Bump Behind Lip Piercing

Morning is due to all (to some, the Night)

Title: Morning is two to all (to Some, the Night)
Author: p_will
Beta: faechan * * limona
Characters / pairings: Dr. DeathDefying / Show Pony
Rating:
NC17 Warnings: slash, lemon, Killjoys!
AU Word Count: 401 (FDP)
Disclaimer: Bla bla bla agggratis lies.
Prompt: "may be the last night." p0rn fest @ # 4 The desert night is warm, moist, dense and suffocating with that which surrounds them and cover them with sweat, locks them in a bubble where there is only them and the blankets and untrimmed frantic squeaking of the bed. Show moves over him, all muscle and sinuous lines. It looks like a porno, it seems a god, with eyes burning and her hair curled on his neck, the tendons in his arms while holding the wall and abdomen contract and it changes and takes it to life. Death for a second attempt to meet him and he can not - forget it, at times - and then growls, frustrated, pulls his knees, spreading her legs and show off balance. Moves forward, is just in time to plant an elbow on the pillow to keep from falling, is startled when the doctor comes out of him then he goes down on it again and god, yes, right there, the perfect angle . Each lunge
Death rubs the prostate and the show does not know where he is, who he is, what's up and what is down. He only knows that under him, inside, all around is the doctor - that there is a great hand, rough, calloused at the base of her back, guiding him, and that the other is on her neck, crease the chin, strokes his cheek. Death kisses, rude, demanding, and he sees the stars. Arches his back in a curve impossible, is without even being touched, too, the blackout. After an eternity back to earth and is still sweeping the doctor, frantic, desperate, because it is hard and want to hear, I want to feel the way down. He stuffs his hands through his hair, kissed him, pressing against him until he feels between his legs tremble. Death And when you say something confused pressed against his mouth that could be a curse, it could be the name of the Show, could be a secret. But the there are no more, the doctor and his name has never known. "Me too," she whispers, the corners of his mouth curled up, and it does not matter if the other feels.
They spend hours on that narrow bed, dirty, tired, looking at. It is touching, the faces, hair, thinking about what they should say. Show opens his mouth. "It could be the last night."
Death knows, and we think too. In a minute.
The night is still long.