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Oh my heavens, over eight thousand five hundred comments in the last post alone. I feel so tardy and yet I briefly felt compelled to wait until we had over nine thousand, hoohoo~! Oh, even the oldest of memes gets a rise out of my... big and manly heart.
SHIN MEGAMI TENSEI: PERSONA 4 KINK MEME
PART FOURTo beat the dead horse (or beat off the ( Read more... )
SHIN MEGAMI TENSEI: PERSONA 4 KINK MEME
PART FOURTo beat the dead horse (or beat off the ( Read more... )
CHAPTER ONE: THE BEGINNING
BY SUSY PALAHWOLFE
The bell rings, and Chie Satonaka turns in her seat. Chie is an interesting girl-a secret, in layers. A Tootsie Pop, to be licked apart by a more than willing owl.
Her hair, cut short and straight across in some unholy breeding of bob and bowl-cut, should look atrocious. Her lemon-lime jacket, bargain-bin, made in a sweat shop by little Ping Ping, skirt, ever present cleats. I don’t know what to make of it.
An enigma.
She is groundbreaking, I decide. She will lead the way to a brighter, more filled of shining tomorrow.
A revolutionary.
She opens her mouth, and sunlight reflects off of her fair skin, shines upon a piece of steak stuck between her teeth.
She is imperfection, perfected.
She is Twiggy, but with fat.
She looks knowingly into my eyes.
I part my lips, just a little.
I shut my eyelids, just a little.
Sigh, just a little.
“Want to go to Souzai Daiguku?,” she eagerly pleads.
You bet I do.
`
This is a story about television, and steak, and sexuality. This is a story about worlds unseen, epiphanies made, and cabbage consumed.
This isn’t the kind of story that mothers read to their children.
This isn’t the kind of story that you’ll find stuck between bras in a poorly managed Ross.
This isn’t your mass-consumed, point A-to point B, McDonaldinized, Walmart Payless three act shill.
Expect to change the channel. The commercials, skip them.
No Sham-Wows or Snuggies or Hawaii Chairs, unless we need them, say they’re in style.
All rules of narrative and literature and expectation, forget them.
Flush them down the toilet.
Do it.
I am your narrator, your protagonist, your Tivo.
Grab the remote. It’s time.
Flip to me, with my hand stuck inside a 52” Sony Bravia, surrounded by my own personal parade. Chie and Yosuke, they’re dancing around like it’s the end of the fucking world.
Asteroids, Earthquakes, Mayans.
Department Store, Customers, Urination.
Flapping their arms, singing fragments of frustration.
Like birds, I realize.
“CAW! CAW!” they shriek.
CAWCAW!
And then they collide, fall against me, push us all into our decorated tomb.
Flip to me on the ground, in the chunky Progresso soup of aftermath. What just happened, I don’t entirely know. Lights, shifting, black-on-white-on-black-on-white, in some metaphorical display of interracial ecstasy.
Fog, it’s everywhere. I don’t know what to do.
My eyes turn glassy. If this keeps up, my eyeliner will run down my face.
Fluidic failure.
I pull out my compact from the left front pocket of my True Religion jeans. The mirror, it’s shattered. I bring it close, stare back at a hundred beautiful eyes at a thousand different angles in a million different shades.
I’m better than this.
I’m better than crying, and sobbing, and breaking down. I will not be the world’s reality show contestant-burst open, like a bag of Hot Cheetos, to be devoured by the microwaveable-meal eating masses.
I stand up, slowly, gracefully, like a rose blooming, but faster.
I am a bird of paradise.
I am a virgin sacrifice.
I stand, and I lead the flock.
Flip to hours later, when a Technicolor bear talks to us.
I want eyeliner in every shade of it’s fur.
Flip to later later, when I’m wearing hipster eyewear, and summoning a BDSM sex god.
This is how it should be.
This is how it is.
Flip to girls hanging on telephone poles.
Hanging, hanging.
Flip to the music-loving-teen-with-headphones-and-auburn-hair crying into my arms.
Crying, crying.
Flip to murder and mystery and intrigue.
Intrigue, intrigue.
Flip to me, laying seductively in the post-intercourse glow on Dojima’s hair-covered chest.
He smokes a Pall Mall.
The smoke smells like satisfaction. And sex.
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I hope my injection of K-mart realism wasn't too jarring.
I'm going to go drink some Sierra Mist now.
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You have now made me realise i wasnt eyelinger in every shade of that bear's fur.
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The best.
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I cannot wait to see mooooore~~ ♥
Also, Souji/Chie [okaymaybethatwasjustme] AND Souji/Yosuke [maybejustmeagain] AND Dojima/Souji ALL IN ONE?!?!?!?! I think I just had a heart attack~~ *o*
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NEVER STOP NEVER STOP NEVER STOP OH MY GOD
LMFKFJAOFIJDFSF @ THE SUBTLE DOJIMA/SOUJI AAAAHHHFDKJDF THIS IS SO AWESOME
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PART 3: THE CHAPTER AFTER THE CHAPTER AFTER THE PROLOGUE
BY SUSY PALAHWOLFE
The candles burn, and with them, our lives, burning away, as if made of highly flammable polyester.
That is, to say, fastly.
Yukiko Amagi, the dense, thick-minded beauty, she’s a bird now.
A bird, in a cage, surrounded and encompassed by candles.
And she’s killing us, softly, with her words.
Words composed of flames.
Chie and Yosuke, they’re holding on. They, too, have thick-rimmed glasses, and the gifts and troubles that are symptomatic of.
Another cackle, another wave of flames.
Breathe.
The outdated yellow jumpsuit thing casts an ice spell. We still don’t know what to call this stuff.
Breathe.
Wind, ice, wind, ice, wind, ice, wind.
Breathe.
And all I can think is, my leather jacket is so fucking ruined.
Breathe.
The jacket that was delivered last week.
Breathe.
The jacket that I spent hours modeling in front of my full length mirror. The jacket that goes perfectly with about half of my shirt-pant/ pant-shirt combinations.
Breathe.
The jacket that Ryotaro said made me look really nice, really manly. Less, to use his words, “rapeable”.
Breathe.
I don’t know how to take that.
Breathe.
But, the thing is, I can’t really be thinking about my fucking jacket right now.
Flip to being the hero, and utterly, inevitably, sufficiently defeating the Avian Atrocity.
Flip to the night we see Yukiko on the midnight channel.
Let’s set the scene.
I’m sitting in my room, wearing a really cute pair of Robin’s-Egg Blue briefs, and an oversized Grizzly Bear shirt that Yosuke gave me.
I get up, reach towards the curtains, my fingertips extending, touching, and with impeccable grace, close them shut. It’s raining.
The pitter-patter, pitter-patter,
Pitter-Patter,
of the rain, it really gets to me. Rain, really, is a collection of water, split into millions upon billions of separate individual parts. All with a fleeting life-span-seconds, really.
They all make a little splash, and poof, they’re gone.
Just like people.
Very suddenly out of nowhere, there’s Yukiko, grabbing her vagina.
Flip to interrogations, and an overwhelming lack of answers.
Flip all the way back to square one.
Flip to night-time, and I’m doing a magic trick I learned from an internet online website for Nanako.
She smiles, revealing an overwhelming set of White Chiclet affirmations.
Her Old Navy model charm, I like it.
Her independence, I like it.
I hate children, but I don’t hate her.
Suddenly, I’m in the spotlight.
It’s like those times that I’m spread-eagle, and Dojima’s thrusting and pounding and making back-and-forth pendulum motions into my being.
He stares at me, intensely, and I stare back.
He stares. Judging.
And I’m exposed.
Nanako smiles again, and my inner conflict spills forth.
Thrust.
Give me consistency.
Thrust.
Give me detachment.
Thrust.
Give me the freedom to stop myself from this feeling.
Thrust.
From this caring.
Thrust.
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Also, I'd like to note, to a certain story aggregator, that this can be listed as (2/?), I just wanted to let people know that the story didn't begin at part 1.
Also, I felt like breaking free from heteronormative convention.
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jdljdflhfdhfhljdglhsh
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This is the best thing I've ever read. <3333
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If I ever make one, you shall be the first to know.
Thanks, by the way. Compliments are always amazing. (Also, I read some of your P3 fanfiction. Susy like. Susy like a lot.
/ooc
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