Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/980163.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Danny_Mahealani
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Danny_Mahealani, Miguel, Jackson_Whittemore
  Additional Tags:
      Legal_Technicalities, Jungle, Jackson_is_a_dick, Blowjobs, Anal_Sex,
      Summer_Sex
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-09-25 Words: 3945
****** Miguel ******
by ziyazu
Summary
     It was just one of those things that happened. One of those amazing,
     weird, summer things that just… happened. That definitely, definitely
     happened. He’s sure of it. It happened, okay?
     How else would he have ended up with the guy’s shirt? Explain that.
Notes
     This slots nicely into the end of the summer between Season 2 and
     Season 3a, though the whole thing is a response to Danny's shirt in
     3x09 when he and a few others flee the school after practicing for
     the memorial recital. The shirt he's wearing there is clearly Derek's
     shirt. There needed to be an explanation. So I wrote one.
     NOTE: I've marked it as 'Underage', but what Danny says is true: 16
     is the age of sexual consent in Hawai'i (unlike California, where it
     is 18). Of course, if the sex in question is happening in California,
     even if the younger party could potentially be a latent Hawai'ian
     resident, of Hawai'ian descent? I'm still fairly sure it's a felony.
     Argue it as you see fit.
Look, it's not important when it happened. It happened. Danny is sure it
happened. That's what matters.
Right? Right.
Summer, it was summer. It was the steaming end of summer, no fall kick to the
air to take off the edge of the heat, no crisp, cool days in sight, just misery
and mirages on the cracking roads and wildfires in the hills beyond the town,
making the air thick and gritty. Jackson had just called to tell him that, for
sure, he was staying in London, and, for sure, Danny had no best friend any
more.
Danny had lots of other friends, though, he'd be fine. Good ol' Danny. He’s so
nice. Nice to everyone. Everyone likes Danny. Danny’s popular.
God-fucking-dammit.
Danny had kicked his dresser then, he remembers. There's still a scuff. He'd
regretted it instantly, because, nice, but he'd also scowled, ripped off his
shirt, taken a shower, angrily made his hair look awesome, and stalked to grab
his fake ID, hidden in the spot behind his swimming trophies.
His and Jackson’s swimming trophies.
Asshole.
Just, fuck everything, he was going to Jungle. He was going to be a huge
fucking gay cliché and he was going to dance. DANCE, DAMMIT. He was going to
dance wearing Jackson’s fucking shirt, because he’s not exactly coming back to
claim it, is he? What was Jackson’s is now Danny’s. He can fucking deal.
And hey, Danny is good at dancing. Danny looks good dancing. Danny was going to
be good at dancing and he was going to look good dancing and he was probably
going to feel good somewhere after looking good dancing, and it would make all
of this go away for at least one night, because if there’s one thing Danny’s
good at, it’s ignoring weird shit when he wants to.
Come on, he lives in Beacon Hills and he’s not a dumbass. Ignoring weird shit
is basically a full-time job these days. So: dancing. That was the plan,
anyways. Danny's plans don't ever really pan out. He's just too nice.
He’s nice enough that when the guy shoves past on his way to the bar, Danny
waits that crucial beat before hollering, "Excuse you!" back at him.
It’s that crucial beat that says 'I am not worth your time', and, 'I am not
going to punch you over this' but still lets the person know you’re not a
pushover. Not someone who’s going to ignore them being a dick forever if they
keep shit up. It draws a line. It saves you from being the guy who just took
it, and will keep taking it, but it also saves you from being the guy asking
for it, you know? It keeps you nice.
And hey, even when you look like Danny, some guys still wanna rumble. And,
seriously, this is a gay club. Most of the guys here look like Danny, or else
they're aiming for something totally different. Muscles are not the only look
going, not by a long shot, but they are Danny's look, and, as he trails an
irritated glance after the guy, damn, they're totally that his look too. And it
is working.
He pauses, giving the guy a once-over, and his eyes have just managed to slide
down past dark hair and a seriously sweet leather jacket to - fuck, how long do
jeans that tight even take to get on? - when the guy turns back, scowl hardly
even registering as anger before Danny blinks, realizing he's seen this
particular scowl before.
He squints against the strobe lights, steps forward, and squints again. His
brain finally clicks, and he offers a hand and a smile as he says, "Oh hey,
Miguel, right? You're Stiles' cousin."
The scowl deepens, and when it flicks back up from his hand – otherwise
pointedly ignored – it is a very clear glare. Danny tucks his hand awkwardly in
the front pocket of his jeans, and raises his eyebrows apologetically.
"Um, sorry dude. Have a good night."
The guy steps closer. "Don't call me 'dude'." His eyes flick over Danny's face,
and Danny is used to being examined, but, um, this guy is getting pretty close.
It’s not that Danny minds, he’s rarely been hit on by someone even approaching
this level of hot, but… this isn’t being hit on. This is just weird. He even
sniffs the air, weirdly, like Scott is always doing.
"Armani," Danny supplies without thinking, even offering his practiced sidegrin
for good measure. Whatever, this guy may be a dick, but Danny's a huge flirt,
and fuck he is never forgetting how this guy looks without a shirt on. Plus, up
close, Miguel has got cheekbones like-
"Your name is Armani?"
Danny stares at him, cheekbones momentarily forgotten. "Uh, no, man.
Aftershave. Armani.” Miguel raises his eyebrows like this is the stupidest
thing he’s ever heard. Danny’s eyes widen.
“Whoa, seriously? You're in a gay club and the word 'Armani' doesn't mean
anything to you? I- wow. Are you for real?"
Miguel scowls again, and goes to turn, and dammit, Danny is just too goddamn
nice. And, yes, okay, horny. He's very horny too. And motivated! You haven’t
seen this guy without a shirt; Danny has. He would like to see it again. He
would like to see more.
"Hey, sorry, I didn't mean- Look, damn, I was a dick, okay? I..." he trails off
as the guy looks back at him, stonyfaced, and quirks an eyebrow, clearly
questioning his right to exist.
Danny deflates. "Yeah, I got nothin'. I just. Sorry. I'll leave you alone now."
Miguel – seriously, is that really his name? He doesn’t look like a Miguel –
has stepped back close and is studying him again.  He sniffs, more than once,
looking curiously at the shirt Danny has on. Danny feels weird. Should he go?
"Uh. Should I go? Yeah, I'm gonna go." He doesn't get far.
"Jackson. You know Jackson, too." His voice is surprised but firm, like he’s
just figured it out.
Danny turns around. "Uh, yeah. Well, knew. You know, before he decided to move
to fucking London." That may have been unnecessary vehemence in his tone. He
may be a bit bitter. So what if he's bitter, Jackson’s a douche.
Miguel is frowning now. "‘Moved’? He's staying there?"
"Yeah, you didn't know? He called me this afternoon." Danny looks at his feet.
"Fucker," he adds, with half-hearted mostly-sad anger.
Miguel looks curious now, confused, maybe even… hurt? This is so weird.  “But
what about-"
"Lydia?" Danny laughs, totally without humour. "Who even knows, man. There's
been something really messed up going on, but fuck if I know what it is.
Everyone's been so weird, for months. Jackson, McCall, even your cousin."
Miguel rolls his eyes, but still looks... Danny doesn't even know. Then, it
clicks. He had looked hurt.
"Whoa, wait a sec. Were you- were YOU the reason Jackson got weird? The reason
he broke up with Lydia?" The guy's eyes go a little wide and Danny pounces. "Oh
fuck, I knew it. I knew he was into guys. He never fucking told me anything,
but I knew it. Jesus. That prick. And now he's gone and fucked everyone over
it. Fuck!"
"Uh..."
"Look, he's such a dick, doing this to everyone, I can't believe it. Jesus. He
ever comes back I'm gonna kill him."
Miguel suddenly goes from looking totally deer-in-headlights to looking
painfully chagrined. "It's harder than you’d think," he sighs. Danny laughs.
"Trust me, I was his best friend for ten years. I played lacrosse with him for
seven. I think I know how hard it'd be. I do okay on the field, but that guy- I
mean, especially lately, Jackson's just been crazy..." He trails off, angry,
and suddenly really fucking sick of the whole thing. He really doesn't want to
talk about Jackson. This guy probably really doesn't want to talk about
Jackson. This is not why he came out.
Plus, uh. Miguel is still really fucking close. He’s also… he’s also watching
Danny talk. As in, watching his mouth. From not very far away. His eyes – holy
shit, his eyes, seriously, what even is that colour? – flick back up to Danny’s
when the silence continues, looking more than a little guilty, and Danny could
swear he almost fucking smiles.
Right. So.
Danny may be about to try something stupid.
"Hey, you wanna get outta here?"
* * *
Miguel freezes for a second, and then his brow furrows. He blinks. He hadn’t
been expecting that. Shit. Danny read this wrong. Then, just as quickly, Miguel
smirks, shaking his head slightly.
“There is no way you’re eighteen. If you know Jackson and Scott and Stiles,
you’re sixteen, just like they are. How are you even in here?”
Danny throws out his trademark grin and ducks his head, takes the half-step
closer that means he can get his hands on that leather jacket. He pulls lightly
on both sides of the zipper and bites his lip, eyes sliding appreciatively up
to meet Miguel’s again, but, nope he's watching Danny's mouth. Again. Danny
smirks.
“Sixteen’s legal in the Islands.”
Miguel is clearly confused by that.
“Danny Mahealani? I’m Hawai’ian. Means ‘full moon’.” Miguel’s eyes jerk to his.
Danny shrugs. “I’m not fluent, but my Mom is.” He pauses meaningfully. “And
she’s in Maui.” 
Miguel shakes his head again, but he looks at Danny for a moment too long, and
when he looks away, that almost-smile is back. His eyes unfocus, and he
considers. Danny lets him think about it. Doesn’t mean he doesn't slide his
hands inside the jacket and up the guy’s sides. Danny knows how to tilt the
scales in his favour. If the sharp intake of breath and the insanely warm hand
suddenly gripping his hip like a vice is any indication, it’s working.
When the tug on his beltloop comes, it’s quick, and so is the flash of fingers
against his skin. Miguel doesn’t make eye contact again, just trails his hand
up Danny’s stomach and disappears into the crowd, heading straight for the
exit.
Danny’s not an idiot. Danny follows.
* * *
The Camaro is a surprise.
Danny does not have a problem with the Camaro.
He doesn’t have a problem with the hand on his inner thigh during the drive,
either. They roll the windows down and the rush of the still-too-warm night air
makes what would be awkward silence somehow hot and heavy, tense, but in a good
way. He doesn’t know where they’re going – they’re somewhere in the industrial
bit of town – but by the time they park, he’s not even remotely surprised by
the hand on the back of his neck, or the way they meet over the gearshift
without talking, swift and sloppy and hard.
He grabs a fistful of leather and gets a bitten lip in return.
Fuck, going out tonight was the best decision ever.
* * *
Up in the loft – which has a giant hole in one of the walls and is only barely
furnished, but, you know, whatever – it’s like some crazy force has taken a
hold of them both.
They’re grabbing at each other, slamming each other into walls, there’s a lot
of ripping at clothing and hard-handed groping. It’s like they can’t breathe
without running their nails across each other’s skin, without grinding and
gasping into each other’s mouths, sparks shooting as they knock together just
right. There’s no finesse, there’s no smouldering looks and smooth exploration
of fingers, it’s fast and it’s rough and it’s fucking perfect somehow.
Danny doesn’t know why it’s like this, and he is not asking questions. Danny is
just going for it, because this dude is all over him, and he is into it. Come
on, if Danny was asking questions, he’d be asking why the guy Jackson
apparently hooked up with over the last few months now wants in his best
friend’s pants the very night he finds out Jackson’s split for good, but… oh.
Danny just answered his own question with that, didn’t he? Right.
So, this is a revenge fuck, for both of them. Miguel mouths down the side of
his neck, teeth catching, lips sucking hard. Danny lets out a deep moan, and
his hand fists tight in Miguel’s hair.
Yeah, okay. Danny can do revenge. He could use a break from nice anyways.
And the next thing he tries is very definitely not nice. He jerks Miguel’s head
away from his neck and whirls him around to the wall Danny’s been backed up
against for the last few minutes. The guy’s eyes practically blaze red, and he
growls low and sort of crazy, but Danny’s on the floor between his knees before
he can even find his balance again, and Danny’s fingers on his belt have him
arching off the wall, so he figures he’s forgiven.
And Jesus, the guy was wearing a leather jacket in a club in August during a
heatwave, of course he doesn’t wear underwear. Of fucking course.
Day: made.
Well. It had been made the minute Danny saw that ass, but nevermind. Who can
think about things like that when there is a hand to God perfect cock waiting
for him to suck it down?
Not Danny.
* * *
There is no perfect way to give head, but Danny likes to think he’s mastered it
from as many angles as he can reasonably be expected to. He’s not a pornstar,
though they’ve been very helpful, and he can’t quite manage his shit enough to
get well and truly fucked in the face, but he knows he’s good.
Miguel? Miguel clearly wasn’t expecting anything like what he’s giving him.
Miguel is just sort of melting against the wall. He might actually be dying.
Danny is watching him under his lashes, stroking his thumbs in slow circles on
Miguel’s hipbones in time with his tongue, and God, he’s just unearthly
beautiful like this. Danny may be the one with a cock in his mouth, but Miguel
is the one to watch right now.
They haven’t turned on any lights, so it’s just the filtered industrial glow
that comes through that big wall of windows that he’s seeing him by. It’s dim,
and it’s grainy, but Danny’s nightvision has kicked in a bit, and he is all
about the way Miguel’s head has tilted back. His mouth is open, lips hanging
loose, his sharp chin with that perfect however-many-day stubble leading the
way when he arches off the wall again as Danny swirls his tongue. His fingers
grope at the brick as his hips struggle to stay put, the tendons in his neck
straining as he tries hard not to thrust, not to choke Danny.
It’s goddamn beautiful, actually. Or, well, it would be without that shirt in
the way. He’s lost the leather jacket, but he’s still mostly dressed. So is
Danny. How are they still wearing so many clothes?
He smooths a hand up Miguel’s stomach, pushing up his shirt, scraping back down
with his nails. Miguel gets the hint and lean forward an inch or two to whip it
off, and Danny hums, his eyes devouring before he gives another hard suck and
pops off as he rises up higher on his knees to mouth at the lines of muscle.
Miguel only lets him for a moment before he toes off his shoes hurriedly and
then pushes Danny back sharply, stripping his legs out of those skin-tight
jeans before tearing Danny’s shirt over his head and hauling him up bodily up
and over towards the bed. He spins them just as they get there, Danny landing
on his back, and he’s a bit dazed, and the sudden shift to horizontal makes his
head spin, but Miguel’s mouth back on his wet one and the press of his knees on
either side of Danny’s thighs steadies him, and he hums again, biting at
Miguel’s lower lip.
One of his hands comes down to pick at his belt, but it’s not really a great
angle, so Danny gets it himself, undoes his fly and shucks his jeans and boxers
off his hips. He can’t get them off entirely, just as far down as he can reach
with a good shove or two, but it’s far enough because Miguel’s hand is there
again, wrapping around him and fuuuuuuck, how is the guy so warm? He’s like a
fucking furnace and it should be suffocating because there’s no A/C in the loft
but somehow it’s like they’re both on fire and it just drives Danny on, makes
him crazy.
He doesn’t even know how this is happening really, Miguel must be at least,
what? 20? 25? He has no fucking idea and as he grips his hand tighter and leans
down to bite at Danny’s nipple, Danny just does not fucking care.
This, he decides as Miguel strokes him fast and his eyes roll back in his head.
This is his reward for being so fucking nice all the time. This is his reward
for putting up with Jackson for so many years, and for being the only out guy
in his class, and for never, ever, ever being in the loop about anything.
And as Miguel moves down his chest, adding bites and growling again when Danny
puts his hands back in his hair, adding a harsh nip to his thigh as he rips his
jeans the rest of the way off, Danny thinks it’s all been worth it.
* * *
There’s no polite way to ask whether a guy tops or bottoms, or if he’s even
into that. It’s just… well it’s either super obvious from the way both of you
handle things from the start or you have to straight up ask when it comes down
to it.
Danny figures, though, that him coming all over Miguel’s face probably means
he’s not going to be fucking anyone tonight. He’s not bothered. There’s only so
much mind-blowing bliss a soon-to-be high school junior can handle, and he
would not have been impressive. Besides, something about the way Miguel sucked
him off made him pretty sure he knows what he’s doing. You know, mostly the way
in which it was totally amazing, and he was really angry at not being able to
focus enough to learn from it. Well, angry and totally flattened by probably
the best orgasm of his life to date. But, angry. Sort of.
Anyways, the point is: superior experience. Danny is very, very okay with being
on the receiving end of that. In this case, probably literally. So when Miguel
gets back from splashing water on his face, Danny pops the question. “So, I’m
kinda outta the running for a bit, but if you’re up for topping, I’m cool with
that.”
Miguel nods, sliding back down on top of him, still running a million degrees
both literally and figuratively. “Sure.” He leans in and bites at Danny's neck,
gently, but with definite teeth. Hot as he is, Danny shivers.
He's not sure why he asks the next question. “So, ‘Miguel’. Really? Was that
just Stiles being an asshole?”
Miguel (or whoever) stiffens, and raises up on his arms, looming. He’s actually
freaking looming. What is this guy, is he a creature of the night? Um. He also
looks a little pissed. Shit.
“He’s not an asshole.” Probably-Not-Miguel seems pretty adamant about this.
“He’s a good kid.”
“No, I know. I mean. Stiles is fine. I like Stiles. When he shuts up.” Almost-
Certainly-Not-Miguel smirks at that. Danny pauses, then winces, and continues.
“It was kind of a shitty thing to do, though, using you that way. Shitty to
you. And to me.”
Definitely-Not-Miguel kind of huffs, like maybe it was supposed to be a laugh
but it never quite got there. “Yeah, consider him punished for that.”
He looks vaguely pleased and vaguely ashamed. It’s a good look on him. All
looks are good on him. Danny runs his fingers up and down too-warm ribs and
pointedly asks,
“So. Not ‘Miguel’, then?”
Not-Miguel smirks one more time, the expression spreading slowly and wildly
across his face, and he lowers himself back down, kissing Danny deeply before
murmuring briefly against his lips,
“No.”
And that’s all the answer that Danny ever gets.
* * *
It’s… pretty great sex.
It isn’t too rough and it isn’t too fast and Danny was right, he definitely
knows what he’s doing. Even before Danny is up on his knees he’s halfway to
heaven, and he is definitely getting the expensive lube from now on, holy shit.
So worth it.
The slide of it inside him and the slide of it on his cock as he strokes
himself are just perfect, right on the edge of ecstatic, the hands on his hips
pulling him back with precision in an effortless rhythm, and he would be
embarrassed about how little it takes, about the noises he makes and the way he
begs for it to never stop when he hits just the right place, but by that point
he doesn’t even care.
When they’re finally lying side by side, slippery and sticky and sated, he
really isn’t sure if he can walk, so he gratefully accepts the offer of a ride
back to Jungle after a few hours of exhausted sleep. By the time the sun comes
up, he’s crawling into his own bed, showered, bleary, and prepared to claim the
right of every high school student to sleep away a summer’s day.
He wakes up fuzzy and muddled in the midafternoon, needing sugar and caffeine
in a bad way. He manages PopTarts, an iced coffee, and two reruns of some
shitty sitcom before collapsing back into bed, and it isn’t until he looks in
the mirror that night and sees the faint outline of a mark on his neck that he
even stops to realise it was real.
* * *
It’s not so great that Danny is ruined for all other men. It would have to be
truly spectacular for that; Danny really likes men.
It is so great that when Danny hooks up with Ethan a bit later, he’s slightly
disappointed. Ethan seems to have an overheating problem too, which is
reminiscent of that night in the loft in a really awesome way, but there’s
just… not quite the same level of fire between them, even if slow and smouldery
is probably more Danny’s style on the regular, and they have that in spades.
Ethan is sweet enough for Danny to forget about the loft pretty quickly,
though. Well, not forget, but… yeah. Plus, there’s more weird shit going on,
people keep dying, and it’s not like he really has much time for Jungle during
school, or that he ever has a reason to hit the industrial side of town. You
know. Ever.
So he doesn’t really expect to see Not-Miguel again, small town
notwithstanding. He doesn’t even see his black Camaro around, and that’s pretty
surprising on further thought, because a car like that stands out, you know?
Probably the guy left town. He didn’t seem that settled, there was barely
anything in the loft.
And maybe, a few months later, when people have stopped dying and he thinks
about it a few too many times in one week, he swings by. And maybe he finds it
completely empty, confirming all his suspicions. And maybe that’s
disappointing, but probably mostly okay.
It was just one of those things that happened. One of those amazing, weird,
summer things that just… happened.
That definitely, definitely happened. He’s sure of it. It happened, okay?
How else would he have ended up with the guy’s shirt?
Explain that.
 
 
 
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