#the polin fic

[checkoutmybookshelf]

Lady Whistledown Returns: Chapter 10

Colin survived his ordeal but has yet to awaken. What will Anthony’s next moves be?

Need to catch up? Find previous chapters and works on AO3.

This chapter has no content warnings.

By the time the sun was setting, the mood in Colin’s bedroom at Bridgerton House was one of exhaustion shot through with relief. On the doctor initially seeing Colin, he had chosen to try to administer a compound to neutralize the venom through the ivory needles. The compound and venom had reacted badly, and the reaction Colin had had was terrifyingly reminiscent of Edmund’s last moments for Anthony and Violet, both of whom had departed reason in the throes of panic. Violet had nearly thrown both Benedict and Simon off of her when they had tried to move her to let the doctor attend to Colin. Eloise had curled into a ball in the corner at the sound of her mother’s screams; nothing Francesca and Daphne could do would rouse her. Gregory and Hyacinth clutched each other’s hands in a different corner of the room, pale-faced and teary-eyed, but out of the way. Kate’s attention was fully on the catatonic Anthony who was slumped over in a chair and not responding to anything.

Slowly, over the next few hours, the reaction calmed, and Colin’s breathing and color improved, if not the swelling about his joints and the fever. By evening, the doctor announced that Colin’s life was not immediately in danger, and he was going to his apothecary to refresh himself and his stock of medications before checking back in early in the morning. Simon saw the man out, as the Bridgertons began to breathe again.

Violet was curled up on the double bed next to Colin, one hand stroking his cheek. She had not stopped whispering to him for hours; what had begun as declarations of love and assurances that he would be alright had slowly morphed into family memories—happy, sad, and anything in between. Her voice was an exhausted thread but she had not stopped.

Between them, Benedict and Kate manhandled Anthony into the space on the bed that was not taken up with Colin or Violet, trying to bring him back to the room and prove to him that Colin was alive and would recover. Kate stayed next to Anthony, and Hyacinth and Gregory moved to sit on the floor next to the bed, in gentle physical contact with Kate and Anthony’s legs, still clutching each other’s hands.

After settling Anthony, Benedict carefully pulled Francesca and Daphne to their feet before lifting a pale-faced, tight-lipped Eloise into his arms. Daphne and Francesca settled on the floor by the bed, with Francesca wrapping arms around Gregory and Hyacinth. Daphne tried to take all three of their hands in one of hers, while setting her free hand on her mother’s back. Benedict settled on the opposite side of Gregory and Hyacinth with Eloise under one of his arms and his free hand on Gregory’s shoulder. Everyone’s heads were leaned into the center of what was becoming a pile of Bridgertons as they listened to Colin’s laborious but steady breathing and Violet’s whispers.

Simon returned, surveyed the pile, briefly kissed Daphne and left the room again. When he returned, it was holding a laden tea tray and accompanied by Sophie, who was holding an equally laden tray.

“The children?” Kate asked quietly, not moving.

“With the maids and nannies,” said Sophie, putting her tray down in front of the Francesca, Gregory, and Hyacinth pile before taking a tailor’s seat on Eloise’s other side and stroking the girl’s hair while handing Benedict a sandwich. “They’re all right.”

 Simon’s tray went on a small end table that was within reach of the bed. He handed Kate a small plate with a few sandwiches on it, then handed a plate to Daphne before settling in behind her to give her something to lean against.

Eventually, slowly, as the night wore on, the youngest four Bridgertons ate, drank tea, and one by one fell asleep in their pile, with pillows sneaked in by Daphne and Sophie. Simon and Benedict tucked blankets around them. Sometime after midnight, Violet’s voice finally died away, replaced by calm breathing. Her hand still rested on Colin’s hair, and other than covering her with a blanket, nobody so much as tried to move her. Anthony returned to himself about an hour later, as Colin’s breathing became notably less labored.

When he accepted a cup of very cold tea and a sandwich, Kate dropped her head against his chest, whispering something in Hindustani. The last of the tension also drained from Benedict and Daphne when Anthony met their eyes and was clearly there. Daphne, Anthony, and Benedict did not sleep properly that night, and neither did their respective spouses, but all three dozed as false dawn lightened the room, and as the sun rose, the doctor returned as promised.

Surveying the pile of sleepy and sleeping Bridgertons, the doctor looked as though he might snort or roll his eyes disapprovingly, but seemed to think better of it when Anthony raised an eyebrow. Without waking anyone—even Violet—the doctor briskly examined Colin, and nodded decisively when he was finished.

“He will recover,” the doctor said to Anthony. “I expect he will sleep for the rest of today, unless pain wakes him. I shall leave a tincture for pain and one for sleep with your housekeeper. Rest will be the best medicine for him. If he should develop a fever, or if the swelling in his joints gets worse instead of better, send for me.”

“When can we expect him to recover fully?” asked Anthony.

“If it were just a matter of the poor reaction, I would say he would be fully recovered in four, maybe five days. Given the other compounding issues—” the doctor gestured to the purple bruises that had bloomed across Colin’s torso and face, and the knot on his head— “I would imagine a few weeks at the soonest, perhaps two months, if the venom has long-term effects. I admit, I do not know what was used, so I cannot be more specific and I cannot tell you what to look for, except things out of the ordinary. Of course you may send for me if you are concerned, but this is all I can do for now, my lord.”

“Of course. You have my thanks, and that of the Bridgerton family,” said Anthony. Bowing briefly, the doctor turned and left the room, leaving the pile of sleeping Bridgertons and a room that was palpably less tense.

For about a minute.

Anthony placed a gentle hand on Colin’s calf, reassuring himself that his brother was here, was alive, and if not alright just then, on the mend. His eyes hardened when Kate leaned into him, though the arm he snaked around her and the kiss he placed on her hair were gentle.

Slowly, and careful to not disturb Francesca, Gregory, or Hyacinth, Anthony rose and extricated himself from the pile, followed equally delicately by Kate. Eloise had slid into the pile in her sleep, so Benedict was relatively unencumbered when he caught the fury deep in Anthony’s eyes and leapt to follow the Viscount and Viscountess, gesturing to Sophie to stay where she was. Daphne had risen when Benedict did, and she and Simon were hot on Kate and Anthony’s heels as the entire party headed for Anthony’s study.

Standing at the door, Anthony turned to Benedict, Simon, and Daphne. “You are not required; I suggest you return to Colin’s room. The others will require your support when they wake. Mother in particular—”

“Sophie is there, she can look after Mother until we are finished,” said Benedict. “You looked ready to murder someone and I am here to make sure it isn’t Penelope.”

“What?” Anthony and Daphne’s faces were the same shade of red as they yelled simultaneously.

“Get in here before you yell the house down,” ordered Kate, opening the study door and helping Simon chivvy the Bridgertons in. “If you wake the others they’ll be outside this door listening in.”

The door had barely closed when Anthony and Daphne were yelling at Benedict again.

“Were you in the same room as the rest of us all night—”

“You would allow that poison-pen witch to harm this family AGAIN—”

Benedict’s face didn’t redden, but he was more than equal to shouting down any two of his siblings. “Penelope did not hurt Colin, the queen did!”

“She might have stayed her hand had Miss Featherington not provoked her,” bellowed Anthony.

“You cannot possibly know that!”

“She should never have taken the chance,” yelled Daphne. “That is not love, you do not do that to someone you love!”

“Would you have done that if it were Sophie?” Anthony’s tone was cruel. “Surely not, brother. Imagine her lying unconscious on that bed, too pale and in pain. It takes the hard heart of a born harridan to abandon a partner to the crown’s tender mercies!”

“I didn’t have to make that choice, and neither did you, Viscount, so unless you know exactly what Penelope was facing, perhaps we ought not judge and instead focus on the person who gave the order!” Benedict’s hands had fisted at his sides when Anthony described Sophie in Colin’s condition, but he had to remain focused. His wife was fine, Colin would recover. Penelope had been nothing but sincere and terrified and she had no other voice in this room.

“The order was published for the entire ton to see in Lady Whistledown.” Anthony wasn’t yelling anymore, which was somehow more threatening than his bombastic affect. He had moved behind his desk, and was digging aggressively in a desk drawer until he came up with a leather folder that he slammed down on the desk. Leaning forward on the desk over the folder, braced on his knuckles, Anthony caught Benedict’s eyes and held them.

“This is a bill of divorce I intend to present before the Lords. It will accomplish three things.”

Somewhere behind Benedict, Daphne gasped quietly.

“First,” spat Anthony, “it will end this utter sham of a marriage that served to elevate an utterly unworthy, small-hearted bitch into this family and offered her protection at the cost of the safety and reputation of not only Colin, but the entire extended family—your wife and son included, Benedict.”

“She has never harmed—”

“Second,” said Anthony, steamrolling over Benedict’s protest. “It will expose the identity of the author of Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers as Mrs. Colin Bridgerton, nee Featherington. That will open her up to social ridicule and ostracization, which is not required but is rather a side benefit of revealing her identity.”

Thoroughly disconcerted by the savage light in Anthony’s eyes—was he enjoying this?—Benedict turned to Daphne, who was standing tall, face stone, with her hand in Simon’s. Simon’s face was carefully blank, while Kate’s was angry and determined.

“Third—” Anthony chuckled darkly— “the bill offers charges against Miss Featherington for harm to her husband, harm to the Bridgerton family, and criminal conduct against members of the ton. She will be utterly ruined at best, and if we are exceedingly fortunate, she will spend time in gaol. This family will be free of a dangerous actor and Colin will be free to find a wife who loves him.”

Benedict dropped into a chair in shock. “How long have you had this bill sitting in your desk?”

“Since that business with Felix Featherington. Colin refused to leave her then, but I had the bill drawn up anyway, just in case. I am immensely glad that I did; this dreadful business will be over quickly. I shall attend the Lords this afternoon.”

“Without consulting any of the interested parties? At least consult Mother—”

“It is not Mother’s job to protect this family! Did you see her last night, Benedict? If you imagine I will risk her losing a child again when I can prevent it—” he could not even finish the sentence around the fury.

“Then wait one day. Colin did not want to divorce Penelope last time, would you really take the choice away from him now? Would you wish to set that precedent? Would you give someone a reason to take your marriage away from you?” Benedict was rewarded with a miniscule crack in Anthony’s rage, and his older brother’s eyes flicked to Kate. He had to press this, widen that crack. “What if you’re wrong, brother? What if you dissolve Colin’s marriage before he wakes and it was the wrong choice? Do you think he would forgive you for that? I certainly would not.”

Anthony hesitated, for the first time looking uncertain. He paced the room for long moments, while Benedict held his breath. If he could buy enough time, he could save his younger brother’s marriage and gain an ally in focusing on the insupportable behavior of the crown. Finally Anthony slowed, and turned back to Benedict, hands clasped behind his back.

“Much as I would hate to cause Colin further pain, I cannot wait. It is my responsibility to protect this family, and in this case that means removing Miss Featherington from the picture. I will act to protect the family now, and if I must make amends to Colin later, I shall do my utmost in that endeavor.”

“Anthony,” said Daphne, voice hesitant. “Surely one day will not make so much difference. Colin may wish you to remove the request for divorcement from the bill. You can still present the bill with the charges, but it may be best not to meddle with Colin’s marriage without his permission.”

“It cannot be helped, sister. In cases where a family’s reputation is at risk from the actions of a woman who married in, the Lords tend to recommend divorce unless there is evidence that the wider family was complicit, which will not be the case. You cannot think I am wrong to bring a bill before the Lords?”

“Of course I do not, but I would hate to hurt Colin more than we must by failing to consult his feelings.”

“Daph, I feel the same, but it cannot be helped.” Anthony picked up the folder and moved toward the door. Benedict dove between them.

“And who will protect other families of the ton from the queen’s wrath if you go through with this?” he cried. “We are at a tipping point, Anthony. The crown illegally kidnapped and tortured an innocent member of an old, popular, and influential family. Will we excuse it and open the door to other offenses by failing to blame the crown and letting them scapegoat Penelope?”

“Get out of my way,” snapped Anthony. “And if you continue to so strenuously defend her, I might just suspect—” Anthony’s face went white. Benedict’s stomach sank so far that he thought he might have to visit Tartarus to collect it again.

Anthony reached into his jacket, using his arm to hold the folder between elbow and body, and withdrew the issue of Whistledown that had doomed Colin. He studied it for long moments, turning it over in his hands, looking for a printer’s mark and the crown seal that would have been affixed had it been printed under a crown writ. As Benedict well knew, Anthony wouldn’t find either.

“What on earth are you looking for?” asked Daphne.

“There’s no printer’s mark and no seal on this Whistledown,” he whispered. Kate gasped, hand covering her mouth a second too late to muffle the sound. “And the only printing press I am aware of in London that would not require a crown writ to operate now is the one at the academy.” Anthony’s eyes were still glued to the broadsheet in his hands as he spoke. “Benedict…please tell me you had nothing to do with this. Please.” His voice was hoarse and nearly broke on the second “please.”

“You didn’t,” said Daphne, tears in her eyes as Simon’s arms encircled her shoulders. “How could you? Colin could have died.”

“He wouldn’t have if the queen hadn’t kidnapped him in the first place, Daphne,” said Benedict. “And do not deceive yourself into thinking that if Penelope had not published that the queen would not have contrived some reason to hurt him anyway. In a feud like the one between the queen and Lady Whistledown, when you hold the advantage that Colin represented, you use it.”

“You do not think like that,” said Anthony. “Those are not your words, are they? She talked you into helping her, the vicious—”

“Anthony,” interrupted Kate. “Whatever Penelope has done, you cannot treat her like another Eve. The Bridgerton skull is far too thick to be casually tricked or seduced. If you had been listening to your brother’s words, you might see the bigger picture—”

“Of course you would side with her, you both married into this family, both gained significant status and prestige—”

“Finish that sentence and you will find your bed cold until we send Edmund to Eaton,” snapped Kate. “Your fear does not excuse taking that tone with me.”

Anthony actually shut up, face red and jaw working.

“There is the risk of a larger issue,” said Simon, quietly. “The argument about this happening to another ton family is sound. By all means, be furious with Penelope, and if you insist on a bill of divorce, I will not argue, but we must place the blame for Colin’s injuries at the crown’s door. If we do not, what is to stop them kidnapping a child lordling and controlling the estate through them? Kidnapping some lord’s wife?” He squeezed Daphne’s shoulders. “Recall your history, Anthony. The crown cannot be allowed to interfere in the ton without the backing of the rule of law. Chaos and fear follow. Would you have a Reign of Terror on English soil?”

“What would you have me do?” demanded Anthony. “Challenge the crown itself? As if this family hasn’t been in the midst of enough scandal since—well, since Daphne’s first season, frankly!”

“Do not drag me into this,” muttered Daphne.

“And,” Anthony continued, shooting an irritated glance at his sister. “I will not forgive Penelope’s role in this. Perhaps the crown has overstepped, but she is culpable in the feud as well.”

“These are separate issues,” said Benedict. “One is something we can deal with as a family, but we cannot fail society and the ton by failing to call the crown on the carpet.”

“This is exactly why I am the head of this household and you are not,” yelled Anthony. “The risk to the family–”

“Is practically nonexistent,” interrupted Simon. “You would be in the right, Anthony. Do not let your desire to punish Penelope prevent you from seeing that the crown was entirely out of order to kidnap Colin in the first place. Take the Whistledown feud out of the equation for a moment. Who precisely is to blame here?”

Kate was nodding along with Simon’s logic, and even Daphne was looking somewhat discomfited by it, despite her still-clear solidarity with Anthony. Anthony himself had a distinctly mulish look on his face that said louder than words that he knew Simon and Benedict were correct, but said equally loudly that he still had no desire to reconcile with Penelope. 

After a long, tense moment, Anthony slapped the folder back down onto his desk. “I still will not have her anywhere near this house and family, and if Colin gives the slightest indication he no longer wishes to be attached to her, the bill of divorce will go before the Lords.”

“But?” asked Benedict. 

“But I shall have my solicitor draft a new bill to present to Parliament tomorrow, one that condemns the actions of the crown and calls for restitution and measures to prevent this from happening again. Are you all happy now?”

“I will not be happy until Colin wakes up,” said Daphne. “But I am content for the moment. I believe I will go check on Augie and Mama, and then I shall go lie down; last night was not what I would describe as restful.” She swept out of the room, followed by Kate. 

Anthony and Simon spent most of that day ensconced in Anthony’s study with both their solicitors. It was decided that the bill would be stronger if the Duke of Hastings and Viscount Bridgerton presented it jointly, as the argument could be made that both their families had been adversely affected by the actions of the crown. Their positions as members of the Prince Regent’s personal court lent additional weight to a joint presentation.

Benedict stayed for a while, intending to help, but Anthony was snappish with him, still clearly angry over what he saw as Benedict’s role in things. Rather than fight with his older brother, Benedict went back upstairs. Sophie had left–likely to deal with Charles–and Colin and Violet were still sleeping. Eloise lifted her head as he was turning to leave, and Benedict extended a hand to his sister. She took it, and the pair retired to the art room. Benedict filled her in on Colin’s prognosis, and the two shared tea. The rest of the day was spent in the art room; Benedict painted and napped, while Eloise read on the window seat and dozed. 

Eventually, Francesca, Gregory, and Hyacinth also wandered down to find their siblings, and were absorbed into the slow but relatively normal routine of the household. Violet refused to leave Colin’s room, so Kate and Daphne ensured that she had company more often than not. It was not until late that evening, when the solicitors had left and the family had already had dinner that Anthony climbed the stairs to check on his mother and brother. 

He was expecting Colin to have awoken by then, as the doctor had said, but when he entered, Colin was still unconscious. Violet had changed and moved to a comfortable chair beside his bed, but her face was pinched with worry. 

“He hasn’t developed a fever, I’m certain of it,” she said by way of a greeting. “He’s in pain, but I can’t give him anything until he wakes, I won’t risk him choking on the tincture.” As if to underscore Violet’s words, Colin’s face twisted, and stayed that way for a long moment before relaxing slightly.  

“I’m sure he’ll wake again before long,” said Anthony, but Violet was shaking her head before he finished. 

“He hasn’t woken up yet, Anthony. I think that if he does not wake tonight, we ought to consider summoning the doctor again.” She sighed, shaking her head as though she could shed her worry. “But there’s nothing to be done until he wakes up or morning comes.  So in the meantime, you can tell me what you’ve done.”

“Of course.” Anthony pulled a second chair over, sitting across from his mother so he could speak to her while watching his brother’s face. “You shall be pleased to know that I have been working with the solicitor to draft a bill for parliament–”

“About Penelope, Anthony,” interrupted Violet. “It occurred to me that she has not been here, and when I asked, Daphne equivocated as though I was an undesirable suitor with a proposal, and Kate said that was yours to tell. So please, do tell.”

“There is nothing at all to tell,” began Anthony, stiffly.

“Nothing to tell? She is his wife, Anthony. She should be here, she loves him.”

“I think you’ll find the jury is still very much out on that count, mother.”

“Do not snap at me Anthony, not in this room on this day,” warned Violet. “Did you forbid her from being here?” Her eyes widened. “You cannot possibly blame her for this?”

Anthony didn’t meet her eyes. He had spent too many hours going over and over the arguments with the lawyers to comfortably own placing blame at Penelope’s doorstep, but to say that he didn’t blame her anymore would be an outright falsehood. 

“You have had a blessed life, Anthony, if you have never had to face a choice without a bloodless option,” Violet said, gently. “Not everyone is so fortunate. I suspect that Penelope has faced more of those choices than any young woman should have to.”

“But she did have a choice,” said Anthony. 

“Yes, she did, and I suspect that having a choice makes dealing with such options even more difficult. Do you remember the night Hyacinth was born? The choice that dreadful doctor asked you to make?”

Anthony shuddered; the magnitude of the choice that the man had insisted he make had been unimaginable. “But I made the choice, mother. I told him to do what you wanted.”

“Dearest, you did not make a choice that night. Hyacinth and I came through, but you did not make a choice. You declined to choose. That is not a statement of blame or of judgment,” said Violet quickly, as Anthony raised his head to respond sharply. “I cannot tell you how grateful I am that you could decline that choice. You were so young, Anthony, and had you made that choice, I suspect you would have never recovered. You are a wonderful Viscount, and you are measured and careful in the choices you make to lead this family. But you also go to extraordinary lengths to ensure that you do not have to make choices like that.” 

Colin’s face twisted again, and he moaned deep in the back of his throat. Violet and Anthony watched his face, both tense. Colin’s face could not be said to relax in the next few moments, but he seemed to get used to the pain, and when he did not moan again, Violet let out a breath. She stroked his sweat-matted curls almost absently as she resumed speaking.

“Penelope could not have declined the choice she was given. She could either let Colin languish in indefinite captivity or she could make such a hue and cry that there would be no choice but to release him. To decline to choose would be the same as choosing to leave him there. In all honesty, I do not know what choice I would have made, but I did not face that choice. I am grateful that Penelope had the strength to choose, and that she chose to love my son enough to make the choice that brought him home to us.” 

Anthony found that he could not swallow around the lump in his throat. “Why do things of such magnitude always seem simpler after we speak?”

Violet simply smiled, hovering her hand a mere whisper above Colin’s hands and then his elbows, checking to see if the joints were still hot with inflammation. The smile did not disappear, but it did become strained. 

“These are not improving, Anthony.”

“If he does not wake tonight, I promise I will personally summon the doctor. Should I have some ice fetched for now?”

Violet and Anthony spent the rest of the night with Colin, trying to ice the tender, swollen joints without causing him more pain. Every Bridgerton sibling poked their head in the room at least once during the night, and by morning, Daphne, Eloise, and Benedict had taken over icing duties from their exhausted mother and eldest brother. 

Even the slight pressure of ice chips wrapped in handkerchiefs laid atop his elbows, wrists, and hands made the still-unconscious Colin cry out in pain, so they had been careful to put them next to him rather than over top of the affected areas. Daphne somewhat limply opined that it was better than nothing, but even she did not believe her words. 

As full morning broke, Anthony summoned the doctor again. The poor man nearly had to be dragged into the room by Simon and Anthony, and his brisk examination of the patient revealed no new insights. The man did not quite openly admit that he had no idea what to do, but the somewhat hysterical list of patent medicines he rattled off to try was a bit of a giveaway—particularly as one of them was meant to ease a difficult birth. They would simply have to wait for Colin to wake up on his own. 

[memoldy]

Violets excitement at their engagement has me SOBBING 😭💕

[merlinemryspendragon]

What is the primary force that guides us along our paths? Is it our minds, or our hearts?

[skyrigel]

Hi! I love all of your writing, could please do Benedict and best friend reader at a ball and he over hears some girls bullying reader and goes OFF and reader runs off and he thinks he’s embarrassed her but when he finds her she explains she found it super hot and then some smut please! 💖

You are in love 1 || B.B

Part 2 of " you are in love"

Pairing: Benedict bridgerton x best friend! Reader, + Polin

Warning: fem! reader, no description of reader, friendly flirting and teasing, mutual pinning, use of inappropriate words, reader has a step sister. Fluff and angst, part 1 of you are in love. Part : 2 will be smut

Rigel's note 🪩: Thank you for requesting, and the compliment<3333 *smooches* I hope you don't mind me doing it in two parts :) the title is taken from Taylor Swift's song " you are in love", it popped as soon as I read best friend reader, hope it's not as bad as it's in my head, sending love back, also part 2 soon.

" Perks of being a woman, you don't have to dance with Eloise bridgerton." You remarked when it was the fifth time Eloise stepped on lord White's toe.

Benedict snorted on his lemonade as he looked at you sideways, his iconic lop sided grin plastered to his smug face.

" I was her dance partner, " Benedict fake sniffed, wiping the fake tear, ", that too, before she started lessons."

You winced at the idea of Eloise before her lesson and gave Benedict a pat on his back for being ever the sacrifice.

" I thought that's why you danced wierd " you told him, smiling when he looked at you scandalously.

" Excuse me ?! " He narrowed his eyes, " you take that back ! " He slammed the glass down with force.

" Will not, you dance like...like a snowman ! " You beamed, slamming your fan down and glaring back, nose to nose, eye to eye.

" That never stopped you from dancing with me." He said smugly and retreated to his space with a satisfied look in his eyes when your jaw slacked slightly.

" You don't dance like a snowman with me." you told him in a small voice and that's when it hit you how gracefully he twirled you around when he was practically running away from other beautiful young ladies.

Benedict smiled, his eyes twinkling at you as he raised his brow, like in a question.

" And why would you think that ? " His mouth twisted and you didn't know what to say.

" Perhaps because I dance well...? " You tried and despite it being not the answer he expected, he laughed all the same.

" You dance like a ... a Kangaroo." Benedict thought hard and a muscle in his jaw twitched, he smiled proudly when he got the right word to annoy you.

" What's a kangaroo ? " You asked, you had heard it somewhere but it was easier to ask him than think hard.

" It's like..." Benedict motioned with his hands something like a vase," it's a cute animal." He finally said when nothing more could be made out from his gestures.

"Oh." You nodded and then it hit you, " Did you just call me an ANIMAL ?! " You snarled at him and he shaked his head with a chuckle.

" I called you cute too." He squabbled.

" Kangaroo's aren't cute ! " You jabbed at him and he chuckled, grabbing your wrist firmly, a spark so bright jolted inside you and you felt your face grow hot.

" Then I don't dance like a snowman—" you sticked your tongue out at him and he was lost in words, just looking, you saw the opportunity and yanked your hand away from his grip. He relented like a gentleman.

" You are always like..like running away and leaning off while dancing and it's so so snowman like." You argued and Benedict's eyes twinkled like moon.

" Have you seen a snowman waltzing ? " Benedict asked and you shaked your head, while clutching at your chest, you couldn't help the giggling.

" Yes if we are talking about a tall, handsome and smug snowman."

" You think I am handsome ? " Benedict ducked his head closer to your face and you felt your breath hitching in your throat, like air was punched out of your chest.

You rolled your eyes when it became too apparent that no word would come out of your traitorous throat and you couldn't help but gaze back at him, he looked back just the same, all fire and blaze.

" You didn't answer my question." He said slowly, each word carefully and it squeezed your heart how close his face was, how beautiful those eyes were, and that nose, and those cheeks, those lines when he smiled, he oftened and it was so warm and gorgeous, how you never noticed how captivating he was, every atom of his body was tied with an invisible thread with yours, a golden one. And you would be damned to think of that mouth, your lips parted at the ethereal site and Benedict smiled at that.

" No." You just said it, eager to say anything and break this moment, it was swirling you around in a storm.

" No ? " He questioned, frowning and he was handsome at that too, you were so doomed.

" You are silly like handsome, like some lord Byron poetry." you murmured softly, safe guarding the hammering heart in your chest and blinking at the sudden burn from his gaze on you, drinking you in, his brow knitted in funny way, a mock annoyance crossed his face.

" Lord Byron ?! Really, " he dropped back to his seat and you finally took a breath, then he covered his face like a damsel in distress and when he glanced sideways at you, he was smiling his brightest, oh, you just realised how goofy and precious and mesmerizing his smile was, you wished to stop time and paint it under your lids so everytime you close your eyes, you could meet him there, in your secret gardens and then a death like that would be sweeter.

" What ? " You exasperated when he refused to look away, even when your nose wrinkled and face basked in it's warmth, he wouldn't let go of you, taking each and every detail in like he was wishing to stop time too and paint you. He could, he was an artist.

" You called me poetry..." His mouth quirked up in a delightful grin, like it explained all the merry and you groaned, looking away as you huffed the tingling in your body that wouldn't go, your eyes landed on a very eventful moment.

" Is that our Colin ? " You raised your brow at Benedict who sat up straighter and turned his gaze to the other side of the hall.

" Why is he eye murdering lord Debling ? " You asked him, he winked and pulled your chair closer, not caring if any mama saw or perhaps lady whistledown herself.

" Penelope is dancing with lord Debling, and well she's laughing at something too, oh—" Benedict whispered in the shell of your ear and you barely nodded, Colin looked like he had enough, he was making his way through the crowd towards Pen.

" Forty shillings if he punches lord Debling." You piped up, Benedict shaked his head.

" You are gonna lose cupcake, he's gonna take Miss Featherington's hand and—" you gasped when Colin stopped abruptly, said something urgently and took Penelope's wrist between his hand, Benedict cocked his head to his side and winked smugly.

" And ? " You drawled and it amused Benedict beyond limits, like he has been waiting for it.

" Birds and bees." He said in a code like hushed whisper, you smacked the back of his head.

" I don't have a mother, you know." You told Benedict and he touched his upper lip with the tip of his pink tongue, he nodded along knowingly.

" Well, someone's gotta teach you."

" Mm.. you are my best friend." You would look anywhere but at him but your eye's were locked in his, he was being brave then so can you. One step, not much.

" I can not tell you birds and bee." Benedict said sincerely.

" Colin helped Pen ! " You said, nose flaring as he worried his jaw but didn't say anything.

" He told her how kids are made, something like going to a farm and then...well he kissed her but that's not the point." You blurted in a whisper, he listened intently.

" He kissed her already ? "

" Well a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell but a lady can, but that's not the point! " You pouted, his resistance crumbled but then again, bloody bridgerton.

" That's not my place cupcake." He was breathing hard, his mouth would open and snap close again, taking back all the things left unsaid.

" Well then—" you hated how choked your voice got, you tried, didn't you, it's not like you left it on god's cue, this was the biggest hint you could have given him and if he didn't got this, then only bricks might work.

Give him one more, a small voice said in your head, it was yours, but stronger and braver than you.

" —then you can tell me about love."

Benedict laughed on that, like it was the funniest thing you had said.

" You know what? I take it back, I am gonna ask someone—" you smoothed your skirt and began to get up when he pulled you down.

" Sorry, I didn't mean that, sorry, don't go leaving me stranded." He pleaded.

You looked at him hard, looking for any sign of humour and you found none, he was glittering when he clapped his tongue and opened his mouth, his soft tongue resting like a tired cat.

" Love," he began," is like music."

" Like music." You repeated, struggling with the fit laughter that shook your shoulders.

Benedict glanced at you offended but when he spoke next, it was how the poets said, with longing and desire, like bleeding for your beloved and when no blood was left then it was ink and parchment.

" You can hear it in the silence." He said, you remembered those afternoons when no word was said between you and your bestfriend and yet nothing was hidden and left unsaid.

" You can feel it on your way home." He said, penetrating his gaze in you eyes and he remembered damn well that night after he rescued you from the lake when you almost drowned, the terror of losing you, the spark of holding you closer than ever.

" You can see it with the light's out, it's so bright and golden." Everything is more beautiful with you Benedict, you told him one Sunny afternoon, basking under a tree while he read you poetry, Better than Byron.

" Loving that one person will make you love yourself, with them, you are enough." He was whispering now, chest heaving as his hand trembled and unknowingly yours found his under the table, locked eye's and joined hands and sacred whispered chants. It was enough.

" You aren't too much, or too little, or loud or boring, you don't have to be interesting or witty or anything, being youself with them is enough." I like myself with you, he had told you when you were sixteen.

" That's love, being safe with them is love, being their home is love, to be able to leave all shades behind and be naked in just body and soul and not being afraid, not being embarassed is love."

" Benedict..." Your voice was soft and sweet and it took him a moment to realise he was crying, when you gently wiped it's proof with your handkerchief.

" I...I will be back in a moment—" he stumbled out, still smiling a small smile and oh god what you have done, you have ruined him as well your self and nothing will ever be the same.

" Yes...." You said, because he was waiting for your approval, he nodded back when he got it and disappeared amongst the crowd as you watched him leave.

Love was indeed like music, the one you liked, it could be light as bee buzzing and sharp as thunder roaring in clouds, it could be slow and rhythmic and soft like water flowing, it could be the sound of his laughter and the way he drew his breath, it could be how he whined and joked and played and teased, for you, love was the music and muse of Benedict bridgerton and yes, you were very much doomed.

" What a pleasant site, a spinster smiling on her own, have you planned some scandalous plan of yours to bag some noble man ? " Claire wheezed in a duckling like laughter, shared with Asha Patil and Gissele Turner.

You refused to say anything, it only further added spice to their boring marital lives, with their husbands out and wombs empty.

" Would you look at her ? She's giving us that attitude, no wonder she's still unmarried ! " Scowled Asha, with her frizzy hair and crooked nose, her eyes coated in loathing of most tainted kind.

" She might had gotten the ring if she wasn't being Mr. Bridgerton's bitch." Gissele whispered it down to you and anger shot up through your veins and your eyes snapped to her, it didn't matter if she was your elder sister and the rage that blinded you was so fierce that you didn't feel when two big tears rolled down your cheek.

" Don't cry now, you can always be his mistress atleast." They all laughed, loud and big and white teeth flashing, with their fake diamond rings rubbing in your eyes but it was too blur, you saw nothing, you heard nothing, everything was drowning around you.

" Speaking of mistresses, Lord Hasting has bought a bigger estate for his mistress than your home in east London and I wouldn't blame him lady Hasting."

You can hear it in the silence.

It was your love's voice, it was your Benedict speaking and you lifted your mascara stained lashed eyes at him.

If you had known him less than you couldn't have known of the terrible anger that was shaking him, that smile was no ordinary, it was feral and stray, wanting to tear anyone who dared to come near, he was burning in anger that was beyond words.

Claire sizzled at that remark, turning her hand to her palm side and only moments ago she was flashing her ring and now, she was hiding it.

" Don't ruin your reputation by showing ungratefuls such as her your pity Mr. Bridgerton." It would've hurt less, were it Claire or Asha, but it was your own half sister, be it half blood but blood all the same.

" Lady Turner, i have no wish to speak to you, you have hurt my best friend beyond words, you had taken her affections for granted so if someone's ungrateful then it's sorely you, you don't deserve a sister like her, she's too good for all of us." He was carefully placing the word and his anger slipped between, his teeth grinded and breath hitched, you stared, just at him and him, everything was getting dimmer but you knew in that moment, you would know him in darkness.

you can feel it with the light's out.

He had done many things for you, Benedict stole Anthony's horse to take you out on a midnight ride, he nicked Colin's sword and taught you fencing, bought ribbons of your favourite pastel silk, saved your favourite sweets, and so many and so more, but this was something you couldn't have done yourself if you wanted, he had done it, he had stood up for you and it was the most gleaming moment of your life, he wasn't playing hero, he wasn't being mean, he was protecting your with your honour and Benedict, the gentleman who wouldn't hurt a fly, he was going to dagger them down with words alone.

He was speaking and speaking and they were all quiet, their eyes low and nose bowed down, he was speaking and speaking, words clear with pure affection and respect and then your felt it.

The warmness aroused in your womanhood and an inaudible gasp parted through your lips as you felt the slicky wet feeling caress your inner thigh and the sensation was so electrifying that you had to close your eyes in order to take a breath and even then, you could feel his words, soft and praising, " ......if you were half good as a woman she is....." He was breathless and he wasn't stopping and something inside you wanted to cup his face and tell him, don't Stop, never stop.

And then his eyes looked for you, he found your gaze and held it and you felt the shame, you couldn't do this to him, this burning desire would take you both down in flames and what it would be to become one, only in ashes, it was scaring you.

And before you could think of say anything, you were already on your feet, stumbling through the crowd with your gown kissing the floor behind you.

You didn't know where you were going but far, away and this feeling wouldn't let go, you knew well but you wanted air, the warmness that was spreading was maddening and the hunger was tugging under your skin.

He was calling out your name, you hated yourself but you needed to run, this love would ruin you, what if Benedict hated you if you told him how you felt, how you thought about him, would he call you a whore along with Gissele, would it hurt more ?

More than anything.

His voice turned to pleading as crowd thickened and you were getting out of his sight. You wouldn't look back, because if you did then you wouldn't be able to stop yourself from doing something very stupid.

You were out of the gates, descending down the stairs as one heel slipped out but you didn't care, you were on a run.

Johnny was already motioning the horses as you frantically climbed in, you could see Colin chasing down Penelope's carriage in a distance as you opened the window to inhale heavy gulps of air.

Would Benedict Chase you down too ? Would he come and look for you ? And if he did, what would you tell him ?

You are my best friend.

Part 2

[mytimetooutshine]

All I want from Bridgerton season 3 part 2 is an awkward family dinner with the Bridgertons and the Featheringtons. I want Prudence and Phillipa to be loud and embarrassing, I want Portia to be casually cruel, I want the Bridgertons to feel weird and uncomfortable, I want Penelope to be upset about something her mother/sisters say about her, and MOST IMPORTANTLY I want Colin to stand up for her!

[polin-erospsyche]

FACTS

[cupofjoekeery]

Benedict Bridgerton Fic recommendations!

(New fic rec layout 4/9/24) Last updated: 2/6/24 Main fic rec masterlist Benedict Bridgerton Fic recommendations! Bridgerton Shade of Blue - @dragon-kazansky Garden of Secrets - @dreamwritesimagines Unwritten - @peterpparkrr Painter's muse - @parkerslatte Sketches of the Heart - @osterfield-holland-andcompany Love in Bloom - @bosbas When the World is free - @fayes-fics (18+ MDNI) Over the Garden Wall - @homeofthepeculiar (18+ MDNI) Something in our seas - @homeofthepeculiar (18+ MDNI)

[luckyluzzz]

MODERN POLIN!!!!😹💛

[espinosaurusrexex]

Colin has a wet dream about you

a/n: I love Polin, but I am also obsessed with the Bridgerton men and you gotta let a girl dream... or rather her fictional crush 😏

word count: ~600

warnings: smut (wet dream - not super graphic), pining, Colin missing you :(

･ﾟ✫* 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑖 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 ｡✭･ﾟ

“Oh,” you gasp, “Colin!”

The white duvet crumbles beneath your writhing body, every curve and divot of your skin brands itself into Colin’s mind like a well rehearsed poem, or the tune of a song that just cannot seem to leave his head. 

“I love you,” he whispers your name into your neck, the sweat coating his brow as if he were sparing with his brothers. Though he is doing quite the opposite indeed. 

His hips push forward in gentle passion as he falls deeper in the all-encompassing pleasure that is covering his every being in warmth and shivers. 

“I love you,” Colin promises once more, his lips grazing upon every surface of you he can reach until your hand tangles in his hair, holding him in place just as your mouth touches his.

“Say it back, my love.” Another thrust ruts through the both of you, and your damp breath travels past his face. “I am entirely yours.”

“I- ah! Colin, oh my-“ He is fighting the urge to roll you on top of him, to see your breasts bounce with every thrust, to weigh them in his hands and feel how perfect they are… especially when he runs his fingers over the pebbled flesh which makes your sounds pique. No, he needs his body pressed against yours, needs every inch of him to touch you in fear of it all being his wicked imagination. There is no risking your fading away. 

“I beg you, love.” He is close to losing his mind if you don’t answer him soon, the urge of your confession growing greater than his need for release. But his body won’t stop moving. You are drawing him in deeper and deeper until your other hand scratches down his back. 

You are a moaning mess beneath him, and he wouldn’t have it any other way… well, except for the fact that you have yet to pronounce your undying love for him so that you can both live happily ever after together. 

Though, for some reason, that sentence never comes. Instead, the knot in his belly grows tighter and tighter until his eyes are skewed shut. One more thrust and he will tumble over into the warm and floaty feeling only you have ever brought him. 

“Colin, look at me.” You stroke over his hair and stare at him adoringly. He can feel it now, the words on the tip of your tongue as you kiss him once more, and the warm tightness spreading throughout him when you finally say them. 

“I love-“

A loud crash sounds from outside his room and Colin shoots up in his bed. 

It takes him a second to come to again. The room he is in is sparely lit through the heavy dark blue curtains drawn before his windows. 

He is hot, and bothered, he notices after dragging his hand across his dampened face, staring down at the prominent evidence in his lap. But the worst part of it all is… that he is alone. 

“Are you alright?!” 

“I am fine, Mr. Bridgerton! Please excuse the disturbance!”

“Do not worry!”

Colin falls back into his pillow with a heavy sigh and closes his eyes once more. The memory of your silhouette still lingers in his mind. The way the Greek coastal winds blew on your dress, your hair, making him fall in love with the slight dishevel, he would always connect to you. 

There is nothing he misses more from his travels than your presence. And he mourns every day he has to spend without you now. 

With a heavy heart, and a silent tear springing from them, he presses his face into the silk sheets, wishing, hoping, praying, to see you once more. 

Wanna be added to the Taglist?

[ladyamortencia]

HOLD UP HOLD UP

This author was watching this for the bazillionth time for blocking notes and OMG

Colin's breath legitimately hitches after the first kiss (13 secs) AND THEN he's the one to initiate the next kiss (16 secs)!!

He is the one breathing her in like his life fucking depends on it (24 sec) and when they pull away THIS MAN TRIES TO GO IN FOR MORE (34 sec) BUT PEN PULLS AWAY

This man's whole worldview just shattered and this is the first time he has wanted to kiss someone like this and then SHE PULLS AWAY AND THANKS HIM. My poor boy had no choice but to be absolutely devastated. Sure he's kissed a lot of girls (or so he says) but NONE have ever left him reeling. NONE have ever made him wish there was more like this one.

I think this definitely goes with the theory that Colin is demisexual because my man has always loved Penelope. There is no doubt in that logic at all because it's evident how he cares for her. But the moment that man's lips touched hers, he knew he was IN love with her. Colin is extremely in touch with his feelings and the minute he felt that tug of his heart, he was destined to be down bad.

He already loved Pen's mind but society reinforced that she wasn't a prospect for him with every little comment. Every sense of social norm went out the fucking window after this kiss for Colin. All he knew is that he loved Penelope Featherington and fuck anyone who was going to get in the way of what he wants.

[checkoutmybookshelf]

Welcome to the Third Polin Fic!

Hello friends, and welcome to the third and final instalment of my three-part Polin Fic 'Verse fanfic. It'll be posted chapter by chapter on Fridays, here and on AO3. New to the Polin Fic 'Verse? You can find the first two parts of this series here.

This fic is relatively safe for work, but I will post any content warning above the break in these posts as they come up. This chapter does not come with any content warnings, so feel free to reenter my Polinverse and see what Colin and Penelope are up to!

Penelope gasped in delight as Colin lifted her above his head and spun her, sending droplets of the Aegean Sea flying in an ever-widening circle about them. Each droplet sparkled red-orange in the sunset, embodying the ultimate marriage of water and fire. Between the scent of salt, silky texture of air against bare skin interrupted by the patter of warm water droplets, and rush of air through her loose curls, Penelope could have been flying through heaven. And yet as she fell and was crushed to Colin’s chest in a bear hug, both giggling helplessly, she listened to his heart beat in his chest and knew that should paradise call her then and there, she should rather be exactly where she was.

Tangling her fingers in Colin’s dark curls—the heat and the span since they had last seen a barber had it curling nearly as much as hers did—she pulled him down and herself up into a kiss that he matched with his own heat and passion. As the near-imperceptible change in the ambience of the world that accompanies the shift from day to night swept over them, Colin moved Penelope against him, shifting her up as he strode purposefully from the shallows toward their shared travel pavilion.

Sunrise found them sprawled across each other, as skin-to-skin as it was possible to be around their respective travel desks, pens in hand. For Colin, this was a longstanding pattern when he traveled; he had no particular project in mind, simply enjoying the act of writing. Penelope, on the other hand, had yet to stop the flood of words from the gates that had opened after her cousin’s execution. Her writing began as a simple exercise to draw poison from a wound, but as she and Colin had traveled, she had begun to frame several larger projects—at least one of which was exactly the sort of thing she had been expressly forbidden from writing in England by Her Majesty, Queen Charlotte. She had not mentioned that particular project to Colin yet.

As if from her thoughts to his ears, Colin set his quill down, stretched, and turned to her, lazily setting a hand on her hip.

“What about Venice next?” he asked. 

There is something in the Venetian air, Penelope decided as she watched Colin mount the high front of the gondola and balance somewhat precariously without the aid of the tall prow that extended to nearly the height of his head. Colin had always had a playful side that she could coax out, but since they had arrived in Venice, it was as though he was courting her all over again. There was no shortage of small sweets left under her pillow or in her writing desk, stunning flower arrangements delivered to her almost daily, and surprise outings to every bookshop Colin knew of or had been told about in the city—they had already shipped a box of books home to lighten their travel load, but Colin still was more than happy for her to choose any and all books that struck her fancy.

Their evenings were a swirl of balls and events with Colin’s network of travel-writer acquaintances. Venice had a penchant for masquerade balls, and one of Colin’s gifts to her had been a stunning, delicately painted antique mask that fit well with her favorite airy, gauzy seafoam green party dress. It could not be described as anything less than delicately feminine, but with a sense of something catlike around the eyes that gave it, as Colin said, a slightly harder, more alluring edge that suited what was Whistledown in her. That night, they had danced every dance together and still found energy for more pleasurable activities in the privacy of the suite of rooms they had taken.

Given all that activity, Penelope had little idea when Colin had found the time to learn the Italian song he burst into for her. She gave him the grin this little stunt deserved, not the polite smile that propriety dictated. It was lovely not to be trapped by the rules that governed debutantes. Her breath caught in her throat and her belly fluttered as he threw a roguish wink at her before taking hold of the prow and leaning dangerously out over the water—still singing—to snag a rose from the garlands adorning a passing gondola. Then he stepped down into the bottom of the boat and went to one knee to offer it to her. She reached for the rose, only for Colin to grin and stand suddenly, tucking it behind her ear as his final note faded away and his eyes captured and held hers. Before she could drown in them, applause sounded from all around, along with shouts of “molto bene,” “meraviglioso,” and “bellissimo.” She blushed, still a wallflower at heart—but she did not look away as Colin handed her out of the gondola and looped her arm through his as they promenaded—quickly—toward their suite.

As Penelope put more words in her journals that evening—relishing the feeling of pouring out thoughts and feelings in a shape that pleased her—Colin was managing his correspondence. He leaned back in his chair—practically sprawling out of it, really—and waited until she put down her quill to clear his throat.

“I’ve had a letter from Lumley, of all people,” said Colin. “He’s written to say that he will shortly be in Rome to acquire some book or other and connect with a poet’s circle. He’s invited us to join them. What do you think?” 

The idea of sharing in-progress work with other writers was strangely uncomfortable, if Penelope was being honest with herself. For so long, Whistledown had been hers and hers alone. Had she shared an unfinished, unpublished draft, she would have been in deep trouble. Even now that she and Colin shared a love of writing, she still did not share early drafts with him. She would—and happily did—read anything and everything of his that he asked her to cast an eye over, at any stage of the process, but she had yet to share anything that she wouldn’t have put into print with him. She knew she was unusual; literary circles in London and among the ton were common, and it was a dull week when someone’s manuscript or poor attempt at poetry wasn’t informally circulating to praise, ridicule, or confusion. There were even ladies’ circles that were permitted to flourish despite creative writing being a somewhat frowned upon accomplishment for a debutante. Had she wanted to, Penelope could have connected with one of those groups in her first season. Writing wouldn’t have been such a private activity for her, but Lady Whistledown would never have existed, either. 

On top of that, Penelope was enjoying time with Colin without the distractions of other people. An outbreak of cholera on the continent had caused their honeymoon plans to dramatically change, and while Aubrey Hall was lovely, the family and the crown had barely managed a week before interrupting it. This trip was the first time she and Colin had truly been able to enjoy each other’s company without obligations, missions, or interruptions, and she did not want to give that up. 

“The trip would be easy, from here,” Colin added, sounding uncertain. “And we need not devote all of our time to this poet circle. There is plenty for just the pair of us to explore in Rome.”

Penelope had spent just a little too long thinking, and Colin had just a little too much experience reading her. She did not wish to deprive Colin of the opportunity to meet with other writers; his first book, titled An Englishman in Italy and based on his travel journals prior to their marriage, was due to be released later in the year, with An Englishman in Cyprus and An Englishman in Scotland to follow six months and a year after. His writing career could only benefit from exposure to a broad, international circle. And if she chose to be selfish for a moment, her writing career might also find new life abroad. The series of short essays she was working on—and privately thought of collectively as Lady Whistledown’s Grand Tour—might find an audience away from English eyes. Colin was also right; they could balance their time between the poet’s circle and each other as they chose. It would be enough for her.

“I suppose we had best pack,” she said with a smile.     

Lumley had taken a house for his time in Rome, and it was more than large enough to admit the thirty or forty poets currently milling about the room holding glasses of wine and alternating between pontificating loudly, arguing fiercely, and making up enthusiastically. There were a few people in chairs around the perimeter of the room with travel desks on their laps, writing furiously, but they seemed disconnected from the larger gathering. Not the same way that Penelope used to disconnect herself from society at balls, to observe and listen, but rather as though they could have been anywhere in the world and their pens would still be scratching away on paper. Writing as a man dying of thirst in a desert drank water; greedily, to save their lives.

Penelope knew the feeling; remembered it from writing the first issue of Whistledown she intended to publish, and from the night Felix was executed. Loathe to interrupt, Penelope had pulled her eyes away to allow them to write in peace, but turned back when the hair on the back of her neck prickled. Turning back–not noticing that she pulled Colin to a halt as she did–Penelope locked eyes with a young woman. Her dark hair was pulled back from her exceedingly pale face, and her dark eyes were inquisitive and carefully evaluative. Penelope thought she saw something sad deep within them, but couldn’t be sure when a small smile crossed the other woman’s face, and she inclined her head slightly in acknowledgement. Returning the acknowledgement, Penelope jumped when Lumley’s voice boomed out behind her, jovial and just a touch overly loud. 

“Bridgerton, Mrs. Bridgerton, welcome! So good to see you.” Lumley clapped Colin on the shoulder and bowed informally to Penelope. 

“And you, Lumley. Our thanks for the invitation,” replied Colin. 

“Come, Bridgerton, you shall never imagine who has just arrived–I must introduce you to Wordsworth and Coleridge. Mrs. Bridgerton, I suspect you will thoroughly enjoy meeting Mr.  De Quincey; he is of a journalistic bent similar to your own.” 

For a wild moment, Penelope seriously considered correcting Lumley, arguing that Whistledown had hardly been a journalistic pursuit. However, Colin’s simultaneously scandalized and delighted “You have the Lake Poets here, Lumley?” broke her line of thought. She simply walked with them to be introduced to a somewhat timid, rather flighty gentleman by the name of Thomas De Quincey. Colin was pulled quickly away to meet publishers and other poets by Wordsworth and Coleridge–both of whom were overeager to offer career advice to Colin but barely looked twice at Penelope. She and De Quincey were nearly three-quarters of an hour deep into a discussion about the purpose of journalism–of all sorts, as De Quincey was adamant that even scandal sheets had a function in society, despite Penelope demurring that they were hardly of import–when both doors into the room slammed open with shouts of “Shelley!” and “Byron!” 

It was as though twin whirlwinds had entered the room as the two men moved through it. The ambient volume in the room increased from a somewhat raucous party to the track on race day. Fights withered as quickly as they blossomed and friendly shoulder claps and furious slaps were exchanged–with Byron in particular laughing uproariously after receiving a slap from a young lady De Quincey identified to Penelope as Claire Clairmont, who was in the process of ending an affair with the poet. Then De Quincey pulled a flask from his jacket and took a deep swig. 

“Laudanum,” he explained. “I have terrible facial twinges. If you would excuse me, Mrs. Bridgerton.” He was already beginning to look sleepy as he wandered toward a chaise in a distant corner of the room, leaving Penelope quite alone in the uproar. Despite his height, Penelope could not see Colin in the room; instead, she caught a glimpse of a very quiet moment between Percy Shelley and the dark-haired, dark-eyed woman who had caught her gaze earlier. Shelley lifted the woman’s hand to his lips in a lingering kiss, as she stared at him as though to drink in his essence. As he finally released the hand and bowed deeply before throwing himself back into the fray, Penelope was slipping through the crowd towards the other woman. Her eyes were very far away as Penelope sat next to her, quietly, so as not to disturb the moment as she waited for the room to calm down. 

The room remained raucous and wild as Penelope scanned it, but she also kept half an eye on the woman beside her, so when her eyes reentered the room, Penelope was sure she wouldn’t unduly startle her.

“Your young man has quite a bit of energy,” she said, with half an inner smile for Lady Danbury–the line was a classical one of hers for opening conversations. “I hope this isn’t too forward; I am Penelope Bridgerton.”

“He is hardly my young man,” murmured the other woman. “If we are all simply stardust, then he is a piece of me and has been since the formation of the cosmos, despite Harriet. And no, not forward at all. Miss Mary Godwin. Mary.”

“Then I must be Penelope.” The ladies briefly clasped hands. 

“Penelope, Odysseus’s wife, the weaver, and the match for the cunning Ithacan. I imagine then, that you are not simply an editor and copyist for your husband, as so many writer’s wives are doomed to be? You are yourself a writer?” 

“As are you, I see,” Penelope said. 

“I shall be. I plan to write about our travels this summer–mine, Percy’s, Claire’s, and Byron’s, that is.”

“I shall have to introduce you to Mr. Bridgerton. He was a great traveler before our marriage–well, he still is, truly, that is why we are here–and his first book will be published later this year. I’m sure he would be willing to discuss travel writing with you.”

“I should enjoy that,” said Mary. “But you still have not told me what you write, Penelope. You are, I think, a prose writer like myself.”

“Whatever gave you that impression?” 

Mary laughed outright at Penelope’s evasive question, and set her lap desk on an empty chair next to her to turn her full attention on her conversational partner. “My dear Penelope, even were I to ignore the deeply practical nature of the skills of your namesake, I would have known from how smoothly and succinctly you engaged in conversation with me. That was nearly the strategy of a matchmaking mama wrapped up in such a way as to elicit answers without you having ever asked a direct question. Were I sure to avoid offense, I should have accused you of being a journalist outright. Come now, what paper do you write for?”

The sinking feeling in her stomach startled Penelope. She had not come to this gathering with the intention of keeping her identity as Lady Whistledown a secret. Although she had never made any sort of announcement or public acknowledgement, after her disastrous outing by Lord Andrews, Penelope had simply allowed Lady Whistledown to exist in the public consciousness with rumors of her own name attached. She had made no comment, and the speculation had become a comfortable, low-level fact of ton life, almost an inside joke for young ladies and young gentlemen who courted scandal. “Best beware, or Lady Whistledown will come out of retirement to write about you,” the saying went, and the inevitable reply was “Mrs. Bridgerton has other matters to attend to.” Certainly she had thought she might find other writers here, and perhaps a new writing identity altogether. 

And yet. Penelope was still writing as Lady Whistledown and she could not claim a career as a writer without acknowledging Whistledown. She had no reason for embarrassment; she was proud of every issue she had produced. And yet, she had lived with the excitement, danger, and finally the consequences of Whistledown with no public acknowledgement. Now that the moment had come where she either had to embrace or forever put aside Lady Whistledown, Penelope found herself physically remembering the fear of being discovered. Her hand was at her abdomen, over her scar tissue. Her breathing was fast and shallow, and her heart was beating up her throat into her mouth. 

“I have said something wrong,” said Mary.

“No, no; please forgive me,” said Penelope, taking a deep breath and getting herself under control, despite feeling unshed tears in her eyes. “I have simply had something of a fraught experience with writing.”

“Writing is a cruel mistress. You needn’t say more if you don’t wish.”

“I am not ashamed of it,” said Penelope, as certain of that statement as she was in her love for Colin. “You shall understand when I explain…I am the author of Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers. I am Lady Whistledown.” Penelope knew that cliff divers existed, and that they often spoke of the thrill of the irrevocable decision to jump only truly enveloping them once their feet had left terra firma. Her feet had truly left the earth, and her public admission and embracing of her identity as Lady Whistledown was both a thrill and a terror. She wouldn’t have taken the words back for anything. Burying Lady Whistledown to appease the queen had been a mistake; she had been coming to realize that as she and Colin traveled and she wrote again, but this moment solidified it for her, and she felt she could revel in reviving the lady writer. 

“Oh is that why you were ensconced with De Quincey for so long?” exclaimed Mary. 

“I did not tell him, actually,” said Penelope, abashed. “As I said, my career has been somewhat fraught. I have not claimed her publicly before now.”

“No, of course; we heard rumors that Lady Whistledown had been unmasked even in the country and on the continent, but nothing was ever confirmed.” Mary seemed to consider something for a moment, then stood. “Percy! Byron! You absolutely must come meet my new acquaintance, the Lady Whistledown!” Mary’s voice could not, in all fairness, be described as a bellow, but every head in the room turned to them, and Colin had materialized by Penelope’s side before the final syllable of “Whistledown” had escaped Mary’s lips. 

“Are you sure this is wise?” Colin’s sotto voce question was very nearly lost on Penelope as she locked eyes with a nondescript man across the room. There was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary about him, except that Penelope had seen him before, at the Old Bailey. He was one of the Queen’s agents. The gentleman caught her eye and tilted his head in acknowledgement to her in the split second before Bryon’s voice boomed through the room.

“In the smokey grey inconsolable world, Lady Whistledown was a pocket of spice, giving color and sensation to an otherwise bland season,” declared the poet as he charged toward Penelope and Mary. Stopping almost unnaturally smoothly on a sixpence before the ladies, Byron offered an elaborate, perfectly balanced leg before politely kissing the back of Penelope’s gloved hand. In contrast, Shelley skidded to a halt before them, nearly fell over trying to bow, and nodded politely in Penelope’s general direction before proceeding to gaze at Mary as though she were a constellation on a clear night.

“Titian beauty and a wit to match,” said Byron, giving Penelope a slow, deliberate once-over. “Lady Whistledown, you simply must explain yourself. You are no John Keats to be writing your own elegy—whyever have you stopped writing? We have seen no new issues in over a year!”

“You flatter me, my lord,” demurred Penelope. “But surely you cannot miss Whistledown so; you have not been to London in quite some time, I should think.”

“While I may be banished to the continent, I find your column to be something of a guilty pleasure of the heart. There is little in the world that equals the pernicious pettiness of ton, and it is in many ways both scourge and balm for a weary soul wandering far from home.”

“He does not even like England,” muttered Mary. “He finished saying just last night that should we bury him there, we would be consigned to Tartarus.”

“You’re likelier to survive that than a bacchanal with him,” Colin replied quietly, earning a grin from Mary and a dirty look from Shelley.

“Lord Byron,” said Penelope, just a hair louder than was necessary. “May I introduce my husband, Mr. Colin Bridgerton? He has a book coming out—”

“My dear Lady Whistledown,” interrupted Byron, reaching out to reverently wrap the loose curls around Penelope’s face around his fingers. “If the Titian charm of your curls did not distract me from the fact that you have not written in over a year, then the sad truth that your heart belonged to another before I had the chance to know it myself surely will not. Come, my lady--” he released her hair and dropped to his knees before her, one of Penelope’s hands held over his heart. “Offer a gentleman some solace, a single shining star in an inconsolable night of existence. When shall Whistledown publish again?”

It occurred to Penelope then that the entire room was focused on their little corner. It wasn’t unusual for Colin to rather loom over other men, given him height and the unconscious confidence with which each and every Bridgerton carried themselves, and she had felt his stance behind her change to a tightly-wound loom the instant Byron’s fingers had twined into her hair. She imagined that his face maintained a polite veneer, but that he would not hesitate to call out the poet for laying hands on her. And yet the moment Byron had dropped dramatically to the floor, Colin’s loom had taken on something of a farcical feel.

Acutely aware of a roomful of eyes on her, Penelope flicked a rapid glace to the queen’s man in the corner. He was leaned against the wall, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised. Waiting.

“I shall be forced to disappoint you, my lord,” she said. “Lady Whistledown is truly no more.”

“By God, say it’s not so!” Byron exclaimed, releasing Penelope to put a fist to his forehead. The small crowd listened to Byron lament for a few sentences, but slowly the room filled with conversation again, underpinned with the ongoing exhortations of the poet on the floor. The queen’s agent made a beeline for the sideboard and began to fix himself a plate of crudites.

“He does enjoy a spectacle,” said Mary. “Come, Penelope, tell me about what you’ve been writing instead.” Penelope relaxed as she heard Colin and Shelley begin a discussion of travel writing and relative merits of prose and verse. Drawing her travel writing desk into her lap, she opened the box. An internal strap had apparently come loose as she and Colin had walked to Lumley’s, and loose pens and a journal thudded to the floor before she could catch them.

Colin’s head whipped around at the thud, and he bent to collect the fallen items, but Byron beat him to the journal, which had fallen spine up, pages splayed.

Penelope did not breathe as time dilated. It took Byron an eternity to delicately slide his fingers under the book, handling it almost as reverently as he had her hair. Rather than allowing the pages to fall closed, his fingers held the leaves open and flipped the journal to reveal the smooth, pale pages to the room. His free hand gently caressed the curves of the blank pages, smoothing folds and crinkles on his way to the upper corner. Penelope shuddered as he turned the page and revealed her handwriting, sprawling across verso and recto, dashed down in a frantic attempt for her hand to keep pace with her mind. His short, sharp inhale wouldn’t have been noticeable except that Penelope’s entire world had shrunk to the poet and his hands on her journal.

Byron’s eyes met hers for a split second, and he raised an eyebrow, the suggestion of a rakish smile playing about his lips as he ran two fingers from spine to upper corner and turned another page, the book’s spine cradled firmly in his palm. He spent a moment dragging a single finger down the page as he skimmed it, then flipped through the pages; the sound of the pages against his fingers sent a shiver down Penelope’s spine.

He stopped mid-flip, a long finger interrupting the pages before tapping twice a single short line at the top and reading aloud:

Dearest Gentle Readers,

They say that travelers take the air in many ports of call, and that each has something unique to offer. Having taken the air in several Mediterranean cities now, I can confidently say that there is indeed something unique in the Venetian air. Mystery, romance, and art abound, offending the rules of propriety at every turn and delighting in the freedom from London’s oppressive airs. For who may lace the stays of propriety somewhat more loosely than others during ton parties in London seasons—a certain Traveling Bridgerton comes to mind here—joy and art explode into public spaces and declarations. Indeed, one wonders how one could ever return to London, the ton, and the court and find oneself able to breathe.

Colin Bridgerton had no such difficulties with aspiration as he serenaded Mrs. Bridgerton from the prow of a gondola this afternoon—a far cry from the screeching strings and off-key caterwauling of last season’s Smythe-Smith/Holroyd musicale. It seems strange that English propriety would decry the former and applaud—no matter how disingenuously—the latter. One must applaud the free-spiritedness of the Venetian people as well as their leaders, who must have sufficient confidence in their rule to permit such freedom and joy. Oh, that all rulers could share such confidence and care for their people.

Finally halting with a broad grin on his face, heedless of Penelope’s consternation, Byron closed the journal with a snap and offered it to its owner with an exaggeratedly elegant leg and a vaguely predatory grin worthy of a pirate of the last century. Shelley clapped Colin on the shoulder, with a sotto voce “Such an obliging wife you have, Bridgerton,” as Penelope snatched her journal from Byron’s hands amidst polite applause, a few calls of “hear, hear,” and some general shouts of agreement with the sentiments.

“It would seem, Lady Whistledown,” said Byron, voice artificially smooth, “that you have been holding out on us. This is not a new issue of Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers; this is a book.”

“Pen…” Colin’s voice was hoarse, her name slipping from his lips on an exhale more than consciously spoken.

“You must excuse Mr. Bridgerton and I, for a moment,” said Penelope, and all but dragged Colin behind her toward a quiet, empty room. Behind her, Penelope heard Byron bellow, “Lumley! You must tell me how you came to be acquainted with Lady Whistledown!”

[memoldy]

They are so in love that I’m in love with their love

[quotergirl19]

Colin: You seemed to enjoy your dance with Lord Debling.

Penelope: I did. He’s the first gentleman who has ever wanted to dance with me.

Colin: That is untrue. You and I have danced many times.

Penelope: Lord Debling actually wanted to dance with me. He made me feel like I was special to him and said I was lovely. You only ask me to dance out of pity. You do not count.

[skyrigel]

Can you write an image in which Benedict is obsessed with Y/N and is always looking for reasons to touch her. However, Y/N knows that when it comes to women, Benedict quickly gets what he wants... sex. She keeps him waiting and doesn’t sleep with him until the wedding day.

Obsessed with you | I

Part 1 | Part 2

Pairing: Benedict bridgerton x afab!reader

Synopsis: Ton's most eligible bachelor is obsessed with the mystery lady in silver, and would do anything to have her

Warning: Reader's mother has issues, scandalous family, last name Rose for convience, Benedict being a smug bastard, some regency class differences, cute Polin, cute kathony, minor non-con touching, smoking cigar, lots of teasing and ofcourse obsessive and possession behaviour. Might be toxic! Benedict but please he's a cutie.

Dearest gentle readers,

While for sure we have seen former Rake now Kate's beloved whipped husband, and Colin bridgerton who is so smitten with his dearest wife that it will not come forward a surprise if he hasn't set foot out in all these days, but Benedict bridgerton is neither whipped nor smitten, he is, as the poets would whisper, obsessed. It will be amusing to know who this mystery lady is, with her dazzling silver gown and piercing eyes, sharp enough as she carved the gentleman's heart out.

Benedict was a man for art and muse so forgive him if he got so obsessed with you, the real question was, how could he not ? You were the most gorgeous woman he had ever seen, clad in your most dazzling blue dress that he wanted nothing but to take off.

" She exaggerates." Anthony pouted, he shouldn't know that he had but he's been pouting a lot lately, it's called 'kateffect'

" No, you've been domesticated brother, just admit it, Kate has tamed you." Colin peppered, sprawling down next to Anthony who greeted him with the most glaring glare.

" Like you're any better." Anthony smirked, setting his gaze on Benedict who read the index again.

" Penelope doesn't know her name ? " Benedict worried his jaw, looking between his brothers.

" I take that back, Penelope didn't exaggerate, you're really very much obsessed." Anthony remarked, Colin nodded.

" Oi, she would've known your mystery lady's full name and history but—"

" Don't complete that, I'll duel you."

" In the middle of a ball ? " Benedict laughed, eyes amused, Colin turned a crimson red.

" Rather tempting—"

" Oi! " Anthony raised his brow, his mouth curving in disdain, as Colin staggered away, leaving Anthony praying to lord behind like he was any better.

" Oh dear." Benedict smiled when once alone, thumb caressing the index, as if it was the mystery lady in silver blue gown, accused of taking away the gentleman's heart.

" Who are you ? " He whispered.

_

" Ma'am, would you like something else ? " Mrs. Turner asked once you were seated on your dressing, playing with several glassy bottles with colourful scenty substances.

" In yesterday's masquerade ball, I was dancing with a Bridgerton—" Mrs. Turner tutted softly," He's Benedict bridgerton, i assume."

" Yes, indeed, the only bachelor bridgerton boy of age." Mrs. Turner pulled the corset strings and you gasped, feeling your internals squeeze in the process.

You smiled, thinking about the way Benedict looked at you, all stars in his eyes.

" I..it is not my place miss but as your well wisher, i would say.." she worried her jaw.

" It's okay Mrs. Turner, you should speak your mind." You assured her, feeling her fingers stop at your back as she looked at your reflection in the mirror.

" Benedict bridgerton's a rake, unlike any other gentleman... he's known to engage women with class and wits...artists, musicians, and other dimplomacy that are odd amongst our sex."

" Oh." You nodded, feeling stupid enough to think those were meant for you, like they were of real affection.

" I wouldn't want you any harm, after your father's death and your inheritance affairs, you couldn't afford another scandal, for a good match—"

" My virtue should stay intact ? " You raised your chin, examining the stain of rose on your lips.

" Your sister was a good girl madam, so are you." Mrs. Turner smiled, her eyes crinkling with deepest concerns.

-

Benedict's eyes were searching for you everywhere, he has been waiting for you since so long. Despite anxious mamas forcing introductions and dances, he was looking only for you.

" Miss Rose." Benedict turned to see his sister in law, smiling a smirk, followed by her husband in tow.

" You wound me Pen, it's Benedict bridgerton! " He laughed, much to Colin's dismay.

" Oh well your mystery lady is Miss Rose, daughter of late Duke of Blair field and lady bloom." Colin was one step away from clapping.

" Wow." Benedict's mouth curved in a delightful 'o'.

" Oh well they are rather scandalous, her sister was rumoured to be not a virgin which deceased all of her prospects of marriages, her mother is rather protective of her."

" Pen, did I tell you how you're my favourite sister ? " Benedict perked his gaze towards the entrance, hoping for you to bless him.

" Don't let Eloise hear that." Colin said, outstretching his arm that Penelope held as they swirled between the crowd, laughing.

_

" You shall not be unchaperoned." Your mother had a faraway look in her eyes, her hand was trembling and you surged the desire to just hold it.

" I understand, mama." You bowed your head once, trying to forget the trembling of her hands.

" Don't engage in gossips dearest, better keep to yourself and..." She forgot what she was saying, her lips trembling along, you looked at Mrs. Turner with a pleading gaze.

" Ma'am, we must make haste." She simply said, your mother spared a glance to you, her mouth tightening around the corners.

" You look beautiful child." She looked away, you pretended not to see the tear that glistented down her cheek.

After securing yourself in the carriage, with your dress squeezing the life out you, you finally breathed.

" I envy Gissele." You said softly, caressing the uneven glittering fake diamonds.

" She would say the same." Mary mumbled, she was Mrs. Turner's daughter who rather got scolded every often for being too blunt. You liked her alot.

" Oh wouldn't it be so wonderful to just lay in bed, reading a book and wearing simple soft dresses." You perked up at the idea of a life like that, a simple homely cottage, filled with warmth and sweetness and books.

" But the society has it's own fun, look at you, pretty dresses, pretty shoes, and all those prince charming lords." Mary took your fan and mimicked the motion, you smiled.

" Well you could always borrow a dress, have some fun." Your eyes glinted, Mary shaked her head.

" C'mon." You grabbed her wrist, shaking them, up and down profusely.

" No, mama will kill me ! "

" But the fun ?! No one would know, they haven't seen me, they don't know me."

" Well i can't pretend to be you, what would happen if somebody caught us."

" Don't then, be yourself ! Mary Turner."

" Sounds like a bad idea." Mary said, her smile deceived her.

" Lord Turner of Riverdales, be their relative, no one hardly pays attention."

" Whistledown does." Mary narrowed her eyes, you looked out to make sure you haven't yet reached.

" Well she called me a mystery woman who apparantly took a gentleman's heart."

" Oh Mr. Bridgerton's a known gentleman." You scoffed at that, Mary's brow knitted together as she studied you.

" What ? He's a rake." You brushed the tingling away, feeling the way Benedict's gaze lingered on you, the way he twirled you around like you were the only real thing, the way he flushed and stumbled through his words, attempting to know absolutely anything about you.

" I highly doubt that, never heard anything about him."

" Presumably he has a longing for accomplised women." You finger quoted it with a scowl that was too unladylike, Mary bursted into fits of giggles.

" What ? " You poked her, she shaked with her guffaw, chortling in her way.

" You fancy him." She said, chuckling the ' him' away, you frowned deeply, heart leaping at the ton that was gathered outside lady Danbury's exquisite ball.

" Utter rubbish. Do you still want to have fun ? " You asked, Mary smiled.

_

Benedict gaze perked up when you and Mary stumbled through the ball, Mary was almost shaking and you were sure her clothes didn't fit much to you, you felt your back prickling with burning gaze and you turned.

" Told you he's a rake. Don't be friendly to him." You whispered to Mary who was about to run when Benedict dropped his conversation with lord White, swaggering towards you.

" What if he recognises you ? " She mumbled and your lower lip trembled, but that's not possible, your mask obscured your whole face except your lips and eyes and certainly he hadn't painted you in his mind, afterall he shouldn't be that obsessed.

" My lady." He bowed, his gaze locking in yours as he kissed the hand Mary very reluctantly gave him, he was amused when Mary mumbled a hasty greeting, her manners mimicked.

" You look exquisite, more than the ball itself." He was clearly flattered when Mary blinked hard, looking at you for help.

You rolled your eyes when Benedict too, looked at you with a similar pleading as Mary.

" Forgive me my lord, my lady is tired—"

" We haven't been introduced i remember, Benedict bridgerton." He grinned, he actually freaking grinned as Mary glanced at you with the corner of her eye.

" Lady Mariam Turner." She blurted it quickly, looking at you for approval, " A pleasure." Mary smiled, you nodded.

" Forgive me Mr. Bridgerton." You cleared your throat, Benedict's gaze penetrated through you, he was setting you on fire and you couldn't do anything but to burn.

" My lady is tired, you must excuse us." You felt your throat dry, your whole body withering when Benedict narrowed his eyes, lingering specifically on your lips and treading down slowly.

" Indeed, I must not keep you." He cocked his head to Mary, humming along as you strode past him. You were sure he only whispered the ' not ' out of curtsy.

_

" That was bloody brilliant ! " You giggled while Mary shaked her head, clutching her bossom. Your footsteps echoing in the abandoned corridor, stiffling back your giggles.

" That was bloody scary and I can't breathe." Mary heaved, her breath easing when you patted her back.

" Lady Mariam Turner." You teased, bumping your hip as Mary looked at you, gasping scandalously.

" Shut up. I almost died." Mary pulled her dress that sticked to her skin, trying to fan in some air.

" Do you think he recognised me ? " Your cheeks blazed at the heat of the memory of him, his teasing glances and amused smiles.

" I...I think it was rather amusing that we were messing up, did you see how I trembled? " Mary shaked her hand, as you laughed at the display.

" No, my lady." You said, once your giggles subsided, " You were exquisite."

Mary wacked your arm, her smile unable to hide through the twitch of her lips.

" So, shall we go home ? "

" Would you mind waiting in the carriage ? "

" Don't tell me—" Mary glared, you pouted with puppy eyes.

" Please, you know it's my only way."

" Smoking is bad." Mary declared, " and for men." She added grimly, you nodded along, grabbing her wrist.

" Please, please, please."

" Only if you give back my clothes, i miss them." She touched the soft cotton of her clothes that you were wearing, you perked up eagerly.

_

You took joy at the puffs of smoke that ridiculed the air, the night chill freezing it into clouds of silvery mist.

Mary was dozing off in the carriage until it was time to go home, so early arrival doesn't raise any questions and your mother fast asleep, her trembling lipped questions saved for the next day.

" I thought your lady was tired." You almost dropped your cigar, jumping up the swing as it creaked at sudden outburst.

" Don't drop it, i don't have any with me." His smile was too big and smug for his face, his nonchalance dripped as he took the swing opposite of you. You stared, for some reason cigar still burning in intricate yellow blazing circles, dropping to ashes.

" Forgive me my lord—" you just remembered you were no longer in Mary's clothes.

" That's the only line you grasped so far ? " Benedict leaned on his swing, catching your wrist as he dragged you to sit.

You sat down with a thud, swing jiggling with your weight as you processed his smile.

" I..." You stammered, flushing in heat as he inhaled you in, you were back in your clothes, the one you were supposed to wear. And Mary was right, you couldn't breathe.

" I would say you look beautiful, in everything, in anything..or—" in nothing.

" I should leave." You throat itched.

" Stay." He was soft, almost a whine, a plead.

" Please don't tell anyone." You tried your best persuading smile, it worked on Gissele all the time, your lips pouting and eyes shining with stars.

Benedict's mouth curved in a smile, he clicked his tongue as he attempted to speak but he found he couldn't. A pause, then—

" You love tormenting me, don't you ? " Benedict took the burning cigar from you, locking your eyes with his own as he brought it to his mouth, a sound escaped him as his lips curved around the warmness that belonged to you, he inhaled deeply.

" I don't know what you're talking about." You tore away you eyes from the erotic display of smoking, he hummed in a dry scoff.

" Ofcourse, you wouldn't." He offered the Cigar back, every word coated with sarcasm.

The breeze was so cold that you shivered, moon hanging low in the night sky and every star stared back, Sirius, Rigel, and all of them.

" I never meant to offend you." You took the cigar back, his fingers brushed, a electrifying wave rippling inside you, like the way he held your hand and danced with you in the masquerade ball.

You noticed his flexing but said nothing, heart beating too fast to be sane and alive.

" Miss Rose—" you gasped, how could he know your name, "—have you ever been kissed ? "

" I...Benedict..lord." you clamped your mouth shut, lips suddenly struck by a bolt as they buzzed.

He leaned as you felt your back touching the rope of swing, his face too close... would he kiss you ? Would it be as electrifying as the rest of his touches ? Would you survive it or simply burn like a pheonix ?

" It's okay, we would alot when we get married. " He took away the cigar and dropped it as it was so close to burn your skin, smiling all the while. Was that a proposal ?

" Go home, it's getting cold, Mrs-yet-to-be bridgerton." And he pressed his lips against your forehead, his smile caressing your heart.

Rigel's note 🪩: while I loved this idea especially the hilarious ' Benedict gets what he wants....sex ' but I needed to base it, so it doesn't come as pervy and non con as it might, to make it comfortable enough to write on my part, I have tried to break it into parts, this part is generally meet up and getting obsession with y/n ( no use in fic ) and other will be courting and marriage bliss. Gif not mine.

[wroteclassicaly]

18+

Warnings: Smut, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, slight fluff, dominant Penelope, threesome, some comfort, plus sized reader, self-esteem issues, slight anxiety, and NSFW.

Pairings: Colin Bridgerton x Penelope Featherington x Female Reader

Wordcount: 1,926

A/N: Hi! This is my first piece of fic (trash) into the Bridgerton world. I’ve never read any fics, haven’t seen all of the show yet. I’ve only recently gotten into it because of Penelope/Polin. Hope you enjoy, and I look forward to producing more content (likely turning this into a storyline)!

Your hands feel cold, slick with an icy sweat that seems to evaporate into heat. The more you seem to fold into yourself, she can recognize and wrap her fingers in your own. It is a comfort, however, also a reminder, as your fingertips would brush across the diamond she bears. He is not meant for you, she is not meant for you. They belong to one another.

You have to remember why you were brought to their home in the first place. And ultimately, what you do to earn your way in this life. That would surely shame their family name if anyone were to see you here, sneaking through corridors in the middle of the night with the newly married Penelope Featherington — now proudly assuming her Bridgerton name. Your thoughts are shaken from you, as you round the corner, stopping short at the buttery glow of light spilling from beneath the doors. You edge away slightly, spare hand reaching to clutch your sleep attire closed.

“You know that we will not object if your mind has changed.” She speaks with a soft reassurance, the nail on her thumb scratching along your palm.

That is the most odd thing — an emotion, in which you cannot process yet. A connection you’ve already established with them. It prevents you from shying away, from objecting. You’re shaking your head, inhaling rather sharply. “I do not have very many reservations, Mrs. Bridgerton —“

“ — Penelope, please?”

You can do nothing but smile in return. “Penelope. Forgive me, I suppose my curiosity has taken a walk with my nerves tonight. But I will not let it get the better of me. I still want this. To give what I can, to you and to your husband.”

She stops short of those doors and takes both of your hands into her own. She’s a picture of this fine, smooth porcelain, so full and perfect that you could spend hours worshipping if given the chance. Maybe that night is tonight?

Her voice is roping you back in. “This is a mutual thing that Colin and myself have agreed upon. It is not just about us. This consent you’ve given, it does not extend only to our pleasure, but also to your own.”

You’re inhaling sharply, understanding her implications, but unsure why. Your role is to give them whatever they need and then go. And this is what they’d like? It’s as if time stops when Penelope wraps her dainty fingers around the door handle, pushing, the force bringing your dressing gowns a few inches off of the floor by their hems. If you thought that was something, the sight that you’re greeted with is enough to wake your entire bloodline from beneath the soil.

Candles are draped around the room for more than just the ability to see, giving it all a personal ambience. This is their personal bedroom, not a study, not a hidden place, but where their marriage bed is located. Your mouth becomes parched as you look around to truly take it in, the doors closing behind you not even startling you. Penelope stays close by, especially until you’re noticing him. He’s patient, a slight smile pressed into his beautiful mouth.

“Good evening, ladies. I take it we’re alright then?”

It’s that honey-hot depth that captivates you, causing you to reach back to Pen, seeking her support. She encourages you to meet her husband in a few short feet. He’s clad in his cream colored night shirt, his silhouette shrouded in candlelight. His hair has grown out a little, a slight touch of curl sweeping across the top. Their radiating body heats caging you in, it’s a feeling you are sure won’t ever occur again in your lifetime.

“Mr. Bridgerton. Good evening, Sir.”

He grins as though a feather has tickled the crafted end of his jawline. Penelope shares a fond look over your shoulder.

“No need for formalities. It’s safe in here, I promise you.” Penelope is nodding as his arm raises, one eyebrow to gauge your permission. You don’t object. And his rather large hand is caressing your cheek, stifling the air inside of your lungs. “Call me Colin, yes?”

Like the sweetest of sugar, his name rolls off your tongue without pause. “Colin.”

Penelope’s hands find your shoulders from behind, sliding around your collar to dip in, caress your skin. You swallow, but accept. “Whatever you wish to do, you have my permission.” Your head briefly attempts to look over your shoulder as you also address her. “The both of you.”

~*~

It hadn’t taken long for things to progress between the three of you. When Colin’s mouth found your own, Penelope had slowly unraveled your gown from your torso, everyone holding their breaths as it hit the floor. Your chin became pinched beneath his sturdy fingers, tilting until he had access to your neck. Pen’s hands aimlessly wandering with what you thought wasn’t a purpose, just an exploration. How wrong you’d been the moment that her hands had found your full breasts, ever-so-gently caressing your areola.

It wasn’t that she was experienced in her movements, no. It was how eager she seemed to touch you, to have your body beneath her grasp like this. And it only added energy on top of the mounting tension already in the room. You did not have to guide, nor teach. Colin maneuvered, gave his wife space to learn, to feel another woman’s body.

He’d coaxed her around, taking her previous placing behind you, her pupils had encased her irises into an inky black velvet. The way her mouth had become swollen from biting her full, lower lip, her hands unable to stop touching you. In the end, you closed the gap, Colin caressing the nape of your neck as you kissed his wife with fervor. It was beautiful, the two of you. Your shape wore a little more weight than Penelope’s, but it was exceptional, in his eyes — seeing women that could not see the beauty in themselves, lost in one another this way.

He could only hope that you’re both seeing it now, as well.

As you’d broken apart, Colin stepped to the side, voice a bitten rasp, offering both hands. “Shall we take this to bed?”

~*~

You aren’t able to breathe correctly, breasts heaving, legs wide open to make room for him, for her.

The second that they had laid you down, that he had undressed his wife and kissed her, he whispered something in her ear. She’d gone red, but nodded and joined your right side. You tried not to let languid anxieties find their way inside, tried to remain proper when he had stood before you, bedside — all hard muscle, trim hips that held his length in between. He would be a fit, even for you.

He’d licked his tongue at the corner of his mouth, inhaling rather sharply, his hair covered chest already drenched in desperate perspiration. “I am going to show Pen how to touch you between your thighs. Will you let me — us, will you let us?”

How her hand looked in his as he guided, separating two fingers and sucking them into his mouth, causing a not so proper word to leave your lips — it’s surely a sight that could cure those without clear sight. The way their lips had parted when her finger breached your opening, sliding into your wet heat, knowing how it felt for the first time. She’d moved to his ministrations along your jugular, everyone entangled in a pulling, a pushing, more. Heavens, more. You had felt the tears glisten in your eyes, melt into your lashline, cooling on the air.

Colin had asked if you were alright, to which you drug him by his wrist, cupping his palm over your breast. “Please, please.”

~*~

The way the ceiling looks above you, you cannot see through your hazed over vision. The candles burning, melting down, you are not concerned with. Even the summer’s rain that has begun to pour on earth, there is no room to ponder. What you’re thinking of within this moment, it is the man between your legs, one hand held behind your crown, the other holding onto your waist as he moves so deeply inside of you, precise, wonderfully intricate thrusts, that discover a place in your body that you weren’t aware existed. Why should you? No client had ever taken this much time, nor care for what your body felt.

It was never about that. You were there to serve, purpose fulfilled, you left tattered and empty. But with Colin and Penelope Bridgerton? You aren’t sure what this is. The singular certainty that you do have, however, is that you do not wish for this to end.

There’s a fire in Penelope’s eyes as she sees you holding back a brewing question, your hands shaking. The one wound around Colin’s shoulder, the other that you have currently working between her legs. She can barely hold it together, beautiful and angelic to you, keeping you able to take her husband without issue. She is nodding at you, knowing what you need. You’re past that point, coasting over realms undiscovered, heavenly worlds that only Colin Bridgerton has directions to, powers to unlock.

She removes her hands from you both, dipping them down to his bottom, feeling, grabbing, and that moan drips from her like the cream that’s accumulated across her thighs, and she pushes, locks in tight. Like he’s under command, under her spell, his hips take you faster, harder — giving you exactly what you could not ask for. You’re not sure who is louder at this point, but everyone begins to breathe harder, lungs exerted, hands finding one another. You clip onto his neck’s nape, your other hand finding Penelope’s soft, soaked mound, and he is gripping onto her breast, his spare reaching back to hold onto your hand that is on his neck.

Penelope reaches her peak first, how she tightens around your fingers, collapsing right into the pillow beside your head. It triggers you to follow, body briefly arching, throat unable to let out anything that is not a pitiful, intense cry. You’re swimming with this, ignited in a reality that you cannot imagine not having endured before. Colin tenses, his forehead finding your own, and Penelope is lifting to watch you to complete your peaks. He sighs himself into a drawn out whine, right into your open mouth.

And then it’s over, his full weight pressed into you. It’s like there’s instruments that have suddenly stalled and cast a curtain aside to let you hear every sound you’ve been ignoring, incapable of. Heavy rain, battering winds, and rushing heartbeats. You all take a thoughtful moment, before Colin is lifting on forearms. “You’re alright? The both of you?”

You concur with Penelope. Colin smirks, bringing your slick covered fingers, letting them work into his mouth. He sucks her essence free of you, and they lean to trade a kiss, before taking a place on either side of you. Pen reaches for the blankets, pulling them up and gently tucking you in.

“I believe I will ask Mr. Bridgerton to extend the invitation.”

You turn to Colin, a question written into your features. He doesn’t give you too much time to ponder. “You will stay with us? Tonight?”

It’s everything that you want, but also everything that you cannot ask for. Like a fool, you’re already falling lovesick.

What have you done?

[wildwren]

they r so funny 2 me