you remind me of home

Backstage before the show, Danny presses Neil up against the greenroom wall. "We can't," Neil breathes against his ear, but Danny's hands are insistent against his skin-tight pants. "Not here," Neil tries again and Danny breaks away, annoyed but agreeing, takes him by the hand and pushes him out of the room

"So, where are we going, stud?" Neil jokes to cover his arousal, not that he needs to or even should but it's strange wandering through the dark corridors backstage as the techs are milling about with nothing but sex on his brain.

"We're going to be late for -" he tries again, but Danny glares.

"Shut the fuck up," he says pushing Neil through yet another door. And then he's up against a wall with Danny tugging roughly at the buttons of his shirt and it takes a second for Neil to register that this is actually the prop room. There's the bench from that beautiful Mia Michaels routine Travis did last year over in the corner and in the very middle sit the two giant thrones from their performance last night.

Danny catches his eye.

Neil's hand shifts under Danny's shirt and forces him back as he exposes the expanse of taught muscle under skin. When his knees hit the edge of the throne, Danny's legs, they buckle and he crumples back onto it, face flushed and sharp hips jutting out wanting. His hands snake through Neil’s hair and push him down, sink him to his knees like a knight before a king. Lancelot and Arthur.

Neil slides his palm along Danny's calf, knee cap, thigh, until it his fingers finally tuck into the rise of his pants and pry them away from the skin. He peels them off, balls them up and tosses them somewhere behind him into the darkness with a wicked grin on his lips and a dare in his eyes. Danny's underwear doesn't last much longer. And when Danny's naked from the waist down, Neil picks up one of his legs (Danny's toes point automatically, his knees straighten and his muscles flex) and wraps it over the side of the chair in a deliciously obscene stretch.

Danny inhales sharply as Neil's breath ghosts over his purple-headed cock, as his pink lips tease it with feather-light touches Danny really hasn't the patience for. His hand in Neil's hair finds its way down behind his neck and roughly jerks him closer, forces the tip through Neil's open mouth. When Neil laughs it reverberates straight up Danny's spine and slips out Danny's mouth into the room. Then Neil decides to finally take shit seriously and stop arching his eyebrows like everything's a joke, stop playing games Danny doesn't want and just suck his goddamn cock.

When Danny comes, he has to hold Neil by the ears to get him to stay and swallow; he knows how much Neil hates the taste, but he refuses to ruin the plush red velvet of the throne. It would be a travesty. Plus, he can always sate Neil with a bruising kiss (he tastes himself on Neil's hot tongue and feels even less guilty) and a helpful hand over the crotch.

"Fuck you," Neil still mumbles against his lips, and Danny rolls his eyes. "No, literally," Neil says and with unsurprising agility flips Danny so that his face is suddenly buried in the velvet of the seat and his ass sticks into the air like an offering.

Neil grins as he pushes down his pants, spits on his hand and rubs it down the length of his cock. "I think this means I win the crown."

Immediately thereafter, Danny becomes too distracted to disagree.