Tales of the Parodyverse

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*Adult content*
Tue Nov 23, 2004 at 05:34:33 am EST
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This is out of continuity. Or at least out of continuity yet.
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They undress each other by the television’s glow
Hard leather straps unbuckled, smooth spandex slipping
Cream and brown flesh sliding across each other in anticipation
Hearts beating together.

Her back is laced with pale white lines
Memories of old punishments and sorrows
He traces his finger along them in outrage and sympathy
She shudders at the tenderness.

“You know what it is to be an outcast,” she whispers
“To be hated and be hurt for what you chose to be.
I never knew, I never realised
Until it was too late to choose again.”

Strong hands lift her to him, but so gently
Harder to resist than the brutal pull
Of former comrades beating her in scorn
Holding her down to vent their vengeful lusts.

“I have no honour now,” she mourns
And eyes than have seen stars born and worlds destroyed
Mist in their weakness and betray her with their tears.
She hates herself for crying.

“Honour can’t be stolen,” he tells her, “only cast away.
An outcast’s truth, known only to the few.
What’s done, what’s said by others doesn’t count.
Only what’s inside, a choice still yours.”

Her hands find comfort in his muscled back
Smooth and hard beneath her warrior’s grip
Upon her wrists tight bands of silver-grey
Her joy and woes dig tightly in her flesh

“What claim can I make now to fame or to renown?
I who once championed worlds have fallen low
Defeated, captured, shamed, and in my loss
Betrayer of my people’s sacred gift.”

He lays her down before him, shining, nude
Yet shrouded still in old torments and loss.
With lips and tongue and fingertips he works
And seeks to heal what words cannot amend.

“Taboos are labels weaved to hold us down.
You saved the guiltless, faced the foe, survived.
You seized the moment when you could have cracked
And that’s your glory now,” he softly tells.

His trailing tongue sears fire across her skin
More burning than the lashes of her shame
A spark not kindled since her lover’s death
A warrior’s end he made but left her cold.

“More than renown or fame or others’ scorn
There’s what you know your secret self to be.
If you have done no wrong though fate is foul
Then you are still complete, and should be proud.”

His words, another kiss to fan the flames
His breath upon her breasts and then below
The admiration gleaming in his eyes
Deny the voices mocking in her head.

“Perhaps,” she ventures, frightened more to speak
Than of the passion quickening her blood
Than of the captive horrors she endured
Than of her kinsmens’ cruel casual hate –

“Perhaps there is some future for me yet?
Though outcast just like you and thrown aside
Perhaps some destiny unglimpsed is mine
If I but dare to take it when it comes.”

She twists upon him. Rough hands made for war
Instead return the pleasure that he gives
And press him gently that could crush him down
Then with a shudder take him to herself.

No violence here. No battlefield of love.
No combat zone or contest as she’s known.
How can such gentleness and patient care
Be so rewarding, give her pleasure so?

They tumble on the floor in tight embrace
She wants to sigh, to moan, to plead, to scream
Some part of her reserves and keeps control
Her kinsmen watch her still and disapprove.

“Let go,” he tells her as he lays above
“You have to let it go and be your own
And mine, because that’s what love is.
You won’t be yours until you give yourself.”

Outstretched beneath she fumbles for her wrists
Those heavy bracelets sacred to her race
The gleaming metal potent with old myth
Those shining shackles, symbols of her doom.

Surrendering to fate, to love, to him
She strips them from her, casts them to the wall
And naked now in spirit as in flesh
She lets him take her and reclaims herself.

And in the afterglow of perfect love
As perspiration cools and peace descends
She kneels to don her bracelets once again
But now they’re hers alone and hers indeed.



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