A Night With the Wonderbolts
okay so on second thought it isn't half bad
The pair sat atop the clouds, watching the night sky. Ever since the return of the Princess of Night, it had been an astounding wonder to see the different constellations of twinkling celestial bodies, no night the same, every night astounding to look upon. They were battered, breathless and bruised after a long day of training, as the spring season was coming up, and the annual Festival of Wings between them and the Griffon flying elite, the Guerre Faucon Troupe. They didn’t want to risk a third straight loss, especially considering how many Equestrian’s had pre-ordered tickets. It was rare, in the lives of such celebrities, that they would get a chance to see such wonders.
Soarin’ knew that this time, of all times, here, alone with her, he had to get it right. He had to act the right way, respond the right way, avoid the flitting eyes and the stammered phrases that plagued his peers when dealing with particularly pretty mares. She was a knockout, a freshly-showered burnt-orange flower, tomboyish energy rampant in her eyes and swept-back mane, although her exhaustion was betrayed by her yawns, stretches, the bags beneath her eyes, the way she so deftly sunk into the clouds surrounding them both. They were high enough that the only thing that might bother them would be a runaway weather balloon, and as this was nowhere near Ponyville, the likelihood of that was fairly moot. Looking into the sky, seeing all of the stars, millions of light-years away, it all made Soarin’ feel very small. But if he was small, it may as well have been with her.
The mundane conversation had passed long enough ago, the silence almost broken by goodbyes. This was his chance to say it.
“Spitfire?”
She looked at him, those burning eyes searing curiosity into his soul. There was nothing that could stop him now. Soarin’ closed his eyes, breathed, said it aloud.
“Do you think that sometimes, ponies grow close without even really thinking about it? You’re convinced that you’re friends, and then all of a sudden they’re thinking more about you?”
She shrugged.
“Well, maybe, I guess.”
She dismissed it. Stupid. Soarin’ let a grimace pass his face, and then got up.
“Cool. Okay, well, we got another long day of training ahead of us, let’s head home.”
“Yeah.”
She dismissed it. You fucking moron, Soarin’. You gave yourself such high hopes, and they all came crashing down. Now you just gotta try not to show how much it hurts, how many times she’s stabbed your heart, you fucking moron, fuck.
They left the cloud, equally expressionless.
<><
The pair sat atop the clouds, watching the night sky. Ever since the return of the Princess of Night, it had been an astounding wonder to see the different constellations of twinkling celestial bodies, no night the same, every night astounding to look upon. They were battered, breathless and bruised after a long day of training, as the spring season was coming up, and the annual Festival of Wings between them and the Griffon flying elite, the Guerre Faucon Troupe. They didn’t want to risk a third straight loss, especially considering how many Equestrian’s had pre-ordered tickets. It was rare, in the lives of such celebrities, that they would get a chance to see such wonders.
Spitfire knew what he was up to, and she was looking forward to it. He was perfect. Most colts would be wrecks if they were alone with someone of her status, but he knew the same pressures, felt the same squeezes, had the same aches and stretches and regimen. He was perfect in other ways too- Everything about his attitude reflected aesthetically, how his jet-black mane was slicked back, his almost-white pale blue coat shimmering and almost reflecting the stars, his dreamy blue eyes looking into them and searching them roughly for purpose, the way he so deftly sunk into the clouds surrounding them both. They were high enough that the only thing that might bother them would be a runaway weather balloon, and as this was nowhere near Ponyville, the likelihood of that was fairly moot. Looking into the sky, seeing all of the stars, millions of light-years away, it all made Spitfire feel very small. But if she was small, it may as well have been with him.
The mundane conversation had passed long enough ago, the silence almost broken by goodbyes. This was his chance to say it.
“Spitfire?”
She looked at him, seeing the pleading in his eyes, the burning coals of desire in those perfect, oceanic eyes, and she wanted him so desperately to say what was on both their minds.
“Do you think that sometimes, ponies grow close without even really thinking about it? You’re convinced that you’re friends, and then all of a sudden they’re thinking more about you?”
He said it. Spitfire was a bit too old for girlish glee, but it all came over her so fast, and in a rash of bad judgment, in a rash of a brain strained to its maximums by the power of everything, she decided to play it cool.
She shrugged.
“Well, maybe, I guess.”
She dismissed it. Stupid. Soarin’ let a grimace pass his face, and then got up.
“Cool. Okay, well, we got another long day of training ahead of us, let’s head home.”
“Yeah.”
You dismissed it. You dumb fucking bitch, Spitfire. He’s probably going to roll into his cot in his quarters and bawl his fucking eyes out, you cold-hearted, no good bitch, fuck you. Fuck. You. You even felt the same way, and you dismissed him, you cruel, heartless, blackhearted bitch you. Now you’ll both be lonely in your successes, there will be nothing for both of you, because all you had to do was say yes, and it would all have been fine.
They left the cloud, equally expressionless.
<><
“Well…”
They were outside the barracks now. Gender-separated. It was an army formality, and although the Wonderbolts were a tightly-knit group, they still had to follow army formalities. The two Wonderbolt barracks stood across from one another, the logo haphazardly painted upon the doors, one pink, one blue.
“Well.”
“See you tomorrow.”
“I love you.”
Fuck.
Spitfire looked at Soarin’, tilting her head, disbelief evident on her face, and all Soarin’ could do was look away, start to tear up, start to back away. Every single bit of his self-control, every iota of need that coursed through his body, the desire to say what needed to be said, his fucking retarded little penchant for honesty. Gone. And the phrase was said, generic and awkward.
Fuck.
But a pair of hooves around his neck stopped him, and he didn’t want to wrench away, because maybe it was for the best.
“I love you too.”
And hope began to spring through his blood like a fountain, but it was too good to be true, and it could have meant a million things, so Soarin' had to ask the next dumb question.
“D… Do you…”
He was stuttering, fumbling, sobbing, a complete mess, and he had been hoping to approach her about this the way he’d approach anything. With slickness, with a cool head, with a cocky grin and a head cocked about thirty degrees right, the meaning underneath his words coated in a sophisticated lewdness. Instead, he was a hormonal, blubbering whelp.
“D-do you… You love me like I… Like I love you?”
And now he looked up, and she was tearing up too, her composure broken from exhaustion and overwhelming feelings, her breathing shallow.
“Yeah.”
Her hooves were around his neck, and her face was so close, and he was otherwise incapable of expressing how he felt then. There was only one way to test the waters, and that was to jump in.
He kissed her.
He pushed his face forward and slipped his lips into the perfectly matched grooves of hers, his upper lip on top of her upper lip, his bottom lip on top of her bottom lip, and he pulled gently, expecting any moment then to be pushed away, to be turned away and chastised for his assault.
Instead she pushed forward too. She hummed into his lips, an electrical buzz passing into them, and he gave a similar response. She giggled slightly, and when they pulled away from each other, the noise of lips separating was a bittersweet, slick note, telling of everything that went into the kiss. Of months of repression, of days of buildup, of hours of waiting for one of them to say something.
“I fucked up back there on the cloud, I’m-“
“Nah, I shoulda pressed it, it’s nothing, it’s the past, this is now," Soarin' shushed.
Spitfire leaned forward again, and Soarin’ obliged. This time, however, she was more passionate, her lips gliding open and making his follow suite, her tongue darting into his mouth, and she stepped forward, pressing her chest into his, feeling his heartbeat grow more rapid as her tongue wrestled with his own muscle, and Soarin’ was compelled to do the same for her, pushing forward. Their heads shifted from side to side, letting one another explore, lifting, caressing, licking. Spitfire opened her eyes slightly, pleased to see how relaxed Soarin’ seemed, his eyes closed gently even though they were puffy from the emotional meltdown he had before.
He was vulnerable with her. He was himself with her. He was Soarin’ the pegasus, not Soarin’ the superstar Wonderbolt. He pulled back, presumably to pull away, and she merely pushed further forward, until he was on his haunches, until he began turning over, and despite his grunted pleas, she wouldn’t let him go, as if breaking the kiss meant some sort of eternal curse.
And that was how she had fallen on top of him, with a few small grunts as they hit the pavement, and Spitfire felt something rising up against her belly, something hard and rough and hot. She pulled away to look down, mischief in her eyes.
“How do you hide that when I fly point?”
Her snarky remark demanded a snarky one-liner response, Soarin’ almost adopting the persona he took on for the cameras again.
“I look away.”
Spitfire couldn’t help it. She gave a girlish giggle, found herself moving up and down the still-growing length beneath her, cooing, a bit of moisture growing at the size of it, at who it was attached to. A hunk of a colt, who wasn’t afraid of being himself around her. Clearly he wasn’t afraid of being himself around her. He tapped her shoulder, and she broke out of her automatic rubbing reverie.
“We should go… Somewhere where we won’t be bothered.”
Spitfire groaned playfully, giving him a small peck on the cheek.
“You couldn’t have told me you loved me on that fucking cloud?”
“I got scared!”
“Why? You knew…” Here, she ground down onto his length, pushing her wetness against it and moving up, causing him to let out a small moan- “…That I would have said yes, and jumped your bones right there, right?”
“I didn’t know, I had to make sure-“
She gave him another peck. “There was only one way to check. You moh-rahn.”
“Yeah?”
He picked her up in his forehooves, shooting up into the sky, and she was laughing, her wings outstretched as they rocketed up into the night, blue-blackness of the dark night sky enveloping them both, until it became foggy, until that fog cleared with a poof and they were on top of the clouds again. He practically threw her down into a nearby patch of cirronimbus, planting himself on top of her, making her giggle some more.
“And what about you?” He kissed her. “You fucking shut me down!” He moved down, kissed her neck, another giggle escaping. “You can be an awful...” He was moving down her body, nipping a now-exposed teat. “…Bitch sometimes, you know?” He stopped at her belly button, giving her a soft, loving peck that made her coo, her legs spreading slightly.
“That was really cold of you, you know. Back there.”
“I was scared… I panicked…”
“Whatever,” Soarin’ muttered, smiling up at his partner between her legs. “I love you.”
“I love you toooooh!”
His lips met her slit, spreading her open slightly, allowing his tongue to slip in and caress the sensitive flesh within. Spitfire could only reply by throwing her head back and panting. His tonguework was magnificent, making up for an apparent lack of experience with more than enough enthusiasm, humming and purring as he forced his rough muscle into her, flicking around the inside of her. She brought a forehoof down into his mane, pushing his face further in.
Soarin’ looked up, his eyes half-lidded, unfocused on what he was doing with his mouth, and his eyes met the fiery orange ones that belonged to Spitfire. He opened up his lips, and encompassed the entirety of her slit with his mouth, lapping up into it like a winged dog, and Spitfire squealed like a schoolfilly. On one particularly long lick, his tongue found the nub just above her slit, and the gasp that she gave when he went over it was more than enough invitation. He played with the small button of pleasure with his tongue, flicking it, suckling it, teasing it. Spitfire let out several more squeals, her eyes shut tightly. She could barely breath, such was the libido that Soarin’ was generating.
She was getting close. The signs were many. The growing moans, the amount of liquid she was letting out over his muzzle, her growing inability to quell her kicking legs as she pulled him closer. She was going to say something before she released, but couldn’t find the mind to do it. She was lost in a sea, waves of pure lust emanating from Soarin’s oral treatment, and she finally lost it. She seemingly exploded into his face, clear liquid squirting from her snatch all over his stone-cut features, his eyes growing wide at first, and then lustful, as he chuckled into her, only adding to the sensations.
It was over in a minute, and Soarin’ had not moved that entire time, licking up his own face and her slit, cleaning the fur and flesh only to generate further mess. He gave Spitfire a single long, lustful lick, starting at her clit and sliding up her body, until his tongue stopped at the bottom of her chin. He was laying atop of her now, his length occasionally slapping up against her thigh, causing her to let out a breath of anticipation. They kissed again, gently.
“I love you.”
“Shut up and fuck me, you hopeless romantic.”
Soarin’ let out a laugh, nuzzling his partner’s neck as he made his way in, the first inch slipping in with ease. He went in slowly, despite Spitfire’s hips bucking insistently, trying to force more of him inside. He wanted to feel her, he wanted to get to know every single inch of the well-toned, athletic form underneath him. He wanted to savor her like a fine wine or a well-baked pie, to memorize her like song lyrics or flight plans. He was about halfway before she let out a growl.
“Stop… Teasing me… Yoooooouuu… Mooooh-raaaaaaahhhn…”
Her voice had taken on a gravely tone. Soarin’ recognized it. She used it at the flight camp to speak with the recruits. Where her normal voice was passionate and powerful, the one she was using was one that guaranteed that she was going to get something out of you. In this case, Soarin’ saw, it was a rutting. He saw no point in dragging it out, and so he thrust forward a buried the rest of his considerable length in a single stroke.
Spitfire let out a moan, wrapping her forehooves around his neck again, pressing him in close, and Soarin’ didn’t move, keeping himself buried in her for as long as he could before he felt she was getting anxious again. He slid out with a bit more speed than how he slid in, pulling out almost entirely before thrusting in again, pushing into his lover with just a touch of extra force. Spitfire responded with a girly squeal, the gravely tone now gone and replaced with her normal voice.
Soarin’ started pumping in and out, a rhythm having formed in his head, slick noises of his shaft slipping into Spitfire and out again drowned out by their mutual moans. He nuzzled into her neck, his grunts not even saying how good he felt. Every time he bottomed out, her tunnel responded by squeezing, trapping his length in her for a fraction of a second, and when he pulled out he could feel it clenching again every few inches, begging for him to push into her again. There was nothing else he could do but obey, sliding into her some more.
Her voice grew growly again, but this time, it seemed in a more satisfied way, like a coach after a good hoofball play.
“Soariiin’… I’m really… Close…”
“Mmmmk.” He muffled any possible response he had, and nipped her neck, causing her to squeal.
“Soarin’, giiive it your alllll… Giiive it to meee haaarderrr…”
Soarin’ pulled out, and Spitfire gave a moan of disappointed bliss, before he tapped her cutie mark. She looked up at him. His mane was disheveled, he was sweaty, but his features were still fair, and the stars…
The stars were a beautiful backdrop. He tapped her cutie mark again, and tilted his head.
“I can give it all to you if you turn over.”
“Oh.”
She turned over on her stomach, crouching like a tiger about to pounce, raising her rear into the air, feeling her cheeks bump against Soarin’s gut.
“This good?” she queried, looking up with those fiery orange eyes.
Soarin’ responded by plunging into her mercilessly, the new position allowing him to go further into her than before, and he was now well and truly hilted within her. Spitfire made a squealing noise not unlike that of a Star Trot nerd on the original Enterprise set, her tongue lolling out of her mouth as Soarin’ did as she bid him before.
He was merciless. His hips collided with hers, making continuous, lewd slapping noises that rang out over the fluffy, featureless landscape of cirronimbus surrounding them, a pair of animals in the night, the full moon giving them an almost glowing feel as he rutted her with an intensity only seen in really good or really terrible romance stories. He slid in and out to a rhythm that was less like hip-hop and more like speedcore, trying to get as many thrusts in as possible, licking her neck as she let out an endless stream of moans, squeals, and swears.
It was no surprise that Soarin’ was very close to his climax. Spitfire could feel it in everything he was doing. His more audible groans, his more powerful thrusts almost causing her to lose her balance, his more rough treatment of her in general. And she could feel her own release building.
“Spitfire, I’m…”
She was, no pun intended, on cloud nine, and everything was perfect.
“Don’t pull out, moh-raaaahn! I want iiiit!”
With that, she spasmed underneath him, and Soarin’ grabbed her mane in his teeth as he released. It was explosive, his shaft pulsing within her, releasing a stream of gooey, off-white liquid past her tunnel, pooling into her womb, sloshing about as every new shot simply melted into the lukewarm pool of potential child that Soarin’ had deposited, the sensation he felt in the moment multiplied by Spitfire’s tunnel seeming to want to shut with him inside, the walls clamping down upon him relentlessly. Both pairs of wings shot straight up into the air, and then began to slowly come down as their climaxes slowed, and soon Soarin’ slipped free, his cum dribbling from Spitfire’s snatch like a fountain.
They separated, panting, falling over to the right, Soarin’ pulling Spitfire to his chest, and there they lay, watching the moon. It was starting to fall, and in the distance they could see the sun slowly rising.
“Shit,” Spitfire said. “Don’t tell me we spent the whole night rutting on the clouds… Today’s a wings day, I’m gonna be fucking wiped…”
“I’ll tell the guys you’re sick,” Soarin’ said. “You can sleep then.”
Spitfire hummed, pushing back into her lover, watching the sunrise slowly chase the stars away. It was a calming effect, as the clouds around them turned from grey to orange, waves of color washing the old world of cold blues away, ushering in a new day.
<><
“I love you.”
“I love you too, you moh-rahn.”
She fell asleep, cradled by his wings.
Author's Note
blaaaaaaaaaargh
Notable Error I Recently Fixed: "...Soarin's tunnel..."
Apparently soarin has vagina naow
