so there's this part of my fic that I just cannot decide on, and it would be lovely if you'd be kind enough to share your thoughts on both pieces. PLEASE!!🙏🙏
Thank you, so I'm confused about which play to play in the fic, and here are pieces from both of them.
Beauty and the Beast. (I was not planning on this, but I got a suggestion and I cant stop thinking about it!
“We’re playing Beauty and the Beast,” he continued, “and you would’ve made an excellent Belle; dead somebody, vaguely tragic past, fell in love with a prince and inherited a castle.” He ended with a finger brushing hair behind my ear.
I swatted his hand away, narrowed my eyes. “Let me guess. You're the Beast.”
“It sounds bad when you put it like that. I prefer to think of myself as a fallen misunderstood prince turned Beast by a cruel temptress to bring out his heart of gold.” His voice got dreamier by the word.
“Of course you do,” I muttered.
“Great.” He clapped his hands. “Now that we’re on the same page on how I should be projected, we can come up with some great costume designs.”
“Yes.” He gestured between us. Duh. “You and me, we? Not as romantic as you’d like, but still.”
It took a monumental amount of will power, honed through years of ignoring insults, to focus on the problem at hand. “But I’m doing stage design, not the costumes.” I held up a finger. “Hold up a minute, there must’ve been a mistake, I’ll talk to the director.
“So,” Jameson said with a grin, chin delicately poised over his knuckles, “shall we begin? I have other work to do, after all.”
“Of course, when do you not?” I sighed, like someone whose access had been revoked. There were more than a dozen people working on the stages, no one would notice if I slipped out, instead I was stuck being the personal curator of Jameson’s stupid beast costume.
“Hey, getting into character takes a lot of time.” He knocked my shoulder, and something in me snapped.
“Yes, Jameson, I got it,” I groaned. “It takes a lot of effort to huff and brood and roam around acting all stupid beasty.” My hands clenched halfway in front of me, giving up when realising there was no use of undue displays of anger. “Try getting stuck with something you don’t know the first thing about.”
His chair, teetering at the very edge of a head smashing fall, loudly slid back into place. There was nothing different about him per se, but when he spoke, his voice was not the silky, careless, you-had-to-lean-in-to-hear thingy I was used to. “You're saying that I don’t have to work or do anything, because, what,” he chuckled humourlessly. “I’m already all that?”
“I didn’t say that,” I said weakly, reeling my shoulders in.
His lip curled, but his voice was hurt. “You know, you might as well have. It’s apparent enough without you having to work for it.”
“We’re playing Pride and Prejudice this year,” he continued, “and you would have made an excellent Elizabeth; small town girl, big dreamer, madly and irrevocably in love with a charmingly tight-lipped rich man. It’s very-” he hovered an appraising hand over me “-you.”
You're not tight lipped, are you, I thought.
I swatted his hand away, narrowed my eyes. “Let me guess. You're Wickham.”
He hit a fist against his chest. “Oh, how the lady wounds me,” he moaned. Suddenly, he straightened, and I realised just how tall he was when he wasn’t leaning or slouching or whatever. He crossed his legs and curtsied, then took my hand and brought it to his lips. “Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberly, Derbyshire,” he pronounced, words thick with a -rather impressive- posh accent.
I blinked, hand still in his, before remembering to snatch it away.
His serious face morphed into a smirk. He nudged me. “I had you for a moment, didn’t I?”
I managed a flat look. “Not even close. It’s just a sad lonely rich man.”
“It sounds bad when you put it like that. I prefer to think of myself as a misunderstood soul, lost in the complexities of high society, bogged down by the tremendous weight of position and responsibility, freed, in a sense, by love for an intelligent young woman.”
“Of course you do,” I muttered.
He clapped his hands. “Great. Now that we’re on the same page about the light I should be portrayed in, we can come up with some great costume designs.”
And its pretty much the same, bickering and what not.
So what did you guys think? Detailed and constructive criticism is VERY VERY welcome. Thank you!
