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"What is this, Colin?" Penelope asked, holding the box as if it were aflame, her voice low.
Colin shrugged and smiled his most charming smile. "Just a little jape, Pen," he said winningly, and then moved himself closer so he might leer down at her.
"A—a jape?" she squeaked, her long lashes fluttering as she looked up at him, her lips pouting.
"Yes, darling," he purred. The effect he had on her was delightful; he could not imagine tiring of it. The more she melted the more focused he became. "Do you not remember? You made such a good joke the other day about being my little cow." He was certain her nipples were hard now, and her eyes were like blue saucers. "To get milked and bred and fucked."
"Yes," she said faintly, and he watched the flush spread down to the tops of her breasts. "A joke."
"Unless," he coaxed, and then he moved her in front of the mirror and stood behind her, his body crowding hers and his hands cupping her breasts. "Unless it was not a joke at all, Penelope? Unless you would like me to tie you up and breed you like a pretty little cow, darling?"
OR - Colin helps the married Penelope conceive an heir
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It's maybe not something he should be doing for his friend. It is maybe too much, not normal, but Colin likes how it makes him feel. For two months a year he gets to be a man who has a girl to buy flowers for. Sometimes when the florist says for your girlfriend? he will say yeah, and when they say lucky girl he will say yeah, yeah she is or I'm the lucky one and for a few moments he is another person entirely, a man with a purpose and a life and a warm flat with a pretty girl in it, waiting upside down on the sofa for her peonies with her hair trailing.
Better than the reality, that he is a thirty-two year old loser with no job (which is why he can afford to be loping around the city all day looking for flowers). No job no girlfriend no point.
It is the happiest he is all year.
OR
colin has a realisation during peony season
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Penelope could not breathe. Eloise floated like a waterlily upon the pool, the tips of her breasts pointed up above the water, her belly rising with each breath and her thighs spread wide. Beautiful, Penelope thought; so beautiful that she did not know what to do except look, her eyes tracing Eloise's skin. She wondered if the cool water felt nice upon Eloise's skin; if she was enjoying the lap of it against her body, against the soft skin of her breasts and between her legs as Penelope was.
"Penelope," Eloise said lazily, her mouth turning up at the corners. "You are staring."
Penelope swallowed, started from her daydreaming. She shifted beneath the water and watched its surface ripple. "No I am not," she insisted, her cheeks warm despite the cool kiss of the water. "And you cannot possibly see — your eyes are closed."
"I know when you look at me, Penelope Featherington," Eloise retorted, and her voice was silky, warm enough to make Penelope shiver. "Come. You do not need to simply look. You might touch, also. We are spinsters, are we not?"
OR: Penelope and Eloise go skinny dipping
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"Pen?" he asks gently. Penelope looks up to see him gazing down, soft and wide-eyed at her, one of his oiled curls falling across his forehead.
"What if someone hears us?" she asks softly.
"Well, we must be very, very quiet then," Colin whispers.
Penelope gets to her feet, feeling suddenly shy. He has never been in her bedroom before, she realises. And he is so tall, even in his socks, and she is standing before him in nothing but her cotton nightgown.
She drops her gaze to his chest. "You shouldn't have come. It's too dangerous. We are too close to being gone."
"That is why I couldn't stay away." His voice is thick with yearning. Colin's voice is always thick with something, some large feeling. Penelope thinks she could tell each of his emotions apart by just the length of his vowels or the way he pouts out his plosives. "I wished… I wished to spend this night together."
OR: the night before they elope, Colin comes to visit Penelope in her bedroom
1950s Mafia AU -
feel your body closing, i can rip it open by applepuffsilver
Fandoms: Bridgerton Series - Julia Quinn, Bridgerton (TV)
11 Apr 2026
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"I want your help."
Her eyes meet his. They're too fucking blue, dark and deep and surrounded by long, pretty lashes.
"Help writing?" She imagines late nights standing behind him as he writes by the glow of his laptop, bending down so their cheeks hover with only warm inches of air between them. Letting her chin rest on his shoulder for a second, her nails tapping the screen. Feeling his breath hitch as she presses herself to him. She shifts in her seat and tries to pull herself together.
He shakes his head. "No. Help with the sex."
She laughs. It startles out of her in a bubble. "You want me to help you find someone to shag?" she asks incredulously, raking her fingers through her tangled curls (she was too hungover this morning to brush them properly).
But Colin doesn't laugh, and his eyes don't leave hers. "No. I want to shag you." He grimaces. "I've never said that word before."
Or Virgin Professor Bridgerton asks his colleague Penelope for some help...
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"Bet I could still catch you," he tells her and she glowers at him but he can see the little twitch in her pout. She wants to smile. He feels good. "Now, come on. Give me a hug. I haven't seen you in forever."
As he wraps his arms around her, gathers all her plushness to his chest, his nose is filled with her scent.
And Colin Bridgerton forgets the performance. Forgets that he has to be careful with her. Forgets that his family are about two feet away.
Because she smells fucking divine. Not the right word, surely — too exalted for the earthiness, the rich salt that makes his jaw work and his tongue press to the roof of his mouth and his fingers dig into the rolls on her back. Does she always smell like this, he wonders — this dirty, bright and cloying — or did she just forget deodorant? He can't recall — can't recall anything, except the vivid musk of her, fresh and sweet like the cut stalks of flowers, sweat and tang and — fuck — he's hard. Hard and leaking, immediately and so profusely it kind of feels like he's pissed himself. Fuck. Fuck.
OR: Colin comes home from travelling and realises he likes the way Penelope smells
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"We'll have to actually do some writing, then, if it's raining." She gives him a hesitant smile. "Isn't that why we came here?"
"Y-es," he says slowly, frowning. He had said that, hadn't he? A writer's retreat, he said in that dark, frozen garden, his mouth so close to hers that he could taste her next words, taste his own saliva on her lips. Just me and you. "But — but no. Not just that, Pen."
Her cheeks flood pink again (God, it's nice making her blush) and she turns her face towards the fire, her teeth buttoning her lower lip. "No," she says softly. "Not just that."
OR
After telling Penelope he loves her, Colin takes her to the family chateau in France for a week to work out what their relationship is going to be
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"Will you two — can you behave tonight?" Eloise says, exasperation in her voice and her nose scrunched up.
Colin wears an innocent face. "I can't think what you mean. Penis and I always behave."
"I swear to God —" Penelope hisses, plonking the wine down hard on the counter. "You both have to stop with that —"
"I mean it!" Eloise exclaims as she goes over to the large bowl of salad on the side and begins to toss it aggressively. "None of your usual Pen-and-Colin shit, please. Edwina's bringing someone new, and I want him to think we're… normal." She sighs, shoulders sagging. "Normal-ish. Normal enough that he doesn't run screaming." Her eyes narrow. "And if I'm honest I'd rather avoid another evening of you two bitching at each other."
"We don't bitch," Colin insists, though they do, in fact, bitch. "Penelope is my dearest friend."
OR: Eloise throws a dinner party. Penelope and Colin cannot behave themselves
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"Now," the boy (Colin, Colin, Colin) says, as he eases himself to his feet languorously, so he looms and teeters upon the wall. Penelope's breath catches in her throat — she stares up at him in frozen terror as he reaches a long arm out to snatch the top of the cherry tree, his body bowing elegantly into the nothingness of open air. One wrong move and he will tumble, she is sure of it. "Penelope with the Greek name and lovely face and hair like fire," (Penelope wonders if she might die from blushing), "if I throw you down some of the sweetest cherries from the top of the tree," (he begins to pluck and twist the green stems, the branches shaking precariously), "the ones the sun has kissed to perfect ripeness, the kind of cherries you have never tasted before in your life," (he pops one in his mouth and gives the rest of his speech pouted around it), "even as the daughter of a duke who always tastes the very best of everything — well, do you think you might favour me with a smile?"
Oh, she thinks (for even at fourteen she is decisive; knows her mind well). I am in love.
On the day she finds out she is to be married, Penelope falls in love
Renaissance Era AU
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"You — you bind other people?" Penelope blurts out, forgetting herself. Then her cheeks redden. "Sir," she adds, her heart pounding.
Mr Bridgerton's brow creases and he looks down at his leg, at the rope wound about his large fingers.
"Yes, Penelope. The feeling is like none other. I am able to… well." He clears his throat and his back straightens. He has never said so many words to her all at once, Penelope realises. "The rope allows one to forget one's troubles for a few moments."
Penelope does not think before she says:
"I am yours to command, sir."
OR maid penelope suggests to her widowed master that he ties her up. for his mental health of course
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"El — do you —" Penelope stutters, her body still, "— have an erection?"
Eloise frowns. Her crotch is jammed into Penelope's hip, and when realisation dawns she lets out a sharp, bursting laugh. "It's my packer."
Penelope frowns, her tits heaving underneath the diaphanous nightgown. Eloise can feel them brushing her torso with each gasped breath and she feels something spark and jitter through her body.
"Your…" Penelope falters.
Eloise gets off her and sits up on the couch. She spreads her arms wide over the back of it, sprawling with her legs apart. The bulge is satisfyingly obvious like this; Penelope's eyes drag straight to her jean-clad crotch, just as Eloise meant them to.
"God, you're so straight," El laughs, as Penelope sits up uncertainly, kneeling on the couch cushions beside her. "It's easy to forget because of how little sex with men you have."
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Penelope hauls ass through Kensington, pushing past yummy mummies and tourists, yanking her phone out of her bag haphazardly as she fast-walks. Diving through a group of Italian tourists trying to take a photo outside of Harrods, Penelope opens up her period tracker app absently. Her vision fuzzes and focuses on the little red blobs hover over the dates.
Huh. She's late. By five days. Which — she's not exactly dedicated to remembering to mark down her periods in this stupid app (Eloise told her not to use it anyway, says the company is probably selling her data onto advertisers so her personalised ads can sync up with her cycle). And her periods aren't particularly regular.
She is so busy staring at the red blobs she almost walks into a posh old lady wearing a Chanel jacket coming out of Harrods. She apologises and hurries on, opening Whatsapp.
Pen: period's late. what if I'm pregnant
Edwina: haha. with whose sperm? you can't get pregnant from masturbating to pictures of pedro pascal
Penelope swallows, a lump in her throat. Because — right. She never told Edwina about Colin, did she?
OR: the one where Penelope gets an abortion
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"We are to be married very soon," Colin reasoned, and Penelope nodded eagerly, her cheeks blushing darker. "And, perhaps, if you do not touch me with your hands, and I do not put it inside of you, we are not being so very wicked then, are we?"
Penelope's eyes widened and he was sure she was scandalised but bore it rather well — as though she wished to be sophisticated and worldly, an engaged woman now. "No," she agreed, though her words trembled some. "No, not at all."
Which is how Colin comes to be here, now, in Penelope's bedchamber, standing between her legs while she lays back upon her bed, her skirts rucked up to reveal her sweet little treasure and her stocking-clad feet wrapped around his prick.
OR: Colin and Penelope find inventive ways to touch before they are married
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"Fuck!" Eloise exclaims, dismay in her voice. Penelope twists and looks down at her thigh and sees that the stupid carabiner clipped to Eloise's belt buckle has gotten caught on Penelope's fishnets.
And they are stuck.
"Unclip it then," Penelope says angrily, as Eloise fiddles with the metal clasp, her brow furrowed.
"What the fuck do you think I'm trying to —" Eloise mutters, her jaw tight as she tugs on the fishnets.
"Careful!" The thin netting stretches dangerously. "You'll make a hole in them!"
"Aren't they made of holes?" Eloise says sourly
OR: Penelope and Eloise are fighting, until one night at a gay bar Eloise's carabiner gets stuck to Penelope's fishnets
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Colin is a new man, and he might take his pick of the Ton's beauties — so it makes little and less sense that he finds himself at a ball (he forgets whose — forgets nearly everything, in fact), struck dumb by the sight of her.
Penelope Featherington. Standing at the refreshment table with an eclair in hand, her eyes wide as she darts her gaze about to make sure no-one is watching her (not wide enough, apparently, for she does not see him).
Has she always been so… has she always been so? So much, so plump and spilling, so soft all over? Fresh and bright as the cream oozing from the end of her eclair, and he wonders if he pressed his thumb into the swell of her decolletage, how deep would it sink? How would she dimple and spill beneath his touch?
He watches, transfixed, as her pink tongue darts out to wet her plush lips, so rosy and pretty (the same colour as her round blushing cheeks). Watches those little thumb-print dimples appear as her mouth opens and she bites into the eclair, her lashes fluttering at the sweetness. God, to be the chocolate upon her tongue, the soft pillow of the pastry with the cold, clear cream within! Colin's mouth floods with saliva.
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"You might — you might pretend to court me," she says.
"You — what?" he asks dumbly. He feels dizzy, his mind working slowly as if he is wading through the lake.
"Just for a few weeks," she explains quickly. "Just to give me — room to breathe. Keep the alphas at bay for a short while."
She blinks up at him , so pretty and plump, her skin shining like polished porcelain in the moonlight. She has the loveliest little flush upon her chest now, blooming in pink patches that he cannot help but imagine beneath his lips.
"I shall pretend to court you," Colin repeats slowly, his eyes tracing over the tops of her breasts, his jaw working helplessly. "And you shall let me — let me bite?" He cannot believe the words dropping from his tongue. "Let me — let me play alpha?" There is a sort of ringing in his ears.
Penelope's eyes go very round then, her breaths coming out quick.
She nods.
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Colin had thought once that sirens were made of lies, deception poured into supple flesh to tempt sailors to their deaths. But Penelope is not like that, is she? Perhaps she is.
But then he sees her fingers crawling over the lip of the rocks and he forgets all else.
She moves like the ocean. Her body undulates, swirls, never still. It had been maddening, sickening to watch the first time he saw her, but now he knows how the swirl feels when it is pressed against him and it only excites him to watch her, his heart racing and his skin warming even in the cold water.
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All three screens have the same image. Not image, really — it's a video. Penelope lets out a squeal and covers her eyes but it is too late. She has already seen it, the picture burned into her eyes in triplicate.
It is an anime. Or — hentai, she supposes. A cartoon girl with impossibly giant tits and long, peach-coloured hair spread out naked, her legs open and her wrists pinned, and her body covered in writhing purple tentacles. Not just covering her — going inside of her. As in — one curling in and out of her dripping pussy (which is topped with a little patch of matching peach hair), stretching her obscenely. Another in her mouth, splitting her lips wide. Two more wrapped around each of her inhumanly large nipples, squeezing tight.
Penelope's heart hammers in her chest as her befuddled mind tries to clutch at what she has just seen. She slips into the gaming chair with one hand still over her eyes, remembering at the last moment to grab the headset so she doesn't squash it.
Tentacle porn. There is tentacle porn on Colin's computers. Colin has been watching anime tentacle porn.
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“In fact, are you sure you wish to be caught conversing with me, Mr Bridgerton?” she asks. There is a tease in her voice, her eyes darting over to where Henry Granville is now half-laughing, half-shouting at Lady Danbury. She kisses the silver cigarette holder and his eyes are drawn to her mouth once more. “This is not the sort of room Bridgerton boys should be caught frequenting. Agatha might tell your mother.”
He thinks it is a test.
Well. He means to pass.
He tilts his chin, and drags his eyes up from her mouth. “I am exactly where I wish to be, Penelope,” he says decisively.
She smiles around the cigarette, smoke curling from the edges of her lips. He steps closer, and his heart is beating rather loudly.
“And what of you?” he counters, lifting an eyebrow and darting his gaze behind her, the flock of crows hovering and flapping. “I would not wish to keep you from your admirers.”
The blue starlight of her eyes meet his, direct and clear and bright. “I am exactly where I wish to be.”
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Before the fights and the couples’ therapy and the slow, inevitable drift. Before the night he came home from work to find Marina on the sofa, pale and drawn, already knowing every word that was about to come out of her mouth (because the words were already on his tongue, weren’t they?). Before the thousands spent on divorce lawyers and moving into the sad flat Anthony found for him and having to tell the fucking kids (worst bit – Oliver had gotten so quiet and Amanda had cried silently; wouldn’t let either of them touch her).
He could have gotten out of it. Ben had called him and said we can find someone else in a way that made it very clear they probably couldn’t, and Colin being Colin (reliable; helpful – a dope, maybe), had said no, no, I’ll do it.
Which is how he ends up in Bari, parked in a service station in a cramped hire car; forty-five; divorced; and about to embark on a two-week trip across Italy he had booked in an attempt to save his marriage. Without, you know, his wife.
.OR: post-divorce, Colin Bridgerton takes his friend Penelope on a road trip to Italy