FIC: "Tainted" 1/1 (Eric Bana/Marton Csokas) NC-17
Title: "Tainted" 1/1
Author: Brenda (azewewish)
Pairing: Eric Bana/Marton Csokas
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Never happened.
Summary: Marton was unlike anyone Eric had ever known.
Notes: Written for idiosyncratic for her birthday. It's not quite the balls to the wall sex I promised her, but she's probably used to my subversiveness by now. *g*
Thanks to cupiscent for the most excellent betas.
The real tragedy about Romulus, My Father was this.
The focus was on entirely the wrong love story.
***
First rehearsals on any new film were, Eric decided, a little like going on a blind date with a really hot supermodel. Sure, you'd look great together during dinner, but would you have anything to actually talk about? Sometimes the chemistry just wasn't there, or it had to be coaxed along. Sometimes things looked great on the surface, but were poison underneath, just waiting for the right victim to fuck everything all to hell.
Which was why he did his level best to be the tension-breaker on any given set.
It was a system that worked like a charm until he met Marton.
Marton was unlike anyone Eric had ever known. Gorgeous, but self-effacing, funny but kind about it, thoughtful and precise in the best way when the cameras were rolling, and the biggest prankster Eric had ever had the pleasure of working with (which was saying something) when the cameras weren't. Marton was relentless and intense when making a point, and he had absolutely zero idea of his own appeal. It was quite the contradiction.
And why Eric knew, thirty seconds after shaking the man's hand, that he was completely and utterly in over his head.
***
It was no secret that Eric had a thing for anything fast and sleek, the faster, the better. He loved nothing more than a beautiful car with clean lines that could take hairpin turns on a dime and could rip it up on the open road. Nothing beat the feel of being behind the wheel of a finely tuned machine that responded to his every whim.
Nothing beat the good old-fashioned adrenaline rush of the race.
"Good Lord, would you look at that," Franka marveled, during their first cast and crew outing at the beach, and Eric pushed his sunglasses up, turned his head. And swallowed his tongue when Marton came rising out of the water like a merman come to life. Water sluiced, lingered on every inch of gold-hued skin, glistened along the silver-auburn highlights in dark hair. In a second, everything else faded into oblivion. Eric didn't feel the breeze, the sand, the sun beating on his back, didn't hear Franka talking, didn't see anything that wasn't Marton.
When Marton glanced over and caught Eric looking, all it took was a smirk to decide Eric's fate.
***
"Alright, then, how's this going to work?" Marton asked. They hadn't even known each other a week.
"How's what going to work?" Even though Eric knew perfectly well what Marton was asking. A blind sheep would have noticed the sparks.
"This." Marton stepped close, cupped a possessive hand over Eric's crotch, and gave a light squeeze. His eyes glinted like copper. "You have a system or do you just have sex in anonymous bathrooms with strange men when you've got an itch to scratch?"
"Far too kiddie pool." Eric was proud of the even tone to his voice, even though he was shaking inside with need. He'd never known hunger like this. "Me, I like being an adult, and having sex in a bed."
"And just how big is this fabled bed of yours?"
Eric was certain his smile could rival Achilles for arrogance. "Big enough."
***
The first time they got together, Eric was on his knees inside two minutes. Which should have been ironic - Eric never went to his knees for anyone or anything. But there was nothing at all ironic in the way his breath stopped at the careful way Marton cupped the back of his head and guided his cock past Eric's wide-open, waiting lips. There was nothing at all ironic about the full weight of Marton's cock on his tongue, the sharp musky taste of him overpowering everything else, the way Marton used him like it was his right, muttering encouragement in English and Hungarian, rocking forward with each thrust of his hips.
By the time Marton came, shaking, down Eric's throat, Eric knew he was fucked.
***
They never tried to pretend what they were doing was anything else. When they weren't having the most amazing sex of Eric's life, they acted like the best of friends. They talked about his wives and kids, Marton's gorgeous girlfriend, why they'd never be part of the Hollywood system, where to get the best lamb stew in New Zealand, the best Australian wines, cars vs. motorbikes, what else they were looking to work on, roles they wanted to play.
And every night found Eric stealing into Marton's bed like a thief.
Everything that Marton did fascinated the hell out of Eric. From the way he liked to sing between takes (mostly show tunes, only with the most ribald, x-rated lyrics Eric had ever heard) to the way he could fall asleep at the drop of a hat to how passionately he would argue about politics over a bottle of port. Eric found himself inventing excuses for the two of them to go out together, have dinner, hang out on their off-days, and it wasn't until one of the crew joked about them being a couple that Eric realized there was a simple word for what they were doing.
Dating.
***
Franka was the first to catch on. By then, they weren't exactly subtle about what they were up to between takes, on set and off, on the long, long nights with not much else to do to pass the time. Not that Eric wanted to be doing anything else.
"Do you have any idea what you're doing?" she asked him, when Eric came stumbling out of the trailer with kiss-bruised lips and wrists that were sore from Marton holding him down while they fucked.
"Not a clue," Eric replied, and smiled.
There was something liberating in the knowledge.
***
One of the best things about having sex with Marton was that Eric could fuck him standing up. That Marton could not only handle Eric's considerable strength, but he could also push back, demand more. He love that they were the same height, the same build, that Marton also liked their encounters to be rough, intense, marathon.
Marton tasted like the Pacific - clean and sharp and open. Every time they kissed, Eric could almost taste the endless horizon, feel the reflective burn of the water. Sex with Marton was like drowning in liquid fire, like stepping willingly into a tsunami with open arms. It was never the same twice, and always left Eric wanting more.
"You love it like this, don't you?" Marton murmured one night, and shifted, crossed his ankles around Eric's back to pull him completely in. Eric could feel the power in Marton's thighs as they flexed, could feel the power in Marton's hands as they clenched Eric's shoulders. "Me, at your mercy..."
Eric looked so deep into Marton's eyes, he swore he saw his own distorted reflection staring back at him. When he started to move his hips, each stroke was deliberate and hard. "Think you've got it backwards," he said, just before crushing Marton's lips with his own.
Eric knew for a fact that mercy wasn't what either of them were seeking.
***
Australia was torture. For the first time in his life, Eric hated that he was working at home. He was so close to everything familiar, but it felt like he was in a foreign country. The lay of the land was different, the trees were different, the air felt different. And everything he allowed Marton to do to him was definitely different.
But he couldn't stop. What was worse was, he didn't want to.
"What's the deal with you and Marton?" Richard asked between takes. They were on week five and the days - their time - were steadily running out.
"There is no deal," Eric said, with a shrug. No deals and no promises. There was no future, only this.
Eric repeated it like a prayer. And prayed one day he'd believe it.
***
Rebecca called once while Marton was sucking Eric off in their trailer. He had to answer - what if something had happened to the kids? - and Marton, smirking, even though his lips were stretched wide around Eric's cock, hadn't stopped.
The next five minutes had been agony. The next five minutes had been bliss. He made small talk, grunting out each answer when Marton did something extraordinary with his tongue. His wife's voice in his ear was familiar and welcome, Marton's lips around him were dangerous and exotic, each slide taking him deep until the sound of Marton's choked moans mingled with Rebecca's laughter.
The combination was perfect.
***
"Do you love her? Eva, I mean," Eric asked one night. His head was pillowed by Marton's chest. His wrists were still bruised from when Marton had wrapped his tie around them, binding his hands to the bedpost. He could still hear the echo of Marton's voice in his ear, could still feel Marton's cock stretching and claiming him, could still feel Marton's body over him, pressing him into the mattress. It had been the most intense hour Eric could remember.
"Of course," Marton replied. His arm was firm around Eric's shoulders. The fire in the fireplace crackled merrily, and the dancing gold-black shadows made Marton look like a pagan god. "Just as you love your wife."
Then Marton nudged Eric onto his hands and knees and slid behind him, pushing his cock easily inside Eric's ass. This time, they rocked together slow and easy, and the only sounds were the dull slap of sweat-slick flesh against flesh.
They said nothing else. They didn't need to.
***
On the rare nights that they didn't spend together, Eric had trouble getting to sleep. His dreams - he never remembered them after, only the gaping emptiness that he felt he could never fill - left him shaken and sore. And always had him reaching for the space next to him where Marton should be before he could snatch his hand away.
He didn't need a head doctor to tell him what he already knew.
And what he already knew was he had a tendency to get attached. To characters and crew, to directors and friends, to co-stars and films. He loved the idea of being a nomad, of having no cares, no responsibility to himself, putting up stakes wherever he had a mind. But there was something even more alluring about slipping into the same bed every night behind the same body and breathing the same scent. There was something even more alluring in doing something often enough that it became habit.
He knew habits were dangerous. But it didn't stop him from allowing Marton to become one.
End.
Author: Brenda (azewewish)
Pairing: Eric Bana/Marton Csokas
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Never happened.
Summary: Marton was unlike anyone Eric had ever known.
Notes: Written for idiosyncratic for her birthday. It's not quite the balls to the wall sex I promised her, but she's probably used to my subversiveness by now. *g*
Thanks to cupiscent for the most excellent betas.
The real tragedy about Romulus, My Father was this.
The focus was on entirely the wrong love story.
***
First rehearsals on any new film were, Eric decided, a little like going on a blind date with a really hot supermodel. Sure, you'd look great together during dinner, but would you have anything to actually talk about? Sometimes the chemistry just wasn't there, or it had to be coaxed along. Sometimes things looked great on the surface, but were poison underneath, just waiting for the right victim to fuck everything all to hell.
Which was why he did his level best to be the tension-breaker on any given set.
It was a system that worked like a charm until he met Marton.
Marton was unlike anyone Eric had ever known. Gorgeous, but self-effacing, funny but kind about it, thoughtful and precise in the best way when the cameras were rolling, and the biggest prankster Eric had ever had the pleasure of working with (which was saying something) when the cameras weren't. Marton was relentless and intense when making a point, and he had absolutely zero idea of his own appeal. It was quite the contradiction.
And why Eric knew, thirty seconds after shaking the man's hand, that he was completely and utterly in over his head.
***
It was no secret that Eric had a thing for anything fast and sleek, the faster, the better. He loved nothing more than a beautiful car with clean lines that could take hairpin turns on a dime and could rip it up on the open road. Nothing beat the feel of being behind the wheel of a finely tuned machine that responded to his every whim.
Nothing beat the good old-fashioned adrenaline rush of the race.
"Good Lord, would you look at that," Franka marveled, during their first cast and crew outing at the beach, and Eric pushed his sunglasses up, turned his head. And swallowed his tongue when Marton came rising out of the water like a merman come to life. Water sluiced, lingered on every inch of gold-hued skin, glistened along the silver-auburn highlights in dark hair. In a second, everything else faded into oblivion. Eric didn't feel the breeze, the sand, the sun beating on his back, didn't hear Franka talking, didn't see anything that wasn't Marton.
When Marton glanced over and caught Eric looking, all it took was a smirk to decide Eric's fate.
***
"Alright, then, how's this going to work?" Marton asked. They hadn't even known each other a week.
"How's what going to work?" Even though Eric knew perfectly well what Marton was asking. A blind sheep would have noticed the sparks.
"This." Marton stepped close, cupped a possessive hand over Eric's crotch, and gave a light squeeze. His eyes glinted like copper. "You have a system or do you just have sex in anonymous bathrooms with strange men when you've got an itch to scratch?"
"Far too kiddie pool." Eric was proud of the even tone to his voice, even though he was shaking inside with need. He'd never known hunger like this. "Me, I like being an adult, and having sex in a bed."
"And just how big is this fabled bed of yours?"
Eric was certain his smile could rival Achilles for arrogance. "Big enough."
***
The first time they got together, Eric was on his knees inside two minutes. Which should have been ironic - Eric never went to his knees for anyone or anything. But there was nothing at all ironic in the way his breath stopped at the careful way Marton cupped the back of his head and guided his cock past Eric's wide-open, waiting lips. There was nothing at all ironic about the full weight of Marton's cock on his tongue, the sharp musky taste of him overpowering everything else, the way Marton used him like it was his right, muttering encouragement in English and Hungarian, rocking forward with each thrust of his hips.
By the time Marton came, shaking, down Eric's throat, Eric knew he was fucked.
***
They never tried to pretend what they were doing was anything else. When they weren't having the most amazing sex of Eric's life, they acted like the best of friends. They talked about his wives and kids, Marton's gorgeous girlfriend, why they'd never be part of the Hollywood system, where to get the best lamb stew in New Zealand, the best Australian wines, cars vs. motorbikes, what else they were looking to work on, roles they wanted to play.
And every night found Eric stealing into Marton's bed like a thief.
Everything that Marton did fascinated the hell out of Eric. From the way he liked to sing between takes (mostly show tunes, only with the most ribald, x-rated lyrics Eric had ever heard) to the way he could fall asleep at the drop of a hat to how passionately he would argue about politics over a bottle of port. Eric found himself inventing excuses for the two of them to go out together, have dinner, hang out on their off-days, and it wasn't until one of the crew joked about them being a couple that Eric realized there was a simple word for what they were doing.
Dating.
***
Franka was the first to catch on. By then, they weren't exactly subtle about what they were up to between takes, on set and off, on the long, long nights with not much else to do to pass the time. Not that Eric wanted to be doing anything else.
"Do you have any idea what you're doing?" she asked him, when Eric came stumbling out of the trailer with kiss-bruised lips and wrists that were sore from Marton holding him down while they fucked.
"Not a clue," Eric replied, and smiled.
There was something liberating in the knowledge.
***
One of the best things about having sex with Marton was that Eric could fuck him standing up. That Marton could not only handle Eric's considerable strength, but he could also push back, demand more. He love that they were the same height, the same build, that Marton also liked their encounters to be rough, intense, marathon.
Marton tasted like the Pacific - clean and sharp and open. Every time they kissed, Eric could almost taste the endless horizon, feel the reflective burn of the water. Sex with Marton was like drowning in liquid fire, like stepping willingly into a tsunami with open arms. It was never the same twice, and always left Eric wanting more.
"You love it like this, don't you?" Marton murmured one night, and shifted, crossed his ankles around Eric's back to pull him completely in. Eric could feel the power in Marton's thighs as they flexed, could feel the power in Marton's hands as they clenched Eric's shoulders. "Me, at your mercy..."
Eric looked so deep into Marton's eyes, he swore he saw his own distorted reflection staring back at him. When he started to move his hips, each stroke was deliberate and hard. "Think you've got it backwards," he said, just before crushing Marton's lips with his own.
Eric knew for a fact that mercy wasn't what either of them were seeking.
***
Australia was torture. For the first time in his life, Eric hated that he was working at home. He was so close to everything familiar, but it felt like he was in a foreign country. The lay of the land was different, the trees were different, the air felt different. And everything he allowed Marton to do to him was definitely different.
But he couldn't stop. What was worse was, he didn't want to.
"What's the deal with you and Marton?" Richard asked between takes. They were on week five and the days - their time - were steadily running out.
"There is no deal," Eric said, with a shrug. No deals and no promises. There was no future, only this.
Eric repeated it like a prayer. And prayed one day he'd believe it.
***
Rebecca called once while Marton was sucking Eric off in their trailer. He had to answer - what if something had happened to the kids? - and Marton, smirking, even though his lips were stretched wide around Eric's cock, hadn't stopped.
The next five minutes had been agony. The next five minutes had been bliss. He made small talk, grunting out each answer when Marton did something extraordinary with his tongue. His wife's voice in his ear was familiar and welcome, Marton's lips around him were dangerous and exotic, each slide taking him deep until the sound of Marton's choked moans mingled with Rebecca's laughter.
The combination was perfect.
***
"Do you love her? Eva, I mean," Eric asked one night. His head was pillowed by Marton's chest. His wrists were still bruised from when Marton had wrapped his tie around them, binding his hands to the bedpost. He could still hear the echo of Marton's voice in his ear, could still feel Marton's cock stretching and claiming him, could still feel Marton's body over him, pressing him into the mattress. It had been the most intense hour Eric could remember.
"Of course," Marton replied. His arm was firm around Eric's shoulders. The fire in the fireplace crackled merrily, and the dancing gold-black shadows made Marton look like a pagan god. "Just as you love your wife."
Then Marton nudged Eric onto his hands and knees and slid behind him, pushing his cock easily inside Eric's ass. This time, they rocked together slow and easy, and the only sounds were the dull slap of sweat-slick flesh against flesh.
They said nothing else. They didn't need to.
***
On the rare nights that they didn't spend together, Eric had trouble getting to sleep. His dreams - he never remembered them after, only the gaping emptiness that he felt he could never fill - left him shaken and sore. And always had him reaching for the space next to him where Marton should be before he could snatch his hand away.
He didn't need a head doctor to tell him what he already knew.
And what he already knew was he had a tendency to get attached. To characters and crew, to directors and friends, to co-stars and films. He loved the idea of being a nomad, of having no cares, no responsibility to himself, putting up stakes wherever he had a mind. But there was something even more alluring about slipping into the same bed every night behind the same body and breathing the same scent. There was something even more alluring in doing something often enough that it became habit.
He knew habits were dangerous. But it didn't stop him from allowing Marton to become one.
End.