Dadaism
folder
M through R › Matrix, The (All)
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
3,061
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
M through R › Matrix, The (All)
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
3,061
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own the Matrix movie series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Dadaism
TITLE: Dadaism.
AUTHOR: Ttlg
RATING: R
CATEGORIES: Adult, Romance, Drama.
SUMMARY: Because there are no kisses shared to be ever forgotten. Because there are no bruises on their skins inflicted purposelessly.
A/N: For a good debate and archives, head over to The Looking Glass. www.freewebs.com/tlg303
DADAISM.
Rainy mist. Rocky cave conjugating a passionate smell. Caring wishes beyond sublime betrayals and lost whispers drawing circles deep down the flesh.
The dadaist is gone. Each one of the pores of her tender skin trying to get rid of all the blue. Theological beliefs getting vanished in a brand new alchemy. The cold in those distant locations completely stained, restrained, by aby aby a silken halo of heat. Hot underground, crazy but not yet bizarre. Consumed, but not yet devo.
.
And she thought she would die quite young, blind solutions embedded in overwhelmed, delicious troubles that never found a way out. And he thought he would die quite young, disabled, dismantled, unable to have the view of his last days. Days of weak hair and rough skin.
Oblivion in a good-time room. Upper lip fooling around clenched teeth. Lower lip completely loAnd And the hunger, the raving of healing all her hurts with his tongue. Storm in the heart of the pain, he knew she was a small declination of a big hell. Black-haired weaknesses. Black the air. Black the souls.
Flow baby. Just flow.
The delicate of her figure, placed underneath his silhouette. Mattress and blankets twisted all around. Each centimeter of their fabric reminding them the subtle wall holding back every single impulse. Dressed up people. Undressed people. The imof hof her face with tears. He tenses up, speeds up wishing his fro could push her eternal, silent tension away. Shared tribulations.
Her eyes, small before the pureness of his expressions, travel the soft-colored shelter of his skin. His skin above her. Moving, tenderly, peacefully, carefully and yet full of fear. Fear of breaking her. Shattering her.
But she’s already broken. Broken, but not yet corrupted. She’s falling down. Her ashes are falling down. Ashes dripping through his fingers, his never obtuse intentions.
His tongue starts to heal her hurting. It reaches her breast, and he licks it, he kisses the trembling nipple. She’s so lost, never too lost to come back though. He goes on, he does things to her and she slowly accepts. She starts to burn, shifting below his body, closing her eyes shut to be able to feel beyond sensation. She places her legs around his pale hips. Pale skin giving rise to the ethereal in dream, stair of plugs scattered in their bodies. Bodies, never corpses. Her eyes are closed, though she dreams without dreaming ethereal images of ethereal plugs. And his lips arrive to her another breast. Deeper, the another nipple. And he kisses it. He bites it softly, tenderly, so her hands run to caress his sweaty back. Gratitude.
She dreams without dreaming. She dreams she did not know what a tear was.
Get inside her, the voice tells him. And he does, he gets inside her and a lonely, single tear welcomes him. Speeding up, up, up above. Up there where she was sent from. The magic of the cadence becomes rhythm, unbearable pace after so many clues about what lies ahead. Ahead, they know, beyond the limits of a bed. Beyond the bond holding they tight. His journey finishes, too short to be real, but still so intense, deserved and needed. He keeps on moving, beautiful fro to make her plead before the desire. Pleasure.
His hand joins the connection as she reaches her frontiers. And she goes beyond them. She walks through her own limits satisfied, suddenly slowing down, just keeping it down.
He burns, his body collapses on top of her. She breathes him in, closing her eyes to captivate that instant never supposed to end. Never suppressed by all those little, somehow phantasmagoric sweet raptures slowly lowering its guard.
Flow baby. Just flow.
The dadaist are gone. Maybe they even cannot remember why it all took place, why it all just came and went. Looking back, it was just a showdown, never something easy to hide. But they get closer, and they see it all is secretly resting in their eyes. Contact, they know. He embraces her and she closes her eyes.
Because there are no kisses shared to be ever forgotten. Because there are no bruises on their skins inflicted purposelessly.
Somewhere out there, it must be raining.
AUTHOR: Ttlg
RATING: R
CATEGORIES: Adult, Romance, Drama.
SUMMARY: Because there are no kisses shared to be ever forgotten. Because there are no bruises on their skins inflicted purposelessly.
A/N: For a good debate and archives, head over to The Looking Glass. www.freewebs.com/tlg303
DADAISM.
Rainy mist. Rocky cave conjugating a passionate smell. Caring wishes beyond sublime betrayals and lost whispers drawing circles deep down the flesh.
The dadaist is gone. Each one of the pores of her tender skin trying to get rid of all the blue. Theological beliefs getting vanished in a brand new alchemy. The cold in those distant locations completely stained, restrained, by aby aby a silken halo of heat. Hot underground, crazy but not yet bizarre. Consumed, but not yet devo.
.
And she thought she would die quite young, blind solutions embedded in overwhelmed, delicious troubles that never found a way out. And he thought he would die quite young, disabled, dismantled, unable to have the view of his last days. Days of weak hair and rough skin.
Oblivion in a good-time room. Upper lip fooling around clenched teeth. Lower lip completely loAnd And the hunger, the raving of healing all her hurts with his tongue. Storm in the heart of the pain, he knew she was a small declination of a big hell. Black-haired weaknesses. Black the air. Black the souls.
Flow baby. Just flow.
The delicate of her figure, placed underneath his silhouette. Mattress and blankets twisted all around. Each centimeter of their fabric reminding them the subtle wall holding back every single impulse. Dressed up people. Undressed people. The imof hof her face with tears. He tenses up, speeds up wishing his fro could push her eternal, silent tension away. Shared tribulations.
Her eyes, small before the pureness of his expressions, travel the soft-colored shelter of his skin. His skin above her. Moving, tenderly, peacefully, carefully and yet full of fear. Fear of breaking her. Shattering her.
But she’s already broken. Broken, but not yet corrupted. She’s falling down. Her ashes are falling down. Ashes dripping through his fingers, his never obtuse intentions.
His tongue starts to heal her hurting. It reaches her breast, and he licks it, he kisses the trembling nipple. She’s so lost, never too lost to come back though. He goes on, he does things to her and she slowly accepts. She starts to burn, shifting below his body, closing her eyes shut to be able to feel beyond sensation. She places her legs around his pale hips. Pale skin giving rise to the ethereal in dream, stair of plugs scattered in their bodies. Bodies, never corpses. Her eyes are closed, though she dreams without dreaming ethereal images of ethereal plugs. And his lips arrive to her another breast. Deeper, the another nipple. And he kisses it. He bites it softly, tenderly, so her hands run to caress his sweaty back. Gratitude.
She dreams without dreaming. She dreams she did not know what a tear was.
Get inside her, the voice tells him. And he does, he gets inside her and a lonely, single tear welcomes him. Speeding up, up, up above. Up there where she was sent from. The magic of the cadence becomes rhythm, unbearable pace after so many clues about what lies ahead. Ahead, they know, beyond the limits of a bed. Beyond the bond holding they tight. His journey finishes, too short to be real, but still so intense, deserved and needed. He keeps on moving, beautiful fro to make her plead before the desire. Pleasure.
His hand joins the connection as she reaches her frontiers. And she goes beyond them. She walks through her own limits satisfied, suddenly slowing down, just keeping it down.
He burns, his body collapses on top of her. She breathes him in, closing her eyes to captivate that instant never supposed to end. Never suppressed by all those little, somehow phantasmagoric sweet raptures slowly lowering its guard.
Flow baby. Just flow.
The dadaist are gone. Maybe they even cannot remember why it all took place, why it all just came and went. Looking back, it was just a showdown, never something easy to hide. But they get closer, and they see it all is secretly resting in their eyes. Contact, they know. He embraces her and she closes her eyes.
Because there are no kisses shared to be ever forgotten. Because there are no bruises on their skins inflicted purposelessly.
Somewhere out there, it must be raining.