Chapter 1: Whiskey and Regret
The whiskey burned all the way down, a familiar fire Johnny Lawrence welcomed. It matched the smoldering resentment he carried most days. The dive bar was his kind of place: dim, smelled like decades of spilled beer and cheap disinfectant fighting a losing battle, the vinyl on the stools cracked like old leather. Posters advertising bands long defunct or beers no longer brewed hung crookedly on nicotine-stained walls. Bill, behind the bar, wiped a glass with a rag that probably just moved the grime around. His eyes, sharp and perpetually tired, flicked to Johnny.
"Third one down the hatch, Johnny," Bill observed, his voice a low rumble barely audible over the jukebox’s mournful country twang. "Rough week turning into a rough night?"
Johnny grunted, swirling the amber dregs in his heavy-bottomed glass. "Every week’s rough, Bill. Some just smell worse than others." He didn’t elaborate. Bill didn’t need him to. The bartender had seen Johnny’s cycles – the brooding silences, the sudden rages, the desperate, fleeting attempts to claw his way out of whatever ditch he’d dug for himself this time. The ongoing shit-show with LaRusso was just background noise now, a constant low-level hum of aggravation.
He gestured for another. Bill poured, the cheap bourbon glugging into the glass. Johnny raised it in a mock toast, the harsh light catching the lines etched deep around his piercing blue eyes. Eyes that had seen too many wrong turns, too many losses chalked up to bad luck or worse judgment. He was aware of how he looked – weathered, maybe a little dangerous, definitely past his prime. The raw charisma was still there, a flicker beneath the gruffness, but it took effort he rarely bothered with anymore. Who the hell cared?
He took a long pull, letting the heat bloom in his chest. That’s when he saw it. A shift in the gloom near the entrance. Not a patron coming in, but a figure pausing, scanning the room. A silhouette that punched through the haze and the years with shocking clarity.
No. Fucking. Way.
Time didn't just slow; it lurched into reverse. The cheap whiskey turned to ash in his mouth. Every muscle in Johnny’s body tightened, coiled like a spring. His knuckles whitened around the glass. Daniel LaRusso. Polished, put-together Daniel fucking LaRusso, standing in his shitty bar. Looking around like he’d stepped in dog shit.
The air crackled. Johnny felt Bill’s gaze land on him, then dart to the door, then back. The bartender didn’t say a word, just stopped wiping the glass. The low hum of conversation seemed to dip, as if the room itself sensed the tectonic plates shifting.
LaRusso spotted him. Recognition flared in those dark eyes, followed by surprise, then… curiosity? Annoyance? Johnny couldn’t tell, couldn’t care. Heat flooded his face, a mix of fury and a humiliation so deep it felt like his bones were grinding together. What the hell was the Golden Boy doing here? Slumming it? Come to gloat? To offer some sanctimonious bullshit advice wrapped in that fake-ass concern?
Daniel started moving through the scattered tables, navigating the worn linoleum with an ease that pissed Johnny off further. He stopped a few feet away from the bar, not taking a stool. Just standing there. Looking at Johnny. The silence stretched, thick and charged with thirty years of cheap shots, broken bones, and bitter resentment.
"Johnny," Daniel finally said. His voice was calm, controlled. So goddamn reasonable. It scraped Johnny’s nerves raw.
"LaRusso." Johnny’s voice was gravel. He didn’t turn, kept staring straight ahead at the rows of bottles behind Bill. "Wrong neighborhood. Or did you get lost on your way to the country club?"
A faint, tight smile touched Daniel’s lips. "Just grabbing a drink. Heard this place had… character." His eyes swept the dingy room, lingering on a particularly lurid beer sign peeling in the corner. "Didn’t expect to see you here."
"Funny. This is exactly where you’d find me," Johnny shot back, finally turning his head. He met Daniel’s gaze head-on. The spark of competitiveness was still there, buried beneath the success and the expensive haircut. It stirred something old and ugly in Johnny’s gut. "What do you want? Come to remind me how far ahead you are on the scoreboard?"
Daniel sighed, the sound heavy with a weariness Johnny hadn’t anticipated. "There is no scoreboard, Johnny." He stepped closer, leaning slightly against the bar. The scent of expensive cologne cut through the stale beer stench, another reminder of the gulf between them. "It’s been decades. Can we maybe just... have a drink?"
The sheer audacity of it, the casual dismissal of everything that lay between them, ignited Johnny’s temper. "A drink?" He slammed his glass down on the bar harder than intended, making Bill flinch. The remaining whiskey sloshed.
The remaining whiskey sloshed, a tiny tsunami threatening the lip of the cheap glass. Johnny’s knuckles were bone-white against the bar. That calm dismissal, ‘There is no scoreboard,’ scraped like sandpaper over raw nerves. Decades? Like hell. Every damn day felt like yesterday.
“A drink?” Johnny’s laugh was harsh, scraping the smoky air. “With you? You gotta be fucking kidding me, LaRusso. Last time we shared air, you were putting my kid in the hospital.” The accusation hung, thick and ugly. He saw Daniel flinch, a micro-expression of guilt or annoyance Johnny couldn’t decipher. Good. Let him squirm.
Daniel didn’t back down. He met Johnny’s glare, that spark flaring brighter. “Robbie’s fine. Stronger than his old man, apparently.” The dig landed, deliberate. “And that was years ago, Johnny. We’re not kids anymore. Can’t we just… bury it? One lousy beer?”
“Bury it?” Johnny shoved himself off the stool, the movement unsteady, fueled by cheap bourbon and decades of bile. He loomed closer, invading Daniel’s space, smelling the expensive cologne over the bar’s stale stench. “You wanna bury it? Fine.” He jabbed a finger towards the back corner, past the flickering Budweiser sign and the overflowing ashtrays. “Right there. Darts. Best of three. You win, I’ll choke down a goddamn beer with you. Pretend you’re not the sanctimonious prick who stole everything that ever mattered.”
Daniel’s eyes narrowed. The polished veneer cracked, revealing the scrappy kid from Reseda underneath. The competitor Johnny remembered. The one he hated, and maybe, just maybe, understood a fraction better than anyone else alive. “Everything?” Daniel’s voice dropped, low and dangerous. “You lost that yourself, Johnny. Every damn time.”
The air crackled. Bill silently slid a fresh glass of whiskey towards Johnny and a bottle of imported beer towards Daniel. Payment upfront for the inevitable bloodsport.
“Darts it is,” Daniel said, picking up the beer bottle but not drinking. His gaze locked on Johnny’s. “Best of three. And when I win, you admit it. Out loud. That you fucked it all up. Every single time.”
Johnny snatched his whiskey. The burn was familiar, a fuel for the firestorm inside. “Dream on, LaRusso. Lead the way.”
The walk to the ancient dartboard felt like crossing a no-man's-land. Johnny kept half a step behind LaRusso, the cheap whiskey buzzing in his veins, amplifying the low thrum of violence humming under his skin. Bill’s eyes tracked them, a silent witness. The corner was dimmer, smelling faintly of piss and spilled lager under the chemical tang of urinal cakes. The board itself was a scarred relic, bristling with old holes, the green felt worn thin.
Daniel picked up the darts first. They were cheap steel, the flights slightly bent. He weighed one in his hand, the movement economical, practiced. Johnny watched the flex of Daniel’s wrist, the focused set of his jaw. That quiet intensity. It had always pissed him off, how Daniel could look so fucking contained.
"Standard rules?" Daniel asked, his voice flat. "501? Double in, double out?"
"Whatever gets this over with faster," Johnny grunted, grabbing the other three darts. Their fingers brushed for a millisecond. Johnny flinched back as if burned.
Daniel stepped to the worn line scratched into the linoleum. He didn’t rush. Took a breath Johnny could barely see. Then, smooth as oil, his arm snapped forward. Thwack. Bullseye. A perfect, taunting red eye staring back at them. He didn’t look at Johnny. Just threw again. Thwack. Triple 20. Thwack. Triple 20. A hundred and forty points in three effortless darts. He pulled them out, the sound sharp in the relative quiet of their corner. His expression was unreadable as he handed the darts to Johnny.
"Beat that, Lawrence."
The casual dismissal, the absolute certainty in those three words, ignited the powder keg in Johnny’s chest. The fire from the whiskey surged, mixing with decades of humiliation, loss, the sting of Daniel’s perpetual fucking superiority. He snatched the darts.
He stepped up. The board swam slightly. He blinked hard. Focused on the triple 20. Just like Valley. Just like the old days. Show this prick. He drew his arm back, felt the familiar tension coiling in his shoulder. He threw.
Thunk. It landed solidly in the single 20. A decent throw. But not enough. Not against LaRusso’s opener. Fuck. He pulled the dart. Second throw. He overcompensated. Thunk. Five. God damn it! The heat in his face was volcanic now. Sweat prickled his scalp under his hair. He could feel Daniel’s gaze, heavy and expectant. He gripped the last dart so hard the metal
He could feel Daniel’s gaze, heavy and expectant. He gripped the last dart so hard the metal bit into his calloused palm. The triple 20 blurred. The cheap bourbon, the suffocating weight of LaRusso’s perfect fucking throw, the decades of losing – it all compressed into a white-hot ball of fury behind his eyes. He didn't aim. He just hurled it with every ounce of brute force he possessed.
Thwack- CRACK.
Not the satisfying thud of a bullseye. The sound was wrong. Sharp. Brittle. The dart shaft snapped clean in half on the outer metal rim of the board, the point embedding uselessly in the wood surround. The broken flight fluttered pathetically to the stained linoleum.
A sound escaped Daniel. Low, at first. Just a sharp intake of breath. Then it bloomed.
LARUSSO LAUGHS.
It wasn’t a chuckle. It wasn't polite. It was a full-throated, belly-deep roar of pure, unadulterated mockery. It ripped through the smoky haze, cutting over the jukebox’s drone. Bill stopped wiping the bar. A couple of grizzled regulars glanced over. Daniel doubled over slightly, slapping his knee, tears glistening in the corners of his eyes. "Holy shit, Johnny!" he gasped between guffaws. "Still got the Lawrence touch! Precision fucking demolition!"
Every cell in Johnny’s body ignited. Humiliation, hotter and sharper than the whiskey, flooded him. That laugh. It wasn’t just about the dart. It was Cobra Kai. It was Ali Mills. It was every failure, every loss, every time Daniel LaRusso had stood there looking like the goddamn golden boy while Johnny choked in the dirt.
"Shut your fucking mouth, LaRusso!" Johnny snarled, his voice like rocks grinding together. He took a step forward, fists clenched, knuckles white.
Daniel straightened up, wiping a tear, but the laughter still danced in his eyes, bright and cruel. "Or what, Johnny? Gonna break a pool cue over my head? Throw another tantrum?" He spread his hands, a picture of infuriating composure. "Admit it. You choked. Again. Some things never change."
The "again" was the detonator. It bypassed thought, bypassed reason. Johnny saw red. A guttural roar tore from his throat as he lunged, not thinking, just acting on decades of coiled rage. He crashed into Daniel, driving him backwards. They slammed into the grimy brick wall beside the dartboard. The impact rattled bottles on a nearby high-top.
Johnny’s fist connected first, a wild, looping punch that caught Daniel high on the cheekbone. SMACK. Daniel’s head snapped sideways. Johnny saw the shock, the pain, the fear flash in those dark eyes. Good. He wanted fear. He wanted blood.
"You smug son of a bitch!" Johnny roared, grabbing fistfuls of Daniel’s stupidly expensive cotton shirt. He drove a knee hard into Daniel’s thigh. Daniel gasped, scrabbling at Johnny’s wrists.
"Get the hell off me, you psycho!" Daniel spat, twisting, trying to shove Johnny back. He landed a hard jab to Johnny’s ribs. Air whooshed out of Johnny’s lungs, but the pain only fueled him. He slammed Daniel into the wall again, harder. Dust showered down.
They grappled, a tangle of furious limbs, grunts, and the sickening thud of flesh on flesh. Johnny got an arm around Daniel’s neck in a crude chokehold.
Daniel drove an elbow back into Johnny’s gut, making him wheeze, the grip loosening. Daniel spun, shoving Johnny hard. Johnny stumbled back, tripping over a bar stool. He crashed down, his elbow smacking the linoleum, sending fresh jolts of pain up his arm.
Before he could scramble up, Daniel was on him. Not with fists this time. He dropped onto Johnny’s hips, pinning his legs with his own weight, and clamped both hands around Johnny’s throat. Daniel’s face was inches away, flushed with exertion and fury, a thin trickle of blood from his lip staining his teeth red. His eyes were wild, feral. Gone was the polished car dealer. This was the kid from Reseda, fighting dirty in the schoolyard.
"Had enough, asshole?" Daniel hissed, his thumbs digging into Johnny’s windpipe. "Still think you're top dog?"
Johnny couldn't breathe. Spots danced before his eyes. He bucked wildly, trying to dislodge him, but Daniel held fast, using his full weight. Johnny’s hands scrabbled, finding purchase on Daniel’s hips, digging into the muscle there. He could feel the heat radiating through the fabric, the frantic thud of Daniel’s pulse under his fingertips. The lack of air, the rage, the sheer physicality of their struggle – it twisted, mutated. A shocking wave of heat, thick and urgent, slammed through Johnny’s groin.
Christ. Not now.
But it was there. Arousal, sharp and undeniable, warring with the fury. Daniel’s weight, the dominance, the raw aggression… it hit some primal switch Johnny hadn't known existed. He stopped fighting the chokehold. Instead, one hand slid roughly from Daniel’s hip, palming the front of his pants. Daniel froze.
Johnny felt it instantly. The hard, unmistakable ridge pressing against his own trapped cock. Daniel was hard. Rock fucking hard.
The realization hit Johnny like a second punch, harder than the elbow to his ribs. Rock fucking hard. Daniel LaRusso was grinding against him, trying to choke the life out of him, and his cock was like steel trapped in his tailored pants, pressed right against Johnny’s own aching erection through the denim.
Daniel froze completely. Johnny saw the shock register, wiping away the fury in his dark eyes for a split second, replaced by something raw and panicked. His grip on Johnny’s throat loosened fractionally, not from mercy, but from pure goddamn confusion.
Johnny didn’t hesitate. He used the slack, twisting violently beneath Daniel. His hand, still gripping Daniel’s hip, shoved downwards, grinding the heel of his palm hard against that undeniable bulge. A choked gasp escaped Daniel, part pain, part something else entirely. Johnny bucked his own hips up, grinding his trapped cock against Daniel’s ass, the friction rough and electric through the layers of fabric. It was brutal, desperate, fueled by decades of hate and this shocking, unwelcome surge of lust. Spit flew from Johnny’s mouth as he rasped, "Fucking feel that, LaRusso? Like what you fucking started?"
Daniel recoiled as if scalded, scrambling backwards off Johnny, landing hard on his ass a few feet away. He stared at Johnny, chest heaving, his lip still bleeding, his expensive shirt ripped at the collar, and his cock straining obscenely against the front of his pants. His expression was a shattered mirror of disbelief, horror, and that same terrifying flicker Johnny felt mirrored in his own gut. He wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, his gaze locked on Johnny’s crotch, where the outline of Johnny’s own hard-on was unmistakable beneath his jeans.
"Jesus Christ, Lawrence," Daniel breathed, the words ragged. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
Johnny pushed himself up onto his elbows, breathing hard. The fight-rush was fading, replaced by the insistent, burning throb in his groin, the phantom feel of Daniel’s weight, his heat. "Look who’s fucking talking," Johnny snarled, gesturing crudely at Daniel’s erection. "Seems I ain't the only one got a fucked-up hard-on from this."
They stared at each other across the few feet of stained linoleum, the air thick with stale beer, sweat, blood, and the potent, undeniable scent of male arousal. The jukebox wailed on, oblivious. Bill’s low drawl cut through the tension like a rusty knife.
“ENOUGH!” Bill snapped, his voice cracking like a whip. He stood behind the bar, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge, his usual weary calm replaced by furious disgust. “BREAK IT UP! CLEAN YOURSELF OFF!” He jabbed a thick finger towards the dim hallway leading to the restrooms, his expression promising violence if they didn’t comply. “NOW! Take your goddamn pissing contest into the shitter before I call the cops and have you both locked up for the night!”
The command hung in the air. Johnny slowly, painfully, got to his feet, his eyes never leaving Daniel’s. Daniel mirrored him, pushing himself up, the movement stiff. He adjusted himself subtly, futilely, trying to hide the persistent bulge. Johnny didn’t bother. He felt raw, exposed, his own need a furious ache demanding release, tangled grotesquely with the bitter taste of LaRusso.
Without a word, Johnny turned towards the hallway Bill indicated, his boots heavy on the grimy floor. He didn't look back, but he felt it – the weight of Daniel’s gaze, the charged silence, the unspeakable thing hanging between them. He pushed open the heavy, scarred door to the men’s room, the stench of piss, cheap disinfectant, and ancient mildew hitting him. It smelled like regret. He stepped inside, leaving the door ajar behind him, a silent, dangerous invitation hanging in the reeking air.
Johnny stared at himself in the mirror, still hard when Daniel comes in, leaving him speechless.
The cracked mirror above the filthy sink showed Johnny Lawrence exactly what he didn't want to see. His own reflection, flushed and sweating, a fresh bruise blooming near his temple, hair plastered to his forehead. And below the waist, the undeniable, persistent bulge straining against his jeans. The cheap whiskey roared in his ears, mixing with the frantic drumbeat of his own pulse. The fight-rush hadn't faded; it had just mutated into something hotter, uglier, more demanding. He gripped the chipped porcelain sink, knuckles white, trying to force air past the phantom pressure of Daniel’s hands on his throat. Trying to will the fucking hard-on away.
The heavy door creaked open behind him.
He didn’t need to turn. He felt it. The shift in the reeking air, thick with piss and mildew. The weight of the gaze landing on his back. Johnny’s shoulders tensed, every muscle locking tight. He kept staring at his own haunted eyes in the grimy glass.
Silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Only the dripping faucet broke it. Plink. Plink. Plink. Like a fucking countdown.
Then, Daniel’s voice, rough, stripped of its usual polish, laced with something Johnny couldn’t quite name – disgust? Fear? Arousal? "You gonna piss or bleed, Lawrence?"
Johnny finally turned, slow, deliberate. He leaned back against the sink, crossing his arms over his chest, deliberately drawing Daniel’s eyes downward. Letting him see. "Neither," Johnny rasped, his voice scraped raw. His gaze raked over Daniel. The split lip, still oozing a little. The ripped collar of that stupid expensive shirt. The flush high on Daniel’s cheekbones. And lower… yeah. Still there. The outline pressing against the dark fabric of his pants wasn’t subtle. "Looks like you got the same fucking problem."
Daniel flinched, his hand instinctively moving to cover himself, then jerking away as if burned. "Fuck you," he spat, but the venom lacked its usual bite. It sounded strained. Panicked. His eyes flickered from Johnny’s face to his crotch and back again, trapped. "This is… sick."
"Is it?" Johnny pushed off the sink, taking a step forward. The small space shrunk instantly. He could smell Daniel now – the expensive cologne warring with sweat, the coppery tang of blood, the stale beer. Underneath it all, something primal, musky. "Felt pretty fucking real out there. You grinding on me. Getting hard choking me out." Another step. Daniel didn’t retreat, but his breath hitched. Johnny was close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. "What’s sick, LaRusso? That you liked it? That after thirty fucking years, the only thing that gets your dick hard is putting me on my back?"
"Shut up!" Daniel hissed, shoving Johnny hard in the chest. It lacked force. It felt desperate. "You don't know shit!"
Johnny grabbed the wrist that shoved him. His grip was iron. He slammed Daniel backwards, pinning him against the cold, graffiti-scarred tiles of the stall partition. Daniel gasped, struggling, but Johnny leaned in, his body pressing Daniel’s firmly against the wall. He felt it again, unmistakable – the hard ridge of Daniel’s cock against his own thigh. A low groan escaped Johnny, involuntary, ripped from somewhere deep and dark.
"Yeah," Johnny breathed, his mouth inches from Daniel’s ear. He could feel Daniel trembling. "You fucking liar." He ground his hips forward, rubbing his trapped erection against Daniel’s thigh, the denim-on-cotton friction rough, electric. "Feel that? That’s what you did. That’s what you fucking started."
Daniel’s head thumped back against the tiles. His eyes were wide, pupils blown black, drowning out the brown. His chest heaved. "Johnny…" It was a whisper, ragged, broken. Not a denial. A surrender.
The sound of his name, like that, shattered the last shred of Johnny’s control. Decades of hate, rivalry, resentment – it all funneled into this single, brutal point of contact. He didn’t kiss him. It wasn’t about tenderness. It was about possession. About dominance. He crushed his mouth against Daniel’s, tasting blood – his own? Daniel’s? It didn’t matter. It was metallic, primal. Daniel froze for a split second, then his mouth opened under Johnny’s assault. Not gentle. A desperate, biting clash of tongues and teeth. Daniel’s hands came up, not to push away, but to claw at Johnny’s shoulders, pulling him closer, grinding his own hips up against Johnny’s.
The kiss was pure violence. Teeth scraping lips, tongues battling. Johnny shoved his knee between Daniel’s thighs, forcing them apart. He tore at Daniel’s belt buckle, fingers fumbling with the button and zipper. Daniel gasped into his mouth, his hands dropping to shove Johnny’s jeans down over his hips with frantic urgency. Denim pooled around Johnny’s ankles. Daniel’s pants followed, shoved down roughly.
Johnny broke the kiss, panting. He looked down. Daniel’s cock sprang free, thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip. Johnny’s own jutted out, hard and aching. The sight punched the air from his lungs. He wrapped a calloused hand around Daniel’s shaft, squeezing hard enough to make Daniel cry out – a sound that was half-pain, half-desperation.
"On your knees," Johnny growled, his voice thick, unrecognizable even to himself.
Daniel stared at him, wild-eyed. For a heartbeat, Johnny thought he’d refuse. Then, slowly, Daniel sank down, his back scraping against the filthy tiles. He looked up at Johnny, his lips swollen, bleeding again, his expression a wreck of shame and raw, undeniable hunger.
Johnny fisted his own cock, stroking it roughly, the precome slicking his grip. He nudged the swollen head against Daniel’s parted lips. "Open."
Daniel hesitated, his breath hitching. Then, slowly, his mouth opened. Johnny shoved forward, not gently. The head of his cock bumped against teeth before sliding onto Daniel’s tongue. Hot. Wet. Tight. Johnny groaned, a deep, guttural sound that echoed in the tiled room. He grabbed a fistful of Daniel’s hair, holding him still, and thrust deeper. Daniel choked, gagging, his eyes watering, but he didn’t pull away. His tongue flattened, tentatively licking the underside.
"Fuck yeah," Johnny hissed, tightening his grip on Daniel’s hair. "Suck it, LaRusso. Take it all." He pulled back slightly, then shoved forward again, deeper this time, feeling the head hit the back of Daniel’s throat. Daniel gagged violently, saliva dripping down his chin. Johnny didn’t relent. He set a brutal pace, fucking Daniel’s mouth with short, sharp thrusts, using his grip on Daniel’s hair to control the rhythm. The wet sounds, the choked gags, the sheer fucking degradation of it – it sent fire licking up Johnny’s spine. He looked down, watching his cock disappear between Daniel’s bruised lips, watched Daniel’s throat work around him, tears streaking through the grime on his cheeks. It was the most obscene, powerful thing Johnny had ever seen.
Daniel’s hands scrabbled weakly against Johnny’s thighs, then one hand wrapped around the base of Johnny’s cock, the other fumbling for his own neglected erection. He started jerking himself off roughly, his strokes frantic, matching the rhythm Johnny was setting with his hips.
"Gonna come," Johnny gasped, the pressure building unbearably low in his gut. His thrusts became erratic, deeper, harder. "Gonna fucking fill your throat."
“wait I want you to fuck me….” Daniel breathed, cum in my ass.”