Chapters Love-locked and Breathless
Looks like you’ve hit the jackpot tonight.
Moments like this are almost too good to be true. The upper-Canterlot streets are deserted at this time in the late evening, due to yet another fancy event that everypony who’s anypony ‘simply must attend’. There isn’t a single do-gooder nor royal guard to be seen, except for a single stallion strutting around with a stuffed saddlebag, no doubt brimming with bits. A posh, middle-aged, upper-Canterlot unicorn who, if he is a somepony, you sure wouldn’t recognise him. And he’s trotting all by himself down these Canterlot streets, lost in his thoughts, with no idea that you’re following him.
Oh, and any second now, you’re going to attack him and steal his saddlebag.
Outright mugging isn’t usually your thing - that would be quick in-and-out burglary, if your talents are any indication - but you can’t let an opportunity like this slip by. No witnesses. Big payoff. And you could really use the cash. You could always use the cash. If you didn’t need bits to survive, you’d never do this sort of thing in the first place. Such is life.
Most rich ponies have their saddlebags crammed with personal belongings and bits (probably just spare change to them) and are incredibly easy targets, especially since they’ve been pampered for most of their lives. They usually put up no resistance whatsoever, and the few ponies that actually have the gall to fight back are knocked back in their place pretty quickly for their efforts. This guy looks like he’ll be no trouble at all. Showtime.
Just as he’s poised to turn a corner, you strike with the precision of somepony who’s done this a good few times before.
You throw your hoof at his head, the THUD! of the impact taking him completely off-guard.
With a mix of him stumbling in pain and leaping out of his fur coat in shock, he falls towards a wall in an attempt to regain his balance on all-fours. That’s the perfect time to strike again, pinning him up against the wall.
“Give me the bag and nopony gets hurt!”
You see his eyes widen when he recognises your gritty lower-Canterlot growl of an accent. If he’s smart, he’ll politely stay still as you grab his saddlebag and wrench it from his back-
THUMP!
Whoa. Did he just punch you? You could’ve sworn he just punched you.
That didn’t hurt in the slightest.
Being the generous and outgoing unicorn you are, you give him a free demonstration on how to properly punch somepony in the face. See? Swing it right between the eyes like this!
He responds to the free lesson by yelping in pain, and sliding a little further down the wall. Yet still he refuses to let go of his bag. Either the upper-Canterlot ponies are starting to choose money over their own wellbeing (which wouldn’t surprise you, honestly) or they’re becoming too privileged to know when they‘re being denied something.
“You just have to play persistent, don’t you?” you agree with yourself; it’s totally his own fault that he’s being mugged right now. He shouldn’t have made himself such an easy target. “Just let it go and I’ll leave, it’s not hard to-”
CRACK!
Huh. That sounded like something hard and heavy colliding with the back of your head.
Oh wait. It was.
You pass out before you even hit the ground.
*******
By the time you wake up, it was already game over for you.
You’re in the back of a royal guard’s chariot, with two armour-clad members of Her Majesty’s finest sat at either side of you. Your hooves are bound by steel hoof-cuffs, which you could undo easily if you wanted to. But you won’t. Both of the guards are bigger, meaner and, if their wings are any indication, faster than you. And they probably wouldn’t like you trying to escape.
“I’m under arrest, aren’t I?”
The two guards don’t say a word. They don’t even blink.
“So, you’re going to lock me in the Canterlot dungeons?”
Still no sound from them.
“You know my special talent is unlocking things, right? That includes cell doors. You guys are wasting your time taking me there. You can’t hold me.”
“… … …”
“But then again, I’ll just be caught and dragged back if I even attempt it. You royal pegasi are way faster than me, even wearing that heavy armour.”
“… … …”
“So… is your armour really made out of gold, or is it just painted? C'mon, it's boring back here!”
“… … …”
“Heheh. Hey, if you two fancy each other, say absolutely nothing.”
As you expected, they say absolutely nothing. You keep chuckling all the way to the dungeon.
Love-locked and Breathless
Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter. Love-locked and Breathless
A day passes, and you spend what is hopefully your last night in a cell; a Manehatten cell rather than one of Canterlot’s more dungeon-esque jails. For the sake of using your upcoming second chance wisely, you refrain from breaking out and causing distress for the guards there, but it was fun to see the look on the guard’s face when he came to release you the next morning, only to find your cell door wide open and you happily sitting in the cell’s bed like a good colt. You even give him a friendly wave.
From there, you’re accompanied back to the Manehatten theatre, and dropped off at Trixie’s flat located a floor or two above. She’d signed the agreement contract to look over you as soon as she saw your hoof-cuff trick yesterday. Needless to say, she wanted to see more of that. She even set up a little display of bronze padlocks, each of them neatly placed side-by-side on her coffee table. Four of them, to be exact.
“Trixie’s been waiting for a chance to put these to use,” she explains, “Especially since Trixie, uh, lost the keys to them. Show me that trick again, walk me through it.”
“You lost the keys to four separate padlocks?”
“So? Trixie needed something to keep my prop-box safe back when Trixie was touring in her caravan, and Trixie kept losing them, which made Trixie have to buy a new one each time… Oh, just do that unlocking thing!”
“Only if you stop talking to me like that, it’s giving me a headache.”
She pulls a face as if she‘d rather shove a pinecone up her backside than stop talking in third-person. Nevertheless, she sighs and caves in. “Fiiine, but Tri- but I still get to talk like that when we’re on stage, okay?”
You decide that’s fair enough for now. Levitating one of the padlocks, you walk her through your technique, step-by-step.
“You see, it’s actually nearly impossible to cast an actual unlocking spell; that requires a great deal of magic by itself. I’ve never done that spell in my entire life. I’m actually using my magic aura - you know, the thing we unicorns use to pick up and move things - to control the insides of the lock all by itself, and hopefully I can move the pins and tumblers inside to the state where it will unlock. Long story short, it’s not a lock-picking spell, it’s just being very careful with the plain old magic aura spell. Like so…”
You magically drift the padlock a little closer to you. Despite not being able to see inside the padlock itself, your magic traces around the insides of it, where you can ‘feel’ every pin and tumbler inside. This one feels like a three-pin lock, so it shouldn’t be too difficult. Looking at the other three padlocks, it’s clear that they’re all the same make, but probably need different keys for each one.
Going one at a time, you levitate each pin inside the lock, waiting for that tiny, tiny clicking sensation before moving on to the next one. Despite a hiccup or two - you’re far more used to unlocking doors than padlocks - you manage to get the final pin in place and twist the insides of it with a definitive click . Unlocked in about fifteen, twenty seconds. Not the fastest you’ve ever done it, but good for a first try.
Placing the unlocked padlock back on the table, your magician friend snatches one up herself with her own bright purple magic.
“You foal!” she triumphantly gloats with a sudden, but not unexpected, bravado, “Now that you’ve told The Great and Powerful Trixie your secret in magical lock-picking, she can utilise that ability herself in her stage shows! Your secret is out! Watch in awe, and behold my fantastic ability!”
*******
You ‘behold her fantastic ability’ for nearly an hour. Several times you offered to drop a hint, and each time she responded with a snarky comment before hopelessly fiddling with the lock for a while longer, all the while pulling a variety of confused and strained expressions in an effort to open the lock with her spellcraft. At one point, you even offered to make her a coffee (and a hot drink for yourself). She likes it black with sugar.
“Ugh… Trixie gives up, the lock has bested her.” she groans, placing the perfectly-locked mechanism back on the table with its pals.
“Who gives up?” you ask.
“Trixie does, Trixie gives up. She simply can‘t do this.”
“Who?”
“Tri- I mean, I give up.”
“Thank you.”
You’ve only been with her for about an hour, and already you feel that she’s going to be nothing but a condescending pile of trouble and stress. And she’s supposed to be taking care of you? At least she’s the most gorgeous condescending pile of trouble and stress you’ve ever laid eyes on. Good things must come at a price, you suppose.
Out of courtesy (you tell her, and totally not out of showing off), you lift each other padlock up and unlock them one at a time, just to make sure they work. All three-pin locks, all somewhat tricky, but all possible to overcome. You re-lock them for later practice; if you’re going to be undoing padlocks for a new living, you might as well get the hang of them.
“So what exactly are your plans for when you’re performing?” she breaks the ice, speaking business, “Do you just intend to undo a few locks, take a bow and waltz back off stage?”
You shake your head. You hadn’t given your plans for performance much thought, nor did you want to; after a lifetime of staying out of sight, the thought of being the main focus of a theatre full of ponies makes you feel uneasy.
“I was thinking more along the lines of you locking me in a box or chaining me up, then having me try to escape or something. You know, like an escape artist.” you shrug, “You’re the showbiz expert, not me.”
She ponders for a moment, unsure of just how useful you are; you hope she isn’t reconsidering the deal you made. “Well, you could always sit in a trick-box and let me saw you in half, or take part in a disappearing act. Although I usually ask volunteers to take part in those illusions.”
“I could do that stuff instead,” you suggest, “at least I’d be more useful than a clueless volunteer.”
“So you say.” she smirks, “My next act is on Friday. If you wish to start then, you’ve got a few days of practice left. Ready to get started?”
“Of course. Let’s try the escape trick that involves chaining me up first.” You give her a gentle nudge and a wink, “Should we practice in your bedroom?”
“How about practicing out of my apartment window next time you try to hit on me?”
“So that’s a ‘no’, then…”
Love-locked and Breathless
You’ve had a dangerous life, you have to admit. Countless thieveries, robberies and drunken brawls later, and you’re lucky enough to escape as unscathed as you are. A lot of small miracles working in succession, you suppose. That and getting out of tough spots is kind of your special talent.
And yet, you’ve never been more nervous in your life than you are now. Waiting backstage, minutes from show-time. Nopony’s going to arrest you. You wouldn’t expect anypony fighting you, either. They’re all just going to be looking at you, and that’s it. Just watching you. This is a way safer experience than most of the things you’ve done over the years, so why are you so nervous?
“Hey.”
You turn around. Now, there’s a pretty face to calm your nerves. You can’t really agree with the garish hat though; she looks better with just the cape on.
“I’ve never seen you so tense before,” she jokes, “One could see your jittering from space!”
“Yeah, yeah, very funny,” you mumble, “Didn’t you have stage fright during your first show?”
“Of course I did,” she admits, “But then I found a way of dealing with it.”
“And that was..?”
“But if I told you, you’d no longer have stage fright!” she giggles, and not in the friendly way, “Seeing you squirm like this is pure gold!”
“Trixie, c’mon, you wouldn’t want my debut to be a disaster, would you?”
“Very well,” she sighs, “if you’re really feeling that nervous just remember; you’re better than them in every way. They should feel downright privileged just to have bought tickets to see you. Do you see them practicing unparalleled magic and breaking free from impossible restraints? No, of course not; because they can’t. In fact, they paid top-bit just to watch us do something that’s easy to us, we’re that good! They suck, and we rule. Don’t be intimidated by them; be the one to leave them intimidated by your unprecedented talents!”
“So… be as vain and self-important as possible, and treat myself like I’m some sort of holy gift to the rest of Equestria?”
“Hey, it works for me.”
*******
Trixie’s riveting advice didn’t do a lot to rid the knots in your stomach, but you feel it helped a little by giving you a solid frame of mind to work in as the curtain rises.
You take a deep breath, looking out from the stage to… huh. The spotlight’s in your eyes. You can’t see a single pony in the whole theatre. That settles you for a moment, before Trixie trots forward and triumphantly introduces the two of you - The Great and Powerful Trixie and Her Eminent and Obedient Assistant - prompting a bout of cheering. Yup, you’re definitely on a stage right now, and other ponies can definitely see you. No pressure or anything.
You awkwardly bow to the audience’s cheering, while Trixie, conducting the attention of everypony in the theatre, directs them to the first trick; a shabby wardrobe, where she would be starting the evening with a disappearing act. Yeah, talk about leaving as soon as you arrive.
Like most tricks of that sort, it was always Trixie being the centre of them. All you had to do was close and open the wardrobe doors, while the audience gasp at her vanishing and reappearing. You manage to pull it off without a hitch, just as you had rehearsed. Unlike everypony else, you were the only one who knew she was hiding in a hidden compartment of the wardrobe each time.
When the applause dies down, you nervously step up. It’s your turn to be the star of the show, and it involves the only trick you know. A ratchet-level hoist swings just short of the top of the theatre, complete with a long metal chain that stretches from the very top of the hoist to the ground.
Remember, just like you rehearsed.
You remain perfectly still as she wraps the chains around your chest and legs with her violet aura. From there, she brings out four bronze padlocks - the same padlocks you’d spent the past few days practicing with - and begins locking the chains into place one by one, all the while describing what is going to happen to the audience.
“And once my Eminent and Obedient Assistant is suspended thirty feet above the ground,” she declares, snapping one padlock on you at a time, “he will only have limited time to escape before the hoist’s mechanism kicks in, dropping him and sending him to his doom-”
“All done!”
“What?”
A ripple of laughter emanates from the crowd as you unlock the first padlock almost as soon as she snapped it onto you. You counted ten seconds flat. Trixie gives a mock-smile to the audience, almost like your funny breakout was scripted, and tries to relock it.
And then you unlock it again.
“What do you think you’re doing!?” she whispers in the angriest way anypony could whisper after her third attempt to close the padlock.
“Being as vain and self-important as I can,” you reply with a grin, “Don’t be intimidated by my unprecedented talents now!”
“Fine, you asked for it,” she huffs before turning back to the audience, “It seems my Eminent and Obedient Assistant isn’t being so obedient! He says he wants more of a challenge! Should we give this scoundrel what he wants?”
The spectators do what spectators do; they cheer and whoop with agreement at you accepting… wait, you didn’t say you wanted more of a cha-
Before you finish your own thoughts, Trixie’s horn glows to an almost menacing degree. The chain springs to life and binds you in a completely different fashion, wrapped around just your front and rear legs, before the padlocks once again snap onto you like animals. Suddenly, you’re swept into the air, complete with a rush of vertigo. Once you regain your bearings, you realise you’re dangling upside-down by the legs thirty feet above the stage. Needless to say, it takes a while for you to get over the shock.
All you feel is dizziness for a first few seconds, before you can mentally compensate for the blood rushing to your head. After that, you look up - or down, to everypony else - at the stage thirty feet (may as well be a mile) below you. The chains clink together as you swing hopelessly to and fro, trying your best to ignore the throbbing of your nerves.
Okay, calm down. Assess the situation. You’ve escaped worse.
Sure, you hadn’t rehearsed the upside-down part of the escape act, nor could you even properly see the locks in this position. Swinging around this ridiculously high up isn’t helping either. But if Trixie thinks that’s going to stop you, she has another think coming. Time to get to work.
You feel the chains getting looser and looser as you undo one padlock after another. It’s taking you far longer than ten seconds to undo each lock this time, given the circumstances. Once you undo each heavy padlock, you haphazardly let them drop, forcing Trixie to catch them with her magic or risk damaging the stage or props. Nothing passive-aggressive about that at all!
When the final lock clicks open, you grasp the chain with your fore-hooves as it unravels into the long chain it once was. From there, you casually slide down the whole thirty feet like a rope (taking care not to damage yourself on each link), before landing triumphantly back on the stage, greeted by the loudest cheering you’ve ever heard. Even Trixie looks slightly taken back by just how efficiently you managed to worm your way out of humiliation.
It all must have looked so easy and impressive to them. Truth be told, your heart is still pounding like a mad-pony in a cage. But all of these ponies in the theatre… they’re cheering for you. They actually like you for something you’re doing.
Once you regain your nerves, you turn back to Trixie;
“You’ll have to give the Scoundrel a bigger challenge than that.” you gloat. You know if there’s one thing Trixie understands, it’s gloating.
She doesn’t backchat. She only returns an impressed smirk. This community service thing is going to be more fun than you thought.
Love-locked and Breathless
After many back-and-forth antics from you and Trixie, the show finally ends with a standing ovation, and is even prolonged with an encore. You’ve been watching the jittery theatre-owner, Whipchat, having a fit in the dressing room for the past twenty minutes. No, the good kind of fit.
“Did you see that!? Oh, of course you did, you were that! The way your tricks kept everypony‘s attention, Trixie, and the way your assistant kept slithering out of each situation, nopony could tell what was going to be a magic trick and what was going to be an escape act! It sure kept them on the tip of their hooves, I’ll tell you that much! And that box trick, I thought you were gonna saw him in half for real until he escaped…”
“Believe me, Trixie wanted to,” Trixie grumbles dryly, turning her attention to you and letting the theatre-owner babble incoherently in the background, “You should have at least told me that you were planning to act like a foal on your debut. Embarrassing me during the hoist-and-chains trick… what were you thinking? ”
“Sorry, I didn’t really plan it,” you shrug, “I just made it up as I went along. What’s that called again? Improv?”
“No, that’s not the word you’re looking for.” she fires back, “I think you mean immaturity. Or was it idiocy?”
“I call it a stroke of genius!” the hysterical landlord butts in, “Everypony in that crowd loved it! Ponies are already buying reservations for next weekend’s performance! We might just have the first sold-out gig in nearly a year coming up!”
Trixie’s jaw drops at the news. When she picks it back up again, her mouth is suspiciously smirk-shaped.
“Well, it looks like you’re turning out for the better,” she says, “You should pull stupid risks like that more often.”
“This. Changes. Everything!” Whipchat still hasn’t come down from his high-horse yet. But then again, he said he’s never had a sold-out gig in nearly a year, so he’s probably thrilled for that popularity drought to end, “I can see it now, guys; The poster outside of this theatre - The Great and Powerful Trixie - with a “Sold Out” sign plastered all over it!”
“Ahem?” you cough loudly.
He snaps out of it momentarily when you get his attention. Then he falls right back into his daydream, “I mean, The Great and Powerful Trixie and her Eminent and Obedient Assistant!”
“Ugh, what a mouthful,” the silvery-haired magic-mare pulls a face like she had just drunk sour milk, “Besides, I didn’t see anything ‘obedient’ about him this past show. It’s not why they’re paying bits to see us…”
“Bits! Ohmygoshsomanybits…”
“They’re paying for a real show; they’re paying to see me stick him in a neigh-inescapable magical prop and watch him escape. They’re paying for my powerful magic playing off his sneaky tactics. My incredible illusions with his slippery slight-of-hoof. They’re paying to see Trixie and… and…”
*******
Trixie and the Scoundrel Every Friday and Saturday Evening Show time: 19:30 - 21:30
The poster still stands proudly outside the theatre, displaying its bright colours to the Manehatten streets. It’s hard to believe that only two months had passed since your fateful first performance, yet here you are. Outside the theatre with your alias displayed to the public.
More and more ponies had been keen on watching these fresh, new stage shows. As soon as one Friday show had been booked, there was a cluster of customers trying to book next Friday’s. Eventually, the show got so popular, you both decided to put on a repeat-show every Saturday. It’s been easier to handle since then, plus you, Trixie and her theatre-owning friend are effectively gaining twice the amount of money in a single week.
The owner even suggested putting shows on every day of the week. No such chance; you have to train and think up new tricks and gimmicks throughout the weekdays, keeping it fresh for customers rich enough to return.
You let out a sigh, not for any present situation, but for the one you had long ago. You don’t have to break into houses anymore. You don’t have to unlock doors and safes, or threaten weaker ponies into giving up their money. Here, you can use your talents, and ponies are actually cheering for you. They like you because you’re unlocking things. Why didn’t you follow this path in life before!?
Last week you were suspended over a snake pit (although the inhabitants were all conveniently defanged in the interest of safety, but hey, the crowd didn‘t know that). They all cheered and whooped for joy as you undid the usual padlocks, using the chain you dangled from to swing yourself out of ‘harm’s way’.
They also cheered when Trixie disappeared in a puff of smoke as you chased her for not telling you that the snakes were actually defanged. It was magic from both sides of the spectrum for the audience. And the ‘rivalry’ you and Trixie shared on stage kept the show interesting, but most of it was just pandering to the interests of the crowd.
“It’s a good thing Whipchat’s a health and safety guy on the side,” an unmistakable voice muses from behind you, “Or else I’d have never convinced you to pull off half the stuff you do.”
You turn to face Trixie standing behind you. Apparently she was also eyeballing the fancy poster. You give her a quick nod in acknowledgement. “Yeah. Heights. Snakes. Sword-coffins. Locking me in a safe and having me unlock it from the inside; that was a real challenge, I’ve not had to face a combination lock in years.”
“Wait until you see what we’ve got set up next.”
“Oh?” it seems Trixie’s been dipping into the profits again. Every once in a while, she buys or rents something that would either make a great prop or trick for the show. In all honesty, you feel she should spend more bits on the things that really matter. Like alcohol. “What have you bought this time? More smoke bombs for your disappearing act? Harder padlocks for me? Some doves to hide in your hat?”
“You’re half-right about the padlocks, among other things,” she says, not letting on any further than that, “We’ve also got a half-ton weight and a giant tank now.”
“Wh- what?” you just know she has to be joking there, “What in Equestria possessed you to buy a giant tank!? How do you intend to fit it on stage!?”
“A glass tank that you fill with water, you foal. Not a tank that you drive.”
“Oh.” That made slightly more sense to you, “But really, what in Equestria possessed you to buy a giant water tank?”
“I’ll tell you more about it tonight,” Trixie whispers, taking a step closer to you, until her mane lightly brushes against the side of your face. This doesn’t surprise you much; she’s been a tease for almost as long as you’ve known her, “You and me, out on the town. Perhaps we’ll find a nice bar that serves food.”
“Why, of all things I expected today,” you coo gently in response, “Is the Great and Powerful Trixie asking this scoundrel for a date?”
“You wish,” she light-heartedly bumps her flank into yours in jest, “just a humble celebration of our rise to success since you’ve joined us.”
“Is Whipchat coming too?”
“Pfft, no.”
“Okay, good; I wouldn’t be able to put up with him twittering about money for the whole date.”
“It’s not a date, scoundrel.”
“Suuure it isn’t.”
Love-locked and Breathless
The doors swing open to The Feed Bag; a cosy pub on Manehatten’s outskirts. Being such well-known local figures, you expected the ponies there to throw their sideways glances your way. Honestly, you’re still not used to being so famous. Not after spending so much of your life purposefully trying to be as invisible as possible. At times like this, though, it’s a good thing you can look to Trixie, the mare who lives for the limelight, and follow her example.
“Ugh, sorry about this,” Trixie mutters as you take a seat near the back of the bar, “I wasn’t expecting the tables here to be so sticky.”
“What’s there to apologise for?” you grin, “Sticky tables are a sign of a good pub. It shows the guys at this table before us had a fun time getting drunk and spilling beer. Speaking of which, shall I get the first round in while you check the menu?”
“Ask if they have wine.”
“Red or white?”
“Whichever’s stronger.”
Red it is. You opt for a smooth, refreshing ale straight from the barrel. Hey, all the best beverages come from small bars like this.
“So tell me,” she leans forward, sitting across from you, “Did you enjoy small-time pubs back in Canterlot?”
“Oh yeah,” you think back, taking a sip from your pint glass, growing nostalgic of the old inns you used to frequent, “If my fellow scumbags could see me now; headlining stage shows in the big city while they’re probably in their Canterlot bars right now bragging about the latest pocket they picked.”
“You call them scumbags, yet you hung around with that crowd?” she takes a sip of wine, “What does that say about you?”
“Well, exactly. They were so bad, somepony like me was the most gentlecoltly out of them all; it wasn’t hard to be. Heck, I was the only one there who didn’t go after mare’s purses back then.”
“And why was that?” she asks nonchalantly. You pause, thinking why that was the case yourself… oh. Now you remember.
“Well, before I get into the gory details,” you calmly place the ale back onto the table, “How much did Officer Tenbit tell you?”
“Only as much as you heard yourself,” she says with a look of intrigue in her violet eyes, “just that you’ve never once went after a mare or filly. That you’ve only robbed stallions.”
“I see.” you take a deep breath, and hunch over your glass, leaning a little closer to Trixie. The less ponies in the pub hear you, the better.
“The fellow thieves I used to work alongside, we were all pretty close with each other. I’d only just started stealing, and they were keen to get me into places nopony else there could go, since they couldn’t undo a lock as well as I could. One day, a mare comes up to us. A young mare, she looked like she was still in the phase of showing off her cutie mark. We had no idea why she’d suddenly trotted over to us. Apparently, she wanted to join our little gang. Thought being a wily thief was a cool life to live or something. She probably read too many fantasy books.”
You take a swig of the sweet swill in your glass, just to calm yourself down, and continue.
“So we humour her. Pretend that being a crook is some big important thing that involves initiations and whatnot. Which it doesn’t, by the way. It’s just jerks taking things. Anyway, we made a big deal out of it, made a joke about passing an initiation test to be part of the gang. Made something up about getting a big magical something-something from a cave outside Canterlot in order to join. She fell for it hook, line and sinker.”
Another swig. You hate this part of the story.
“She was so psyched about this nonexistent task we’d given her, she asked us to point out this cave so she could join us. We really didn’t know anything about the caves around Canterlot’s mountains, so the next day we went out as a group and pointed to the first cave we came across. Told her there was some big important thing that if she could successfully steal, she’d be in with us. Sh- she just trotted right into that cave, happy as can be, and…” you trail off. You wish your story was just that; a story.
“And then what happened?” Trixie’s whisper drags you back to present day. She’s been hanging on every word so far. You finish the last of your ale, and think about getting another one.
“I didn’t know there was a fully-grown dragon in that cave. None of us did. It was just supposed to be a joke, Trixie. A harmless joke, I swear.”
The look on the magician’s face says that she knew exactly what you meant by that. She knew you were a thief, a crook, a scoundrel. But she never thought you’d be indirectly responsible for something like that.
She gets up and leaves the table. You wouldn’t blame her if she was leaving the pub in disgust right there and then. Instead, she heads towards the bar and buys you another ale, replacing your empty glass. She wanted to stay and hear the last of it. You don’t know whether or not to be thankful for that.
“After the incident, it shook us all for a while. Some swore off theft entirely, others shrugged the incident off and sank back into their slimy ways. Myself? I needed the money, as always. I felt it would be a waste of my talents to quit before I properly started. But in my entire career, I’ve never once mugged or robbed a woman, be it pony, griffin or anything.” You take a thankful sip of the ale Trixie bought, to let the story sink in. “I feel I’ve taken away too much from womankind as it is.”
The awkward silence at the table is almost too much to bear. The rest of the pub churns on with the world, mostly unbothered by the problems of one individual. As it always has done.
“You know that wasn‘t your fault, right?” Trixie breaks through the stillness at your table, “That wasn’t anypony’s. It was just an accident.”
“I know,” you shrug, “but sometimes you take the blame on yourself for things because nopony else is there to, if that makes sense.”
Trixie gives a small, slow nod, and takes another sip of her wine, “Taking the blame for something that wasn’t your fault, huh. That reminds me of this one time I nearly destroyed a whole town.”
“You nearly did what now?”
“No, really,” she eyes the contents of her wine glass nonchalantly, “There was an Ursa Major there and everything. You know what an Ursa Major is, right?”
You shake your head.
“Well, it’s this huge beast made from the stars! Teeth as big as three ponies, and paws as big as a house!”
“You’re making this up, aren’t you? There’s no way…”
“Trust me, I wish I was,” Trixie mumbles with a touch of irritation at recalling the event, “See, before I came to Manehatten, all I did was rove from town to town in a caravan, putting on magic shows there. Then there was this one town called Ponyville. You know the one I’m talking about? The one near the foot of Canterlot’s mountain range..?”
She goes on to spin one of the strangest tales you’ve heard in a long time. A tale of how she not only brought a monster to a small town, but also how it destroyed the most of the homes there, her old caravan and nearly herself in the process. At first, she starts distastefully cursing a couple of ‘dumb colts’ whose foolish idea it was to bring the monster to the town in the first place. By the time she finished her story (and her wine), she’s only cursing herself and her arrogance.
This time it’s your turn to buy her a drink.
*******
The food comes and goes, however the drinks continue to flow for the rest of the night. The more you both drink, the more you both seem to lighten up in each other’s company, spending the hours sharing stories that mostly began with the words ’this one time’. By the time it gets dark, you’re trotting out of the pub taking extra care not to fall flat on your face.
You and Trixie manage to find your way back to the theatre, and stumble your way back to the shared apartment a few floors above. However, as Trixie heads for the bathroom to wash and clean before bed, you opt out of returning to your sofa-bed in the living room. In your inebriated judgement, you decide to make do with somepony else’s bed. It’s a good job there’s room for two.
By the time your Great and Powerful roommate leaves the bathroom, you’re lying on her bed, one fore-hoof on your hip, the other propping your head up, giving her your best bedroom-eyes. She freezes for a moment, eyeing every inch of you up with a faint smile. You’d best believe she’s enjoying the view.
“Come to bed, Trixie…” you smoothly beckon her, “And take off the cape. I think it’ll look a lot better on the bedroom floor.”
If there’s one thing you liked about Trixie, it was how she did things; meaningfully and professionally. That same way she slowly removes her cape, letting it caress her alluring flank as it drifts to the ground. She trots toward the bed, one step after another, before seductively crawling onto it next to you.
From there, she lies on her back, sprawled out invitingly. You can’t help it. You just roll over her, placing each hoof on either side of her. And there you are, face to face with the most beautiful, attractive and, if the events of your night out was any indication, compatible mare you’ve ever met.
You can feel her warm breath on you face as you lower yourself closer to her. And closer. And closer. Her eyes flutter shut, her mouth opens just slightly, ready to accept a kiss. Slowly, you lean forward, your lips brushing against hers, until they finally-
“Nice try.”
“Huh? Whoa!”
In an instance, you’re scooped up by an unknown force. Before you know it, you’re dangling upside down several feet above Trixie, her magical aura keeping you suspended in the air.
“My, you really are a scoundrel, aren’t you?” she teases with a smirk, “Taking advantage of a mare who’s had a glass too much to drink.”
“Hey, I’ve been drinking too,” you slur, merrily swinging back and forth as her magic keeps you airborne, “You’re taking advantage of poor little me, hopeless against your… overwhelming sexiness. How could I possibly control my innybriat…. my ineebratted… my drunk self when you’re around? You’re way too sexy, Trixie. S’dangerous! You’re a sexy danger!”
Her blush betrays her true feelings to being called a sexy danger. “Well, I suppose I am pretty irresistible, aren’t I? I’ll tell you what…”
Her violet magic rearranges you, correcting your stance until you’re drifting upright. There, she gently holds your head still, keeping you face-to-face with her.
“Since you’re such an interesting guy, and such a good listener, you can have this.” She gives you a quick, warming peck on your snout. Something that made your heart skip a beat. “We’ll talk more about tomorrow night’s show in the morning. Be a good assistant, and you might get another one.”
Deep down, you can think of many more things she could give you other than a kiss. Nevertheless, you bid her goodnight, and leave for your sofa-bed in the other room.
Your dreams are filled with nothing but you and Trixie. Thoughts about going to bars, seeing the world, putting on a great show onstage… and an even better show in private. It’s a free world; free thought is just as acceptable, and you’re enjoying the thoughts in your head very much indeed. And maybe one day soon, it could be a reality.
Love-locked and Breathless
You awaken around midday, the sounds of conversation from behind closed doors disturbing your sleep. It’s coming from just outside Trixie’s apartment. It sounds like her and… Whipchat?
“Did you even think about telling him, Trixie? Or are you going to leave it until he’s just about to jump in the tank?”
“Sorry I forgot, geez, I guess I was just having too much fun with him last night to ruin the good mood we had going.”
“Fun? What sort of fun? Are you two intimate or something?”
“Wh- How dare you accuse the Great and Pow-!”
“Hush, keep your voice down! You want to wake up an ex-criminal with a hangover and ruin his day already? Besides, I was just asking.”
You hear a sigh from the other side of the door; “No, I’m not ‘intimate’ with him, mother. And he’s not gonna mind either way. Illusion magic’s all about keeping the audience interested rather than just foaling around with real locks, anyway.”
“Atta girl. Anyway, I’ve gotta double-check the water tank; we’re filling it up already, but it’s gonna be a few more hours before it fills to the brim.”
“Fine, fine. I’ll see you stage-side tonight.”
As the two clueless ponies had their discussion, you quietly take a seat at the nearby table. The look on Trixie’s face when she re-enters only to find you wide awake and watching.
“Hi.” she says dumbly, “Uh… how much did you hear?”
“Not enough, evidently.” you fold your forelegs matter-of-factly, “What’s this thing you were trying to tell me?”
“Oh, that.” You can tell she’s trying to dance around the subject as much as she could. She seems to think it’s easiest to remind you one step at a time. “Well, remember yesterday when I said we bought a new water tank and a half-ton weight for our show?”
“I take it that’s gonna be my latest stunt?” you ask, “Just dunk me in the tank and I’ll pick the locks to escape? The classic underwater cell trick; that’ll keep the crowd interested.”
“No, you’re not going to do that.” she says simply, “You don‘t need to do any lock-picking for this one.”
“Pardon?” That didn’t make any sense to you. For instance… “Why wouldn’t I need to use my magic? Are we not using locks this time?”
“I’m glad you asked.” With a flick of her horn, a nearby prop box lid opens, where she produces a series of delicate, silver padlocks, as opposed to the chunkier bronze ones you were so used to facing. “We’re going to be using these during all of our stunts from now on.”
You pick up one of the dainty devices with your magic, feeling, scrutinising every inch of it. Every pin, every tumbler, every… wait a minute…
“Th- these padlocks are fake!” you double-take. The silver padlock clicks open at the slightest touch. “Trixie, are you serious!?”
“What would you rather do?” she retorts, “Clap yourself in real padlocks and risk your own life? The real ones are too dangerous to use for live performance. Besides, these fakes will make your life easier.”
“B- but what about my special talent?” you can feel your sense of worth draining away with each passing second; it had taken you so long to use your talents for something better than thievery, and now you’re never going to use them again!? “I can’t use these! I’d rather take the risk with the real ones!”
“Listen to me-” Trixie tries to calm you down. Emphasis on ‘tries’. “The real padlocks you were using were too dangerous, so Whipchat’s making us use the fake ones instead. I guess he’s just taking his health and safety license seriously now that we’ve hit the big time again.”
“Well, tell him to shove these fakes up his arse.” you ignore the sudden gasp of shock from your friend, “And what about you? I know you deal with tricks that are mostly smoke and mirrors, but how can you just stand by and let the only real part of the show get taken away? I thought you knew better.”
“Oh, come on, you know the audience isn’t going to notice the difference between a fake padlock and a real one!”
“I’ll notice! How would you like to be told that you can’t even use your own talents anymore? Heck, going back to being a thief would at least have some self-worth in it, in a weird sort of way.”
“Don’t go all holier-than-thou on me!” she snaps, “For a big, hard criminal, you sure are being childish about how you use your magic.”
“Hey, at least my magic’s genuine; that’s more than you can say.”
“What did you say!?” The crack in her voice tells it all. Looks like you’ve touched a nerve. You decide to push this nerve to see how she likes it.
“You heard me. All I’ve seen you do with your spells involve pretending and feigning the real thing with props just so you get to be more popular! That’s probably why you agreed to these fake padlocks, isn’t it? To knock me down a peg and save on your ego, because Celestia forbid anypony else being better at spell-craft than you! How does it make you feel, Little Miss Great and Powerful , when a dirt-bag crook off the street has more credible magic than you’ve ever cast in your whole life-!?”
SMACK!
Everything falls into a deadly stillness. Trixie just stands there, panting, trembling, red-faced in rage. A hoof-shaped bruise begins to show on your snout, where she had just slapped you.
“Get out.” She hisses venomously. You drop the fake silver padlocks to the ground and walk right out of her apartment, and out of her life.
You wash your hooves of this. If you can’t make a living using your own special talents, then there’s no life for you there.
Love-locked and Breathless
The Feed Bag’s changed since you were here last night. The beer you’ve been sipping for the past two hours is the same. The tables are the same. Heck, even the background chatter of the pub is the same. The only thing missing from the picture is Trixie. And yet that made all the difference.
Nah. Forget about her. Forget about the whole damn thing. You thought it would be a fresh start for you, a chance to use your magic for an honest gain. But if it’s all faked, how would it be any different than fraud? And fraud is theft. If you agreed to go through with it, that would be admitting that you hadn’t changed at all.
You know what? You should start your own magic show. Real escape artistry. Just you, nopony else. Of course, you’d need a stage. And a safety crew. And props. And publicity. And pretty much everything else that Trixie and her theatre manager had. Where would you go, for starters?
Only then does it occur to you; the only reason you’re not in prison right now is because Trixie agreed to keep an eye on you. Does this mean you’re breaking the law just by walking away?
You check the old clock hanging from the nearby wall. Quarter past seven. Her first show without you is due to start in fifteen minutes. You wonder if she’s got somepony in your stead, or whether she’s just going to try it all by herself. Either way, you’re curious to find out. It’s like watching a crash; a possible disaster, but who’d have the power to look away? Heck, maybe she’d crack under the pressure and beg for you to come back. It’s worth poking around there, at least.
Draining your beer glass, you leave it on the table and make your way back to the theatre.
*******
Every seat in the house is packed. Most of the inhabitants are rich, snooty ponies from the upper crust of Manehatten, maybe a few wealthy visitors from other nearby cities. All of them eager to watch a show.
You made it to the theatre a few minutes later than you thought you would. As a result, Trixie began the show without you. Considering your new-found fame, nopony pays a mind to you opening doors marked ‘staff only’ and trotting around backstage, until you come to a stop by the stage curtains. What better a place to view your own show than stage-side?
Trixie doesn’t seem to have noticed you yet. She’s too engrossed in doing the show by herself, taking volunteers from the audience whenever she needed a spare pair of hooves for a trick. Other times, she’d just use her magic for the sake of splendour, making visual effects and suchlike to dazzle the viewers and keep them occupied. Basically it’s a magical form of filler for the act. You’re surprised that she’s coping well alone, though.
But shouldn’t Whipchat be here somewhere too? It’s almost forty-five minutes into the performance, and he’s nowhere to be found. He’s in charge of health and safety, so he should be behind the stage curtains too.
“Where! Have! You! Beeeen!?”
Never mind. You found him.
“How dare you just waltz right back in here after abandoning us like that!” the clearly distressed landlord snaps, “I have half a mind to send you straight back to that jail, where you belong!”
“You know jail wouldn’t hold me.” you reply quietly. Unlike Whipchat, you don’t want to distract Trixie from her current magic act; sawing a panicking posh patron in half. She pulls it off without a hitch.
“Well, even so,” he mumbles, “you shouldn’t have scared us by running off like that. Trixie has been pretty much inconsolable since you left.”
“You shouldn’t have stopped me from using real padlocks without asking first.” you retort, “And another thing… wait… Trixie was what?”
“Inconsolable. Terribly upset.” the landlord shrugs, “You may not know it, but she’s very good at hiding her feelings. Especially onstage; that’s when she becomes a different pony entirely.”
You nod, if only to end the conversation and get back to watching Trixie work her magic. You’ve never seen her perform alone before, but she seems to be doing just fine. You doubt she could last for more than the first half of the show, however. Two hours by herself with nothing but volunteers to help seems like quite a challenge.
“You know what?” you say, “Let’s work a bargain, Whipchat. I’ve only just discovered how to use my talents for honest work, and I’ll be damned if I’m wasting them on fake padlocks. I’ll come back and help Trixie after the intermission, but only if you let me use real ones from now on.”
“No can do. She’s only performing for the first hour, then packing up. Because a certain somepony walked out on us, she’s going for the grand finale early.”
“Grand finale?”
Almost as if it were on cue, the stage-curtains behind Trixie open, revealing a huge water tank, five times as high as a pony standing upright, and three times as wide. The stage’s spotlight shines brightly on it, glistening on the water that fills it to the brim. It certainly looks stage-worthy as a prop, mostly because of how intimidating it is. It takes a full-sized ladder just to climb up into it.
“And now, for the Great and Powerful Trixie’s Great Escape!” the magician declares to the crowd, “Watch in awe, as Trixie laughs in the face of death, and escapes from a watery grave before your very eyes!”
She casts aside her magician’s hat and cloak, ignoring the occasional wolf-whistle from the rowdier ponies in the audience as she does so. Then she dramatically climbs the steps of the ladder, stopping just by the tank’s edge.
Next, she levitates some props over her; four singular hoof-cuffs, complete with their own padlocks that seem to glint in the limelight (no doubt those dainty silver fakes), a long length of chain and (with great difficulty) a half-ton weight, dropping the last next to her; it was heavy enough just lifting it.
She lets the chains and padlocked cuffs dance around her in the air, before enveloping around her, threading through the hole in the weight and causing the cuffs to wrap around each leg, their padlocks snapping shut. You can’t see perfectly from the odd stage-side angle, but something doesn’t feel right. A bad gut-feeling.
Trixie sits on the edge of the tank. She’s taking deep breaths, gazing into the still water below her.
With one last, deep intake of breath, she nudges the weight.
A splash. It falls into the water, sinking towards the bottom of the glass prison. Another splash. The mare is dragged down with it in a flurry of bubbles.
What you see next makes your heart stop; the padlocks. The silver glisten you saw earlier must have just been a trick of the limelight. In the tank, they show their true colours.
Bronze padlocks. Real padlocks.
Love-locked and Breathless
Through the tank’s glass, the bubbles from the splash die down, revealing Trixie, still bound by chains underwater. With a look of concentration, she picks up a nearby padlock with her magic - a real padlock - and starts to… wait…
“Is she picking the lock?” you look to Whipchat, whose face is aghast, “Is she doing my spell trick?”
“I… I specifically told her not to use those!” he chokes, “What is she thinking!?”
“Hey, I’m talking to you!”
“Oh.” the hysterical landlord looks back at you, “Of course. She’s been practicing your unlocking spell since she met you, but I didn’t want her to use it on stage! She should be using the fakes like I told her to!”
You look back toward Trixie, still submerged. She’s still holding the first padlock in her aura, her eyes tightly shut as she focuses, willing it to open as she tries the pins and tumblers inside it. Her silvery mane and tail slowly drifts to and fro in the water. An occasional bubble escapes from her snout as she tries to concentrate on the task of freeing herself.
To your surprise, the lock suddenly opens under her manipulation, freeing the fore-hoof that it bound. One down, three to go.
“Did she just..? She actually did it right!”
You do a quick recount in your head; she must have been under for at least thirty seconds now. Thirty seconds and she’s only done one padlock. That’s a minimum of two minutes if each padlock takes that long. And she’s already working on the second.
Ten slow seconds tick by as she tries to undo the second padlock. Then another ten. Then another ten. She hasn’t unlocked it. She should’ve finished with that padlock by now, but she hasn’t. Instead, she shakes it in sheer frustration, panicked by its refusal to open.
Suddenly, her chest convulses as a wave of desperation ripples through her. Trixie brings her free hoof to her mouth for a moment, fighting back the urge to breathe out, staying as still as possible until the convulsion passes. Then, she turns her attention back to the padlock, trying to undo it as quickly as possible.
The realisation of what’s happening grips you like an icy claw; “She’s not gonna make it.”
“Oh, please don’t say that…”
“You don’t get it,” you explain to Whipchat, “She’s being too rough with the lock, and she’s rushing to get it open! You can’t just rush lock-picking! She’ll never get it at this rate!”
And if that wasn’t enough to cause panic… she’s just passed one and a half minutes. And that’s when she gives up.
Trixie’s magic aura stops, letting the padlock drift downwards. Instead of the padlocks, she’s trying other, just as futile, means to escape. She pulls on the chains holding her down, tugging uselessly against them in an attempt to reach the surface out of her reach. Trying to lift the weight against the water resistance proves just as hopeless. With a frantic shake of her head, she signals with a cutting motion across her neck.
Stop the show. Stop everything. Help.
“Get her out!” you bark, “Get her out now!”
“But… but how?” the landlord (or in this case, health and safety specialist) replies, “I gave her those silver fakes just in case something like this happened! It’s her fault she’s got herself into this mess!”
With a curse, you gallop onto the stage, charging full-pelt towards the tank. But not even a running buck at full speed was enough to even chip the sturdy glass. You try to push the container over - maybe you could spill her out - but it’s too heavy to even budge.
You look fearfully through the glass, and see Trixie’s violet eyes staring back at you, her free hoof pressed against the glass wall that separates you from her, Trixie from air. This is the first time she’d seen you since your argument with her. And now she looks like it’s the last time she’ll ever see you.
No. You’re not going to let it end like this.
You focus your magic aura through the glass, through the water, picking up the padlock she had failed to undo. It’s difficult to get a good feeling with all the water surrounding it; the pins and tumblers feel so sluggish. It was a wonder that Trixie was able to unlock just one. It eventually opened with a muted click, freeing her other fore-hoof. Two down, two to go.
But it’s taken far too long. It’s nearly impossible to get a decent grip on the padlock through the water, and trying to focus on it through glass just makes it harder, not to mention how far away the padlocks are - you’re used to unlocking them far closer to you.
You turn your head back to the stage-curtains, hoping Whipchat would’ve thought of something by now. He’s gone. He’s ran away and left poor Trixie for dead.
The desperate bashing of her hooves against the glass only makes the situation more grave. You can’t tell if she’s whimpering or calling your name; all you see is another burst of precious air break from her lips.
You need to undo those locks faster. You need to get closer to them.
You need to get in there.
Racing around to the side of the tank with the ladder, you haul yourself to the very top of it. Stopping for the briefest of moments to prepare yourself, you take a deep, sharp breath before plunging into the water yourself.
Your heart pounds in your chest, the water filling your ears causing your rapid heartbeats to thump inside your head. You ignore it, diving straight to the bottom of the watery prison and picking up a padlock that binds one of Trixie’s hind legs.
This one’s much easier. Granted, the water still made the lock itself awkward, but at least you were close enough to use your magic to its full potential. As you focus on working your spell, a blue foreleg flails helplessly nearby. Poor Trixie needs something, anything, to keep her mind off the pain in her lungs.
You reach out with a hoof of your own, grabbing and squeezing hers tightly in reassurance. Letting her know you’re there. Letting her know everything’s going to be alright. Her hoof squeezes back.
Oh Celestia, if you can hear this, please let everything be alright…
The third padlock loosens with almost no trouble at all, despite the usual slow inelegance the water forces upon it. Three down, one to go.
But there’s never enough time. Not when Trixie’s last morsel of willpower breaks. Her panic-stricken body won’t stop shaking and twisting in an attempt to writhe herself loose. Her newly freed hind leg starts kicking and stomping at the final padlock in a dire and futile attempt to break it. She brings a hoof to her mouth, but that does nothing to stop the flow of bubbles spewing forth. Trixie needs to breathe right now, but her panicking, her convulsing, makes it impossible for you to get a decent grip on the last lock. But there’s no way to calm her down by this point…
Unless…
You rise up from the mess of chains at the tank’s bottom, bringing yourself to the same level as your friend. Her eyes give you a final, distressed look, not in panic, but in sadness. Almost like she’s trying to say goodbye. You grip her by the shoulders, keeping her still for what you’re about to do.
Ugh, she’s gonna kill you for this.
You push forward, locking your lips with hers, forming a tight seal. Then you gently, slowly exhale every reserve of air you have in your lungs. At first she struggles against your advances, but when it occurs to her what you’re doing, she clings onto you tightly for dear life.
It wasn’t much. It wasn’t the amount of air she needed. But it was enough for now. You break your connection with her, sinking down to undo the final padlock. You aren’t sure whether it’s the lack of air you’ve just given up, or the blurs in the water playing tricks with your eyes, but you could’ve sworn you saw a flush of red behind her thankful smile.
Wow, you must be getting really dizzy if that’s what you thought. You’d go back up for air, but that would only waste time. Something Trixie doesn’t have.
The padlock’s as awkward as the others, but you’re getting used to compensating for their sluggishness. The pins and tumblers are aligning with no trouble at all. Meanwhile, Trixie keeps as still as possible, conserving every last drop of air that you gave her until you‘ve done what you need to do.
You’re stung by the sudden, protesting pain in your chest from staying under too long yourself. Your muscles tighten from the shock, and your concentration wavers. Your empty lungs have only made the situation worse, but the thought that keeps you going is that the air you sacrificed had gone to a much more needing cause. The sooner you finish this, the sooner you can breathe again. The sooner she can breathe. With a new wave of determination, you pick up that final lock, and twist the insides of it just right...
Click.
It’s done! You pull the padlock away from the chains and free her leg. The very second she’s free, she makes a bolt for the surface. You kick off the bottom of the tank, swimming upwards alongside her.
The surface breaks with a splash and a heaving gasp of air from each of you. You hear what sounded like thunder over Trixie’s coughing as you hold on to the side of the tank. Trixie’s holding onto you tightly as you lift yourself out of the water, and onto the ladder leading out. She tries to follow, but she’s far too shaken from the whole ordeal. She only manages to make it halfway down the ladder before falling the rest of the way, catching you on the way down. You both land as exhausted, wet, gasping heaps on the stage floor.
It’s only then you realise that the thunder you were hearing was the thunderous applause from everypony in the audience. The crowd’s going wild. Those rich idiots all thought it was part of the act.
It just goes to show, money doesn’t equal intelligence.
But that doesn’t matter. They wanted a show, they sure as heck had one. As soon as you help Trixie to her hooves, you accompany her back to the apartment for her to get some rest. And some warm, dry towels. And maybe a hot drink.
Love-locked and Breathless
The apartment door is pushed shut behind you. Your rescued friend heads straight for the bathroom to dry off, letting you pick up some towels for yourself. Wiping the dampness from your face and body, you toss Trixie’s wizard-themed hat and cloak onto the nearby sofa - you hadn’t forgotten to scoop them up from the stage floor - before sitting down yourself and trying to organise your thoughts.
Why did she use the real padlocks when she had some perfectly fake ones that wouldn‘t cause the slightest hint of trouble? How did she undo that first padlock by herself? Last time you checked, she couldn’t even come close. Where the heck did Whipchat run off to? He was in charge of Trixie’s life, yet he just abandoned her, and left you to save her yourself. Some health and safety specialist he is.
Knock-knock-knock.
Speak of the devil. You wonder who that could be.
“Oh, there you are, thank goodness for that,” Whipchat sighs as you open the door, “Is our main girl… is she, you know… not dead?”
“She’s safe, no thanks to you.” there was no effort made to disguise your growl. Whipchat tries to nudge through the doorway into the apartment. You block him off, shoving him back outside. “Not so fast. Where did you disappear off to when we needed you? How could you just run off while somepony was about to die on stage?”
“Ah, oh, well, you see, uh, it only looked like I was running off,” he stutters, “But there was something that needed urgent attention, you see, regarding the fate of the show, neigh, the fate of the whole theatre!”
“The ‘fate of the show’, Whipchat, was drowning in that water tank!”
“Nonono, you misunderstand; I meant the fate of the show financially.”
“Wh… what!? Are you kidding me!?”
Whipchat hides a guilty cough, then continues, “Don’t you see? If something as tragic as our main star… undergoing an unfortunate accident happens, we need compensation. That’s why I insisted on you and her performing with those silver fake padlocks from now on. I wouldn’t be liable for insurance if you used the real ones.”
You give yourself a face-hoof out of Whipchat’s sheer stupidity. Or was it just dumb greed dictating his moronic actions?
“You mean to tell me,” you recount slowly, “that the only reason you abandoned us, leaving Trixie to drown, was to secure your own wallet? And it’s a safe bet you were lying on the insurance papers too; Trixie used the real padlocks, for who knows what reason, but I bet you wrote that she was drowning with the fakes, or else they wouldn’t pay out.”
“Geez, you make it sound so negative! You complain more than my bratty cousin Sharpquill!” the landlord retorts, “And besides, who’s going to care that I put a little white lie on a piece of paper? Certainly not a greasy criminal like you, Scumbag-”
“Scoundrel.”
“Whatever. The fact of the matter is, I was unable to save a life, so I might as well try save my money so it isn’t a total loss if the unthinkable happens.”
“So screw me and Trixie, as long as you’ve got bits in your pocket, everything’s just fine?” you ask.
“Everything will be just fine for me, sure. Heck, maybe this place would be more popular if a famous somepony dies here. The rich love a place with a dark back-story to it, you know..? Make even more money…”
“So you can afford an ice pack for your face?” you ask coolly.
“Hm? Why in Equestria would I want-?”
THRACK!
You fling your hoof at his face, landing a perfect punch on his snout. He hurtles several feet across the corridor, before sprawling across the floor with a broken snout and two black eyes. And he’s out-cold.
Sweet Celestia, that felt good.
Without even checking to see if he’s okay, you head back into the apartment, shutting the door behind you.
*******
Trixie sits on the side of her bed, staring down at the floor in silent contemplation. She’s mostly dry, despite hints of dampness still in her mane. Her eyes flick towards the door as it creaks open, revealing the stallion who saved her life.
“How are you feeling?” you ask. In your absent-mindedness, you leave the door ajar as you enter.
She redirects her attention back to the ground. “Stupid. And about as embarrassed as I was last time my ego nearly killed me.” With a sigh, she attempts to change the subject, “What happened? I heard a fuss outside.”
“It’s, uh, nothing. Nothing worth worrying about right now.”
Trixie pats the bed she’s sitting on, beckoning you to sit down next to her. You’re happy to accept that offer.
“On the bright side, at least you survived.” You try whatever you can to cheer your friend up, placing a foreleg over her shoulders, “But something’s been bugging me. Why were you using the real locks back there? I was so worried, you know..?”
Trixie gives you an honest look, “Because I had the feeling you’d be watching tonight. Like how criminals tend to go back to the scene of a crime. I wanted to show off to you how good I was getting at it, just to spite you. Just to show that anything you could do, I could do better. I could unlock them all in the backstage rehearsal, really!” and, after a heartbeat, “Sorry. I know all it did was make things worse.”
“No, I’m sorry for starting that whole argument in the first place.”
She doesn’t reply. She just gently nuzzles you, her face brushing against yours in affection. Your foreleg stops resting on her shoulder, sliding down into a hug.
It’s because of you, your actions, that Trixie’s alive to nuzzle you right now. You think back to your past life in Canterlot, about the unfortunate accident with the young mare and the dragon in that cave. Take a life. Save a life. In your mind, you finally consider your debt to the world repaid. Or at least it’s a start.
You don’t know how long you sit there with Trixie, sharing the warmth of each other’s company on her bed. But eventually, it changes. Instead, she looks at you face-to-face, drawing closer and closer to you.
“Hey, you know when I was… struggling back there, under the water?” her voice a soft, silky whisper, “Remember when you gave me your breath when I needed it?”
“Yeah?” your voice is hardly audible.
“I want to return the favour. Here, have some of mine.”
Before you can speak a single word, her parted lips push up against yours, her hot breath caressing the insides of your mouth, causing your thoughts to melt away as the taste of her washes over you.
You respond in kind, heart pounding at a mile a minute, and soon you’re caught up in one deep kiss after another. Holding her tightly and passionately, you feel yourselves slowly changing from the sitting position to lying down on the bed. And any minute now you can feel the kisses turning into something much more.
“Wait, wait,” she gasps just as your bodies are as close as they’ve ever been. You, being her obedient… well, not-assistant, stop your flurry of kisses to listen to the most beautiful mare in the world.
“What is it?”
“The door’s open a little. We wouldn’t want anypony wandering in for what we’re about to do, would we..?” she smiles, her sneaky melodic giggle dripping with evocativeness. With an effortless flick and glimmer of her horn, the bedroom door swings itself shut, with a swift squeak of the in-built lock sliding into place.
Looks like you’ve hit the jackpot tonight.
(Spoiler; Your list of fetishes have been upgraded. They are now Great and Powerful Fetishes.) - Crowley
Love-locked and Breathless
Author's Note
Author's Note: Think of this as a bonus chapter to the story, as I promised many of my watchers that this kind of scene would be added to this fic. It doesn't add much to the overall story itself, and judging by the previous ending, you can all pretty much guess what this chapter's gonna involve anyway. Feel free to skip this if you don't like sexual scenes.
Part 11 [Mature]
You’re an opportunist by nature. Have been all your life. See an easy target for robbing? Go for it. Change your career and life for the better by joining a magic show? Go for it. Use your talents to actually save somepony’s life? Go for it.
So when you’re presented with the opportunity, with just you and your lover alone in her bedroom… you’d best believe you’re going to go for it.
“What are you thinking about?” says the sultry voice from under your body. The lover in question looks up at you with her violet eyes, half-lidded with eager expectation.
“Why, I’m thinking about the Great and Powerful Trixie, of course,” you smile, lowering yourself over her just a little more, until your lips brush against hers with every word you say, every breath you take, “And I’m thinking about what I’m going to do to her.”
She, the Great and Powerful Trixie, plants a short, hot kiss upon your lips, “And what…” Another kiss, “…would you do to me?” And another kiss, her forelegs enveloping you, dragging you closer to her, close enough to feel her body heat, and most of all, the faint brush of her burning, tempting hips against yours. That brush is all the motivation you need.
“Well first,” you whisper into her mouth between warm, wet exchanges, “I’d take a hoof, like this…” you stroke her side with said hoof, bringing it slowly down past her ribs that rise and fall with each baited breath, “and I’d rub your body, just like this…”
The wandering hoof reaches her flank, where it lingers for some time - and why not? - admiring each smooth, round curve of her hips, and the soft, silky touch of her backside. Trixie’s face starts to glow red from your hoof’s exploits as it draws nearer to its intended target…
“And I’d do anything and everything to make tonight perfect for you.”
Her reply is a short, sharp moan when your hoof reaches its blushing, quivering destination. It widens ever so slightly at your touch, Trixie’s gasp as a sign that reflects the pleasure gradually washing over her. Her own hoof reaches out to you in response, gently massaging your shaft, ensuring it’s ready for when she wants it to be. And what a sensation that is.
You work your hoof around her entrance, teasing her by cautiously trying deeper and deeper, bit by bit, until the blush behind her cheeks had completely overtaken her face. Eventually, you hear her hastily muttering something through her waves of overwhelming pleasure.
“D- do it. J- just d- do it now.” Her hips rearrange, readying herself for what she desperately wants.
“Do what, exactly?” you ask, frisking your hoof that little bit deeper. Of course, you know exactly what she’s begging for. You just want to hear it yourself.
“Don’t- don’t make me say it! Just do it now! Please!”
“What do you want me to do, Trixie?” you can barely hide your grin as she gets more and more aroused by your hoof-play, wanting nothing more than to go that much further, that much deeper, “Say it.”
“Ahh! Oh, take me!”
Her sudden outburst of ecstasy takes you off-guard as she shoves you off her, causing you to land face-up on another part of the bed. Before you know it, she’s the one over you, her pleasure-hungry body desperately draping over yours. Her hips, her entrance, is right where your shaft is, hovering over your tip in that moment of hesitance just before crossing that final boundary.
You make the move. You take her by the hips, lowering her down onto you. At once, you feel a ripple of pleasure from entering her, along with a warm trickle down your rod from inside. The sexual itch that tormented Trixie is being satisfied; every drip that leaks from Trixie with each thrust proves it.
She was thrusting quickly as soon as she began, and she continues to do so, chasing that climax she wants so badly. You brace yourself, tightly holding onto her hips that move so passionately.
Already, you feel the pressure inside you growing faster and faster. She’s going at it so furiously, your organs can hardly keep up. Perhaps she has been reserving herself for somepony worthy of her body, and you’re the only one she’d ever have. Of course, these thoughts are of no concern at this point.
“I… I’m…” you pant between your feverish feelings, “Trixie, I’m gonna… I’m gonna- !”
“Don’t you dare!” she cuts in, half-growling, half-moaning, “Not yet! Please! Not yet! Not until I say so!”
It takes every fibre of your being not to finish, your loins straining against the tremendous pressure. You bite into your lower lips in an effort to keep yourself going, almost to the point of drawing blood, if most of your blood wasn‘t already directed somewhere else.
Meanwhile, her moaning rises in pitch with each subsequent thrust. She’s so close to getting that perfect ending you promised her, and yet it could all go to waste if your loins can’t hold the rush of pleasure that’s begging to be released…
And then it sneaks up on you. In a split-second of panic, you feel your last threshold break, and the rush as you begin to burst. In that moment, you do the only thing you can think of at the time; with a flick of your mind, your horn’s aura reaches out and tightly wraps around your tip, sealing off your climax in its tracks as Trixie gets closer and closer to her breaking point.
A few moments later, though they felt far longer than mere moments, you sense the hot gush of Trixie’s climax covering your lower half, accompanied by her wonderful cries. Her body twitches in relief as she finishes, before she finally falls next to you in the bed, warming next to you.
Her tired eyes drift towards your still-throbbing lower self, your veil of magic still holding it back from bursting. It didn’t matter that she’d already finished with her own excitement; ‘not until she says so’ , just as you assured her. She smiles at how far you’re willing to go for her.
Her own hoof wearily grips you by the shaft, giving you the signal to dispel your aura. The pressure returns almost immediately, a lone drop of your produce trickling down from your tip. From there, Trixie returns the favour, vigorously working your shaft with one hoof, the other gently holding your head in place.
Just as you feel you can’t take any more, she pulls you in with a kiss. Her tongue slathers against yours hungrily, writhing together in a fit of arousal. In that moment, you release, shivering from the relief of each liberating spurt.
And then it’s over. And you enjoyed every moment of it.
The exhaustion has finally caught up to you, just as it had with Trixie. The kiss breaks (sadly), but it’s replaced by her warming up to you, sharing the same pillows and covers. For the longest time, it seems like she’s asleep, until you’re just about to drift off yourself…
“You’re going to clean this mess up, by the way,” she mumbles lazily. She obviously meant the mess both of your bodies had made of the bed. The saliva, the sweat, the… rest of the fluids spilled, it all had to be cleaned up eventually.
“Maybe later,” you whisper back. There’s no reply from her. Just her gentle, sleepy breathing. Tomorrow’s going to be the start of a new day, as always, and you’re more than happy to wake up on that day with Trixie lying next to you.
