Listen, it wasn’t Johnny’s fault that he never realized how much he’d love getting fucked.
There had, in fact, probably been a whole systemic-patriarchal-societal-something in place his entire life specifically to stop him from realizing it. (Johnny could remember Demetri going on a rant once about something like that, but thankfully he had some kind of protective wiring in his brain that automatically shut down at the sound of Demetri’s voice.) Some vast conspiracy, fronted by Sid and Kreese and, like, Ronald Reagan, probably. All chuckling their hacking dirty old man chuckles as they carried out their dastardly fifty-plus-year plan to prevent Johnny from getting pounded in the ass like a fucking rock star.
No, it had been easier—not easy, but easier—to at first picture it the other way: LaRusso would be in his face, so self-righteous and frustrating, and somehow Johnny would be the one brave or reckless enough to break the blister of tension stretched taut between them. He’d. . .shake him or shove him—Johnny loved to picture his hands closing over LaRusso’s shoulders; LaRusso’s gaze forced up to meet Johnny’s eyes, because Johnny was taller than him, bigger than him, stronger, 10 to 1. And there the fantasy usually stuttered, slipped, but the next thing that mattered was that LaRusso had his head thrown back, moaning, an inch away from pain, but his dark eyes had gone darker, gazing at Johnny, staring at him in helpless worship as Johnny. . .Johnny took him apart, owned him, destroyed him, ruined him, finally conquered this man who had stalked through thirty-five years of Johnny’s life, laying waste. He’d be Johnny’s then; Johnny would finally win.
Yeah, so: like most of Johnny’s fantasies, absolutely none of that had come true.
Their first time had actually been soft, sweet, like something out of a fucking chick flick: kissing in a sudden desert cloudburst outside their shared dojo, at the end of a long day teaching their shared students; a gentle, tentative coming together, cool rain dripping down his collar and Daniel’s mouth the hot center of the world.
After that Johnny had known he was going to take Daniel to bed. And he had. There was a surety between them, and it got them through the awkwardness of inexperienced handjobs, into the pleasure of a long, slow frot, the rub of Daniel’s hairy thigh against his own sparking something inside him almost as exciting as the hard curve of his cock. Johnny came with Daniel’s mouth on his throat. No one had touched anyone’s butt except to bring their bodies closer together. He hadn’t known gay guys were allowed to do that—or not do that.
Cocksucker—that concept, Johnny knew. Mouthy little Daniel LaRusso: Dutch had once said sneeringly that he’d look pretty with a cock in his mouth, and Johnny had laughed, but been unable, really, to think something so low of a worthy adversary. Turned out Dutch was right, though. Daniel loved sucking cock. He loved getting on his knees for Johnny. He loved to grip Johnny’s thighs and work Johnny over with that annoying rosebud of a mouth. He loved it when Johnny pulled his hair. He loved to make Johnny cry and beg for it—“Let’s see how you handle this,” he’d said, the first time he sank down there, and Johnny had either handled it very well or not at all. Daniel LaRusso on his knees made him lose his mind. It made him want to give Daniel anything, everything.
“Is this okay?” Daniel had asked before he touched Johnny there for the first time. He’d pulled off Johnny’s cock to ask it, so Johnny merely whimpered and nodded frantically, not knowing what he was assenting to, really, just wanting more: more of Daniel on and around and in him, sure. Whatever, however, he’d take anything he could get, even the surreal wrong-badness of Daniel’s finger sliding between his asscheeks and brushing against Johnny’s hole. That was as far as he’d gotten that time—a little whisper-touch—and Johnny had come so hard, Daniel nearly choked on it.
There was really something to watching your come drip down your onetime-nemesis’s chin. Johnny had kissed it off without even caring.
But Johnny wasn’t a complete idiot. He knew what Daniel was doing: all those gentle touches and excessive blowjob generosity was Daniel’s attempt at subtly, persistently, nudging Johnny toward a ready willingness to have Daniel’s cock up his ass. He was trying to make Johnny his bitch. Johnny had seen some questionable prison movies, so he was wise to the whole thing. And while he was under no illusions that the behavior they’d engaged in so far was in keeping with the gold-standard straightness Johnny had adhered to for the entirety of his life up to this point, this seemed a bridge too far.
See: massive patriarchal conspiracy, ‘80s movie masculinity, Reagan, etc.
Naturally, he resolved to flip the script, and fuck Daniel first.
Johnny pictured a power struggle: a sweaty, angsty, uber-masculine brawl in which the winner emerged triumphant, dominant, and rode his opponent into the sunset. Instead, Daniel submitted to him sweetly, sighing when Johnny broke away from their kiss and rolled him roughly onto his stomach. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about this,” he said. “I’ve started fingering myself in the shower.”
As Johnny briefly lost focus and feeling in his extremities, Daniel took the opportunity to prepare himself. His eyes slid closed as he fearlessly worked himself open; he looked lost to his own pleasure. Johnny wondered if his own presence was strictly necessary. But then Daniel rolled over onto his back and said, “C’mere, Johnny, I want to look at you.” His legs wrapped around Johnny’s back as Johnny pressed home, and Johnny cradled the scarred dome of his knee and nearly sobbed at the look of unabashed ecstasy on Daniel’s face.
Afterwards, they lay together side by side. Johnny couldn’t stop staring at Daniel. He looked utterly blissful, barely clinging to consciousness. Johnny ran a hand down his flank, warm skin dotted with bruises and marks, many but not all left there by Johnny, or by others like him. He held Daniel’s hand and petted his cross-hatched knuckles. It was still strange to see him in repose: Johnny had thought he never stopped fighting.
“How do you,” Johnny started.
“Hmm?” Daniel’s dark eyelashes fluttered.
“Feel?” Johnny asked.
Daniel let out a low huff of a laugh. “Fantastic.”
Johnny couldn’t help but smile at that. But it was a good moment, so of course he had to try to ruin it.
“But like. . .do you feel. . .different?”
This laugh was more of a snort. “You mean, now that you’ve taken my virginity?”
Daniel’s eyes blinked open fully and he turned his head to look at Johnny. He must have read something in Johnny’s face, because his eyebrows knitted together. “What? Do you think I should feel emasculated or something?”
“Emasculated? What? No. No,” Johnny said. It was very convincing.
“Oh, good,” Daniel said, once he’d finished rolling his eyes, “’cause I’d be shocked to hear that Johnny Lawrence has some outdated ideas about human sexuality.”
Daniel reached over and patted his cheek. “You want to know how it feels? Tomorrow, I’ll show you.”
Then he rolled over and went to sleep.
Throughout a restless night, Johnny’s brain cycled. It provided him with a fascinating slideshow: Sid calling him a whiny faggot when he fell off his bike and tore three inches of skin from both his elbows; Tom Cruise’s ass and athletic socks in Risky Business; Kreese’s big hand on the back of his neck; the way Daniel bit his bottom lip; the up-and-coming director Sid loudly praised the talent of at various industry functions until suddenly Johnny’s mom was getting slapped across the face for even mentioning his name, for saying they should at least go to the funeral; the way it wasn’t really a compliment when Dutch called him a pretty boy; Daniel’s voice saying, “Still got those golden locks”; that thing on the news, that poor dumb kid in Wyoming; the look of relief and wonder on Daniel’s face when their first kiss broke; the betrayal and disgust in Robby’s eyes when he found out about the two of them; the insane giddy grin Miguel produced when he arrived early and caught them making out with their coffee cups forgotten and their feet in the pond. The sounds Daniel made when Johnny bottomed-out inside of him, the way his eyes squeezed shut and his nails dug into Johnny’s shoulders and he bit his lip and moaned Johnny’s name and came between their stomachs, loving it, so obviously loving every second of it, being a man and taking it from a man and getting thoroughly fucked.
Johnny woke up with an ache in his jaw from grinding his teeth and no clear idea of what to do with all of that. One thing was clear, however, and that was this: Daniel had issued him a challenge.
And Johnny Lawrence never backed down from a challenge.
Daniel, who had actually slept like a normal person, was up already when Johnny cracked open his eyes. Johnny stumbled out and found him innocently sipping coffee from one of his stupid miniature cups. He quirked an eyebrow when he saw Johnny, but that was all. A clear attempt to look innocent. Johnny wasn’t buying. He poured himself a giant mug of coffee, heaped it full of sugar and cream, and tried not to buckle at the psychic heat he felt sure was radiating off of Daniel.
It was a Thursday. Slowly, it dawned on him that he was going to have to go through his whole day as if everything was normal. Daniel would make an appearance at one of his dealerships and Johnny would run errands and fix up anything that needed to be fixed around the dojo and they would meet up again and train their students—all of them proceeding as if nothing had changed, as if Johnny wasn’t going to get fucked that very night.
“See you later,” Daniel said, and he let the heel of his hand lightly kiss Johnny’s pulsing erection before sashaying out the door.
Johnny took a long shower. He leaned his forehead against the slick tile and remembered what Daniel had said, about thinking about it, fingering himself. He didn’t like to think about all the ways Daniel was braver than he was, but he’d done that, boldly, blatantly, and reported it to Johnny without shame. With eager anticipation in his voice. Johnny swallowed, and rotated his shoulder back. The position was not actually all that strange, if he stopped thinking about it. Well, all right. He was great at not thinking about things.
So: brain an empty page. Just feel it. The finger—Daniel’s finger, circling as he sucked Johnny’s cock, as Johnny took his sweet mouth and Daniel pressed inside him—there. That wasn’t so bad, maybe a little medical, there in this sterile room, doing it himself, but not when it was Daniel claiming that space, taking it from Johnny; not giving him a choice, really—it was a challenge—and LaRusso had beaten him every time it mattered, LaRusso had owned him, and suddenly the old familiar fantasy reversed: Daniel LaRusso was forcing him down onto the mat, pinning him, so that when it happened, Johnny was helpless but to let it. Daniel’s hands were heavy on Johnny’s shoulders and he took Johnny mercilessly; to the victor, the spoils; and Johnny would be spoiled, would be ruined forever, hotly unmanned and destroyed in front of everybody.
Johnny let out a choked gasp and came in hot shaky spurts. The water beat against his back and swirled the mess away.
Obviously, that should have put him off. Like, any normal person would at that point have fled town, got a job on a fishing boat in Alaska, become a monk. Johnny numbly tugged on his clothes, drove to the hardware store, bought some thin particleboard planks and some backup hooks for the heavy bag, got a fried egg and cheese from the taco stand, then left it in its greasy brown bag on the kitchen table so he could flop down on the bed and masturbate again: Daniel fucking him, Daniel pushing inside him and claiming him in front of everybody, everybody.
Afterward, Johnny staggered, weak-kneed, back out to the kitchen, and ate his congealing egg and cheese, a strange new energy running through his skin as he licked his fingers clean.
He kissed Daniel on the mouth when he came through the door of the dojo, still in his stupid little salesman suit. Kissed him and let him go, blood buzzing; they still had classes to teach. They were responsible adults, after all. They were role models. Johnny laughed and floated around his students, dispensing sound advice and sweet karate skills like a master, a true sensei. Even the ones on the more hopeless end of spectrum seemed like stars in the making: sharper, faster, and a thousand times more badass than they’d been even the day before. Demetri made some dumb joke and Johnny actually snickered. (He hadn’t really been listening, so he didn’t know what the kid had actually said, but it had the rhythm of the kind of thing said with the hope of laughter.) Johnny’s reaction certainly stunned Demetri into silence, so you know: bonus.
Miguel and Sam stuck around after class, as they often did, to help clean up and chat. Normally, Johnny loved this time, but after the third instance of hearing him say, “huh?” in response to a simple, direct question from one of the kids, Daniel went and plucked four twenties from his wallet and pressed them into his daughter’s palm.
“You guys have been working so hard, why don’t you go have fun? Have dinner, go to a movie.”
Sam’s eyes flicked between Daniel and Johnny, which had to be more mortifying for Daniel than for him, so Johnny was fine with it. Especially when Sam took her father’s cue and tugged Miguel toward the parking lot. “They want some alone time,” Johnny heard her stage whisper.
“Aww,” said Miguel. “I mean. . .” He turned to study his girlfriend’s expression. “Eww? Is it aww or eww?”
“Por qué no los dos?” said Sam, but Johnny neither knew nor cared what that meant, because he was finally alone with Daniel.
Daniel, who stood across from him with his arms loose, that salesman’s guileless grin plastered on his face. “Johnny?” he asked. “Something on your mind?”
Johnny took a step toward him. “You issued a challenge, LaRusso,” he said. “You gonna uphold your end?”
Daniel looked briefly dumbstruck. “A challenge? Oh my god, Johnny. What goes on in your head?”
“More than out here, apparently.” He stepped into Daniel’s space. “You gonna show me or not?”
A rush went through him as Daniel squared up. “Inside,” he ordered.
Johnny’s neck was prickling as he made his way to the bedroom. Once he was through the doorway, he turned and saw Daniel standing there in his practice gi. Sweat was curling his hair over his headband; there was the faintest whiff of locker room smell to him, athletic and musky, and Johnny reacted to it like one of those dogs that drooled at the bells. “Come on,” he said. “Do it.”
“Slow down, Johnny,” Daniel said, then wrapped an arm around Johnny’s neck, bending him into a searing kiss. Talk about mixed signals.
Johnny tried to twist out of his gi without breaking away from Daniel. “No,” Daniel said. He looked up and met Johnny’s eyes. “Let me take care of you.”
Johnny dropped his hands. He let Daniel undress him, slowly: untying the belt at his waist, pulling his shoulders free of the fabric, skinning the loose pants away from thighs and calves and the straining spectacle of his cock. “Sit down on the bed,” he ordered.
Johnny sat. He watched as Daniel much more briskly disrobed himself, save for his briefs. Then Daniel stepped forward and knelt between Johnny’s splayed thighs. Their eyes locked and Johnny felt like he was going to melt into the mattress as Daniel stared and touched: fingers scaling up his ankles, shins; drawing his knees even further apart and pressing his thumbs into his inner thighs. “Have I told you how much I love sucking your cock,” Daniel said.
Johnny swallowed heavily. “I mean, not in those—you’ve certainly shown. . .”
“I love how much you love it. I love that I’m so good at it.”
He grinned smugly at the head of Johnny’s cock, then licked lightly at the tip, where Johnny was already leaking. Johnny fell back on his elbows, panting. “Okay, you’re—you’re the all-valley cocksucking champion,” he said. “I’ll buy you a trophy.”
Daniel took him into his mouth and Johnny curled a hand through his hair to hold him there even as he panted out, “I thought you were gonna fuck me.”
“Foreplay, Johnny,” Daniel said, pulling back. “Google it.”
“I hate you so much,” Johnny said, lovingly, and cursed when he came down Daniel’s throat.
“Don’t worry,” Daniel said, clambering up beside Johnny, where he lay boneless. “I’ll make you come again on my cock.”
Johnny snorted. “Maybe in ’84, you could have”—and there was a clear moment where they both had to stop and think about that. “But I’m fifty-four, pal. Better men than you have tried.”
Daniel was rolling him onto his side. He paused and leaned into Johnny’s field of vision. “Better men than me have tried to make you come on their cock?”
“No!” Johnny felt his face flush. “I’m just talking about—about basic biology—”
“Hmm,” hummed Daniel, the insane little psycho optimist whose dick Johnny was about to take, “we’ll see.”
Johnny had gotten a peek when Daniel was crawling around like a maniac: he was painfully hard, the front of his briefs bulging and damp. Johnny waited for the sound of him easing or ripping them off; the no-doubt desperate press that had to be coming now that he’d nobly taken care of Johnny and gotten himself all worked up. But instead, Daniel dropped a kiss against the small of Johnny’s back; the fabric of his still-sheathed crotch pressed against Johnny’s bare thighs as Daniel wrapped an arm around his body and gently stroked his belly, the crease of his hip, the line of his waist.
“This is some pussy shit,” Johnny said, as Daniel massaged a hand along his lower back. “Can’t you fuck me like a man?”
“Wow,” said Daniel. But he didn’t argue, or say anything else. Johnny felt him shift a little, heard the pop of a cap, and then a cooler, slicker touch just above the curve of his ass.
He tensed: this was all so gentle and slow; he was getting in his own head. “Please,” he gritted out, as Daniel’s fingers drifted lower. “I need—”
“What do you need,” Daniel asked. Johnny could feel the invasive press of two fingers sliding between his asscheeks. His body shifted to accommodate them, as if eager to swallow Daniel up.
“I just want you to do it,” Johnny pleaded. “Take me.” He pushed back against Daniel’s touch and the tip of a finger slipped inside. He gasped, harshly. “Come on.”
“I don’t want to hurt you, Johnny,” Daniel said, crooking a finger inside Johnny’s shuddering body. “I want you to love it the way you love me sucking your cock.”
“Fuck,” Johnny gasped.
“I want you to love it so much you’ll beg for it,” Daniel said, and Johnny’s cock was still soft but he felt a zip of electricity pass through his entire body, something beyond arousal. He tangled his legs with Daniel’s and pushed back on his fingers greedily.
“Fuck you, LaRusso,” he said, because he had to.
It had the desired effect. Daniel gave Johnny’s ass a soft slap—frankly way too soft—and coaxed him up onto his knees. Finally, the tortured briefs made their exit and Johnny got to look over his shoulder as Daniel slicked his rigid cock, panting and clearly doing some Miyagi-Do meditative bullshit to keep himself under control. When Johnny felt one of Daniel’s hands curl around his hip, he dropped his head and stared down the pillow. This was it: his last moment as—what? He and Daniel had already done a thousand things that would make the head of every male role model he’d ever had rotate off their neck. He’d already kissed heterosexuality goodbye when he’d kissed Daniel, so this was only—
-further confirmation of his faggotry?
-the final nail in the coffin of his masculinity?
-the fulfillment of a sick fantasy?
-something he wanted to do?
-something he ached for?
-a surrendering that gave up nothing
-icing on a cake he could both have and eat
-the fulfillment of a hot fantasy
-such a hot fantasy
-like who in the valley in 1984 hadn’t dreamed of getting fucked by Daniel LaRusso
-but he was. he was gonna
-have him. all of him.
“Johnny.” Daniel was above him, breathing in his ear. “Johnny, are you with me? You gotta be with me.”
“I’m with you, you dumb punk,” Johnny said. “For god’s sake, fuck me already.”
For a second he sensed in Daniel still some hesitation, but for once Johnny knew exactly how to fix it.
“Daniel,” he begged, “please.”
It was the last thing Johnny said for a while, because when Daniel pushed inside him, he lost his words; it was so much, stranger and more of a feeling than he had expected: intense and odd and then good, real real good, really really fucking good, and Johnny was gasping and grunting, scrambling to clutch at the sheets, the headboard. Daniel kept struggling to stroke his back, press kisses to his shoulder blades, murmur sweet bullshit as he thrust, but Johnny was too gone for that shit. He knew he was taking it so good. He squeezed and heard Daniel groan. “Yes, yes,” he said, voice rushing into his gasping throat, body thrilling with fullness and movement and sensation. “Give it to me, LaRusso. Spill your load in me. Make me come on your cock, you asshole.”
“Oh fuck.” He felt Daniel still, and then he was finishing, collapsing atop Johnny’s back, driving him down to splay on his stomach on the mattress. The responsible prick had used a condom, so Johnny didn’t feel it the way he’d imagined, but just the thought—spill your load in me—was enough, along with a couple of mad, urgent thrusts against the bed, to bring Johnny off again.
He lay there, panting, light-headed, for some strange liquid period of time, and then he rolled Daniel’s weight off of him, not quite managing a full switch of their positions, but tangling them somewhere in between, a messy side-sprawl. It didn’t matter; what he needed was to kiss Daniel, ravenously. For a second, there was something hesitant in Daniel’s response; he seemed almost nervous, which was nuts—he’d been right.
“Biology is your bitch,” he told Daniel. When Daniel blinked at him, as if he were confused, Johnny elaborated: “I came again. I came so fucking hard.”
He sucked hard on the skin of Daniel’s neck—where it would show when he wore his gi.
“So,” said Daniel, a bit later, still sounding slightly breathless. “Did you. . . You liked it?”
Johnny’s brain had been off somewhere, roundhouse-kicking the ghost of Ronald Reagan into the sun. Yet he felt present in his body in a way that normally only intense exercise (or fighting) could achieve. Centered, Daniel would probably say.
“Naw, it sucked.” Johnny reached up and carded his fingers through Daniel’s hair, laughing as his expression shifted from alarm to confusion to exasperation. “I think I’m traumatized, actually. Can you hold me while I cry about my feelings?”
Daniel sighed. “You know I would, Johnny.”
“Ugh.” Johnny pushed him away half-heartedly. He hated when Daniel got like this. Out of nowhere he’d want to talk; he’d use words like “process” and “shared trauma” and “toxic masculinity.” Which, look: Johnny got it—systemic patriarchal, etc. But Johnny would much rather do, and now that Johnny had “unpacked” his issues with ass-fucking or whatever, he didn’t see why they should ruin it by talking it to death. They should just do it, as often as biology allowed.
“You’re so insecure,” he told Daniel, rolling back over to nibble at his lip. “So hungry for compliments.”
“Oh good, now you’re projecting.”
“No, I get it: you just want me to say that you’re best lay I’ve ever had.”
“Not the words I would choose.”
“You just want me to tell you that from now on I only want your cock.”
“Johnny. . .”
“That I’m,” inspiration sucked the air from his lungs, “empty without you.”
Daniel’s legs parted for him. “You’re ridiculous, I. . .”
Johnny was sore in both new and all-too-familiar places, and he hadn’t gone three times in a row for twenty-five years. But he read the answer to his challenge in Daniel’s eyes.
Johnny rolled loose his shoulders and grinned. “Then take me, LaRusso. I’m yours.”