#and eloise last told him his letters slogged on and on and if he liked it so much he should have stayed

[dollypopup]

I can't stop thinking about Colin on his travels. Colin, alone, on a journey to 17 different cities, across several countries. Colin on his own.

Colin who writes letter after letter, to his family, to his friends, and barely gets a response back. How long before he understands that they didn't get lost in the mail? How long until he realizes that, just like when he was a boy, no one has the time for him? The space for him? How many letters unanswered before he lets it finally take root and fester in his mind?

He could have died on that tour.

Would they even notice? Would they see when the letters slow until they cease? Would they wonder why? His mum, surely (maybe, possibly, but she has enough on her hands, besides, and he's never been a concern, in need of her assistance, before), but anyone else? Anthony on his honeymoon, Eloise a stormcloud personified, Benedict taking on the familial responsibilities, Fran preparing for the marriage mart and in Bath, regardless. Daphne, his closest sister, a mum running her own estate.

Greg and Hyacinth who enjoy his stories, but are children.

Pen who ignores him. No explanation, no goodbye.

Colin who has no one in his corner. Colin who travels city to city, putting on personas. Will they like me? What about now? Colin who has hardly anything to read from the people he loves. Who do not think of him.

And yet he thinks of them. Brings them back gifts, writes his recollections for them until it hits him that, oh, they don't care. They don't care what he's doing, how he's doing. They didn't want to hear it before, when he was there with them, and they do not want to hear it now, either. Did they even open those envelopes? Did they see them come through the post, just as proof he's alive, and shrug off the contents? Did they look? Once, Colin sends an empty page. No one notices. Easier, then, to send just the outsides. People only ever care about the outsides. Pretty and prim in neat packages, uncaring of what lies beneath. Sea sick on the rocking boats, staring up at stars on the continent, Colin grows aware, but not bitter. Sad, but resigned.

He loves his family, he loves Pen, loves them to grace, loves them to it's okay. It was him, he determines. Too chatty, his letters too long, uninteresting, his passions dull or droll, or else, worse, he's displeased them in some way. Colin who takes refuge in stranger's arms and homes, who dreams and tries to sate his curiosity. Colin who pretends, because anyone, anyone but him would be received better, he's sure of it. Colin who must talk too much, surely, and with no one to listen. Colin who learns to hush.

Yes. Remarkable- as in, I have many remarks about it.

How many times did he go to excitedly write of what he did that week, and stopped himself, knowing it was a waste? How many times did he write and throw into the fire a letter asking Why don't you see me? Why don't you care?

If he didn't make it, how long would it take for anyone to notice? A month? Two? A year? Would they wave it off as his frivolity, denounce him as a flake and fume about the funds? Would they wonder where it was he had lost himself off at?

He cannot fall into that, so, he writes in his journal, instead. Of the ache of it, of how he longs for connection, for understanding, for someone to take him seriously. He keeps it with him, this log of his discontent, of his folly and felicity, of his pitfalls and pains.

If he didn't make it, would they realize all that's left of him is what he sent them, not even a body to bury? Did he look over the side of a bow of a boat and look at the churn of the ocean and think of how many bones it held? Did he tip his face to the sun? How many new scars did he earn? Who did he befriend?

Who did he become?

Somewhere along the line, Colin learned. He learned the real him wasn't wanted.

Somewhere along the line, somewhere between Patmos and Paris, Colin left Colin behind.

And, somewhere along the line, Colin laid face to face with loneliness in his bed, and it wrapped its arms around him.

[ashleyfanfic]

Ranking the Bridgerton Books

I've read all but one at least twice now, so I'm gonna give my ranking. 1. Romancing Mister Bridgerton - Colin and Penelope since the first time I saw them interact in the show, but their dynamic in the book I like just as much. You get snippets of them being around each other in the first books, but there is a pivotal scene in An Offer From A Gentleman that hurt me into my soul and I have never felt for someone as much as I felt for Penelope in that moment. And then in their book, you can see their friendship grow because as long as he's known her, it's taken him so long to see what everyone else already did. Penelope is amazing, even if she is hiding things from him. The scene in the carriage, but specifically their first time and Colin thinking that he wanted to make love to her in front of a mirror one day so she could see what he saw...lord. Also, Lady Danbury is phenomenal in this book. 2. This was really hard for me to decide which one I liked more, and the truth is, I actually read one of these books more than twice and that was The Viscount Who Loved Me. If you know anything about me, you know that I am a huge fan of Enemies to Lovers, and boy does this deliver on that. I love Kate. She's a whole lotta spitfire and just says things to Anthony that NO ONE else would say because she's adamant that her sister could do better. But then things shift and she sees him differently. The storm scene in the library cemented my love for Anthony Bridgerton. The "Oh Kate" KILLED ME. Dead. The Pall Mall game, which, I'm gonna be honest, if they don't give to us I will be FURIOUS! That shit was legit funny. But then there's the bee, the gazebo, Colin pissing off his brother. And the love story between Kate and Anthony and how these two idiots find love in one another is just *chef's kiss* 3. This was really hard because I loved this book so much. When He Was Wicked is the spiciest of all the books in my opinion. And it's because we start with Francesca being married. You don't see her wedding or courtship to her husband, John, in the other books, you just learn that she was married. And her relationship seems to be a good one. They love and care for each other. But that's not the story that's actually being told. We meet Michael Sterling (and if he's not played by Richard Madden I'll fucking burn the world down), a rogue, rake, an altogether scandalous man, and the cousin and close confidant of both John and Francesca. There's already a flirtation with Michael and Franny before John dies, but Michael would never act on it. Then he dies and both of their worlds are turned upside down. But it's when Michael returns from India and the two are being sought after by others that they're teetering on the edge of something. Michael knows his feelings but doesn't think he can betray his cousin like that, and Franny is just afraid of her feelings for Michael all together. But then there's their first kiss, and then Michael riding to fucking Scotland to seduce her into being his wife, which she doesn't agree to do right off. But the creme de la creme of this book, aside from Franny finally realizing her feelings, is the scene in the cabin when they get stuck in the rain. It's one of the women taking her sexual agency and fucking using it, and Michael is a more than willing participant. That scene was fucking hot. They also have a beautiful Epilogue if you want to read it.

4. To Sir Phillip With Love is a strange one for me. I love that Phillip and his weirdness appeals to Eloise, who I don't think would ever be content with an ordinary man. I could also see someone like Eloise being courted in such an unusual way as letters. What kind of puts me off about this is Phillip's treatment of his children. I get that he eventually catches a clue as to what's going on with them, but through most of the book, he doesn't even bother trying to be close to them. The best part of this book are 1) the brothers Bridgerton storming into their home and trying to pummel Phillip all while Eloise fights them for her man, and 2) the scene at My Cottage where Philip seduces Eloise.

5. While I think this book is the most unoriginal in terms of beginning and end, it's not a bad book throughout the middle. And I'm talking about An Offer From A Gentleman. This series actually shows that Step parents/Siblings aren't all bad, take a look at the Viscount and you get nothing but love between Mary, Kate, and Edwina. But this book goes with the wicked stepmother. Of course it does, it's ripping off Cinderella. The first chapter with the ball had me uninterested and it felt like a slog to get through, but once we get away from the Cinderella aspects and get to Sophie and Ben's actual story, I'm more into it. UNTIL Benedict decides that he's going to wear Sophie down about becoming his mistress. From book to show, Benedict is the most different in my opinion. I can't imagine that guy ever doing what book Ben does to Sophie. When he finally realizes who Sophie is, it's cathartic really. Because on the one had, she's known who he is the entire time, even knew he was looking for her, and said nothing about it. I do love Violet in this book. I love their scenes at My Cottage and I love the idea of a Colin Firth type scene for our Benedict, but the rest of it left me very underwhelmed.

6. It's In His Kiss was cute enough, but my problem with this one is that Hyacinth is in all of the other books as a pesky younger sister, a girl if you will. So, it's really difficult for me to wrap my head around her being a grown woman at this time. And it would take a special man to handle her. Gareth is that man. I love the scenes with Lady Danbury. She shines everywhere she goes, though. I don't know, I just didn't feel this one and I guess it's because seeing Hyacinth grown is weird to me.

7. The Duke and I. If you've seen the show you've read the book, I feel. This book had so much promise until THAT scene. Like, I get it, you're mad about being lied to, but the man was drunk and Daphne took advantage of that. It caused him to start stuttering again, it was so damaging. And she wasn't sorry. I guess that's my real gripe. She wasn't apologetic about what she did. This is the only book I read once.

8. On the Way to the Wedding felt like a lesser version of the Viscount. Gregory wanting Hermione, but having to go through Lucy to get to her... I read this story before and it was done much better. Not that I dislike Gregory or Lucy. I don't. I just don't find either of them as compelling as Anthony or Kate. I don't have a lot of thoughts about this one because once I hit the wedding I was like "I just want to be done with it already". Maybe it was burnout. I don't know. Perhaps if I start with this one instead of saving it for last I'll have a better opinion.

[somedayillbepeterpan]

Well, this made me cry

I can't stop thinking about Colin on his travels. Colin, alone, on a journey to 17 different cities, across several countries. Colin on his own.

Colin who writes letter after letter, to his family, to his friends, and barely gets a response back. How long before he understands that they didn't get lost in the mail? How long until he realizes that, just like when he was a boy, no one has the time for him? The space for him? How many letters unanswered before he lets it finally take root and fester in his mind?

He could have died on that tour.

Would they even notice? Would they see when the letters slow until they cease? Would they wonder why? His mum, surely (maybe, possibly, but she has enough on her hands, besides, and he's never been a concern, in need of her assistance, before), but anyone else? Anthony on his honeymoon, Eloise a stormcloud personified, Benedict taking on the familial responsibilities, Fran preparing for the marriage mart and in Bath, regardless. Daphne, his closest sister, a mum running her own estate.

Greg and Hyacinth who enjoy his stories, but are children.

Pen who ignores him. No explanation, no goodbye.

Colin who has no one in his corner. Colin who travels city to city, putting on personas. Will they like me? What about now? Colin who has hardly anything to read from the people he loves. Who do not think of him.

And yet he thinks of them. Brings them back gifts, writes his recollections for them until it hits him that, oh, they don't care. They don't care what he's doing, how he's doing. They didn't want to hear it before, when he was there with them, and they do not want to hear it now, either. Did they even open those envelopes? Did they see them come through the post, just as proof he's alive, and shrug off the contents? Did they look? Once, Colin sends an empty page. No one notices. Easier, then, to send just the outsides. People only ever care about the outsides. Pretty and prim in neat packages, uncaring of what lies beneath. Sea sick on the rocking boats, staring up at stars on the continent, Colin grows aware, but not bitter. Sad, but resigned.

He loves his family, he loves Pen, loves them to grace, loves them to it's okay. It was him, he determines. Too chatty, his letters too long, uninteresting, his passions dull or droll, or else, worse, he's displeased them in some way. Colin who takes refuge in stranger's arms and homes, who dreams and tries to sate his curiosity. Colin who pretends, because anyone, anyone but him would be received better, he's sure of it. Colin who must talk too much, surely, and with no one to listen. Colin who learns to hush.

Yes. Remarkable- as in, I have many remarks about it.

How many times did he go to excitedly write of what he did that week, and stopped himself, knowing it was a waste? How many times did he write and throw into the fire a letter asking Why don't you see me? Why don't you care?

If he didn't make it, how long would it take for anyone to notice? A month? Two? A year? Would they wave it off as his frivolity, denounce him as a flake and fume about the funds? Would they wonder where it was he had lost himself off at?

He cannot fall into that, so, he writes in his journal, instead. Of the ache of it, of how he longs for connection, for understanding, for someone to take him seriously. He keeps it with him, this log of his discontent, of his folly and felicity, of his pitfalls and pains.

If he didn't make it, would they realize all that's left of him is what he sent them, not even a body to bury? Did he look over the side of a bow of a boat and look at the churn of the ocean and think of how many bones it held? Did he tip his face to the sun? How many new scars did he earn? Who did he befriend?

Who did he become?

Somewhere along the line, Colin learned. He learned the real him wasn't wanted.

Somewhere along the line, somewhere between Patmos and Paris, Colin left Colin behind.

And, somewhere along the line, Colin laid face to face with loneliness in his bed, and it wrapped its arms around him.