The Naughty Girl (PG-13, Bridget Jones' Diary)
Title: The Naughty Girl
Fandom: Bridget Jones' Diary
Word Count: 1940 words
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Bridget Jones/Mark Darcy
Author's Note: My first yuletide fic ever! This was written in fulfillment of Kirley65's request:"A Christmas spanking for naughty Bridget." I decided to go all out, making sure to include annoying holiday jumpers, turkey, curry and at least one horribly embarrassing situation for our fair heroine. After all, without those ingredients, would it be a Bridget Jones Christmas? This is set after "The Edge of Reason". Thanks to everyone who left comments over at the yuletide site. You guys rock!
"Mark, tell me you are not wearing that," Bridget demanded as she stared across the bedroom at her husband. She strove to keep her composure but the last fortnight had been a blur of obligatory holiday parties at Mark's firm, her show, their friends and, finally, each of their parents' houses. Frankly, she wouldn't have been surprised to be hallucinating dancing Alsatians circling a Christmas tree. But what she was regarding was nearly that bad.
Mark glanced down bemusedly at the bright red jumper featuring a jolly Santa with a fluffy white beard. "I'm not wearing this," he parroted obediently and tugged the waistband down slightly to lie against his flat torso.
"If you're not wearing that hideous bit of knitwear, why is it right in front of me?" Bridget whined.
Mark flashed his wife an engaging smile. "Because my dear, sweet mother gave it to me as a present and asked me to wear it to the Christmas party, that's why." He stepped across the room to stand next to Bridget. "If you stay at my side for the entire party, you won't have to look at this at all."
"If we didn't have to go to the party, you could stuff that in the rubbish bin right now," Bridget wheedled.
Bridget looked down at her spoodgy tummy (4 lbs. up since the start of the party season) only partially hidden behind the awful poinsettia-print suit her mother had forced upon her then sighed. Really, if she couldn't stand up to her mother, how could she expect Mark to do so with his?
Bridget gave up trying to get her hair to do anything interesting and glared at her reflection in the mirror. Horrors! Was that a grey hair? Trying not to arouse Mark's interest, she covertly plucked out the offending hair and prayed that she'd been wrong.
But with her luck, Bridget thought gloomily, she was right on this one thing.
"Are you ready, love?," Mark asked cheerfully. "We don't want to be late."
Bridget picked up her concession to parental Christmas spirits, a hideous red vinyl handbag from her mother that was emblazoned with the words "Ho! Ho! Ho!"
"I'm ready as I'll ever be," she announced grimly as they made their way downstairs and off to the family Christmas party.
***
Two hours later, when Bridget was finally able to escape the kitchen and the hovering of her mother ("Bridget! Don't you look darling in the lovely poinsettia dress I'd picked out for you?" "Have you put on some weight? You're looking a little spoodgy, there. Best not eat any sweets."). Mark was, of course, in the centre of a crowd of relatives and friends, eager to catch up with the local boy who made good. Despite his hideous jumper, he appeared utterly dignified, something that made Bridget more acutely aware of how her face was flushed and shiny from the overheated kitchen.
"Bridget, darling!" Mark spotted her before she could dash off to the powder room and freshen her makeup. Gritting her teeth, Bridget soldiered on, stepping to his side to make small talk with an endless series of their parents' acquaintances. And it was only when a particularly long fibre from the angora Santa beard tickled her chin that Bridget was reminded of her mother-in-law's horrible taste in clothing.
All in all, she thought as she drank down another glass of champagne, this was turning out to be a reasonably bearable family Christmas party. Which, of course, is why things went to pot immediately thereafter.
***
"I'm sorry," Bridget said for what must have been the fortieth time. She wondered why she was the one apologizing; given it was her head that sported a lump the size of a Christmas pudding. She shifted the bag of ice a little against her aching head and sighed dispiritedly.
"I still don't see how you could have fallen into the end table, Bridget," her mother said, fluttering her hands helplessly in her lap. Bridget used her free hand to rub at her very sore bottom and glared from across the now-empty lounge at her mother.
"I told you, I was pinched by Uncle-"
"Now! Let's not talk about this any more, dear! Let bygones be bygones," Mrs. Jones' hands fluttered some more as she looked around uncomfortably at the extra mess occasioned by Bridget's wailing fall into the end table that had cascaded a bowl of curry dip across the feet of most of the partygoers.
"However will I get that out of the Persian carpet?" she fretted.
Bridget rolled her eyes, "Mum, we picked that up at Sainsbury's. If it's Persian, I'm the Shahessina."
"Shahbanu, actually" Mark said pleasantly, as he carried in the tea tray. At their blank stares, he elaborated, "it's Farsi for Empress." Both men took their seats while Bridget's mum presided over the tea service. Silence reigned as they sipped on their drinks and Bridget congratulated herself on keeping her wish for a shot of whisky to a silent, inward mumble.
As soon as humanly possible (and after having spent an hour on her knees, scrubbing out curry stains from her mother's treasured carpet), Mark and Bridget were out the door and on the road back to London.
"Thank God," Bridget sighed as she settled into the passenger seat.
Mark glanced over from behind the wheel as they headed through the twilight to the motorway.
"Happy to have all of that behind us?" he asked.
"That and the fact that your coat nicely covers up that sweater," Bridget muttered.
Mark let out a bark of laughter. "You'll never give up on that, will you?"
"Not until next Christmas," Bridget agreed, smiling up at her obstinately calm and accepting husband. "At which point your mom will probably come up with an even more hideous Christmas jumper and mine will dress me in a Santa suit."
Mark laughed some more as he steered their into the busier traffic. "You're probably right."
Bridget sunk lower in her seat. "You know, sometimes I wish I had it in me to be naughty at Christmastime."
Mark arched one incredulous eyebrow. "You, Bridget? Haven't you been naughty enough in your life?"
She choked out a laugh. "Well, if you put it that way, maybe. But it's just something about the holidays. I think I regress and just end up doing whatever my family or coworkers ask me to do. Arrange for the caterers for a party, decorate the room, send out all the invites, sit around for hours being bored out of my skull. . . ."
Mark smiled and said "I get that way, too. It's just something about the season."
Bridget frowned as the lights from an approaching lorry briefly blinded her. "Well, for once, just once, I'd like to do something totally naughty. Throw mum's holiday dress into the rubbish bin and wear something I really want. Tell the old bats in Accounting that I'm not going to organize the Christmas gift exchange. Give Uncle Geoffrey a kick in the balls. . . ."
"Whoa, whoa," Mark said, reaching out his free hand to cover Bridget's clenched fist. "Let's not go overboard. Why not start small?"
Bridget glanced over in puzzlement. "Like what?"
Mark suddenly steered the car to the shoulder of the carriageway. "Like this!" he grinned.
Bridget shrieked at the sudden braking. "Mark Darcy! What on earth are you doing?"
"Preparing to be naughty," he said as he shut off the engine. "Come here, you little vixen!"
Bridget giggled and launched herself into Mark's arm. It turned out to be less romantic than she had hoped, of course, clambering over the gearshift and waiting while Mark manhandled the seat back but soon they were snogging, shoving off their overcoats and focusing entirely on each other.
"Have you been very naughty this Christmas?" Mark murmured, running one hand under the hem of Bridget's rucked-up dress and over her bottom.
"Mmm," she agreed throatily, "very naughty."
*Smack*
"What was that for?" Bridget asked with a start.
"Naughty little girls deserve a spanking," Mark explained with a grin that shone despite the darkness. Just a short distance away, headlamps flashed by as other drivers obediently and boringly drove along, Bridget thought smugly, unaware of the naughtiness going on right beside the roadway.
"Oh, really?" she said, looking down at Mark. "Maybe I need to learn my lesson a bit more."
"Happy to oblige," Mark said and smacked her bottom again, lightly but stingingly. Bridget giggled and was soon happily absorbed in their loveplay.
Suddenly, they both started as the bright light of a torch raked across their faces, then a hand rapping on the window. Bridget screeched and launched herself off of Mark and over into the passenger seat while her husband rolled down the window.
"Excuse me, miss? Sir? Is there a problem here?" The Motorway Patrol Officer's face was, mercifully, out of Bridget's line of sight as she crouched lower and pulled her coat over as much of her as humanly possible.
Mark's cheeks were glowing red but he managed to collect himself. "No, not really, well, maybe. The engine just stalled out and I pulled over to sort things out." He seemed to warm to the story he was spinning. "We couldn't get the engine to turn over and it was getting quite cold in the car so I told Bridget, my wife, here, that she'd best sit in my lap until help arrived."
The man leaned down to peer dubiously at Mark who had enough wisdom to shut up. "I see," he said, flashing the torch around to inspect the inside of the car more carefully. "Say, you're that Bridget Jones girl, arentcha? And you must be that lawyer that got her sprung?"
Mark nodded automatically, "Yes, yes I am and she is." Bridget just sat, stunned, with her mouth drooping open ("Most unattractive, dear," her mother's internalized voice informed her.
"Can I get your autograph, Miss?"
Bridget goggled. "Why, yes, sure, I suppose." She strove to appear as if she fielded requests for autographs every day and signed the booklet the officer passed through the window.
Once that was done, he stepped back, business-like. "All right, then. Why don't you try turning her over again, see if she'll start up there, sir. And if she doesn't, I can call the Automobile Association to take your car to the service centre."
Mark coughed desperately. "Certainly, I'll give it a try." He twisted the key in the ignition and the engine obediently sprang to life.
"Good job," said the officer in congratulation, "but drive carefully. If she cuts out again on the motorway, it will be dangerous. You might want to take it to the shop next week, have her seen to."
"Certainly," Mark said fervently. "And thank you very much! We appreciate you stopping by to lend a hand."
"It's my job," the patrol officer said, "but always a pleasure to meet someone as famous as you, Miss Jones!" Mark rolled up the window and cautiously sped the car along the shoulder, merging back into the traffic.
"Well," said Bridget, uncomfortably.
"Well, said Mark, sounding shaken.
"That was close," Bridget said. "I think I've met my quota of naughty for the year."
Mark nodded his fervent agreement as they raced down the carriageway back to London. "Maybe for a couple of years!"
Bridget eyed him consideringly, "Well, actually, now that I think of it, I'm convinced that by next Christmas I'll need a reminder of just what happens to naughty little girls."
Mark grinned. "All right, but not in the car next year."
"Agreed," said Bridget emphatically.
Fandom: Bridget Jones' Diary
Word Count: 1940 words
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Bridget Jones/Mark Darcy
Author's Note: My first yuletide fic ever! This was written in fulfillment of Kirley65's request:"A Christmas spanking for naughty Bridget." I decided to go all out, making sure to include annoying holiday jumpers, turkey, curry and at least one horribly embarrassing situation for our fair heroine. After all, without those ingredients, would it be a Bridget Jones Christmas? This is set after "The Edge of Reason". Thanks to everyone who left comments over at the yuletide site. You guys rock!
"Mark, tell me you are not wearing that," Bridget demanded as she stared across the bedroom at her husband. She strove to keep her composure but the last fortnight had been a blur of obligatory holiday parties at Mark's firm, her show, their friends and, finally, each of their parents' houses. Frankly, she wouldn't have been surprised to be hallucinating dancing Alsatians circling a Christmas tree. But what she was regarding was nearly that bad.
Mark glanced down bemusedly at the bright red jumper featuring a jolly Santa with a fluffy white beard. "I'm not wearing this," he parroted obediently and tugged the waistband down slightly to lie against his flat torso.
"If you're not wearing that hideous bit of knitwear, why is it right in front of me?" Bridget whined.
Mark flashed his wife an engaging smile. "Because my dear, sweet mother gave it to me as a present and asked me to wear it to the Christmas party, that's why." He stepped across the room to stand next to Bridget. "If you stay at my side for the entire party, you won't have to look at this at all."
"If we didn't have to go to the party, you could stuff that in the rubbish bin right now," Bridget wheedled.
Bridget looked down at her spoodgy tummy (4 lbs. up since the start of the party season) only partially hidden behind the awful poinsettia-print suit her mother had forced upon her then sighed. Really, if she couldn't stand up to her mother, how could she expect Mark to do so with his?
Bridget gave up trying to get her hair to do anything interesting and glared at her reflection in the mirror. Horrors! Was that a grey hair? Trying not to arouse Mark's interest, she covertly plucked out the offending hair and prayed that she'd been wrong.
But with her luck, Bridget thought gloomily, she was right on this one thing.
"Are you ready, love?," Mark asked cheerfully. "We don't want to be late."
Bridget picked up her concession to parental Christmas spirits, a hideous red vinyl handbag from her mother that was emblazoned with the words "Ho! Ho! Ho!"
"I'm ready as I'll ever be," she announced grimly as they made their way downstairs and off to the family Christmas party.
***
Two hours later, when Bridget was finally able to escape the kitchen and the hovering of her mother ("Bridget! Don't you look darling in the lovely poinsettia dress I'd picked out for you?" "Have you put on some weight? You're looking a little spoodgy, there. Best not eat any sweets."). Mark was, of course, in the centre of a crowd of relatives and friends, eager to catch up with the local boy who made good. Despite his hideous jumper, he appeared utterly dignified, something that made Bridget more acutely aware of how her face was flushed and shiny from the overheated kitchen.
"Bridget, darling!" Mark spotted her before she could dash off to the powder room and freshen her makeup. Gritting her teeth, Bridget soldiered on, stepping to his side to make small talk with an endless series of their parents' acquaintances. And it was only when a particularly long fibre from the angora Santa beard tickled her chin that Bridget was reminded of her mother-in-law's horrible taste in clothing.
All in all, she thought as she drank down another glass of champagne, this was turning out to be a reasonably bearable family Christmas party. Which, of course, is why things went to pot immediately thereafter.
***
"I'm sorry," Bridget said for what must have been the fortieth time. She wondered why she was the one apologizing; given it was her head that sported a lump the size of a Christmas pudding. She shifted the bag of ice a little against her aching head and sighed dispiritedly.
"I still don't see how you could have fallen into the end table, Bridget," her mother said, fluttering her hands helplessly in her lap. Bridget used her free hand to rub at her very sore bottom and glared from across the now-empty lounge at her mother.
"I told you, I was pinched by Uncle-"
"Now! Let's not talk about this any more, dear! Let bygones be bygones," Mrs. Jones' hands fluttered some more as she looked around uncomfortably at the extra mess occasioned by Bridget's wailing fall into the end table that had cascaded a bowl of curry dip across the feet of most of the partygoers.
"However will I get that out of the Persian carpet?" she fretted.
Bridget rolled her eyes, "Mum, we picked that up at Sainsbury's. If it's Persian, I'm the Shahessina."
"Shahbanu, actually" Mark said pleasantly, as he carried in the tea tray. At their blank stares, he elaborated, "it's Farsi for Empress." Both men took their seats while Bridget's mum presided over the tea service. Silence reigned as they sipped on their drinks and Bridget congratulated herself on keeping her wish for a shot of whisky to a silent, inward mumble.
As soon as humanly possible (and after having spent an hour on her knees, scrubbing out curry stains from her mother's treasured carpet), Mark and Bridget were out the door and on the road back to London.
"Thank God," Bridget sighed as she settled into the passenger seat.
Mark glanced over from behind the wheel as they headed through the twilight to the motorway.
"Happy to have all of that behind us?" he asked.
"That and the fact that your coat nicely covers up that sweater," Bridget muttered.
Mark let out a bark of laughter. "You'll never give up on that, will you?"
"Not until next Christmas," Bridget agreed, smiling up at her obstinately calm and accepting husband. "At which point your mom will probably come up with an even more hideous Christmas jumper and mine will dress me in a Santa suit."
Mark laughed some more as he steered their into the busier traffic. "You're probably right."
Bridget sunk lower in her seat. "You know, sometimes I wish I had it in me to be naughty at Christmastime."
Mark arched one incredulous eyebrow. "You, Bridget? Haven't you been naughty enough in your life?"
She choked out a laugh. "Well, if you put it that way, maybe. But it's just something about the holidays. I think I regress and just end up doing whatever my family or coworkers ask me to do. Arrange for the caterers for a party, decorate the room, send out all the invites, sit around for hours being bored out of my skull. . . ."
Mark smiled and said "I get that way, too. It's just something about the season."
Bridget frowned as the lights from an approaching lorry briefly blinded her. "Well, for once, just once, I'd like to do something totally naughty. Throw mum's holiday dress into the rubbish bin and wear something I really want. Tell the old bats in Accounting that I'm not going to organize the Christmas gift exchange. Give Uncle Geoffrey a kick in the balls. . . ."
"Whoa, whoa," Mark said, reaching out his free hand to cover Bridget's clenched fist. "Let's not go overboard. Why not start small?"
Bridget glanced over in puzzlement. "Like what?"
Mark suddenly steered the car to the shoulder of the carriageway. "Like this!" he grinned.
Bridget shrieked at the sudden braking. "Mark Darcy! What on earth are you doing?"
"Preparing to be naughty," he said as he shut off the engine. "Come here, you little vixen!"
Bridget giggled and launched herself into Mark's arm. It turned out to be less romantic than she had hoped, of course, clambering over the gearshift and waiting while Mark manhandled the seat back but soon they were snogging, shoving off their overcoats and focusing entirely on each other.
"Have you been very naughty this Christmas?" Mark murmured, running one hand under the hem of Bridget's rucked-up dress and over her bottom.
"Mmm," she agreed throatily, "very naughty."
*Smack*
"What was that for?" Bridget asked with a start.
"Naughty little girls deserve a spanking," Mark explained with a grin that shone despite the darkness. Just a short distance away, headlamps flashed by as other drivers obediently and boringly drove along, Bridget thought smugly, unaware of the naughtiness going on right beside the roadway.
"Oh, really?" she said, looking down at Mark. "Maybe I need to learn my lesson a bit more."
"Happy to oblige," Mark said and smacked her bottom again, lightly but stingingly. Bridget giggled and was soon happily absorbed in their loveplay.
Suddenly, they both started as the bright light of a torch raked across their faces, then a hand rapping on the window. Bridget screeched and launched herself off of Mark and over into the passenger seat while her husband rolled down the window.
"Excuse me, miss? Sir? Is there a problem here?" The Motorway Patrol Officer's face was, mercifully, out of Bridget's line of sight as she crouched lower and pulled her coat over as much of her as humanly possible.
Mark's cheeks were glowing red but he managed to collect himself. "No, not really, well, maybe. The engine just stalled out and I pulled over to sort things out." He seemed to warm to the story he was spinning. "We couldn't get the engine to turn over and it was getting quite cold in the car so I told Bridget, my wife, here, that she'd best sit in my lap until help arrived."
The man leaned down to peer dubiously at Mark who had enough wisdom to shut up. "I see," he said, flashing the torch around to inspect the inside of the car more carefully. "Say, you're that Bridget Jones girl, arentcha? And you must be that lawyer that got her sprung?"
Mark nodded automatically, "Yes, yes I am and she is." Bridget just sat, stunned, with her mouth drooping open ("Most unattractive, dear," her mother's internalized voice informed her.
"Can I get your autograph, Miss?"
Bridget goggled. "Why, yes, sure, I suppose." She strove to appear as if she fielded requests for autographs every day and signed the booklet the officer passed through the window.
Once that was done, he stepped back, business-like. "All right, then. Why don't you try turning her over again, see if she'll start up there, sir. And if she doesn't, I can call the Automobile Association to take your car to the service centre."
Mark coughed desperately. "Certainly, I'll give it a try." He twisted the key in the ignition and the engine obediently sprang to life.
"Good job," said the officer in congratulation, "but drive carefully. If she cuts out again on the motorway, it will be dangerous. You might want to take it to the shop next week, have her seen to."
"Certainly," Mark said fervently. "And thank you very much! We appreciate you stopping by to lend a hand."
"It's my job," the patrol officer said, "but always a pleasure to meet someone as famous as you, Miss Jones!" Mark rolled up the window and cautiously sped the car along the shoulder, merging back into the traffic.
"Well," said Bridget, uncomfortably.
"Well, said Mark, sounding shaken.
"That was close," Bridget said. "I think I've met my quota of naughty for the year."
Mark nodded his fervent agreement as they raced down the carriageway back to London. "Maybe for a couple of years!"
Bridget eyed him consideringly, "Well, actually, now that I think of it, I'm convinced that by next Christmas I'll need a reminder of just what happens to naughty little girls."
Mark grinned. "All right, but not in the car next year."
"Agreed," said Bridget emphatically.