meggington (poziomeczka) wrote,

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Fic: Built to collapse and crumble

Oh man, everyone been up and about de-anoning and posting their lovely fic eagle_exchange, so this is way overdue. It has originally been written for the beautiful sistermine who, I'm happy to say, ended up liking it a lot. A sequel is not impossible.

title built to collapse and crumble rating nc-17 disclaimer i own absolutely nothing, the universe of this porny snippet (is it even still a snippet? it sure as hell begun as one) has been inspired by the Starfighter by Hamlet Machine
I would like to thank by two beautiful betas riventhorn  who run through it right before the deadline and lalazee that combed through it afterwards.AND A BIG THANKS TO ladytiferet for the pretteh.
warnings sex-pollen, dub-con, come-marking, bossy space navigators, cock-slutty space pilots.

In the simulator it always feels like forever—; the abrupt descent and the lurching sharp pull in his gut. It doesn't take forever; it hasn't in all the times before. Marcus takes down deep, frantic, gulping breaths in a faint-hearted attempt to keep waves of panic and nausea at bay, as their fighter pierces the atmosphere, slim and sharp like a stiletto.
Marcus is fairly certain the control panel is still in one piece, and so is the rest of the ship. There is nothing at fault that he can immediately determine, unless he counts the lack of Esca's sniping remarks cutting through the cockpit to grace his ears. There's almost a fleeting hint of satisfaction flying through Marcus's nerves before his eyes go wide, breath bottled in his windpipe with an abrupt intake.

Esca. Oh god. Esca.

Marcus calls out, palms sweaty in his gloves. His uniform, so well adjusted to changing conditions, almost like a second skin, feels too tight all of a sudden. Clogging and clotting his body like he's been plunged in tar. Images flood his head unbidden—of rain and blood, of Cradock's sickly pale face. Yellowed and jaundiced, his breath wheezing in his crushed, crackled chest as his life bled out in front of Marcus.

'Esca? Esca?'

Marcus can't lose him. Not another one, not like this. Not Esca.
There's a grunt of pain, followed by a long groan and a hissing inhale. Marcus leans back, a small laugh, more hysterical than he’d like to admit, escaping him in giddy relief. He can make out an outline of Esca, bemusedly wiping blood from a shallow cut on his forehead. They’re falling through the atmosphere and he’s fighting for his ship, for their lives —and yet, somehow Marcus finds himself close to grinning.

‘We’re being pulled,’ Esca says with this particular tone of respectable derision that he has developed whenever addressing Marcus. It vexes without offending, like a splinter.
Esca is right, of course. Marcus will give him that. Marcus nods, mouth in a line, berating himself for not noticing that earlier. Too busy placing the blame on the fighter and himself—and, well, maybe Esca’s lousy navigation. The ship transitions gradually from its brain-raggling plummet to a slower-paced descent.


Esca narrows his darting eyes in severe threat, as if he knows Marcus is about to do something impulsive, offensive and foolish—even before the other man’s hand reaches for the blaster gun fastened to his thigh. Marcus frowns, and Esca’s mouth tightens in an unforgiving line, forcing Marcus to forsake his plan to shoot first and surrender later. Esca raises his hands above his head and extends a humble greeting in the Common Speech. He is echoed in a murmur by the gathered warriors…or are they priests? Marcus wonders which.

Both men and women are all robed in loose, billowing shirts of sky-blue and fitted trousers tucked into soft-looking leather boots. They appear peaceful enough, but by no means like novices in their weaponry. Bows, spears, swords and outdated blasters are wielded with a certainty that comes with experience.

Esca breaks the apprehensive silence again, trying for a different tongue now, one Marcus can vaguely identify as spoken North off the Outer Boundaries. He hears Esca swallow and realizes how dry his own throat is.

‘We recognize the tongue in which you speak,’ answers a man, in his middle years, broad-shouldered, with a stilted, clipped accent. The sharp, glinting blades and blaster barrels lower with his motion. He flourishes them with a formal bow, and Esca responds in kind, practically snarling at a stunned Marcus to do the same.

The man comes closer as Esca slides down the body of the fighter, left relatively undamaged for all her rough landing, and Marcus follows suit. He’s younger than Marcus expects him to be—barely the age of some of his senior commanders. However, he carries himself with the same air of easy authority, something that had come to him, no doubt, through service rather than inheritance. There are leather straps braided in his coiffed chestnut hair, peppered with gray.

‘There is a rite to be performed,’ he says with a smile that is both formal but kind, and Marcus cannot hide his surprise at seeing Esca pale at his words. ‘I am afraid I cannot let you leave before it is done.’
There is a feast, and wine that tastes like pomegranate. There is dancing and singing and Marcus can feel himself grin, carried away by the happiness and cheer of the celebration, loosened with the low buzz of local alcohol. It is beautiful here; even the sky seems to sing with glittering vapor drifting through it like thin, wisp-like clouds. It is only Esca that looks out unseeing, into the bonfires, with his elbows propped on the wooden table, forefinger resting on his bottom lip, tense with worry. Behind them a stone, ivy-woven altar waits. For what purpose, Marcus is still unsure. From what Marcus can overhear, uttered by their hosts here and there, there was to be a bloodless offering to end the festivities.
The people disperse at last, muttering strange benedictions that Marcus cannot understand, before retiring to their homes. Leaving him and Esca before the altar.

There’s not enough air, and yet there ought to be. Marcus is sure he can hear wind shimmying and stroking the deep purple-tinged crimson of the flowers, making them dance on the breeze. Breezes he very much wishes he could feel as he brushes the soaked-through strands of hair from his clammy forehead. How can the air move and yet remain still, stiff, clinging hotly to every pore of Marcus’s body like gauze? Esca remains seemingly unaffected, infuriatingly composed as Marcus watches him pace though half-lidded eyes.

Marcus remains silent, hunched over his own thoughts, long limbs creaking in his flight suit punctuating the quiet. It’s him who ought to be trying to get them out of this mess; it’s his duty. As a pilot, as a commander, he’s in charge of his vessel and of his crew. Marcus groans, rubbing his hand across his face just to notice how it shakes, his palm sickly with sweat, as if disease is running through his veins, pulsing in a fevered rush. Esca is wherever he looks, shimmering before him like a kaleidoscope. He comes into focus as Marcus gasps down at the resistant air. Esca’s pupils are blown wide, so wide, the sharp, cobalt blue of his irises nearly swallowed whole by the darkness.

He looks worried, Marcus thinks, the bow of his pink lips tugged down with concern. Marcus hasn’t thought about it. Much. How pink they are. How it’d feel to kiss the unrelenting line of Esca’s mouth into compliance.

‘Marcus?’ Esca whispers, and it almost sounds loving to Marcus; the hot gust of air tickling his earlobe almost tenderly. ‘Marcus. Marcus, listen to me.’

He feels himself nodding, throat working dryly.

‘It’s the plants,’ Esca says, sucking in his bottom lip like he sometimes does when anxious. Marcus blinks up at him, wondering how lovely it would be to slide Esca’s midnight blue jumpsuit open.

‘It’s the plants, Marcus,’ he repeats, slowly and clearly, despite the strain in his voice. ‘It’s—I’ve read about—look, Marcus—there’s no other way I can think of—’

Marcus frowns, looking around himself, rubbing his eyes free of the mist—and his world swerves into vision once again. It’s the flowers. The magenta-coloured lilies, tiger-striped with burgundy red. Marcus feels no wind because there is no wind. It’s the flowers that are dancing; clouds of shining dust uttered as they sway.

Esca’s bathed in it; Marcus can see it clearly now. The tiny, golden shards hugging his frame like film, peeking out of his sandy hair, clinging to his lashes. Esca’s fingers trace the hollow of Marcus’s throat, ticklish and erotic at the same time. He strokes his knuckles along the tented skin of Marcus’s neck and his concerned eyes narrow, sharpen into something less human. The pollen is taking over, making Esca raw, stripped off his filters.

‘Are you going to tell me no?’ Esca asks—no, states—in a voice low and hoarse, by Marcus’s ear.

Marcus is not going to. Not even because there is no other choice.

He has argued with decisions already made, often enough. He doesn’t want to argue with it, deny it. Because a selfish part of him wants it for himself, has wanted it for a long time. It cackles inside Marcus, the idea of letting Esca think of it what he will. If Esca only knew how keen, so keen, Marcus is—how much he has wanted Esca from afar, how much he wants to succumb to this. It would bring shame to them both.

Marcus’ large hands engulf Esca’s thighs, knead the firm muscle underneath. It is too easy to give in—he’s meant to fight it, always fight it. To be better than his nature, to raise himself above the tide, to be the Commander in bed and in battle. His station demands it; it is his duty.

But things have always been a bit different with Esca. Fuck, things have been completely different. They have been different ever since Esca had been placed under Marcus’s command, slipping into the navigator’s cockpit with that haughty grace that followed him everywhere.

Esca makes Marcus want things. To give Esca control, to let him lead, to be taken care of, to be praised by him, approved of.
And when Esca’s fingers curl in his hair, tugging, insistent but gentle, it is all too easy for Marcus to slide down to his knees; biddable. They are so far from home, after all, and what he has craved is what he needs now.
Marcus cups himself through his uniform, feels the hard, curving length of his own cock hot against his palm. When the blushing crown of Esca’s cock brushes past Marcus’ lips, his eyes flutter shut, and he knows he can come from this alone. The blood-filled, solid weight of it gives such comfort. Marcus sighs with relief, lulled into temporary satisfaction. Maybe it is him, or maybe the pollen receding ever-so-slightly from his bloodstream.

Esca groans, long and rough, as if it has pained him to be anywhere else but immersed in the heat of Marcus’s mouth.
It’s beyond them now, Marcus thinks—thinks as much as he’s allowed through the thick curtain of the golden-tinged haze swaddling them both—that this is Esca drugged, Esca in essence, just taking his pleasure. Because it’s something Marcus can give Esca for the taking, because Marcus wants it taken from him. God, so much.

Esca is looking down at him, eyes dark in his flushed face, his fringe plastered to his sweaty brow. And he smiles. Not the happy, boyish smile he exchanges with his fellow navigators, and not the cocky smirk he sometimes offers Marcus after he’s proved some point. It’s not amiable or kind, and it cuts through the remnants of Marcus’s resolve like knives, wild and fierce, and he closes his eyes firmly, shielding himself from the blistering heat of it, salty tears stinging as he swallows Esca’s cock down to its root, helped by the forceful snap of Esca’s hips. Marcus tilts his head, opening up, taking him as far as he’ll go, tears swept away by the calloused pads of Esca’s thumbs.

Marcus doesn’t even know when he’s torn his flight suit open, his hand working at a frantic pace. He just knows he’s about to burst, from the feel of Esca’s pressure on his tongue alone. Just this. He’s shuddering, Esca’s hand coming to clutch at his shoulder, fingers digging in to keep him close. Keeping him whole, where Marcus thinks he might break apart.

‘No,’ Esca says, his voice unrecognizable with hunger, and yanks Marcus’s head back until a sweet-slow burn starts to bloom behind his eye-lids. ‘You don’t get to come. Not until I tell you. Not until you fuck me.’

Marcus moans around his cock, head bobbing, tongue circling, wet and sloppy; his swollen-plump lips chasing up every inch of Esca’s dick as Esca withdraws, gently, to slam back up again, fucking Marcus’s mouth in earnest now. He’s moving smoothly through the slippery slide of saliva, pounding in hard with the harsh thrusts of his hips. It feels so good—too much, too good, too hot, too wet—and Marcus will blame it on the pollen. Because he can, because that way he’s allowed to have this. To have Esca like this—whining and panting and gasping above him, with his pupils blown black and a furious flush painting him right down to the middle of his chest, stark against the dark blue suit. The muscles in Esca’s arms are coiled as he clings onto Marcus for dear life, his clever mouth slack as he praises Marcus between half-gasps, breathing around Marcus’s name. How-good-he–is-how-good-he-feels-what-a-good-little-cocksucker-he-makes- who- would- have-thought? 

Litanies of wonder just for him, and Marcus feels used, fucked, owned, adored, kept—belonging.
Esca is almost growling now, broken up, guttural sounds running from his throat, pierced by curses and the bitten-off syllables of Marcus’s name. He pulls out, sudden, with a sharp inhale and Marcus whines in argument, hoarse and unhappy. He’ll make it good, will suck hard enough, take Esca deep enough, he can take it, he can handle it, he’ll be good.

‘Open your mouth,’ Esca hisses, thumbing Marcus’s chin between his fingers, tilting his head up for Marcus to face him. Forcing him to open his eyes and see Esca burn; the pollen a bright, shimmering halo behind him. ‘Open it.’

And Marcus does. How can he not?

Esca is stroking his cock, squeezing lightly in long, practiced, languid movements, easy on the spit-wet skin. He comes with a violent shudder, his breath wheezing, knocked out of him as his chest heaves feverishly through the tremors. Marcus laps wherever he can as the ropes of come splatter on his cheeks—onto his lips, branding hot like a whip on his tongue, splashing on his chest, his pilot’s uniform—Esca gasping and shivering with each pulse.

‘You did good, Marcus,’ Esca says, his voice overwrought but his gaze proud, and Marcus thinks he could glow under it. ‘So good.’

It’s been hours. They will be at it for hours before the rite is done. Neither of them any less dosed with pollen than before. The scent of the lilies and sex curves densely in the air, thick and musky and sharp all the same. Marcus rubs up and down his length; hand cupped around his pinched-tight sac as Esca props himself up on the stone slab of the altar, peeling the rest of the flight suit of his sweat- sticky skin as he goes.

‘Come to me.’

And Marcus does. Steps into the frame of Esca’s thighs, circles his lean arms in his tan hands and pulls Esca to him, kissing him hard, pollen singing in their blood. Esca’s hips roll towards him, rubbing his swiftly hardening—God, again again—prick onto Marcus’s abdomen, drooling pre-come and spit-slick where Marcus had licked and sucked moments before. Despite their differences, they move together perfectly. Rutting deliberately against each other, cocks sliding together wetly. Esca’s forehead rests against Marcus’s chest when he says, his breath hot on the perspiring skin:

‘Marcus, you will fuck me.’ He thumbs Marcus’s nipple, eliciting a hiss. ‘You will hold me down and you will fuck me.’

Esca looks up at Marcus—earnest, more sober than he had been minutes before, struggling for control over the cotton-wool feel of the haze, filtering steadily in his veins. He takes Marcus’s hand, presses it to his fluttering chest, mouth tight in determination.
‘I want it.’

Marcus rears back and shoves Esca down on the soft, rich cloth covering the altar. He looks debauched, laid-out like this with his pale thighs parted wide for Marcus’s cock. Bitten-red lips falling open as he goes bright-eyed when Marcus pushes onto him, brings his greater weight to bear. Marcus smooths his hand down Esca’s chest, the narrow line of his waist and the honed spur of his hipbone, before wrapping his fingers around Esca’s erection. Esca hisses impatiently, nearly jostles off the altar, driving himself back into Marcus’s touch and Marcus presses onto him before he can stop himself, hand firm and still around Esca’s dick, squeezing, and the other splayed on his angry-flushed chest.

‘Come on, come on,’ Esca rasps, propelling himself on his elbows, his voice rough and urgent as he grapples behind him for one of the vials lining the altar. ‘Now, I need—now.’

Another smell cuts through the dense wall of scent, of sex and sweat and the pollen from the dancing flowers. Clear like dew when Esca spurts the liquid onto his open palm, his hand skating down to coat Marcus’s dick in it, jacking him slow and even, thumbing over the wet crown.

‘Fuck me,’ Esca demands though gritted teeth as Marcus slides in, finally, finally, feeding his thick cockhead through the tight ring of muscle. Esca arches up with a pained wail, recoiling and pushing back simultaneously, making them both moan. He rises up, throws himself on Marcus, crushing their mouths together, tongue thrusting in, messy and desperate, battling for supremacy. Esca bites, tugs on Marcus’s fat bottom lip, sends sharp sobering darts down to his spine, and Marcus growls, his hand shooting up to Esca’s shoulders, shoving him back down with a thump. Marcus’s thick fingers curl around Esca’s taut throat, not hard enough to choke, merely brimming with the threat of it.

He drives in; a long, hard thrust, fist buried in Esca’s damp hair—and Esca mewls, his hips circling and bucking in response, the golden sheen of the pollen clinging to his blushing skin, dulling the pain into a sweet low burn for them both. There is no time for gentleness, for easing in, and neither of them seem to need it; the tight stretch of Esca’s arse around his cock enough to make Marcus sob, fitting in snug.

‘You—’ Esca growls before it’s knocked out of him with a snap of Marcus’s hips. ‘More— ’

His voice breaks and profanities and promises stutter in his commands, as Marcus pounds into him, relentless. He wants to be more. He can be more. Needs to prove it. That it’s him that can give Esca this. Marcus lets himself breathe out a moan against his own hot-humming skin.

Esca blinks up at him through the gold-orange mist fogging his vision, struggling to keep Marcus in focus, mouth open slack and soundless, his hands fisted into the white fabric spread over the altar. His cock bobs between them each time Marcus pistons into him, driving him further onto the altar, Esca into a shuddering, writhing mess. Unraveling his hand from Esca’s hair, Marcus skims his sides, looking down between them at the trapped curl of Esca’s dick, watching his fingers wrap around the hot base.

‘Fuck, just—oh gods—fuck, fuck,’ Esca babbles, his hips twisting violently, his cock solid and scalding in Marcus’s palm, drooling slick pre-come between his digits. He twitches as Marcus strokes him, once, twice, to match his thrusts, a steady, forceful pace. So close, ready to burst. One more hard, wet stroke, one more vicious stab of his cock, and Marcus comes, comes like dying, as if the strings have been cut, Esca spilling in his hand with a wail. Pleasure sizzles and sparks up behind Marcus’s eye-lids, a white-hot rush through his spine. He collapses, falls forward into Esca, and Esca’s arms come to dive into Marcus’s sweat-drenched hair, letting Marcus rest on his shallow-heaving chest.

‘You did good. So good,’ he whispers, pressing a chaste kiss to Marcus’s sticky temple, their bodies fitting close together, warm. ‘So good, Marcus’

Marcus can’t tell when he will have enough, whether there ever will be enough, if there can be enough. But for the moment, with Esca under and around him, he can let sleep take him.
Dawn finds them with a chill, cold and colder still on their cooled skin. Marcus wakes first, with his hand still clasped firm around Esca’s flank, the world around him coming into stark focus, flooding his vision in morning-gray, the veil of the pollen no longer painting it glimmering gold. Esca rouses beside him, rubbing at his eyes. He looks so young all of a sudden, not the care-worn man Marcus expects. An array of tarnished, sandy hair is sticking up as he blinks owlishly, taking in their surroundings.
‘It is done,’ Esca says in a low, defeated voice. And perhaps it is tinged with sadness—only because Marcus hopes it is.

Tags: e_e de-anon, fic, holy shit i wrote this bastard, my betas rule, navigator!esca, pilot!marcus, repressed-as-fuck!marcus, space au, starfighter au

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