#not cs

You’ll never guess who i am btw

So yes, surprise, not CS, but I thought I’d have a go at something a bit different. I won’t post the whole chapter here, but just a taster in case anyone’s interested.  

AO3

Summary: It began, as so many dreadful things do, at a party. 

Darcy falls embarrassingly fast for Elizabeth Bennet, and he has no idea what to do about it. He’d like to court her—date her—hang out with her, whatever the term for it is these days. Her lifestyle horrifies him and her friends and family bring out the worst in him but he still wants her—when it comes to her, he cannot seem to help himself. 

Elizabeth is never quite certain what to make of Darcy. He’s aloof and haughty and casually insulting, but she keeps catching glimpses of something deeper in his character, something that intrigues her. She doesn’t like him but she is drawn to him—and then she learns something that makes her hate him, just in time for him to ask her out in the most insulting way imaginable. 

In a flash the passion and resentment becomes more than either one can bear, and they find themselves in bed together. It’s only one time—then a second, and a third—and somewhere in the midst of angry sex and angrier recriminations, they forge a bond that carries them out of the wreck of their beginnings and into a happy ending that neither one saw coming. 

-

It began, as so many dreadful things do, at a party. 

It wasn’t Bingley’s party, though Bingley was responsible for Darcy’s presence there. It was Bingley who, with his soft and pleading eyes (which Darcy had often felt, rather meanly, would have been far better suited in the face of a golden retriever), had managed, via a deadly combination of guilt and cajolery, to coax Darcy on board a train from London, bound for Bristol on a perfectly good Friday afternoon when any sensible man would be at home.  

The train deposited him at Temple Meads two hours later, whence he took a bus—a bus—for another forty-five agonising minutes until at long, long last he arrived at the loft of one Jane Bennet, with whom Bingley was (unaccountably, in Darcy’s estimation) currently obsessed. 

And so, instead of spending his Friday comfortably at home with scotch and a book, and perhaps Georgiana playing something soothing on the piano in the next room, Darcy found himself standing awkwardly in the midst of what he fancied Hell must be like, wishing people would stop bloody looking at him.