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- Desc.: Short oneshot; Anon torments Spitfire on and off the track.
- > Wonderbolts races are, by definition, loud events.
- > Crowds screaming, horns blowing, magically-enhanced announcers straining to be heard.
- > When five distinctly colored forms their place at the starting line, the volume only rises.
- > Even in this VIP box, the excitement is palpable.
- > Ponies all around you craning forward as if a few extra inches would give them some unique insight.
- > You, though - you merely sit back in your well-cushioned seat, arms folded over your chest.
- > One hand slipping within your coat to check the plastic rectangle is still safely within your pocket.
- > "And there they go! Spitfire in the lead, with Misty Fly right behind her and Rapidfire..."
- > Though the announcer can clearly be heard over the thunderous roar of the crowd, you pay him no attention.
- > You have eyes only for the mare in the lead, now a two-toned blob of blue and orange.circling around the far half of the track.
- > "Halfway around the first lap and Spitfire still holds the lead, though Soarin' is pulling up close behind, and..."
- > Just as the pack of racers swings through the turn into the home stretch, your fingertips caress once over the plastic box.
- > A switch is drawn to its first position.
- > "...and Spitfire flinches! What a shock - she's fallen to third, behind..."
- > You allow the slightest smirk to creep onto your lips.
- > Flinches indeed - you hadn't told her you had control before the match, and now she was surely cursing your name with every swear she knew.
- > "...passing the first lap now, going around into the second, Misty now in the lead with Soarin' behind her and Spitfire tied with Rapidfire for third..."
- > You nudge the switch to its second position - earning another unexpected flutter from Spitfire.
- > The announcer doesn't comment on it, to caught up in the neck-and-neck competition between the two ponies for the first place.
- > They couldn't matter less to you, though - all that you care for is that orange-maned blob in the middle of the pack.
- > Before she slips from the little radio's range the switch finds its way twice up more, to the highest setting.
- > Her reaction certainly gets the announcer's attention.
- > "...and Spitfire's in trouble! She must've sprained something, she's seems to be clutching one leg and certainly seems surprised - but at this rate, she might have to make a medical landing..."
- > No.
- > Spitfire would never, ever let anyone see what she's going through right now.
- > The sheer humiliation that would result aside, her pride demands she finish the race - to show you she can compete even with your... interference.
- "She's fallen well behind, but is still trying to go on - but can she catch up? Well, Misty's still holding the lead..."
- > "Such a pity, if she has been injured."
- > You turn your gaze to the pony seated directly beside you, his forehooves crossed over an elaborate cane.
- "Oh?"
- > "Yes; she's been a very good captain for the Wonderbolts - a very adept manager as well a racer. It would be a true shame if she had to bow out for a while, even retire... perhaps an allowance could be made for her to continue to lead them as she recovers?
- > Though he does not say it, one questioning eye has turned to you at the end - the question is meant for you.
- "As team owner, I'm quite sure I could adjust the rules to give her a position... but I think she would rapidly go stir-crazy from being grounded."
- > "Better that, than having to give up her life's work, no?"
- > You chuckle softly.
- "Perhaps? Certainly it might be good to allow her to remain the public face of the Wonderbolts."
- > "Indeed! She could even-"
- > He is interrupted by the white-coated, pink-maned slim pony clinging to his leg.
- > "Look, Fancy! They're onto the third lap!"
- > All three of your gazes turn back to the racing track.
- > Sure enough, the racers have rounded again - passing the finish line for the second time, and now streaking away to the last lap around.
- > At the rear, a blue and orange blob still bouncing along.
- > Had you gotten distracted for that long?
- > Another small smirk graces your lips.
- > How... unfortunate.
- > Your careful fingers brush the switch, sliding it back to the off position.
- > "...and Spitfire seems to have found her pace again! She's catching up to the others - passing, now in fourth! Half a lap left! Can she make it still?"
- > Again the crowds lean forward, straining to see every beat of their wings.
- > "Coming into the final stretch, Spitfire's pulled into second place, passing Soarin' and now neck and neck with Misty..."
- > You aren't surprised.
- > Easily an image slips into your mind - her teeth gritted, eyes burning with furious anger and humiliation that fueled her drive to win.
- > To prove that you couldn't control her.
- > "....and Spitfire is first at the finish! What a shocker after dropping behind like that, folks, she's just..."
- > The crowd's cheers finally drown out the announcer's voice, but from the VIP box this close to the track you can still see the landing racer's.
- > Gathering around Spitfire, issuing friendly pats and congratulations - and, undoubtedly, questioning the reason for her sudden trouble.
- > Spitfire is surely thankful, you think, that her entire flight suit is soaked with sweat.
- > No need to explain any other awkward wet spots.
- > Allowing her a few moments, you finally reach into your jacket once more.
- > Again the switch finds its way to the maximum position; Spitfire jerks up straight and nearly leaps into the air in shock.
- > Brushing off her teammates, she trots off the field towards the entrance hall - back to her room.
- > Standing, you quietly slip from the VIP box as well - knowing Spitfire will have broken into a gallop the second she was clear from sight.
- > Humming gently, you wind your way through the halls until you find the room marked with her familiar mark.
- > Not even bothering to knock, you slide the door open before you and stride in.
- > Anyone else bothering to enter would have been met with a shocking sight, but for you it was entirely expected.
- > Spitfire lay on her side, damp flight suit still clinging to her well-toned form and sweat-soaked mane dripping on the floor.
- > Other things were dripping as well; both her forelegs were firmly clamped between her rear and every few moments another shudder would run through her body.
- > At last she sees you, eyes finally filling with tears.
- > The door quietly shuts behind you, just in time to prevent a moan from escaping the room as yet another tremor rips through Spitfire.
- > Even as you move to kneel by her side the tremors reach a peak, her wings locking out as unwanted ecstasy ripples through her body.
- > Tears, sweat, and other fluids drip to the floor as another moan, this one equal parts pleasure and shame, escapes her lips.
- > For the final time your fingers brush the switch, the barely-audible whining buzzes from between her flanks dying at last.
- > Moments pass with the only noise in the room her heavy panting as her breath finally catches.
- > "I... I hate you, Anonymous."
- > You gently cup her cheek in one hand, relishing in the hatred flowing from her eyes and the venom in her voice.
- "I know you do, Spitfire."
- > "You... you humiliated me out there. In front of all of them..."
- "You still won. They loved the comeback."
- > "I won despite you, asshole!"
- > Her voice rises as she staggers to her hooves, legs spread wide and head low.
- > "I won even with you screwing me over in every way you could!"
- "Would you like to end our private little agreement, then?"
- > She shudders, forcing her eyes shut and breathing back under control.
- > "...I hate you. I hate you, I hate these things you put in me, I hate what they do to me, I hate that I can't tell you and your fucking agreement to go bite a thundercloud!"
- "Then I will see you tonight. Are you going to change before you go out to face the crowds?"
- > Spitfire fixes you with another glare.
- > "Even if you would let me take those things out now, you know very well why I can't be seen without this suit."
- "Ah, yes..."
- > Your hand brushes lightly along her withers; Spitfire winces as they pass over the whip marks hidden beneath the fabric.
- > Not from any pain she felt now, but from the memory of what had brought them.
- "Then you'd best get out there. Don't forget to come tonight."
- > Leaning over, you whisper into one ear.
- "Just for that little outburst earlier, I've got a new punishment toy I've been just dying to try out..."
- > Yet another shudder runs through Spitfire's frame as she pulls away from you, throwing one final nasty look over her shoulder as she stalks out of her room.
- > You let her go, still smirking, head filled with visions of what you are going to do to her tonight.
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