The Mystery of the non-Unicorn magic-user.
By A Renegade Time Lord
My dear Nickel,
Something very intriguing has come up, I don't know exactly what it is. In fact, I have no idea what to make of it. Which is why I sent you this letter, and not the Guard. I remember your interest in, as you say, odd things. Will you stop by my house at two o'clock this afternoon for tea?
Sincerely yours,
Blue Streak
P.S. You do remember where I live, don't you? 1529 East Mustang Road, here in Canterlot.
"'Intriguing.' I hope it's not something silly like last time, when you lost your saddlebags in your closet. I suppose I had best get showered and dressed."
Nickel Lionheart folded up the letter, rose from his kitchen table and deposited his coffee/tea mug in the sink. He then exited the kitchen and mounted the stairs, heading to the bathroom for a very-badly-needed bedhead cure. Arriving at the landing, he unbelted his bathrobe, tossed it through the open bedroom door and, feeling the cold morning air wash over his now-naked body, quickly entered the washroom, shut the door, stepped in the shower, and received an unpleasant blast of cold water as a shocking wake-up call. "Ah! Cold!" He shouted, in a voice that could rival Princess Luna's Royal Canterlot Voice.
"LIONHEART! SHUT UP!" Screamed a [i]very[/i] cranky landlord, an Earth Pony by the name of Rusty Gates. "Sorry, Rusty!" Lionheart shouted back from his new position, standing on one leg in the corner of his shower, shivering violently, waiting for the water to warm up. He tentatively flicked the stream with his hoof and found that it was warm enough to step into and NOT freeze one's *censored* off. He stepped into the lukewarm-and-rising water and, squeezing some shampoo from an almost-empty bottle, began wash his wild mane into submission, an epic battle of wills.
Five minutes later, he rinsed the shampoo out and grabbed his razor and the can of shaving cream. He relieved the can of some of its pressurized contents, lathered his snout up and looking in the fog-proof mirror, began to rescue his face from the fibrous protein that plagued it, praying to Luna's moon that he didn't cut himself again.
Five minutes later, and miraculously not cutting himself again, he reluctantly shut off the lovely hot water that cascaded down and over his back. Cursing the early morning cold, he slid the shower curtain back, eliciting a rather loud [i]eeeeee[/i] from the metal of the curtain rings grinding along the metal of the bar they hung on. In an almost frantic motion, he dashed out and grabbed a towel, furiously rubbing it against his legs to warm them up with the friction. Next, he draped the towel over his head and scrubbed, trying to absorb some of the water in his mane into it.
Wrapping the towel across the chest and back, he opened the bathroom door and walked across the landing to the bedroom to find…Fleur-de-Lis laying on his bed, waiting for him. He froze (figuratively), as the upper-class mare let her eyes roam over the stallion, eventually finding their way between his legs. She raised an eyebrow. "Is that for me, Monsieur?" She asked, in a heavy Prench accent. Coloring (and turning his red coat purple), he wrapped the towel about his waist, covering his *censored*, he made his way about the room, gathering his undergarments and covering himself from the stark-white mare.
"You picked my lock again, didn't you Fleur?"
She adopted a shocked expression and out a hoof to her chest. "Moi? I would never! Oh, fine. Oui, I did. But, when will you give me your poulains, your foals, Nicky? Here I am, laid out to you on your lit, your bed and you stand there, refusing me! Are you a stallion or are you a mare?" She taunted, hoping to antagonize him into mating her. "Fleur, please. Stop breaking and entering, at the very least."
"Non. Not until you make me your broodmare." She said silkily, giving him her very best "Rut me" eyes.
Fleur had broken into his apartment at least six times now, not including this one, each time demanding that he rut her and make her his broodmare, as she put it. It was rather grating. Not the desire to rutted 'til she couldn't see straight (her actual words), but her persistence. Nickel snorted in annoyance. "As you wish." he said.
"Non, why will you not – Attendez, quoi?" Wait, what?
"You heard me. Come back tonight. Then I shall make love to you. Faire l'amour, as you say. Pour moi. Pas vous." For me. Not you.
"…Must I wait, mon amour?"
"Yes. I have been called to an investigation. I must go."
"Is that regret I hear, my dear?"
"Yes, it is, actually. Now, may I get dressed unmolested?"
Fleur sighed massively, then slid off the bed, ears drooping, tail dragging. She trundled down the stairs and out of the door, which she locked behind her.
"Capital. Peace and quiet. For now, in any case." Nickel's instincts put a smile on his face in anticipation of the approaching rutting at the end of the day.
Free from the pursuant mare, he bumbled about the room, gathering the remainder of the clothing that he was to wear. Crisp white shirt, black slacks, waistcoat, socks, shoes, pocket watch, jacket. Oh, and a tie, mustn't forget that, he thought, slipping a blue one from the rack in the closet and looping it about his neck. He knotted it with a few expert tugs. He checked himself in the mirror and, satisfied with his clothing, he took up a brush and ran it through his mane several times.
"I do believe I shall go get breakfast. Where, though? Perhaps I should head over to Blue Streak's place early? No, she's never been fond of visitors coming too early… Still, the stickler for protocol that she is, why would she contact me first, instead of the Guard? That is most out of character for her. Questions, questions…"
Author's Notes:
Point 1: Fleur-de-Lis is French. Therefore, I shall type her native language. Fear not, I have provided translations and will continue to do so.
Point 2: Yes, there will be sexytimes occurring. When they arrive, please rate them on a scale of one to ten. This is my first time doing… well, I suppose it is clop, isn't it?... It is my first time doing clop, so please, tell me how I did.
Point 3: Pie are squared? No, no, no, they're round. Cobbler, now they are squared!
A bad math joke, there is never a bad time for 'em.
