Sunset and the Faint Understanding of Twisted Arousal
When Sunset had first come across Aria, some six-ish weeks after the big flashy thing with the other flashy thing and the big super flashy whatsit in the sky, her first reaction had been one of pure, unadulterated shock, tempered only slightly by a tiny, starving, emaciated, half-blind, lame, chronically anorexic, mortally wounded, internally hemorrhaging spark of compassion.
Because Aria was there, standing in the sort of dark alley that sensible people would only trot down at night if they felt like testing themselves for latent masochism and pushing the limits of pointy-and/or-shooty-thing-camaraderie and acquainting themselves with the sweetly morbid sorrow of bidding their beloved wallets goodbye.
And Aria, see, Aria had been in exactly that sort of dark alley… sprawled out on a frankly rather absurdly decadent mattress, curled up next to a forearm-long, index-finger-thick meat cleaver with a severed-ear-wide handle, and she was snoozing quietly and in her sleep she was nuzzling this instrument of ruinously haphazard exsanguination in the most profanely nonchalant of manners.
“Aria,” Sunset had asked, when the aforementioned knife-nuzzler had made a great full-body twitch and sprang adroitly to her feet, which teetered on ponderously monolithic wedge heels after she took the time to garb them as such, because dammit sirens were supposed to be sexy all hours of the night and it was deeply improper to acknowledge them until they no longer faltered in that duty, “why are you lying on a mattress and cuddling a frankly impractically-sized knife?”
With dexterity bordering on the comically inept, Aria twirled the lopsided behemoth of a knife around her wrist, which sent the glistening, girthy steel tip whistling towards the ground, which greeted it like a long-lost, deeply aroused and obnoxiously huggy friend-who-so-totally-would-not-mind-sleeping-with-you, and then Aria simply cleared her throat, raised a spindly snake of an index finger tipped with a scalpel of a fingernail, and spoke.
And Sunset just stared, because surely she could not possibly have heard correctly, because surely Aria, of all people, could not give such a bizarrely succinct answer without raising her voice and declaring in most brazen fashion her long-standing grudge with the very concept of personal space, and so Sunset eventually asked, “I beg your pardon?”
The Chamber of Science was uniformly a bleak, sterile white, at least until visitors invariably sauntered in heedless of consequences and with hitchhiking blotches of dust-and-such tainted the room until it became a grotesque parody of cleanliness.
Which, any other day, would have been cause for concern.
“... and then she clarified that she wanted a ‘fuckin’ huge dick’,” Sunset elaborated, “and I just couldn’t think what else to do, so I thought I’d make her your problem.”
Twilight, who’d been unanimously voted “Most Phallus-Starved” by several informal school committees, turned away, on the surface to divert her attention to her vital experiments, but really so that she could mask a demented giggle she hadn’t yet perfected.
Spike, who’d very nearly lost the popular vote of “Least Blowjob-Starved” to Flash Sentry but gone on to win it anyway, took notice of Twilight’s debauched machinations and spread his uncomfortably-lusty mouth wide.
Her previous experiment could wait; there was time to examine the potential applications of sporadically-competent ever-enthusiastic sword-swallowing swallows some other day.
Aria, who’d been standing by Sunset watching the situation unfold with peculiarly singular focus for someone normally so tempered and hardened by idiocy into a grim, ruthless slicy-bit, opened her mouth and spoke.
On the best of days, Sugarcube Corner was a veritable serenity of sweetness, sugar and all other manner of tongue-tickling delights. That it was a favorite destination of many who sought relaxation should have come as no surprise. But on this particular day, an endless stream of chatter corrupted it into something more akin to a recursive loop of the most vicious kind of beleaguerment.
“... and so it turned out she was in that alley because she was hypothesizing that a coagulation of body parts would get her the sort of ph-ph-ph-phallus…” Twilight’s whole body quivered at the articulation of that hefty, throbbing metaphorical sack of vowels and consonants, like it was a literal sack of potatoes she’d been thwocked in the fanny with “...that she wanted, but then she wasn’t sure how to go about doing that so she didn’t actually get to implement that tactic but then we talked about it and it turned out she had crippling depression and was waging an inner battle every day to not turn that knife on herself and so we met over dinner and we talked about how I was so the same way I was actually planning on blowing myself up and sending a me-juices-splattered Spike to the school as a Heart’s and Hooves day present, but then Aria and I were able to overcome our issues together and now we’re dating and I figured out that the key to getting her a big dick is to—Sunset are you still listening to me this next bit’s really interesting and important?”
“Oh, sorry, I started tuning you out when you started telling me about the fanfiction you wrote about you and Aria hooking up,” said Sunset, wielding her cherished honesty like a mallet of weary tolerance.
“Ah, right, well, see, the thing is, I wasn’t sure how to actually break the real news to you, so I sort of put together this little thing hoping you’d catch on and take the hint but I can see that that didn’t work so well which is totally my fault but the thing is it’s actually based on a true story and I have something big to tell you.”
Sunset stared—and blinked at the same time, because one gesture of befuddledness was far from sufficient—and eventually worked up the brainpower to mumble a tepid “What?”
Then Aria walked in and Twilight popped straight up like she was a placid, slumbering cock and Sunset had hoisted her top, and it all became clear.
“... so let me get this straight,” a very puzzled Rarity said to Sunset. They’d secreted away in the corridors of their place of learning to share gossip amongst themselves. “Twilight gave Aria—the siren, the thuggish purple one with the fabulously thuggish fashion sense—a… refurbishing of the nethers, and now they’re getting married?”
“That about covers it, as far as I know,” Sunset said, exhaling a long breath. “Except for that the wedding’s scheduled for a few days from now, and apparently Aria insisted on strippers.”
“... I don’t mean to judge, darling, so you’re welcome to not answer this.” Rarity leaned forward, cupping a hand to her mouth. “But are you absolutely certain that this doesn’t have anything to do with the massive accidental drug trip Twilight sent you on the other day when she was testing a new kind of dog treat and wondered why Spike was napping and drooling upside-down hanging from the power lines?”
Sunset blinked, tilting her head quizzically. “... Huh,” she said. That would make sense, wouldn’t it? That she’d imagined the whole thing?
And yet she could almost picture it, as clearly as if she’d actually been there; Twilight and Aria meandering down the hallway, hand in hand, Twilight glowing with that distinct post-coital bliss that literally nobody in the history of the known world had seen her sporting, Aria sauntering with her too-tight pants practically strangling the massive, meaty phallus between her legs.
“Maybe you’re right,” Sunset said. She’d have to think about that later, maybe.
Rarity shrugged her dainty, ephemeral shoulders, and her bountifully ordered paradise of violet curls swished and swayed, merrily imitating the breezy casualness of her elegant nonchalance as she turned on her heel as twirlily as if she were held aloft by the most gambol-prone of butterfly swarms and said, “Let me know when you’ve figured it out, darling; I’ll need some advance notice if I need to make Twilight a wedding dress.”
