I love that Elizabeth and Darcy are so ready to effectively tell each other they're full of shit. This happens a bunch of times, but I was re-reading their conversation at the Netherfield Ball and they're both kind of refreshingly Done.
[Darcy:] “Do you talk by rule, then, while you are dancing?”
[Elizabeth:] “Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd to be entirely silent for half an hour together; and yet, for the advantage of some, conversation ought to be so arranged as that they may have the trouble of saying as little as possible.”
[Darcy:] “Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you imagine that you are gratifying mine?”
“Both,” replied Elizabeth archly; “for I have always seen a great similarity in the turn of our minds. We are each of an unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to posterity with all the éclat of a proverb.”
“This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure,” said he.
It's also pretty funny, because I suspect Darcy is thinking of this sort of thing in a later conversation at Rosings:
“You mean to frighten me, Mr Darcy, by coming in all this state to hear me. But I will not be alarmed, though your sister does play so well. There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises with every attempt to intimidate me.”
“I shall not say that you are mistaken,” he replied, “because you could not really believe me to entertain any design of alarming you; and I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough to know, that you find great enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which, in fact, are not your own.”
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thinking about mreader being the son of a like.... extremely wealthy n powerful person or something, like maybe they're a very important person in the army but idk. mreader has a couple of younger siblings but he's the eldest because :3
and it comes to a point where they're well known and people want to marry them bc of the wealth they'll have access to. but mreader's smart and doesn't take any of them, even when his parent complains about them needing to marry someone, anyone, bc idk plot reasons
and then idk what happens but i guess the parent throws a dinner party or something for the soldiers jnother guests to celebrate something, and ofc you're expected to join bc hello
and so you're mingling, talking to people, ignoring people whose interests are his money. but one particular asshole doesn't get the memo and corners mreader and harasses him, and just when all hope seems to vanish, someone steps in and scares the dumbass away
he asks you if you're alright, and introduces himself as captain john price, and silly fool he is, kisses your hand which makes you laugh. he talks w you for a while, getting to know you, gour personalities melting together in a pleasant away, before you get interrupted - by the rest of 141.
they've been watching price talk to you a while and kiss your hand the same way price did. they talk w you, and it's a pleasant one. you keep up with them nicely - well, moreso they keep up with you. you're educated, you're clever, you're intelligent - they're soldiers.
and while like everyone else, they only talked to get closer to your wealth, they come to realize that they actually like you because of you, not bc of your wealth, and tension builds when they realize all of the 141 members like you, too. they have money, yes, that's true, but they seem penniless when compared to you, but you never once bring up your family's wealth.
you talk for a while, liking each other's company, before your sibling whisks you away. they all watch you as you're dragged away and only look away when you disappear into one of the large and expensive looking doors - fuck, the whole place looks luxurious and expensive.
and then it's all four members giving each other sharp looks, with one thought in mind: you will be theirs, no matter the cost.
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No but even on top of Omar's chef's kiss ✨ acting in this scene (the how-dare-u glare, the pause, the blatant lie, ughh the knowing SMILEE), its just so so well executed.
Right when Wille lets the audience know that he'd let Simon go, with genuine conviction, and complete acceptance in his heart, this scene comes along and sets the gears into motion.
It's a straight up prophesy, like fate personified, walking off into the dark fog of defeat and turning back, ever so slightly, with a smirk, right before disappearing. Like an "Or so you thought" right at the end of a chapter.
When Marcus threatened to cross the boundry of the mental space and memory where Simon kept Wille, something clicked within him. I like to think that in that pause, Simon learnt the truth about himself: that Wille was still there, in his heart. He had never really let him go. And that Marcus was nowhere near what Wille was to him.
"They don't have names" is such a fucking power move. It's the shutting of doors on Marcus' face, the proof of his loyalty to Wille. Unbeknownst to Marcus or Wille, and only to himself, this is the first time Simon stands his ground and speaks his mind truthfully without Marcus' manipulations. And he gets away with it flawlessly.
And man. Nothing gets to me like small subtle actions that hold so much weight and history. I mean look at his smile. He knows what he said.
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OK I promise to stop sharing all of my writing praaahcess, but I did figure out the other day that one other reason this Broadchurch fic is giving me trouble is because I haven't written a ball/dance into the story anywhere and that's frankly shocking
She's sweating a bit, her bloody awful hoodie tied loosely around her waist and revealing a monstrously pink top underneath. Her hair's been shaken loose from its ponytail and the curls are everywhere, spilling over her shoulders and sticking to her neck; even as he watches her she blows a strand out of her face. It immediately falls back to where it was.
"I haven't done that that in ages," she says, still breathless. "Didn't think people still played Tubthumping in clubs."
"It's not a club, it's a school dance," Hardy contradicts, because if he doesn't, he's going to reach out and tuck that strand of hair behind her ear or something equally horrific.
She rolls her eyes. "We're supposed to be chaperones, not pedants." Whatever the new song is, it's at least less frenetic, and those who aren't singing along are sorting themselves out into pairs. He's about to suggest they extricate themselves from the throng of adolescent hormones when she holds out her hand. "When in Rome, I suppose."
He takes it, but he's got no idea what comes next — not until Miller puts her other hand on his shoulder and like that, it's decided; his free hand lands gently at her waist, just above the belted sleeve of her hoodie. He swallows and keeps his eyes fixed on the top of her head.
"Were you and Maggie worried about me spilling my guts to Olly?" Miller asks, as if they're bickering in the car instead of… whatever this is. "Is that why you braved the sea of youths to cut in?"
"Not at all," he says, leaning out of the way of someone behind him, enthusiastically singing about laying down his weapons. It moves them closer together, and he curls their clasped hands in to rest on his heart.
"So Maggie wasn't, but you were," she deduces, infuriatingly; her fingers on his shoulder drum in irritation. "I do know how to keep my gob shut about an investigation, you know. I've had practice."
"I think Maggie just wanted to — what's the phrase?" He nods in their general direction. "Take a turn about the room, sort of thing."
"So she asked you to dance?" Miller scrunches her nose up at him. "Did you tell her you were in no mood to give consequence to ladies slighted by other men?"
"Am I Mr. Darcy now?" he asks, looking down at her. A mistake; her top isn't particularly low-cut, but from this angle he's got more of an eyeful than he ought to have.
Not only that, but she's looking up at him, smiling, and that's far more dangerous. "You'd be an absolutely rubbish Mr. Darcy," she says.
"How d'you mean? I'd be outstanding. I don't like anyone, nor does he."
Miller nods, thoughtful. "That's true. You're broody, so is he."
"And I make even more than ten thousand a year."
"Wa-hey, we've got an eligible bachelor here, lads," she laughs. "Or whatever the line is, a single man of good fortune, in want of a wife."
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