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Make Your Own Fate
#4 - Full Take Down


There are times Marcus feels restless, feels angry, without even a definite reason. At such times, he just is. Those times, he tries to stay away from the others; hell, even when he's in an affable, social mood, he prefers not to inflict his presence on them. Not that many want it, can stand it, or even seek it. That would only be Kyle, Star, and the twins; it used to be Blair, and at least Kate didn't outright avoid him.

Connor, stupid fucking bastard that he is, still not only doesn't give a shit what mood's Marcus in when he wants to talk to him; no, he even deliberately tracks him down at the bad times. What he thinks he has to prove, Marcus has no inkling of.

Marcus can be a mean, pig-headed son of a bitch at the best of times, say when the weather is downright cheerful (sun, no wind with leftover radioactive dust blowing from L.A.), when there's enough food to go around that he doesn't feel like a bottom-feeder for taking a share despite being, well, him (the man who doesn't need to eat), when there hasn't been an attack on either the base or one of their scouting parties in days. But on these days, the bad days, he imagines that he can see the black, red-streaked, reason-stealing cloud of his anger enshrouding his head, the temper that's only ever gotten him into trouble sparking sharp beneath his skin.

That temper got him into jail; fuck, that temper got his brother killed. While he was in jail - before they transferred him to death row - that temper resulted in one of two possible outcomes. Either he started and damned well finished a fight with someone who thought he was the meanest, most dangerous bastard around (that, or the guards dragged him off for a couple of days in the hole to "cool the fuck down, Wright, God fucking damn it!"), or else he lost. And when he lost, he lost spectacularly. Fought until he couldn't breathe, until he couldn't lift his arms or his head anymore, until he'd been brought down to the floor (dirty linoleum, or cool, dingy tiles in the showers), and got shown that it was his opponent who was the meanest, most dangerous bastard around. He got fucked until his anger had been stamped out, not even a single spark left, until his head felt empty, until he hurt so much that only the screams of his abused body were left. Blood, and come, and tears clogging his sinuses, covering his skin, filling his mouth, and calm, blessed quiet in his head.

He couldn't allow himself to lose too often; after all, he had an image to protect, a position in the pecking order to maintain. But nothing cleared his head better than a good fight - or a good fuck.

Until he's woken up here, in the future, in a world so very different from the one he's known. Here, he is a new man with a second chance; hell, he is a fucking role model for Kyle and even little Star, and despite Blair being as far away from a swooning maiden as a woman could get in this new age in which only fighting and survival skills, not gender, counted, he still used to be somewhat of a hero in her eyes.

Then Blair died, and suddenly it isn't quite so easy anymore to ignore the rage, to push it down, to sublimate it by volunteering for the most dangerous missions Connor's staff can come up with.

The first time he felt a black ball of anger rush up and hang in there, only barely contained in his skin, he pushed Kyle - literally pushed Kyle - away so he stumbled and fell, and stormed off to the dank, smelly room on the topmost level of the bunker that had been designated as "the gym". It stinks of mold, and sweat, and despair as well as the same anger he often feels consuming his soul, and it has even more basic an equipment than Longview had. Broken, patched, and broken again; used and abused by men and women on the edge, who have to punish their bodies or else lose their minds.

One glower sent everyone off. Well, everyone that was until Connor came strolling in.

Connor, that stupid fucking bastard who still thought a smile, a pat on the back, and a pep talk solved all problems.

Stupid fucker agreed to spar with Marcus. Not that Marcus wanted him to; in fact, he clearly remembers twisting one arm behind Connor's back and dragging him halfway to the entrance.

A flip, a twist, and Marcus found himself sailing through the air before landing heavily on the mats. Connor hadn't been intimidated by the gleam of madness in Marcus' eyes, by his snarl, by the utter lack of humanity that he very well knows shines out of him in moments like these (the first bastard who'd taken him down in jail and fucked him into the floor had ended up with twenty broken bones a week later, after their second fight, and kept babbling, sobbing something about "he's a rabid dog, keep him away from me, God, keep him away!").

In jail you have nothing but time, and no matter how little store you set by self-reflection, the relentless, endless press of time grinds you down in the end. Marcus had to face up to exactly what he was, what he is... well, what he used to be, before Serena Kogan and Skynet took him apart and put him back together differently, that is.

Couldn't they have also put a leash on his temper, on his bloodlust, on the need to destroy, rend and maim?

But Connor - Connor has never ever shown a hint of fear of Marcus.

No, back then, he pushed and pushed and pushed instead until Marcus snapped, and they fought, like snarling dogs, like two killing machines, like two arch enemies bent on total annihilation, like--

Until Marcus felt and heard the "crunch" of Connor's left arm popping out of its socket, and saw the blood dripping down Connor's chin from where he'd bitten through his lip.

Everything stopped, the red-and-black cloud receded, and Marcus - sweat-soaked, trembling from exhaustion, clear-headed from the amount of pain damn Connor had put him in - stopped his next vicious punch, murmured Connor's name, grabbed his shoulder and popped the limb back into place. Connor hadn't even flinched back, hadn't made a single move to defend himself, had just... trusted. Trusted in Marcus, just like he always does these days. Trusted that Marcus could and would stop, would reign himself in, would hold up to that stupid, fucking picture of a damn hero Connor seems to have stuck inside his head. Unbelievable.

These days, Marcus is back to the second solution to his problem when his temper rises again.

He seeks out Connor, and Connor takes him down fully, takes him apart, puts him back together with his cock, his hands, his mouth, his teeth - only rarely his fists, because Connor draws a line at what he calls "inspired masochism" in someone he sleeps with, and so they only spar a little afterwards. After the rough sex, that means.

So now Marcus is down on his knees, spread impossibly wide, trying to suppress the pansy-ass tremble in his biceps that comes from just knowing Connor's behind him, Connor who's cursing softly while stripping, all the while looking at him, at Marcus all wide open and vulnerable, begging to be fucked, and fucked hard.

Connor gives him no prep but a brutal push of two oil-dripping fingers into his hole, immediately replaced by Connor's erect cock.

Marcus doesn't hold back, yells his head off. The burn, the stretch, the feeling of Connor deep inside of him are sublime, and he feels the first wave of calm wash over his raging mind; quick, here and gone, but there. That is the numbness, the calm inside the storm, the blanket he needs to snow his thoughts better than his one and only foray into drugs ever managed. He tries to grab for it, hold onto it, and pushes back into Connor's ruthless trusts. He doesn't even think of the changes his body has gone through. What does it matter whether or not it is still the one he was born with? He still feels. Feels so much.

Here they are but two bodies, dripping sweat, all the while moist, slapping noises fill the air that are so horribly sexy his mouth gets dry. God, he's always loved this. But no, Marcus Wright couldn't be a fag, couldn't love just taking it up the ass, so he couldn't allow it, had to provoke it when he really, really needed it so bad he felt like he might just die from the lack, couldn't let the fuckers live who might've figured it out, couldn't, couldn't--

But this is John fucking Connor, the Leader of the fucking Resistance, of what's left of humanity, the one man that even Marcus thinks...

He shies away from the thought and instead pushes back harder. His arms threaten to give out. The friction in his ass licks up his spine like fire. He's unsure whether he's already come or is still waiting for it; he's just one ball of tangled streaks of fire, ice, electricity, and want.

He screams when he feels Connor's fist close around his cock; thinks he can feel the imprint of each individual finger. One, two strokes, painfully tight, then the hand moves lower and starts rolling his balls like dice, the tight pressure so erotic he feels like crying.

He tastes John on the air, all musk and sweat and hormones, oil and a hint of blood and semen.

A sharp, deep thrust into his guts that he thinks might very well punch out of his throat. Another.

And that's it; he's gone. Vast, calm silence in his head, synapses firing helplessly in a void, fire ripping from his body. His arms give out; thank God for the mats, or else he'd have smashed his nose in. John follows him down, trusts three more times that feel like he's cutting him open, then stays, pressed deep inside. He knows him too well, Marcus thinks; the one thing he absolutely loves, but would never ask for - for John to stay, just until they both get their breaths back, until their hearts (John's weak, transplanted human heart) calm down (Marcus' artificial heart beats like a fucking metronome, never failing, never tiring, never raising his pulse), until they're ready for this moment to end and for the ones after to begin.

It's always a bit awkward after, this dance they do around each other, when they clean up with rags and a bottle of water, pull their clothes back on and put them to rights long enough to scurry to John's quarters where at least they can use the rapidly dwindling bar of soap, rub a thin layer of salve on the bites peppering the back of Marcus' neck and shoulders, around his burning, raw hole, wash the flush from their faces, quickly run a comb through their hair (John's is getting long again, he should get it cut, Marcus thinks idly), and return to duty.

Nothing to see there, no, soldiers; Captain Wright's famous temper's calmed again, General Connor's none the worse for wear (his hand-to-hand combat skills must be outstanding to not get stomped into the floor by that--that Wright), and isn't it time for the evening broadcast?

Marcus smiles. He could fall asleep standing on his feet now, he thinks; he's safe, warm, feeling languorous and relaxed - and there is that little glow in the region of where this superhuman heart of his is located inside his chest.

John just smiles back at him, eyes all soft and brown and deep enough to get lost in.


"Terminator: Salvation" story by allaire mikháil, 2.007 words, John Connor/Marcus Wright, Marcus POV, rated NC-17.

Ages ago, I promised to deliver porn. This is more like The Flashfic That Wouldn't End with a sprinkling of porn on top, so I'm still uncertain whether or not I've kept my promise, but these days, I'm simply delirious with joy over having written anything, so there.

Anyway, the story is an interlude in the "Make Your Own Fate" 'verse, set somewhere between John and Marcus having sex for the first time in 2019, and Skynet's final defeat in 2032.


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