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Breath and Bleach

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It’s not Karate anymore, not really. It’s something dirty and sweat-slick and horizontal, like wrestling but not wrestling. Like sex but definitely not sex. Never mind that Johnny’s got a hard on—shit like that just happens sometimes; it’s the beer and the skin-heat and the friction, that’s all.

Still. Even though Johnny is on top and technically winning, he feels in over his head. They never turned the lights on before they started fighting, so Daniel’s home-dojo is dark, and Johnny can’t make sense of anything. Most dojos smell like rancid teenage BO and feet, but of course, Daniel’s smells like fucking bleach. Or maybe Clorox wipes, something sterile and chemical under a mask of expensive but still shitty incense, and Johnny hates it. That woo-woo energy crap. It’s fine, though, because Daniel keeps huffing out boozy, martini-hot exhalations onto his mouth as he struggles beneath him, wheezing with something that isn’t laughter, or maybe is laughter, Johnny doesn’t know. It’s too dark to be sure of anything, really, except the boundless thrill of finally throttling Daniel Larusso into the ground like he fucking deserves. Of inhaling his breath, instead of his bleach.

Johnny digs his forearm into Daniel’s throat, blinks at him through a haze as his eyes adjust. His cock throbs where it’s trapped in the denim of his jeans, but he tells himself it’s normal to be turned on by finally getting to punch a guy you've fantasized about punching for thirty five years. “Told you I’d kick your ass, Larusso,” he coughs, bracketing Daniel between his knees, wondering if the triumphant rage of pinning him will wear off eventually and he’ll be disappointed instead that it was so damn easy. “Just didn't know it would happen so fast.”

Daniel snorts in frantic laughter, and it tastes like olive and vodka. Makes Johnny want to do something crazy, like lick it up. Martinis are girly and stupid but they feel clean, somehow, cleaner than beers. Johnny’s not even sure why he's thinking about clean things at all. Must be that Clorox smell. The laundry detergent in the crisp collar of Daniel’s dress shirt, neat even though he’s writhing around on his back. “Well you did get me drunk,” he huffs out.

Johnny shifts his hips, uses his knee to pin one of Daniel’s thighs to the mat. His fancy, idiot car salesman’s suit is gonna be so wrinkled after this, and that makes him want to do it more. He makes a fist in his shirt and tugs until a button pops. “Hey man, you agreed. You said you’d do it. That you wanted to fight.”

“I thought you meant fight fight, fair fight, I didn’t know you were gonna just body slam me into the wall before I even got the lights on,” he says, half-heartedly trying to shove Johnny off, grinning like this is still a game.

“I dunno,” Johnny mumbles, licking his lips, tasting salt. “I think you like it. I think you’re a pussy and you wanted me to fuck you up how I was meant to.”

“Oh,” Daniel says, tilting his head back, eyes glistening in the shadow as he blinks rapidly, arches his back. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

And then, it occurs to Johnny that Daniel is hard, too. He knows it in his gut the way he knows when a guy is thinking about hitting him, the way he knows when it’s gonna rain in the valley, when there’s something grey and sizzling and dusty wet in the air. The weird magical certainty of that knowledge rockets through him, makes his stomach drop, his cheeks burn. What a fucking pussy. Getting hard over his teenage rival giving it to him. Getting hard over being knocked over and wrestled into submission. God. Daniel probably fucking fantasized about this, as many times as Johnny has seen his stupid face on his stupid billboards and dreamed of punching it until his knuckles bled. He sucks in a desperate breath and drops the weight of his body onto Daniel’s, flattening him out easily. And yeah, sure enough, he’s thick and hard and hot in his ugly suit slacks. “Oh, boy,” he chuckles, grinding against him, sensation sparking through his limbs, igniting his skin. It feels so good to finally win, to finally hold Larusso down and crush him. “See? Damn. You wanted me to beat you. Bet you've thought about this, too. Being under me. My cock in your ass. In your pretty mouth. You were such a fucking fag when you were fifteen, those big girly lips, Jesus.”

“Fuck, Johnny,” Daniel grinds out, canting his head up off the ground. For a terrifying second Johnny thinks he’s gonna try and do something awful and sappy like kiss him, which would fuck this all up so he jerks away, squabbles between their bodies and holds him down with a hand clamped over his mouth. That just makes Daniel go even more limp and trembly beneath him, and Johnny’s dick pulses painfully against his zipper. Fuck. He needs to get off, needs it like beer, like air. He’s not sure why, but this seems like a natural culmination of the last thirty five years, somehow. Like he’s been hurtling towards this moment inevitably, slogging through rivers of shit just to claw his way out into Daniel Larusso’s Clorox-ass dojo and come in his pants on top of him. Like this was all it ever meant when they danced around each other in highschool, and fought. He bucks his hips, feels the pitiful, broken little moans he’s jerking out of Daniel lips muffled against his own palm. And then—fuck it, he thinks, and peels away, lets go of his face, and reaches for his cock.

He’s never touched another guy’s junk before, and he’s not sure how to do it. Plus, he’s not even sure he wants to make Johnny feel good as much as he wants to humiliate him, hurt him a little, wreck him. Make him fall apart and cry in that stupid voice that has barely changed since they first met. He squeezes the shape of his dick, pinching his balls rough and punishing. It’s not enough, though, Daniel’s slacks are too tight so instead he resorts to a short, open-handed smack right through the strained fabric. Daniel moans, eyes shut and blissed out. “God, you like having your fucking dick slapped? What’s wrong with you?” Johnny asks, marveling at the way Daniel’s cock twitches when he does it again, the heat of it bleeding through his slacks, the dampness at the crown. He clumsily unbuckles his belt one-handed and breaks the button shoving his fist in to touch. It’s hot and humid in there and his mind is a wreck of static and want. “Fucking wet like a girl,” he observes, swiping his thumb through the slickness, his own cock pulsing uncomfortably as he humps Daniel’s leg like a dog. “Even your dick is like a pussy, huh?”

Daniel comes, just like that. Gasps and shoots off and goes still before he shudders, his mouth a slick wet hole in the darkness and god, Johnny is gonna come there, he’s gonna fuck those lips he’s had to see grinning at him from billboard after billboard for decades. He unbuttons his jeans and curses, getting up unsteadily to his knees as he moves to straddle Johnny’s face. “You want to choke on this cock, don't you?” he asks, voice a low, slurring thing. Daniel doesn’t say anything at all, he just takes his cock in hand and fits his mouth over the crown before impaling his fucking mouth on it, sucking him like he’s spent his whole life married to some frigid Encino bitch while he jacked off to gay porn wishing his childhood rival would show up at his car dealership and save him from the monotony. Johnny’s not sure how he feels about giving Daniel Larusso everything he wants, but he’s sure how he feels about this mouth. Wettest, sloppiest, most filthy goddamned thing he’s ever felt in his whole life. He's not sure he could dream up something so good, actually. He’s not sure he deserves something so good. But maybe he does, if it comes from Daniel Larusso, who’s not good at all. He gasps, bracing his hand on the mat for leverage before fucking Daniel’s face, making him gag and froth from those lip he’s seen in his dreams, bruised and swollen and bloody.

“God, you suck like a fag, you suck so fucking good,” he thinks, and he wants to say baby, you got a porn star’s dirty mouth, baby, but that’s insane, even more insane than kissing, so he doesn’t say anything at all lest he risk ruining this thing. He wads up his shirt and shoves it between his teeth so he doesn’t make the neighbors call the cops when he comes because he’s pretty sure he’s gonna be murder-loud.

He never gets to come, though. Because someone flicks on the light.

His first thought is that it’s Daniel’s wife, and he panics, pulling out and scrambling away, raising an arm in case he has to dodge a trophy or a high heel or whatever wives throw at their husbands when they catch them getting face fucked by a dude they supposedly hate. But as he drunkenly blinks, he realizes with a sudden, sinking dread in his gut that it’s not Amanda. Somehow, fucking somehow, it’s his own son.

Robby is staring, mouth open, eyes flashing as they volley between Johnny and Daniel, who is blinking and dazed on the mat, dick out, lips plush and wet and shocked. “Robby,” he says, face knitting in confusion.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Johnny says, tucking himself frantically back into his jeans, trying to stand even though one leg is asleep and he’s so dizzy he might puke. “How—how do you know—“

And just like that, a bad thing becoming a good thing can spin around so fucking hard it ricochets right into being a bad thing again. Pieces assemble but only just, and Johnny doesn’t wait for it all to make sense, he doesn't give a single fuck. He rounds on Daniel, and hits him square in his dick-sucking mouth. Blood spatters onto his dress shirt, onto his dojo mat, flecked on the knuckles of Johnny’s hand as his son makes fists in his flannel, and hauls him off. And he should have fucking known, mouths that good don’t happen without one hundred catches. He should have known, there was something ugly and dirty and rotten under all that bleach.