.

Soarin’ peed a little.

Spitfire whipped her head in Soarin’s directly, messy mane flopping and sticking to her sweaty face. “Get up on the bomb, Soarin.”

Soarin frowned and took a step back. “Yeah, um, I’m gonna stay out of this one.”

Spitfire had an inequine look in her eyes. “That is an order from your Captain.”

“If we actually had an Equine Resources Department, I would definitely report this,” Soarin’s said meekly before spinning around and spreading his wings, attempting to take flight directly out of the locker room. Spitfire lept from the atom bomb, gliding deft and effortlessly underneath Soarin’ before turning directly upward, catching him by the belly. She arched her back, swooping in a loop-de-loop and slamming audibly back against the bomb. Spitfire had of course used Soarin to cushion her fall, positioning her directly atop him.

“I just wanna feel my hooves around your throat,” she purred, although in all reality it sounded much more like a growl.

Soarin’ blinked. “Um.”

Spitfire slammed her forehooves down around Soarin’s head, leaving a slicing clanging ringing in his ears. “Pushing and squeezing--”’

“Captain?” Soarin’ squeaked, sliding himself backwards towards the front of the warhead, the sound of her hooves against the metal in his ears still echoing.

Spitfire took several aggressive steps towards him, hooves clanging loudly off the metal. Soarin’ winced with each reverberation harmonizing painfully.“Letting it cave in as I slam you against this wonderful, destructive, powerful creation of annihilation, watching the light dim from your eyes—”

“Sp-Spitfire?”

“As I finally have full, complete dominance over you,” she growled, licking her lips hungrily as her wings stood out straight and stiff.

Soarin’s eyes reflected two dopplers of Spitfire’s sadistic gleaming grin. “You’re a monster,” he whispered.

She smirked. “Don’t be so melodramatic.”

Spitfire pressed her muzzle to Soarin’s lips, her hoof grinding against his stomach as she came, perfectly in sync with the spiders inside the warhead bringing their version of World War Two to a climax. As Spider-Hiroshima was consumed in an unholy and fiery display of Spider-American dominance, the exact thing Spider-Edward Teller had feared occurred, a chain reaction of helium fusion bursting out from inside the warhead’s casing. Soarin’ and Spitfire were consumed immediately in the blinding light as the fusion reaction escaped into the general atmosphere. All hydrogen in the air and water on the planet was brought together in the extreme wave of heat, joining together in joyous unity as Equestria and all lands beyond were transformed, if only for a brief moment until all hydrogen was exhausted, into a small star.

Equestria and indeed the entire planet was now a barren wasteland, scorched and black. The skeletal remains of civilization collapsed into titanic plumes of ashes that were themselves scattered to vague nothings as violent winds caused by the displacement of all hydrogen and the escape of helium into the upper atmosphere wracked the torched wreckage. Undoubtedly, this had truly been Spitfire’s ultimate sexual thrill. A true act of power and dominance. One that had blossomed and bloomed forth into a brilliant bouquet of death. One that had enveloped the whole world regardless of whether one wanted to participate in it or not. The choice wasn’t theirs; it had been hers.

Any further thought on the topic was interrupted as a new character stepped its way through a side door of the ruined Canterlot Palace, through some miracle still attaining some basic resemblance of its pre-atomic blast form, looking drowsy as she came into the open, empty, ash-strewn throne room.

"What'd I miss?" asked Princess Luna, the wall behind her disintegrating into black dust as a grainy laughtrack clipping into static echoed ominously over the irradiated, dead world.