Summary: There's really nothing suspicious about the way Daniel Cleaver and Mark Darcy hate each other, now is there? Slash. Complete.
Disclaimer: This fanfiction is inspired by the film Bridget Jones's Diary. Therefore, neither characters nor circumstances are mine.
About the story:
This is a slashfic, which means that its primary focus is on a same-sex love relationship. If this is not your cup of tea, then I strongly advise you not to drink it.
Although this is a fanfiction, you won't recognise any of the character's names. The reason for this is rather silly. Before I started writing, I thought that if I'd change the names and circumstances, I could pass my story as an original. I started with changing the names, and was quite pleased with the results. Changing the circumstances however, was much harder to do and no fun at all. So I reconsidered. I kept the names, though, because they already had grown on me. I don't think any Bridget fan will have difficulty figuring out the who is who in my fic. (And there's a – very redundant – clue: the names of the three main characters are very rough anagrams of the original names).
About the author:
I am a straight, happily married, native Dutch female, whose biggest hobby it is to read and write male to male slash fanfiction (but who can appreciate a good nonslash fic occasionally as well). I have written numerous fics inspired by numerous films and series before, but I never posted one until now, because I never seemed to be able to finish my fics. (I always felt a premature urge to start a new one.) This time I was. And I now know what to do to achieve success in the future: aiming to write a story instead of a novel.
About the inspiration:
The main inspiration for this story derives from Bridget Jones's Diary. However, before I started writing, I browsed through the stories already posted here, and I read some that helped me develop mine. I'd like to mention them here, and thank the authors.
First and foremost, I'd like to name Anja Boyce's 'Introducing Daniel Cleaver'. I loved reading it, and in the process of doing so, I instantly realised what fun it would be to crawl inside the head of a cad like Daniel, and I saw how this could be done. I owe Anja Boyce a lot: without her story, my chapter 1 would have turned out differently. Readers will notice strong similarities.
HeadGirlInTraining's 'Mark Darcy's Diary' (posted in the book department of this site) and Lady Boyd's 'Considering Bridget' showed me how Mark's neurotic POV would look on paper: swell.
Godess-sexy-angel1 ('Kimiko! Sex Godess') taught me that there is really only one way Mark could have found out about Daniel and his wife cheating on him: by catching them in the act.
Last but not least, I want to thank Snow Dome for writing 'Unbeknownst to You'. A dedicated slash writer myself, I didn't really need to read this story to write mine, but I did read it nonetheless, and with great pleasure. It was nice to come across an author who shared my opinion that Daniel/Mark is a pairing worth writing about. Reading the reviews of 'Unbeknownst to You', I noticed two 'camps': some reviewers appreciate the fact that it turns out to be a dream, others are sorry. I'm a member of the latter camp. 'Animosity' is my way to cope with my disappointment about the ending of Snow Dome's story.
Warnings:
Language, mild violence, explicit sex scenes, character death. The latter doesn't refer to anyone dying in this story – no one does – but indicates that one of the characters (or two, if you consider turning gay a major personality change) undergoes a major character alternation. Mr. Grant appears to have once said in an interview that he didn't think Daniel Cleaver could ever change, and if he did, it would be for the worse. I say, 'Screw you, Hugh.' Well, I don't of course, I wouldn't dare. But I strongly disagree, as my story will show you.
If you decide to read my story, I hope you will tell me what you think of it.
Love,
Marcella
Chapter 1
Ian:My new working project
I know she has a crush on me. They all do, and I like it. I like them. Women, I mean. Without them, I'd be bored to death.
I like women, and they understandably like me. I have the looks, the charm, the brains, and even a certain amount of power, seeing as I'm running a small publishing house. I like literature too, and I have a nose for the good stuff, despite my being graduated in English Law instead of English Literature.
I find that even my interest in books (which could be labelled boring, if you wanted) works in my favour with women. They confuse publishing books with writing them, I suppose. In any case, they seem to think that I have great emotional depth.
This is a misconception, of course. (As is the notion that authors possess such a depth, by the way; writing has everything to do with imagination, hardly anything with character). I am really terribly shallow. And proud of it.
With regard to women; as a sex, they are crucial to my wellbeing, as individuals they are highly interchangeable. I have never been in a 'meaningful relationship' with a woman, and I intend to keep it that way. I like to flirt and I love to fuck, but the longtermness that 'meaningful relationships' bring about creeps me out. Every woman I want bores me senseless after two weeks.
In some weird way, I'm hopelessly romantic, I guess. I mean I think I could stay faithful and deeply in love for the rest of my life, once I met the perfect woman. I haven't met her so far, though. All women have the same irritating flaw; they want me. I don't mean sexually; I applaud women wanting me sexually, wouldn't want to have it any other way – I'm not a rapist. I mean they want to turn me into something I am definitely not and never will be; a reliable and faithful partner. And they are usually not so subtle in their efforts. They pout and whine when I do not keep in close contact, when a date ends and another isn't set already. They act like they own me, or at least desperately want to. I hate it when they do that. It's suffocating. Castrating, if you want.
My standard reaction isn't very elegant, I must confess. I'm a bit passive-aggressive. I agree on setting another date, then cancel it just in time. It's not very nice, I know, but I haven't said I was a nice chap. And in a way, I'm doing those women a favour. I'm certain that if I'd change (theoretically) in the direction they seem to want me to and become reliable and faithful, they'd fall out of love in an instant, and go on a search for someone more interesting.
Men and women are not very different in that respect, I think. As long as it's new, it's good. This applies to both sexes, in my opinion. But the weak amongst us get scared at some (usually age-related) point, which forces them to accept entrapment in stable and dull relationships and marriages.
Not me. I'll never stoop that low. When I'm interested in a woman, it's the chase that thrills me, as well as the consumption of the prey, but afterwards I immediately feel hungry for another.
I'm hungry now, eyeing Geraldine Brady (what a name!) through the window of my office. She's on the phone. No doubt chatting to one of her silly little friends. They are always phoning her about something or another. It has been like that since the day she came to work here, some four month ago. I haven't made a pass on her so far. I don't know why, it's not that she wouldn't be willing. Maybe it's scruples about shagging the payroll. Or maybe it's about her sweet looks. (I may be shallow and I may be a bastard, but it's not that I like hurting other people's feelings. I always try to avoid messing with vulnerable women.) But whatever it is, I changed my mind. I want her. And I'll get her.
The conversation is over, and she puts the phone down, catching me looking at her in the process. I smile my slow smile. She turns purple and looks away. I grin. This is going to be wonderful.
She's gazing hard at her computer screen, so I start typing an e-mail to her. Something flirty, making sure not to give her the impression that I want anything more than sex.
Her response surprises me, not in swiftness, but in content. Apparently, she's not as bashful as she seems, at least not in writing. This is very good.
We banter back and forth e-mail wise, during the day. And during the rest of the week. I hardly get any work done, but it's all in a good cause; I'm reeling her in.
On Friday, I decide to reap what I sowed. I throw frequent and meaningful looks at her nice tits (with cleavage) and very short skirt (for me? I wonder. No, I don't. I know) and when we step out of the elevator (in which I feel her bum, I might add) to leave the office at the end of the day, I ask her out for dinner.
She almost reacts too eagerly, but pulls herself together and replies in a flat voice, 'Yes. Sure. Why not?'
I grin. Oh, my darling Geraldine, come to papa. 'Well, then, let's go,' I say. 'Do you like Mexican?'
She's enjoying herself very much, smiling and giggling constantly, cheeks red, eyes bright. And all because of me (and – in some part – the tequila slammers, I suppose). It's almost endearing.
I touch her hand across the table. She blushes and looks down, but doesn't pull back. I smile. Oh, yes, she'll be willing.
'Would you care for dessert?' I ask softly, raising a meaningful brow.
She turns purple. 'No. No, thank you,' she chokes.
Oh, come on, Geraldine, it's only a shag. Preceded by ice cream, if you want.
'Well, then I suggest coffee at my place,' I say. No way am I going to let her off the hook.
But she has no plans to resist me, as it appears. 'I'd like that,' she whispers.
In the taxicab, I let my hand rest just lightly on her shoulder, as a promising but not indecent gesture.
As soon as I close the front door behind me, however, I grab and I grope her, and she lets me. She desperately clings to me as I kiss her thoroughly, and she sighs as I run my thumb over one of her nipples under her blouse. Oh, indeed, she needs this.
'Ian,' she whispers. It's almost a sob.
Right. This is going to be good, but there are some terms to be agreed upon.
'This is just for fun, right?' I say. 'I don't think we need to make something serious out of it.'
Her reaction stuns me. At this point, most women – weak with desire – would agree with me on anything I said (although they usually regret it in the morning). But Geraldine pulls back. 'What a load of rubbish,' she says. 'And what a mean twister you are. I won't have any of this. Good night.'
She stresses her point by throwing me a fierce look and walking out the door.
I'm flabbergasted. And more determined than ever to get her between my sheets.