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“Now that we’ve talked through the basic sequence of events, I want to revisit the beginning of the scene, if that’s acceptable
to you both.” When Peter and Maria acquiesced with a nod, Delia—the production’s intimacy coordinator—continued. “Once their
years of repressed lust boil over—”
Six. Six years of repressed lust.
Not that Peter was counting.
“—Cyprian will shove Cassia against the wall and tear off her tunic, leaving her naked from the waist up. Then he’ll push
a thigh between hers and kiss her passionately while squeezing her breasts.”
Liquid nitrogen , he thought. The North Pole. Wisconsin in January. Meat lockers .
Delia looked up from her notes. “In other words, the encounter will start near-violently, before transitioning into more gentle
lovemaking. Does anything about that part of your scene worry either of you?”
In retrospect, he definitely should have jerked off before reporting to the set.
It was just choreography, he’d told himself upon reading the script.
A simple series of heavily scripted movements accompanied by the display of whatever emotions were relevant.
What he and Maria filmed this week might turn on viewers, but in the end, it was only a job.
Only another scene, no different from a battle sequence or all those hours spent harvesting seaweed at the shoreline.
It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t private. It wasn’t about the two of them but their characters, and they had nothing to worry
about. He had nothing to worry about.
But in reality, now that they’d reached this—literally—climactic scene between Cassia and Cyprian, the scene for which their
fandom had been clamoring since their first episode aired, the scene that would surely launch thousands of startlingly filthy
fics on AO3 and reams of NSFW fan art... so much about the situation bothered him.
First, there was Cyprian’s sheer sexual aggression at the start of the encounter, aggression that Cassia welcomed. But Maria
wasn’t Cassia, and he refused to hurt or frighten her, however inadvertently. As Delia had repeatedly emphasized, even though
the scene expressed their characters’ sexual preferences rather than their own, Maria’s comfort and safety still mattered.
So did his, obviously, but after six fucking years of unassuaged desire for her, he figured she could do just about anything
to him and it would feel good.
More than good. Like a benediction. Like oxygen to a man slowly, painfully suffocating.
Second, Maria would no doubt jump into character with her usual enthusiasm... but with significantly fewer items of clothing
blocking his view and preventing skin-on-skin contact. Other than a few key barriers for modesty, they’d spend most of the
scene entirely naked—and they’d stay that way for almost a week of filming, because constantly changing angles and lighting
meant even short sex scenes took forever to shoot. And this was not a short sex scene.
Maybe that still wouldn’t have been an issue, except that he hadn’t bedded another woman after meeting Maria.
Even knowing she’d had occasional dalliances between seasons, as various tabloids eagerly documented.
The knowledge had stung—of course it stung; it more than stung, it burned —but she’d offered herself to him, and he’d said no.
And he was a bastard, but not enough of a bastard to expect her to remain
celibate for over half a decade to spare the feelings of a man who’d refused a sexual relationship with her.
Over time, he’d expected to find consolation in someone else’s arms too. Since that fateful day in an LA sauna, though, even
flirting with someone else felt like cheating, for some asinine reason. So now, primed by six endless years with only the
dubious consolation of his left hand, he was essentially an SFX fireball ready to explode, only hotter and less controlled.
Fuck, if even this relatively dry conversation was making him hard, the actual scene itself might very well kill them all
in some sort of boner-induced cataclysm.
And third—shit. He tried not to think about it. He’d been trying not to think about it for weeks now. Possibly months. But
he couldn’t avoid it any longer.
This was his last scene with Maria. Ever.
Last week, they’d separately filmed their deaths, because of course Ron and R.J. couldn’t abide the thought of a hopeful ending
for anyone.
After Cyprian and Cassia’s lovemaking, the triumphant roar of the undead told them their gate had been breached, and their destiny was upon them.
They both knew they wouldn’t survive the battle ahead, not as mere humans.
So he sent her away for her safety, although she initially refused to leave him.
But when he reminded her that she could, even then, be carrying his child—his legacy in the living world, and the only proof of their love that might survive—she agreed to go, sobbing brokenheartedly all the while.
He helped her into the frail currach they’d painstakingly assembled over the course of endless isolated, lust-choked, pining-filled
years and pushed the boat as far into the storm-tossed ocean as possible before marching, numb with despair and terror, toward
the gate. Toward the cliffs.
And that was where, in the scene they’d shot last Tuesday, Cyprian had watched the woman he loved to the point of agony remain
atop the towering, churning waves only a few precious minutes before she foundered and drowned within sight of the shore.
Then he’d battled the undead from Tartarus and had his ass handed to him. Or, more accurately, his head, removed from his
shoulders by some terrible creature—the VFX folks were going to have fun with that—as he shouted Cassia’s name with his final,
tortured breath.
It was depressing as fuck. But however grim, at least their character arcs made sense, which was more than could be said for
many of his colleagues.
Maria had returned to that enormous Belgian water tank for her death scene, while he’d remained on the island for his. But
since productions like theirs didn’t always film sequences in order, the two of them had this one scene left to shoot together.
Their lone love scene, after all this time.
Then he was leaving the island forever. Leaving her forever.
Portraying Cyprian’s devastation as he watched Cassia sail away, as he watched her die, hadn’t been a challenge. Peter had
essentially been dabbling in method acting.
So, yeah, this entire situation kind of blew.
Which was, incidentally, something else Cassia dropped to her knees and did.
He scrubbed his hands over his face. Professional, Peter. Remain professional .
“Maria?” Delia apparently required words in response to her question, which was fair. “Does anything about the opening of
the scene make you uncomfortable?”
Maria kind of jerked in her seat, blinking rapidly.
“Oh,” she said blankly, then seemed to recall her surroundings. “No, I’m good.”
Delia’s ponytail swayed as she tilted her head. “Are you certain? Because you have the right to express and impose physical
boundaries, Maria. In scenes like this, agreement and consent are paramount.”
“I’m absolutely certain.” Slowly, a wicked grin crept over Maria’s flushed face. “In fact, I look forward to Peter throwing
me around a little.”
When he choked on thin air and reached for his mug of ice water, she reached over and slapped his back.
“I consider it an irreplaceable opportunity to watch how an experienced actor approaches scenes like these,” she added, her
tone suspiciously prim.
Once he’d stopped coughing, Delia turned to him. “How about you, Peter? Are you comfortable?”
No. Not in any possible sense. But only one of his reasons for discomfort was something he’d share with a near-stranger.
“I just don’t want to do anything that might scare or harm Maria.” He paused. “Actually, let me rephrase that. I won’t do anything that might scare or harm her, no matter what Ron and R.J. might want. That’s my priority and my only concern.”
At that, Delia shot him a look of warm approval and leaned over to give him a lingering pat on the arm. “Beautifully stated, Peter. That sentiment is rarer than you’d like to think, and exactly what I want to hear.”
For some reason, Maria was scowling at him now. Which made zero sense, because why the hell would his declaration that he
considered her safety more important than the showrunners’ demands piss her off? Shouldn’t she be sending him melting glances
of admiration too?
Although, of course, he hadn’t said it for her approval. At the end of this scene, he had to live with himself. If he frightened
her, hurt her, he couldn’t. Period.
“Don’t worry, Peter.” She was smiling again, but her jaw remained oddly tight. “I trust you not to hurt me that way.”
His brows drew together. Something about that phrasing—
“Let’s talk about what you’ll both wear.” Delia turned her tablet’s screen to face them. “Eventually, both your characters
are meant to appear naked to viewers. Postproduction can take care of a lot, but we try to make their jobs as easy as possible
while still preserving your comfort and safety. For your scene, I’d suggest that you both wear strapless thongs like these,
ones that adhere to the body and match your skin color. Maria, you’d wear a silicone guard underneath, so there wouldn’t be
any direct genital-to-genital contact, even through fabric. And on top, pasties would provide nipple coverage.”
Oh, jeez. He knew precisely—precisely—what Maria would say in response to the whole pasties thing.
Peter tunneled his fingers through his hair and tugged at a handful. Hard.
“Oh, I don’t need pasties,” Maria breezily, predictably proclaimed. “I don’t care who sees my nipples. After all, Peter won’t be wearing pasties, will he?” She paused. “On-screen, I mean. What he does on his own time, for recreational purposes, is none of my concern.”
Discreetly, he angled his raised middle finger so only she could see it.
At her muffled snort, he found himself fighting a genuine smile for the first time all day.
“You’re certain, Maria?” Delia’s forehead creased as she typed a note to herself. “Remember that you can change your mind
at any time during filming.”
“That’s good to know, but I don’t expect to.” Maria tucked a stray lock of blond hair behind her ear. “Can you tell me more
about how the thongs adhere?”
He’d been wondering about that himself. “Yeah, wouldn’t the adhesive, uh... cause some issues?”
“You mean, when you remove the thongs?” Judging by Delia’s beam, she considered him a prize pupil for asking the question.
“That was my next suggestion. Before attaching them, it’s better to shave or wax your bikini line, so taking them off doesn’t
cause depilation and discomfort. Same with your genital guard, Maria.”
He winced. Then winced again, because he knew. He already knew what Maria—
“That won’t work for me.” Her statement was cheerful but firm. “I don’t shave, and I don’t wax. Peter?”
The tips of his ears went hot. “Um, the same.”
Although he’d be willing to do so for the cause. Maria, on the other hand, wouldn’t.
“So what’s the alternative?” Maria drummed her fingers on the surface of the little conference table Darrell had squeezed
into a production trailer. “Just a regular nude thong?”
“For you, yes. It’s one option for Peter as well.” The intimacy coordinator cleared her throat delicately. “But he could also wear a—”
“Cock sock!” Maria swiveled toward him, face alight with glee. “That’s what it’s called, right?”
At the moment, he envied Cyprian, whose acute suffering had at least ended, and who never had to hear Cassia utter the word
cock with that agile tongue of hers.
“I believe so.” He knew so. “At least, that’s the unofficial term.”
“Correct.” Delia let out a tiny, near-silent sigh. “The choice is up to you two, obviously. Whatever makes you both most comfortable.”
Honestly, he’d prefer not to rip out his pubic hair or experience stubble near his groin, and he didn’t particularly want
to floss his butt crack for a goddamn week, so...
“If Maria is fine with it, I’ll go with, uh, the”— cock sock cocksock cocksockcocksock —“latter option.”
Stuffing his dick and balls into a drawstring pouch couldn’t hurt him any more than this discussion already had, he supposed.
“Ah. A wise choice for a wise man.” Maria turned back to Delia. “And I’m good with a thong. Or nothing at all, for that matter.”
“A thong, then.” With another infinitesimal sigh, the other woman made a note. “All right, let’s discuss what happens once
Cyprian and Cassia move to the bed. First, he’ll kneel on the floor and perform cunnilingus on Cassia while they maintain
eye contact. We should map that whole sequence out, step by step, then determine in advance exactly how long their eye contact
will last and where he’ll be touching her during the act.”
Slowly, Peter closed his eyes and prayed to the god of thwarted lust for deliverance.
“I figured he’d be spreading my thighs with his hands, but I suppose he could be holding my ass or playing with my breasts instead.” Maria sounded thoughtful. “What are your thoughts, Peter?”
Holy fuck. Before their next discussion with Delia, he was jacking his dick raw.
With a concerted effort, he managed to choke out, “I have no thoughts.”
Not ones he could share, anyway. So it wasn’t even a lie.