Not My Fault
It's all rthstewart's fault, except for the part that's anastigmatfic's fault.
Really. They made me do it.
This belongs to a long, sprawling, cracky commentfic AU. Rth has made an attempt at collecting it in a master post here.
I'm afraid it's probably not worth the anticipation, guys - in the end I just couldn't get far enough past it being Peter/Mary to produce smut with any seriousness.
The door burst open in Mary's signature indomitable and inimitable style. Peter always thought it seemed as if the panels were hurling themselves out of her way lest she barrel right through them. The image usually made him smile. Right now, though, he was acutely aware that he’d been lounging on the bed after a blessedly long shower in only trousers and vest. He scrambled up as the whirlwind of Mary’s arrival slammed the door behind her, frantically trying to remember where he’d left his sole remaining clean shirt.
“Mary!” he exclaimed, snatching up the cleanest thing to hand - merely sweaty, not swamp-stained - “perhaps you should-” knock? Unlikely. Leave? Less likely.
“Oh, Peter, don’t be a prude,” she said airily, dropping onto Eustace’s unoccupied bed. “And don’t ruin a lovely shower by putting that nasty thing back on. I assure you I have seen many men in much less that your current state of attire.”
“Perhaps,” he returned, “but you have not seen me.” None the less he dropped the shirt. It really did want laundering before it was worn again, and he was - thanks to the application of large quantities of water and the hotel’s marvelous air conditioning machine - not sweaty for the first time since their arrival in Florida. He was rather enjoying the sensation. Peter sank back onto his bed, opting to remain seated rather than imitate Mary’s three-point sprawl. “What brings you to my room?”
“I have been evicted from mine.” For a moment, Peter had visions of irate hotel managers and property damage, then she continued, “Asim and Eustace are attempting to repair the photographic equipment. They have towels filled equally with parts and swamp mud spread absolutely everywhere, and are applying liberal quantities of Lubriplate. It reeks.”
“Oh.” In due consideration, it would probably be difficult for even Mary to cause enough damage to be thrown out, especially since Peter suspected Asim preemptively greased the palms of managers and chambermaids who might be upset by mud, blood, and assorted effluvia on floors and bones, bugs, and specimens in various states of decrepitude on tables. She did usually draw the line at sharing her bed with such things. Though apparently not with muddy camera parts. He winced. “Perhaps I should go assist them.
“Nonsense, they’re having a wonderful time.” She waved a hand at him - nearly upsetting the bedside lamp - until he subsided. “I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with my invasion of your room for a while,” she continued, sounding not one inch repentant. “But by way of recompense, I have brought us some lubrication of our own.” She hefted her rucksack, which chinked gently.
Peter could hardly fail to recognize the sound of full bottles. More than two, he judged, though if they were the same demijohns which the herpetologists had pressed on them, he wasn’t sure how she might have fit more into the bulging rucksack. “I am certainly appreciative of the gesture, Mary. Er - is that the same stuff the herpetologists provided?”
“Better,” she promised, pulling bottles out of the bag. “Here - no, don’t bother with glasses, there’s no need.” This in response to his somewhat vague motion toward the counter where water glasses rested beside an (empty) ice bucket. From another pocket of the bag she produced a corkscrew, and proceeded to pry open both bottles. Peter knew better than to make the gentlemanly offer to help, merely accepting the one she handed him with a grateful nod.
“What shall we drink to?” he asked, tipping the bottle toward her a bit.
She laughed, and tapped hers against it. “Do we need a reason?”
“To reptiles, then.” He took a cautious swig of the stuff in the bottle, not wanting a repeat of the coughing fit that followed the last alcoholic gift. Good thing, too - whatever was in the bottle had a vibrant second life as a paint stripper, industrial solvent, or possibly weapons-grade explosive. Mary didn’t seem to notice, possibly because too many years of drinking similar things had stripped her tastebuds completely. Well, when in Rome…
The bottles were considerably lighter not all that long after. In fact, they were empty. By that point they were both tipsy enough that it took several drinks of nothingness each to realize this fact. “There’s another,” Mary said. She half-rolled, half-fell off Eustace’s bed, retrieving the rucksack from where it had been abandoned half a bottle ago. Peter started hunting for the long-vanished corkscrew.
“We’ll have to share,” Mary said soberly - or perhaps that should be seriously, since they were neither of them sober at the moment.
Peter had no objections to that, and once the corkscrew was located (in Mary’s left boot, at the foot of the bed), they passed the bottle back and forth between them with easy companionship.
Later, they would refer to what happened next simply as It, on the vanishingly rare occasions they referred to it at all.
Mary stood up to give Peter the bottle. Unfortunately, her boot (discarded after retrieving the corkscrew) was underfoot, and she lost her balance. Peter instinctively put out his hands to brace her, lost his own balance, and they went tumbling to the bed together, Mary lying half-atop him.
Miraculously the bottle remained vertical throughout this entire process.
There was a stunned moment when neither of them moved. Peter vaguely thought someone ought to be apologizing, and as his hand was somewhere very soft and round, he suspected it might be him. But Mary’s face was not even an inch from his; he could feel her breath on his own lips, and then suddenly he could feel her lips, and after that things went somewhat fuzzy for a bit.
The next thing Peter was clearly aware of was the sensation of her breasts against his chest. The softness of her skin (strong contrast to the calloused hand currently sliding across his shoulders) was extremely evident with no cloth between them. He wasn’t entirely certain when they’d removed their shirts, or how they’d managed it without pausing in the kissing. He was fairly certain they hadn’t stopped kissing. He did remember a lot of tongue.
His hands, he discovered, were working the fastenings of Mary’s trousers, an action which she didn’t seem to object to in the least, if the wriggle sha gave once they were undone was any indication. Between Peter sliding them down as far as he could reach and Mary shimmying (in a most distracting fashion) to drop them the rest of the way, she was soon divested of that particular encumbrance. The legs revealed were very attractive, and remarkably tan considering how much time she spent in snake, bug, or thorn-infested regions where coverings were a must. Peter wondered how she’d come by it - the French Riviera, perhaps? Did she sunbathe? It was difficult to picture Mary doing anything quite so sedentary. On the other hand, the image of her in a bathing suit was - remarkably like the current view, assuming a topless beach.
Peter was distracted by these pleasant musings by a finger poking him firmly in the chest. “You are overdressed, sir.”
“My apologies,” he answered, catching and kissing the finger. “But if you want me to rectify the error, you will have to let me up.”
Mary appeared to think about it. “In a good cause, I suppose.” She rolled off him, sprawling out among the mussed bedclothes and retrieving the bottle of moonshine from where one of them had sensibly placed it out of the way somewhere between the falling and the kissing. Shaking his head, Peter stood and quickly unfastened belt and trousers. Unfortunately, he’d forgotten that his last clean pair of pants were the pair Edmund had packed for him.
Laughter was not what a man hoped for when he removed his trousers in the company of a woman, but in this case Peter had to admit the reaction was justified.
“Magnificent!” Mary gasped out through her hilarity. “I - had - no idea-” but the rest of the statement was lost to renewed whoops of laughter.
“They are not my taste, I assure you,” Peter informed her, with every ounce of what Lucy called ‘his stuffy dignity’ he could muster. “They were Edmund’s idea - to prompt exactly this reaction, as he told me. And had I anything else clean, I would not be wearing them. I was not,” he added, fumbling the offending garment off (a significant feat with his balance impaired as it was), “expecting company of the sort that might have cause to view them.”
“Should I go?” She was still grinning broadly and looked like it would take an entire team of centaurs to haul her from the bed.
“I did not say that.” If he’d been thinking clearly he would have removed pants and trousers at once. Evidently he was either too drunk or not drunk enough.
The latter condition being easier to fix, he seized the significantly lighter bottle and tipped it back. Two good swallows nearly drained it. “Didn’t leave me much, did you?” Still, he handed it back to her for the last drink.
Mary’s priorities were firmly in place: she finished off the bottle before responding. “You had a whole one to yourself,” she retorted, poking him with a foot.
“As did you,” he patiently reminded her, capturing the offending foot. She wriggled her toes against his thigh, and he was promptly distracted by the leg attached to them, stretching away up the bed. She really did have quite remarkable legs. This was worth investigating further, he decided, crawling up the bed. Mary tossed the empty bottle aside, reminding him of the grievance. “That bottle was to share.”
“I shared,” she protested. “You’re too much of a gentleman, that’s your problem.”
“Believe me, Mary, the last thing I am feeling right now is gentlemanly.” He slid his hands up her thighs. “And I believe you are now the one overdressed.”
“Perhaps you could help me fix that?”
“Gladly.” He slipped his fingers under the waistband, carefully sliding the fabric down those - the word was appropriate - magnificent legs. He started the upwards journey again, lips following hands, but he’d only reached her knees when something occurred to him. He cursed.
“What’s wrong?”
“I - ah - I am not really… prepared for this, I’m afraid. I haven’t -”
“There will be condoms in the rucksack,” she broke in blithely, waving a hand toward the floor and the much-abused bag.
“You are certain?”
“Asim packed it,” she replied, as if that should explain everything. It did.
There were, of course, condoms in the rucksack, tucked neatly in an inner pocket safely away from the various mucks of the swamp. Peter retrieved one, opening the package carefully.
“Bring two,” Mary suggested. He glanced at her, grinning at him from among the pillows, her hands skimming down her ribs, stomach…
He brought three.
Really. They made me do it.
This belongs to a long, sprawling, cracky commentfic AU. Rth has made an attempt at collecting it in a master post here.
I'm afraid it's probably not worth the anticipation, guys - in the end I just couldn't get far enough past it being Peter/Mary to produce smut with any seriousness.
The door burst open in Mary's signature indomitable and inimitable style. Peter always thought it seemed as if the panels were hurling themselves out of her way lest she barrel right through them. The image usually made him smile. Right now, though, he was acutely aware that he’d been lounging on the bed after a blessedly long shower in only trousers and vest. He scrambled up as the whirlwind of Mary’s arrival slammed the door behind her, frantically trying to remember where he’d left his sole remaining clean shirt.
“Mary!” he exclaimed, snatching up the cleanest thing to hand - merely sweaty, not swamp-stained - “perhaps you should-” knock? Unlikely. Leave? Less likely.
“Oh, Peter, don’t be a prude,” she said airily, dropping onto Eustace’s unoccupied bed. “And don’t ruin a lovely shower by putting that nasty thing back on. I assure you I have seen many men in much less that your current state of attire.”
“Perhaps,” he returned, “but you have not seen me.” None the less he dropped the shirt. It really did want laundering before it was worn again, and he was - thanks to the application of large quantities of water and the hotel’s marvelous air conditioning machine - not sweaty for the first time since their arrival in Florida. He was rather enjoying the sensation. Peter sank back onto his bed, opting to remain seated rather than imitate Mary’s three-point sprawl. “What brings you to my room?”
“I have been evicted from mine.” For a moment, Peter had visions of irate hotel managers and property damage, then she continued, “Asim and Eustace are attempting to repair the photographic equipment. They have towels filled equally with parts and swamp mud spread absolutely everywhere, and are applying liberal quantities of Lubriplate. It reeks.”
“Oh.” In due consideration, it would probably be difficult for even Mary to cause enough damage to be thrown out, especially since Peter suspected Asim preemptively greased the palms of managers and chambermaids who might be upset by mud, blood, and assorted effluvia on floors and bones, bugs, and specimens in various states of decrepitude on tables. She did usually draw the line at sharing her bed with such things. Though apparently not with muddy camera parts. He winced. “Perhaps I should go assist them.
“Nonsense, they’re having a wonderful time.” She waved a hand at him - nearly upsetting the bedside lamp - until he subsided. “I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with my invasion of your room for a while,” she continued, sounding not one inch repentant. “But by way of recompense, I have brought us some lubrication of our own.” She hefted her rucksack, which chinked gently.
Peter could hardly fail to recognize the sound of full bottles. More than two, he judged, though if they were the same demijohns which the herpetologists had pressed on them, he wasn’t sure how she might have fit more into the bulging rucksack. “I am certainly appreciative of the gesture, Mary. Er - is that the same stuff the herpetologists provided?”
“Better,” she promised, pulling bottles out of the bag. “Here - no, don’t bother with glasses, there’s no need.” This in response to his somewhat vague motion toward the counter where water glasses rested beside an (empty) ice bucket. From another pocket of the bag she produced a corkscrew, and proceeded to pry open both bottles. Peter knew better than to make the gentlemanly offer to help, merely accepting the one she handed him with a grateful nod.
“What shall we drink to?” he asked, tipping the bottle toward her a bit.
She laughed, and tapped hers against it. “Do we need a reason?”
“To reptiles, then.” He took a cautious swig of the stuff in the bottle, not wanting a repeat of the coughing fit that followed the last alcoholic gift. Good thing, too - whatever was in the bottle had a vibrant second life as a paint stripper, industrial solvent, or possibly weapons-grade explosive. Mary didn’t seem to notice, possibly because too many years of drinking similar things had stripped her tastebuds completely. Well, when in Rome…
The bottles were considerably lighter not all that long after. In fact, they were empty. By that point they were both tipsy enough that it took several drinks of nothingness each to realize this fact. “There’s another,” Mary said. She half-rolled, half-fell off Eustace’s bed, retrieving the rucksack from where it had been abandoned half a bottle ago. Peter started hunting for the long-vanished corkscrew.
“We’ll have to share,” Mary said soberly - or perhaps that should be seriously, since they were neither of them sober at the moment.
Peter had no objections to that, and once the corkscrew was located (in Mary’s left boot, at the foot of the bed), they passed the bottle back and forth between them with easy companionship.
Later, they would refer to what happened next simply as It, on the vanishingly rare occasions they referred to it at all.
Mary stood up to give Peter the bottle. Unfortunately, her boot (discarded after retrieving the corkscrew) was underfoot, and she lost her balance. Peter instinctively put out his hands to brace her, lost his own balance, and they went tumbling to the bed together, Mary lying half-atop him.
Miraculously the bottle remained vertical throughout this entire process.
There was a stunned moment when neither of them moved. Peter vaguely thought someone ought to be apologizing, and as his hand was somewhere very soft and round, he suspected it might be him. But Mary’s face was not even an inch from his; he could feel her breath on his own lips, and then suddenly he could feel her lips, and after that things went somewhat fuzzy for a bit.
The next thing Peter was clearly aware of was the sensation of her breasts against his chest. The softness of her skin (strong contrast to the calloused hand currently sliding across his shoulders) was extremely evident with no cloth between them. He wasn’t entirely certain when they’d removed their shirts, or how they’d managed it without pausing in the kissing. He was fairly certain they hadn’t stopped kissing. He did remember a lot of tongue.
His hands, he discovered, were working the fastenings of Mary’s trousers, an action which she didn’t seem to object to in the least, if the wriggle sha gave once they were undone was any indication. Between Peter sliding them down as far as he could reach and Mary shimmying (in a most distracting fashion) to drop them the rest of the way, she was soon divested of that particular encumbrance. The legs revealed were very attractive, and remarkably tan considering how much time she spent in snake, bug, or thorn-infested regions where coverings were a must. Peter wondered how she’d come by it - the French Riviera, perhaps? Did she sunbathe? It was difficult to picture Mary doing anything quite so sedentary. On the other hand, the image of her in a bathing suit was - remarkably like the current view, assuming a topless beach.
Peter was distracted by these pleasant musings by a finger poking him firmly in the chest. “You are overdressed, sir.”
“My apologies,” he answered, catching and kissing the finger. “But if you want me to rectify the error, you will have to let me up.”
Mary appeared to think about it. “In a good cause, I suppose.” She rolled off him, sprawling out among the mussed bedclothes and retrieving the bottle of moonshine from where one of them had sensibly placed it out of the way somewhere between the falling and the kissing. Shaking his head, Peter stood and quickly unfastened belt and trousers. Unfortunately, he’d forgotten that his last clean pair of pants were the pair Edmund had packed for him.
Laughter was not what a man hoped for when he removed his trousers in the company of a woman, but in this case Peter had to admit the reaction was justified.
“Magnificent!” Mary gasped out through her hilarity. “I - had - no idea-” but the rest of the statement was lost to renewed whoops of laughter.
“They are not my taste, I assure you,” Peter informed her, with every ounce of what Lucy called ‘his stuffy dignity’ he could muster. “They were Edmund’s idea - to prompt exactly this reaction, as he told me. And had I anything else clean, I would not be wearing them. I was not,” he added, fumbling the offending garment off (a significant feat with his balance impaired as it was), “expecting company of the sort that might have cause to view them.”
“Should I go?” She was still grinning broadly and looked like it would take an entire team of centaurs to haul her from the bed.
“I did not say that.” If he’d been thinking clearly he would have removed pants and trousers at once. Evidently he was either too drunk or not drunk enough.
The latter condition being easier to fix, he seized the significantly lighter bottle and tipped it back. Two good swallows nearly drained it. “Didn’t leave me much, did you?” Still, he handed it back to her for the last drink.
Mary’s priorities were firmly in place: she finished off the bottle before responding. “You had a whole one to yourself,” she retorted, poking him with a foot.
“As did you,” he patiently reminded her, capturing the offending foot. She wriggled her toes against his thigh, and he was promptly distracted by the leg attached to them, stretching away up the bed. She really did have quite remarkable legs. This was worth investigating further, he decided, crawling up the bed. Mary tossed the empty bottle aside, reminding him of the grievance. “That bottle was to share.”
“I shared,” she protested. “You’re too much of a gentleman, that’s your problem.”
“Believe me, Mary, the last thing I am feeling right now is gentlemanly.” He slid his hands up her thighs. “And I believe you are now the one overdressed.”
“Perhaps you could help me fix that?”
“Gladly.” He slipped his fingers under the waistband, carefully sliding the fabric down those - the word was appropriate - magnificent legs. He started the upwards journey again, lips following hands, but he’d only reached her knees when something occurred to him. He cursed.
“What’s wrong?”
“I - ah - I am not really… prepared for this, I’m afraid. I haven’t -”
“There will be condoms in the rucksack,” she broke in blithely, waving a hand toward the floor and the much-abused bag.
“You are certain?”
“Asim packed it,” she replied, as if that should explain everything. It did.
There were, of course, condoms in the rucksack, tucked neatly in an inner pocket safely away from the various mucks of the swamp. Peter retrieved one, opening the package carefully.
“Bring two,” Mary suggested. He glanced at her, grinning at him from among the pillows, her hands skimming down her ribs, stomach…
He brought three.