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chisfics · 4 months

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i just know daniel says things like "fuck me.." whenever he goes through a minor inconvenience while cooking

#and johnny loves it #he replies like “well if you're offering..”#with a smug look on his face #they may or may not have done it in the kitchen because of that..#despite daniel's constant persistence of keeping it out of the kitchen #“its unhygenic”#daniel larusso #johnny lawrence #90s lawrusso #lawrusso #90s movies #chris naked in new york #ralph macchio #billy zabka #fic ideas

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zappedbyzabka · 1 year

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oh boy your tags about terry buying Johnny all those rings

Just picturing daniel who’s been longing after johnny and regretting not helping him after the tournament for years, dreaming of him and being unable to date anyone else because of it, running into johnny at the store and seeing the EXPENSIVE ring on johnny’s finger. feeling like crying because he’s still so beautiful and he seems healthy and happy. Daniel realizing that he will never have a chance with him again and has lost him completely. sorry this is So angsty.

Um , YES

Anon this is like, exactly what I’ve been thinking for this au. Maybe Johnny did used to like Daniel too, but is now too in love with/owned by Terry to even think about having feelings tor anyone else again.

Johnny looked so content, a small smile on his face, his ring shining under the store lights as he looked through cards like he couldn’t find the right one. Daniel walked up to him, his heart in his throat.

"Johnny?"

Johnny’s head whipped towards him, and to Daniel’s surprise, no glare appeared.

"LaRusso…Long time, no see."

Daniel cleared his throat, forcing a polite smile on his face. "Yeah, lotta years, but you still got those golden locks, huh?"

Johnny chuckled, and Daniel felt his chest tighten. "Yeah, and I see you’re already getting gray hairs—"

"Hey!"

That just made Johnny laugh again, and Daniel felt like dying because he looked so beautiful, so…different, like he was being cared for finally, like Daniel hadn’t crossed his mind for a while. Daniel remembered no one cheering Johnny on in the crowd besides the cobras, and regretted.

"So, uh, special occasion?" He asked, motioning towards the cards, and Johnny nodded.

"Yeah, my anniversary."

He looked so happy as he said it, blue eyes sparkling with adoration. He’s taken; he’s all of Daniel’s daydreams.

Daniel gritted his teeth, throat feeling tight. "Oh. Congrats. Who’s the lucky one that got to put a ring on the Johnny Lawrence? Anyone I’d know?"

He tried to sound playful. He wouldn’t be surprised if it was one of the cobras, maybe Bobby. Or Dutch, it was clear the guy had some not-so-innocent feelings towards his leader.

Johnny looked uncomfortable all of a sudden. "You do know him. knew him."

"Who?"

Terry Silver. Terry motherfucking Silver, as it so happened to be.

Johnny showed him photos from their wedding, photos of himself grinning up at Terry brightly at the altar, wearing white and truly looking like a perfect bride. Daniel wants to sleep for a year or two. Maybe erase all his memories of this blonde with a pretty smirk and pale lashes. Forget it all.

Silver sits at home, planning an extravagant gift for Johnny. He knows his boy isn’t one for fanciness, but he can’t help himself when it comes to Johnny; he’s his new coke, his craving. He's his and no one else’s.

Johnny isn’t any less obsessed; he loves Terry more than anyone he’s ever known. He can't even imagine how things would be without Terry at this point—the thought is almost unbearable to him. His husband has been his life since he was 19, and he’s never been happier.

(And lets just say Terry has been making use of Johnny’s flexibility and sluttiness every day.)

#And they have NASTY sex #They love to tie each other up #Terry spanks and slaps Johnny while fucking him #and Johnny LOVES it #came all over himself the first time Terry did it.#and they take care of each other as I’ve said before #understand each other in a way no one else can.understand each others worst flaws and love each other even more for them #Johnny cradles Terry to his chest and helps him calm down when he wakes up sweaty and panicked from a nightmare about his time in Vietnam #I’m crazy about themmmmmm😗#johnny lawrence #terry silver #silverlaw #tw codependency #tw unhealthy relationship #and I love that for them

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loveindefinitely · 3 months

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task force 141 with a controversially young civilian girlfriend.

-> mentions of large age-gaps, referenced sexual content, alcohol use. afab!fem!reader. minor dubcon (everyone's drunk.)

thinking that you're studying in uni. working on the side to try and afford rent and, if you're lucky, some noodles every other night. you don't really get seen compared to your friends, who go out clubbing and spend their spare time on dating apps.

one time, your friend drags you to a bar. not usually your scene, considering its clientele is more for tradies, and military-type men. not like the stuck-up blue collar boys at your uni.

cue you getting drunk off your ass, barely even standing, when you bump into one johhny mactavish.

he holds your elbows, your chest crashing into his. gentle with it, too -- kind and sweet and grounding.

"y'alright, lass?" he asks, a small smirk on his face, eyes darting across your frame greedily. he, in all fairness, looks nearly as drunk as you. he stumbles a little with your weight.

you giggle, tilting your head to look at him. say something stupid like, "you don't look like a student."

his brows raise, his dimples deepen. "aye, very smart, hen."

you preen with the compliment, a cheesy grin stuck to your face. you make no move to stand up and leave. you think your friend just left with a guy anyways.

johnny moves you, muscled arm around your waist as he takes you to a booth.

three other men sit in it, only one looking somewhere in a ten-year age bracket to you. they're all impossibly large, filling out the space with ease. your stomach swoops, but you easily blame the alcohol.

manoeuvring you so you sit in his lap, johnny's hand is a comforting weight on your waist. he huffs a laugh.

"didn't realise we were goin' for jailbait, soap," the youngest one chimes, dark features shining in the pub's dim light. his eyes trail your frame silkily.

you can't stop the roll of your eyes -- your inhibitions have made you senseless. "'m not, 'm completely," you drag out the syllables, "legal."

a hand on your thigh makes you jolt, and when you look over, a blonde man with a black medical mask raises an unimpressed brow. "got a problem, kid?"

you shoot him a weak glare. "not a kid. weirdo."

the arm around your waist tightens, as does the weirdo's hand encompassing your thigh.

"not scared of anythin', are you darl'?" the final man in the booth asks, hands folded together where they rest at the table. he looks at least double your age, and that simple fact along with his drawling words has your core tightening.

"what's there to be scared of?" you ask, stupidly. your head tilts to the side, unknowingly moving to rest on johnny's shoulder. he doesn't comment.

"miss bein' young and drunk," gaz sighs, hand softly gripping the gin sat on the table in front of him.

"you look young," your brows furrow, not understanding. how old could he really be, to act so nostalgic of your current predicament? "how old are you guys?"

it's an embarrassing question -- makes you feel like a child all over again. but your interest is quickly peaking, and your need for answers overpowers your need for decorum.

johnny's the one to answer, his lips brushing your ear as he whispers.

"gaz, the pretty one over there, he's twenty-eight," he murmurs, heat stirring low in your gut as you nod mindlessly, meeting gaz's eyes.

johnny stokes his thumb over the skin of your hip, and you curl into him further -- stranger be damned.

"i'm thirty," he hums, and god, he sounds so fucking sensual you're about to melt into his arms. if you aren't already.

"the guy in the mask?" said man's hand tightens impossibly against your skin, fingers just shy of grazing your aching pussy, "he's thirty-seven. got a lot of experience, aye?"

you shudder.

"what about you?" you end up voicing, shyly meeting the last man's gaze. he takes a slow sip of his whiskey.

he leans back into the cushion, eyeing you carefully.

"forty-three."

your thighs squeeze together, and fuck, if that's not a turn-on. no matter how unsafe you should feel, surrounded by four military-grade, older men, it only manages to have you wet beyond belief.

all you can manage is one question.

"take me home?"