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Johnny peers into the bathroom mirror, smoothing his hands over his jumpsuit. Just a couple of finishing touches. He throws a set of dog tags threaded onto a thin length of ball-chain over his head, then slides on a pair of aviators. Perfect.
He puts on his best swagger and strides over to Carmen’s door, knocking with purpose. He can hear her moving just inside, probably tidying the kitchen after dinner, so he arranges himself quickly, leaning casually on his forearm. Fuck, if he’d remembered to bring a boom box, he could’ve had “Take My Breath Away” playing in the background. Next time.
Carmen opens the door. “Johnny!” she says, looking more taken aback than turned on. Johnny figures he can work with that, though. Maybe she’s just surprised. He lets the corner of his mouth lift into a cocky smirk.
“Hey babe,” he said. “Wanna come for a ride in my jet? I’ll teach you how to work the throttle.”
Carmen’s brow creases, her hands twist together in front of her, and now Johnny is really concerned. “Umm, Johnny. You see…well. There’s no easy way to say this.” She moves to the side and gestures for him to come in.
When Johnny steps inside and shoves his aviators up into his hair, he can feel that something isn’t right. The lighting is all off, for one thing. Carmen’s apartment is usually lit in warm yellows, and everything in here feels kind of…well, kind of blue. That’s weird, right? There’s something weird about that.
Then he sees the figure facing toward Carmen’s hallway. A dark-haired man, shorter than him, also wearing an olive-green jumpsuit…wait, is this some kind of joke?
“What the hell?”
Carmen steps toward him. “I had an unexpected visitor today, Johnny. I think you’d like him. He’s a real…Maverick. ” From somewhere that might be the inside of Johnny’s head, he can hear an echo of Carmen’s voice. “I love that movie! Tom Cruise is so handsome!”
No, Johnny thinks. No way do I have to stand for this shit. He strides toward the other guy, grabbing him roughly by the shoulder and turning him around. “Come on, you short fuck, face me like a…” The unspoken ‘man’ dies on Johnny’s lips as he comes face to face not with Tom Cruise’s Maverick, but with his erstwhile rival and off-and-on co-sensei, Daniel LaRusso.
Johnny blinks in utter confusion, frantically facing his own reflection in Daniel’s mirrored sunglasses. The longer he struggles to find his words, the wider Daniel’s amused grin gets.
“Hey Johnny,” is all he says.
“What the fuck are you doing in my girlfriend’s apartment, LaRusso?”
“Johnny,” says Daniel, gently scolding, “I thought we’d agreed on ‘Daniel’. And this isn’t your girlfriend’s apartment, is it?”
Johnny looks around. Daniel is right; this isn’t Carmen’s apartment at all, and Carmen isn’t anywhere to be seen. It’s the meditation room at Miyagi-Do, with one set of shoji doors thrown open to let the moonlight stream in. Everything is definitely kind of blue. What’s up with that?
“How—” he begins, but Daniel holds up a finger to his own lips in a silent shushing gesture.
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” he says, stepping closer to Johnny, backing him up against one wood-paneled wall (where the photo of Daniel’s old sensei is blessedly missing). “I like your costume, by the way. Suits you.”
Johnny looks down at his jumpsuit, then back toward Daniel’s matching one. “Yours…too?” he says. God he wishes he didn’t sound like such a fucking moron.
Daniel takes off his sunglasses and tucks them into a front pocket. His brown eyes are looking at Johnny, from way too close, like he knows something Johnny doesn’t, like he’s in on some secret. “Thanks,” he says simply.
One fucking syllable and Johnny’s heart is kicking in his chest like it wants out. He’d normally shove Daniel or tell him to back off, but his arms and his voice don’t seem to be cooperating. He’s just standing there like some fool and Daniel keeps coming closer, inch by fraction of an inch.
“Johnny,” says Daniel, breath tickling over Johnny’s lips in a warm rush, “there’s nothing to be so scared of.”
Somebody must have remembered the boom box after all, because that’s when the opening strains of “Take My Breath Away” start to float through the room, and then a cocktail of hormones shoots through Johnny’s chest like lightning, because Daniel LaRusso’s fingertips are stroking along his jawline, thumb sweeping across Johnny’s bottom lip, and as the music swells (and the camera pans out so Johnny can somehow watch it happening in black silhouette against the blue light coming through the shoji doors), Daniel’s lips take his in a decisive kiss.
It’s. Holy fuck. It’s so goddamned soft, and Johnny really wasn’t prepared for that. Not for that, and not for the way it feels to magically be able to see it happening to himself at the same time, like some strange out-of-body experience. Johnny’s pretty sure he isn’t dead, but Daniel’s lips are some kind of heaven all the same, as soft as any woman’s that Johnny has ever kissed.
He doesn’t kiss like any of them, though. Daniel takes Johnny’s face in one hand and takes total control, kissing with that intoxicating, persistent softness until Johnny relaxes under him. When he feels Johnny’s lips part, his tongue traces their seam until he’s licking hot and sure into Johnny’s mouth. It tears a moan from Johnny’s throat that he doesn’t have a hope of suppressing, and Daniel continues that way until Johnny feels like he’s melting, coming apart at the seams, hands clutching at Daniel’s shoulders in a last ditch effort to remain human.
When Daniel pulls back from his mouth, Johnny’s point of view switches back to normal, and he’s looking into those devilish eyes, almost black in the deep blue night. And fuck, Daniel really isn’t that much shorter than him, is he? How embarrassing.
Daniel’s fingers find the zip of Johnny’s jumpsuit and work it down until his hand can dip below the hem of Johnny’s white tee and start a tantalizing trail up Johnny’s torso. When his fingertips stroke over one of Johnny’s nipples, Johnny’s mouth falls open, his head tips back, and he makes a mortifyingly high-pitched sound like he’s begging for more.
“God, that’s good. Gorgeous,” Daniel murmurs into his neck, kissing the creased skin there for good measure. His free hand laces into Johnny’s hair and scratches over his scalp in time with more fancy touches over Johnny’s pecs, and Johnny’s eyes squeeze shut as he fails to keep his hips from seeking forward. This isn’t fair at all; how does Daniel know all of his body’s most private little secrets? Only one or two people have ever figured out the hair thing, and he’s never told anyone about the chest thing. Anyway, his reaction makes Daniel huff out a little chuckle and double down, shoving Johnny’s tee up under his arms and tugging at his hair while he dips his head and licks over where his fingers were just teasing.
“ Daniel—!” Johnny gasps, eyes flying open because the sensation is more than he’d ever expected, ever imagined it could be. His hips are totally out of control, twitching forward to try to find friction, and Daniel’s thigh between his legs is the greatest mercy and the deepest shame of Johnny’s entire life. He grinds against it because he can’t help it, because he needs to, and his hand grasps at the back of Daniel’s neck for dear fucking life.
“S’okay,” says Daniel, and then his hand is dipping down again under Johnny’s waistband, forming over the hard, hot shape Johnny’s been half-heartedly hoping he could conceal. “You want me, John?” he asks rhetorically, clearly pleased with himself, and all Johnny can do is scowl and blush and look at Daniel with pleading eyes. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll take care of you.” Then he’s guiding Johnny down, down to the floor, to the floor that somehow feels as comfortable and familiar as Johnny’s own bed, to the floor underneath Daniel.
More of that weird magical stuff happens then, because they’re both suddenly out of their clothes, pressed close together with nothing on but a pair of boxers and a set of dog tags each. Johnny can’t help drinking Daniel in. He’s seen him in training gear frequently enough, he has a decent guess about the guy’s build, but nothing is as good as seeing it all here in front of him, where he can look and touch and taste. Before he can remember his embarrassment, Johnny pulls Daniel down toward him, gets both hands into his hair, and starts kissing up his neck, nipping below his jaw and licking into his mouth. Daniel feels so foreign and so familiar to him, and everything Johnny requests, he gives without question, yielding joyfully to every move Johnny makes.
Breaking away for breath, Johnny looks up at Daniel. He’s looking back like Johnny is something beautiful and worthy, and he keeps looking at him like that as he brings his hips down over Johnny’s, drifting them together like they belong that way. It sends shocks of pleasure ricocheting through Johnny like fireworks, and fuck, why haven’t they done this before? Johnny’s sure he has no idea, sure he doesn’t even care. He just takes Daniel by the hip and rocks against him in time to that sensual 80s beat that’s still playing in the background, forgetting everything else.
Daniel’s hand strokes down Johnny’s side, coming to rest at his ass, where he squeezes a little bit. He leans down, close to Johnny’s wide eyes. “How ‘bout you let me take the lead here, Johnny? Be my wingman, huh? Just this once?”
The breath stops short in Johnny’s throat. He’s supposed to fight this, say things like ‘No way, I’m nobody’s wingman,’ or ‘Nah, but you can be mine,’ but that isn’t what he wants to say. Daniel’s fingers are stroking at that soft place where Johnny’s ass meets his thigh as their lengths press together, and the only fucking thing Johnny can think about is what else those clever fingertips might be able to do. “Y-yeah,” he manages. “Yeah, I’ll be your wingman.”
Daniel tilts his head to the side with a dopey grin Johnny is probably mirroring back at him, then takes Johnny’s mouth in a filthy, thorough kiss as they grind together, moans from the backs of their throats meeting in the spaces between their lips. He lifts up, and it’s too soon, Johnny’s not ready to lose that contact. His complaint dies on his lips as Daniel shucks off both of their boxers, quickly and more smoothly than should even be possible. Johnny’s getting used to the impossible tonight, though. He’s embracing it.
When Daniel’s fingers trace the cleft of Johnny’s ass, he can feel himself tense up. But he also feels the flare of pleasure it sends through him, and he breathes deeply, forcing himself to relax. “I’m here, John,” Daniel says, holding eye contact with him. “I’m right here.” His fingers are slick and warm and circling, and then they’re pressing inside and Johnny is falling into Daniel’s eyes and opening up around Daniel’s fingers and he’s so full and too empty and he needs—
“Shhh, Johnny. It’s okay.” Daniel’s words make Johnny aware that he’s biting his lip and whimpering and pressing down for more of Daniel’s touch, all of it so much for him to take in at one time. “Focus on me. Right here, Johnny.”
He does what Daniel says, focusing on his face and on the feeling of his fingers, the way they push inside him and work him open. The stretch that started out uncomfortable now feels essential, and Daniel begins to work his fingers in and out in a rhythm that sets Johnny reeling, driving him insane one stroke at a time. Then they brush up tentatively against something inside of him, and Johnny gasps and clenches around them, looking up at Daniel with fear and wonder. Fuck, he thinks, and hopes he can find something more eloquent to say.
“Fuck,” he says, and Daniel just smiles.
“You like that?” he asks, and Johnny just nods through his ragged panting. “Ready for me to fuck you?” More nodding, and then Johnny is empty again, empty and whining for it.
A slick press, and the head of Daniel’s cock is inside of him, followed shortly by the rest of it, seated full and deep in Johnny’s ass. Maybe he is dead, because nothing in his life has ever felt good the way this feels good, from the dark heat and the stretch of it to the way it feels so indescribably right to be here, doing this, with Daniel, finally.
He tries to say that. “Daniel,” he says looking up at him with shining blue eyes, and that turns out to be all it takes.
Daniel’s hands close over Johnny’s wrists, pin them over his head, and Daniel says nothing with his mouth, but his eyes say Johnny, I’m here, Johnny, I’ve got you and all kinds of other beautiful, unwise things as he begins to rock inside of him. Johnny just gives in, surrenders entirely to the way he ignites with the slide and the press and the shocks of pleasure that radiate through him when Daniel gets the angle just right. He’s sure he’s crying or maybe yelling about it but he can’t bring himself to care, not when it’s like this, like it always should have been.
“Johnny,” says Daniel, all raw and ragged, and then his rhythm is breaking down, hips snapping against Johnny, his cock swirling insistently over that sparking, lit fuse he seems to have inside of him. Daniel cries out and comes hard, and Johnny can fucking feel it fill him up just as Daniel’s hand closes over his cock. It’s so much, too much. Johnny is so full and all of it has to go somewhere. “Come on,” says Daniel, dissolving into bonelessness above him as he strokes Johnny and keeps those little rocking thrusts going. “Come for me, John.” Then it’s like a little window opens, and finally, finally Johnny can let all of that fullness come rushing out.
Holy fucking goddamn it. It just keeps coming. Johnny just…keeps coming. He can’t possibly describe the feelings or the colors, the waves upon waves of pleasure that roll him like a riptide. He can’t really see, can only feel his soul rushing out of his body through his dick, feel Daniel’s hand and his lips against Johnny’s neck, can vaguely hear the little pleased, comforting things he murmurs there as Johnny’s body wrings itself out like a wet rag for him. The spasms just keep coming; every time he thinks they might be done, a new wave pushes through him again, leaving him trembling and ruined and perfect.
Johnny’s brain is floating in the white light and warmth and perfect afterglow of it all, basking in the feel of Daniel’s spent body upon him and the sweetness of his voice when something is suddenly very much not right. Entirely wrong is more like it, actually, because Daniel’s voice isn’t Daniel’s voice anymore, and it isn’t whispering sweet nothings against Johnny’s skin. It’s giving a weather report, and it sounds suspiciously like that grating meteorologist that Johnny absolutely hates, the one that always happens to be droning on when Johnny’s clock radio turns on to wake him in the morning.
That’s when Johnny’s eyes open for real, and he gasps so hard he sits bolt upright. His vision isn’t working properly yet, but he knows this isn’t Miyagi-Do. It’s not Carmen’s apartment, either. This is his own bedroom, his own worn-out mattress, his own bedsheets, and that is his clock radio alarm, annoying weather report and all.
A dream, then. Fuck, it was all just a dream.
Johnny shifts a little, moving his arms and legs experimentally, and at first it all feels fine. He’s panicking mildly from the content of his dream, still painted vividly behind his eyelids in living color, but there’s no real harm done. Not even any lingering ache tells the tale of what he imagined doing with Daniel last night. And he definitely doesn’t feel disappointed by that. No way. He’s relieved. Yeah. That’s what it is. He goes to pull back the covers so he can stand up.
His eyes go wide and a huge breath rushes into his mouth as he covers himself again.
“Fuck!” It comes out high-pitched and petulant, and Johnny feels the blush creeping up from his chest all the way to the roots of his hair. Holy shit.
One part of the dream actually happened, and the proof is right there, on his covers, on his bed, all over him. His entire lower body is a mess of come, more than he can remember seeing on any one occasion, even during his teenage years. Evidently the biggest, longest, most intense, most satisfying orgasm of his life was caused by Daniel LaRusso. Isn’t that just his luck.
When his phone chimes, Johnny jumps, almost like someone had knocked at his bedroom door and caught him sitting in his own rapidly-cooling jizz. He grabs it from his nightstand, fumbling through the lock screen and squinting to read the too-small print.
Want to meet up early before we teach today? Hoping to go over our lesson plan.
Johnny tries in vain to reply to the text, but gives up and taps the little phone icon instead.
“Hey,” says Daniel, picking up immediately.
“Hey,” Johnny says, not sounding tense or awkward at all. Maybe. “I can meet up early I guess. Just have to…” he glances down at his sheets, and clears his throat. “Have to cook some breakfast first. Fuel up. Y’know how it is.”
Daniel laughs over the phone. “Okay big guy,” he says sarcastically. “Meet me at the diner down the road from Mr. Miyagi’s in half an hour. Bacon and eggs on me?”
Johnny’s traitorous cock twitches, both at ‘big guy’ and at the mental image of ‘bacon and eggs on me’, but he manages to cough a little and croak out a semi-convincing reply. “Sure. That works.”
“See you then!” says Daniel, way too cheery for this time of morning, and hangs up.
Johnny drops his phone and gathers the covers around his waist, sidling awkwardly toward the bathroom. “Fuck,” he keeps saying. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”