11
“Cut!” Ramón peered down at his cell. “Good work, you two. Let’s take a half-hour break while Ron and R.J. glance over some
of today’s footage. And for our next take, unless they have a different suggestion, we’ll start at the point where Cyprian
rolls Cassia onto her back and kisses her neck. Okay?”
Peter nodded his agreement, then carefully—oh so carefully—removed his hips from the cradle of Maria’s thighs without dislodging
the pillow placed there. The blessed pillow that had prevented utter disaster and epic embarrassment on his part as they humped
away at each other for what seemed like millennia, even though it had only been two days so far. Two days of glorious torture,
all caught on camera.
With a quiet thank-you, he shrugged on the robe Jeanine handed him, shoved his feet into flip-flops, and directed his gaze
somewhere, anywhere, other than Maria’s gleaming, near-naked body as she got up and donned her own robe and slippers.
Don’t look at her bare breasts. Do not, Reedton .
It wasn’t as if they weren’t already burned onto his retinas anyway. For life, most likely.
At various points, the scene had called for him to stare at those stupendous tits, to cup them as they shone in the firelight, slickened by the rosewater-glycerin spray meant to simulate coital sweat.
After six years, they were maybe a little fuller than they had been, a little lower on her ribs, and more gorgeous than ever.
Seeing them again was a gift. So was seeing the rest of her long, curvy body.
Their first night together—their only night together—he hadn’t known. He hadn’t known that would be his one time in Maria’s
bed. He hadn’t known to slow the fuck down and savor the sight of her beneath him, her hair tangled around his fist, her cheeks
flushed, her body naked and open.
Due to his newly rigorous masturbation schedule, he’d kept things professional on set. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t admire
her in those moments when the script directed him to look at her, to touch her. That didn’t mean he couldn’t draw from his
own passion and tenderness to fuel Cyprian’s, and find a bittersweet joy in doing so.
And since the filming was drawn out over a long week, since he wasn’t lost in a haze of mindless lust as he’d been their one
night together, he’d had ample opportunity to imprint every moment in her arms on his memory. Which he’d done, gratefully.
But seeing her again, near-bare and unashamed, wasn’t only a gift. It was also a torment.
For six years, he hadn’t had her in his bed, and after this week, he never would again.
Unless she still wanted him.
Because yes, the show was almost over for the two of them, and the pain of that realization practically leveled him every
time he let himself consider it. And yes, no future role would ever offer him the sort of extended time in her company this
one had. But once they’d finished shooting their last scene, they were free. He was free.
From that moment on, their relationship couldn’t endanger the set’s camaraderie or put his career at risk in any way.
Which meant, if she longed for him the way he pined for her—and sometimes he could swear she did—they could be together.
Finally. In all the ways those dirty, dirty fics on AO3 had envisioned, and also as a committed couple.
Not yet, though. Not until they were entirely done filming. Which they weren’t, so he really needed a snack and some water
before their next take.
The early-spring air remained nippy, both inside and outside Cyprian and Cassia’s little stone home, so he grabbed what he
needed from the craft services table and retreated to his usual seat in Jeanine’s trailer. Maria followed him inside, closing
the door behind them with a muffled thud.
“This is Ron and R.J.’s first time actually checking the footage, right?” Plopping down onto the mesh-backed chair at Jeanine’s
workstation, she peeled a banana. “I’m curious what they’re going to say.”
“Since we’ve already spent almost two full days shooting this scene, I can’t imagine they’d want to make any major changes.
Especially when they’re over budget again, and reshoots cost time and money.” He chewed and swallowed a mouthful of his granola
bar before continuing. “Besides, as Carah would say, we’re fucking amazing—”
“Literally.” Maria chortled and took a painfully suggestive bite of her banana.
“—so I have no doubt our performances are stellar.”
After having watched a few minutes of the raw footage yesterday, he already knew her performance would be living rent-free
in his head, probably forever. It had already removed all traces of former occupants, raised the thermostat to surface-of-the-sun
hot, and thrown a housewarming orgy, all in less than twenty-four hours.
Once the episode aired, he expected an avalanche of new emails from Alex, who’d long ago—and with great glee—created some sort of infernal Google alert to make Peter suffer.
Their costar really enjoyed directing Peter toward fics rated E for explicit , ones starring Cyprian and Cassia—or, even more torturously, Peter and Maria themselves. RPF, Alex called the latter. Real-person
fiction. Apparently there was a lot of it out there.
So Alex sent plenty of AO3 links, but not only AO3 links. Also YouTube links to fan vids that compiled every one of Cassia and Cyprian’s most erotic near-miss moments and
put them to extremely evocative music. Also gifs featuring the two of them eye-fucking, both on the show and in various interviews
and convention panels. Also a link to the website where a Cassian shipper had posted a series of artistically ambitious and
gorgeously lit photos wherein Cyprian’s action figure analogue railed Cassia’s in ways the manufacturer likely didn’t approve,
and which probably resulted in a great many dislocated vinyl limbs.
If Peter didn’t like Alex so much, he’d probably have murdered the guy long ago.
That said, he hadn’t asked Alex to stop.
Maria finished her banana before replying. “Of course our performances are stellar. To quote Carah once again: We’re consummate
goddamn professionals, bitches.”
He snickered.
“But that doesn’t mean Ron and R.J. won’t find something to criticize.” Her long, pale throat shifted as she sipped her water.
“You know they’ve been persnickety assholes since the whole weight-loss thing our first season together.”
The showrunners hadn’t directed their veiled enmity toward him. Only her. And while that was good for his career, he hated
how dirty it made him feel. How complicit .
He forced himself to meet her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
Her shoulder lifted in a graceful shrug. “Better me than you. I genuinely don’t give a fuck if they like me.”
He kept his mouth shut, unwilling to contradict the implications of her statement. Even though he actually didn’t care if Ron and R.J. liked him, and never had. He’d only cared whether the showrunners would fire him or damage his future
career prospects. But maybe that was simply a different shade of the same guilt-muddied color.
The door to the trailer swung open. Slammed open, actually, and both he and Maria startled at the unexpected intrusion.
Ramón and Nava stomped inside, expressions thunderous. They closed the door behind them. Locked it. Stared at each other for
a long, silent, tight-lipped moment, as if each was mentally urging the other to speak first.
At Maria’s loud snort, everyone turned toward her.
She leaned back in her chair, stretched out her legs, and laced her hands over her belly. “I assume you’re here to share our
showrunners’ praise? Or to tell me they’re offering a retroactive raise in recognition of my hard work and unparalleled acting
skills?”
“Maria...” Nava had evidently lost the staring contest with Ramón, because she spoke first. “I don’t know whether you want
Peter here for this conversation. Its outcome will affect him too, but... ”
“There is literally nothing Ron or R.J. could say that would embarrass me, Nava. Nothing about my performance. Nothing about
my personality. Nothing about my body.” With a flick of her wrist, Maria dismissed that concern. “Go ahead. I don’t care if
Peter hears their critique.”
The producer scrubbed a hand over her buzz cut. “All right. If you’re sure.”
“Just to be clear, neither Nava nor I agree with their feedback.” The lines bracketing Ramón’s mouth deepened. “We’ll support whatever response you choose to make.”
“Anything short of nuclear warfare,” Nava added with a weak smile.
Shit. What the fuck had Ron and R.J. said ?
Peter squeezed his nape, anxiety roiling in his gut.
“I love you both, but quit stalling.” Maria’s gaze turned shrewd, and she paused. “Actually, never mind. I’ll bet you a hundred
euro I know exactly what they told you.”
Suddenly, he knew too. It was the only thing that made sense, given who Ron and R.J. were, how they likely perceived women’s
bodies, what they’d believe about women’s core vulnerabilities, and the means they’d accordingly employ to humble Maria.
Or, rather, attempt to humble her. Because even after six years, they hadn’t diminished her or dimmed her shine. Not even a little.
“They don’t think women with body hair are sexy or appealing to viewers, so they want me to shave or wax and reshoot the part
of the scene where I’m naked.” Maria outright laughed then, and the sound wasn’t sharp or bitter, but genuinely amused. “Because
clearly, a medieval Viking shield-maiden shipwrecked on a deserted island would make hair removal a priority.”
“Well...” Ramón’s mouth twitched in reluctant humor. “Here’s the good news: I didn’t take your bet just now.”
There it was. Ron and R.J.’s final bid to cow Maria, and do so by telling her—Jesus, now that he’d taken a moment, it made
him want to laugh too—she wasn’t sexy enough. Their final bit of revenge for stymying their big starvation plans. Their final
attempt to control her body.
During six years of working with her, had they learned nothing?