#Class Divide

[miiju86]

let that sink in....

[alwaysbewoke]

[charmed-quill]

summary: Benedict Bridgerton longs for more than society’s expectations, drawn instead to art and freedom. Y/N, a fiercely talented but struggling artist, fights for recognition in a world that dismisses women of her class. When their paths cross, fascination sparks—a shared passion for art bridging the divide between privilege and survival. But their growing connection threatens them both in a world where reputation is everything. As scandal looms and duty calls, they must choose: conform to society’s rules or risk everything for love, ambition, and the art that brought them together.

total word count: 68.2k

Red = Smut

One - The Woman In Midnight

Two - Promenade

Three - A Vindication of the Rights of Woman

Four - Connoisseur of the Unconventional

Five - Whitechapel

Six - Number Five

Seven - Ruinous

Eight - Let her Choose

Nine - Muse

Ten - An Offer From a Gentleman

Eleven - Under the Arch

Twelve - Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers

Thirteen - I am Haunted

Fourteen - The Salon

Fifteen - My Cottage

Sixteen - The End

Epilogue

[blackstarlineage]

The Difference Between Cultural Identity and Class-Based Behaviour: A Garveyite Perspective on Black Consciousness, Liberation, and Self-Determination

From a Garveyite perspective, which prioritizes Pan-African unity, self-reliance, and the restoration of African/black consciousness, there is a crucial distinction between cultural identity and class-based behaviour that many Black people fail to recognize. This confusion has been intentionally manufactured through colonialism, white supremacy, and capitalist exploitation to keep Black people divided, assimilated, and disconnected from their true heritage.

At its core:

Cultural identity is the collective historical, linguistic, spiritual, and ancestral continuity of a people.

Class-based behaviour is a social construct based on material wealth, economic status, and Western-defined respectability.

This analysis will examine:

Defining Cultural Identity vs. Class-Based Behaviour.

How Colonialism and White Supremacy Engineered This Confusion.

Examples of This Confusion in Black Communities.

Consequences of Mistaking Class for Culture.

The Garveyite Solution: Returning to Pan-African Identity and Self-Determination

1. Defining Cultural Identity vs. Class-Based Behavior

To understand why many Black people confuse the two, we must clearly define them.

Cultural Identity (Rooted in Ancestry & Collective Consciousness)

A people’s shared history, values, traditions, language, spiritual beliefs, and customs.

In the African diaspora, cultural identity is tied to Pan-Africanism, black nationalism, African spirituality, and indigenous traditions.

Remains constant regardless of economic status—it is not defined by wealth or material possessions.

Rooted in African/black philosophy, communal living, and intergenerational knowledge.

Example: Practising African naming traditions, speaking African languages, honouring ancestors, wearing traditional African clothing, and celebrating Black resistance movements are expressions of cultural identity.

Class-Based Behavior (Rooted in Social and Economic Status)

Dictated by income, education level, and Western ideals of success.

Tied to capitalism, assimilation, and Eurocentric concepts of "civilization."

Can change depending on wealth—a person’s social status can rise or fall, but their cultural identity remains.

Enforces Western respectability politics, which dictates how a Black person must dress, speak, and behave to be deemed "successful" in white society.

Example: Some Black elites believe that speaking “proper English,” wearing suits, or getting degrees from Western institutions makes them more cultured—when in reality, these are simply class markers imposed by European systems.

Garveyite Perspective: Black people must recognize that cultural identity is about ancestral roots, Pan-Africanism, and collective liberation—not white validation through social mobility.

2. How Colonialism and White Supremacy Engineered This Confusion

Black people did not naturally develop this confusion—it was imposed on them through slavery, colonial rule, and systemic oppression.

A) Cultural Erasure Under Slavery & Colonialism

African languages were banned, and European tongues were forced upon enslaved Africans.

Indigenous African religions were demonized, and Christianity was imposed to maintain control.

Western education was introduced as the only legitimate form of intelligence.

European clothing and social etiquette were enforced as signs of "civilization."

Tribal and ethnic divisions were created to prevent unity among African peoples.

Example: In the Caribbean, enslaved Africans were deliberately separated from those who spoke the same language to prevent rebellion. In America, Black people were taught that English-speaking, well-dressed house slaves were “superior” to field slaves—creating a false class hierarchy.

B) The Rise of Respectability Politics

After slavery, Black people were pressured to prove their worth to white society by adopting European norms of behavior:

Speaking English "properly" was seen as a sign of intelligence.

Dressing in Western attire (suits, ties, dresses) was deemed respectable.

Christianity was used to reinforce submission, obedience, and assimilation.

Black professionals distanced themselves from poor, working-class Black people.

Example: The Talented Tenth philosophy promoted by W.E.B. Du Bois suggested that a small, highly educated Black elite should lead the race—while Garveyism argued for mass empowerment, economic self-reliance, and a return to African traditions.

Garveyite Perspective: Any ideology that promotes integration into a white supremacist society instead of African self-determination is anti-Black.

3. Examples of This Confusion in Black Communities

Many Black people still mistake economic status and Western respectability for cultural identity. Here are some examples:

A) Language & Speech

Some Black people believe that African-American Vernacular English (AAVE), Patois, Creole, or African languages are “ghetto”, while standard English is “educated.”

In reality, African linguistic structures influence these languages, making them part of our cultural identity.

Example: Many Caribbean and African immigrants are conditioned to believe that abandoning their mother tongues and adopting British or American English is a sign of intelligence, when in fact, this is an example of colonial indoctrination.

B) Clothing & Grooming

Some Black people believe that wearing African/black clothing is “backwards” or “unprofessional”, while wearing a suit and tie makes one respectable.

But a suit and tie is a European standard of dress, not an African or black one.

Example: Black and African clothing that remains uninfluenced by European styles is the kente cloth of Ghana. Woven by the Akan people for centuries, kente is a traditionally handcrafted fabric made from silk and cotton, featuring intricate patterns that hold deep cultural and spiritual significance. It has been worn by Ghanaian royalty and remains a symbol of heritage, status, and pride. Unlike European textiles, kente's designs, colours, and weaving techniques are rooted entirely in African traditions, showcasing a purely indigenous fashion identity.

C) Education & Intelligence

Some believe that having a degree from a Western university makes someone more cultured.

But Western education often promotes anti-Black narratives and European supremacy.

Example: Many Black intellectuals look down on grassroots organizers and Pan-African movements, seeing themselves as superior due to their Western degrees.

Garveyite Perspective: True intelligence is not determined by a degree from Harvard or Oxford—it is measured by self-education, community impact, and Pan-African consciousness.

4. Consequences of Mistaking Class for Culture

This confusion has caused major harm within the Black community:

A) Classism & Division

Black elites often distance themselves from the working class.

Africans and Caribbeans sometimes look down on Black Americans, believing their struggles stem from a lack of "ambition" instead of systemic racism.

Example: African immigrants are often taught that Black Americans are "lazy," when in reality, Black Americans face systemic barriers that prevent economic mobility.

B) Cultural Assimilation & Loss of Identity

Black people abandon African languages, traditions, and values in favour of Western norms.

African spirituality is demonized, while Christianity and Islam remain dominant.

Example: The African American upper class in the 1900s married lighter-skinned partners to gain social status—showing that whiteness, not African identity, was their measure of success.

Garveyite Perspective: Liberation comes through Pan-African unity and cultural reclamation—not integration into white systems.

5. The Solution: Reclaiming a Pan-African Consciousness

To break free from this confusion, Black people must return to authentic Pan-African identity and self-determination.

A) Prioritize African-Centered Education

Learn about African history, languages, and traditions outside of Western institutions.

Stop equating European education with intelligence.

B) Define Success on Our Own Terms

Success is not white approval—it is economic independence, cultural pride, and collective self-reliance.

Stop chasing corporate jobs, luxury brands, and European validation.

Garveyite Perspective: Only through self-sufficiency, cultural pride, and Pan-African unity can Black people truly be free.

Final Thought

Black people must stop confusing class-based Western behaviours with true African/black cultural identity. Only by reclaiming Pan-African consciousness, rejecting respectability politics, and prioritizing self-determination can true liberation be achieved.

---

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[coffeelovinggayidiot]

There's a LOT of good things (and thing I personally love) that came from the assassination on Brian Thompson, but I think one of the best (and a personal favorite) is that it brigde the devide between republicans and liberals, especially those from lower classes, and it forces the 1% to see (and hopefully engage in) the conversation on class divised

[possiblyunhinged]

Leftist spaces on the internet have been giving me the ick for a while. I think I’m finally starting to understand why.

The left feels so grossly disconnected from the working class at this point, I genuinely believe that the reason the working class rejects the left isn’t because they don’t agree. It’s because they don’t trust them.

I’m working-class, I grew up in poverty, and I’ve been reminded at multiple intervals that I’m a piece of shit for my background. Still now, I'm not getting through the month with any money left. So why is it that, even when I agree with the sentiment, leftist activist spaces feel like people like me don’t belong in them?

I live in a working-class army town that, for the first time ever, voted in a Labour MP. The general feeling is that everyone regrets it. Our MP would struggle to inspire a fart out of a constipated person, frankly. And our town is a mess. The high street is dead. Homelessness is through the roof. We have people protesting asylum seekers being housed in local flats. Violence among young men is rising. If you take a stroll through town, you’re likely to be harassed by a vape-smoking teenager on an e-scooter.

The language of politicians and activist spaces is something my brain has decoded through a natural obsession with justice. I was reading On Liberty at 13, giddy at the prospect of moral frameworks that made sense of a world I couldn’t cope with. So, unlike some, I didn’t go to university and then start coming home and ruining tea for everyone. I was already ruining tea thanks to a potent mix of autism and being insufferable.

I was always frustrated by my working-class family saying things like, “At least Thatcher stuck by her word.” and calling Churchill a “strong leader”—because I fucking used Google. I knew about the Bengal famine. The 1911 transport strikes. Conservative MPs putting northern towns into active decline. And I couldn’t reason with their ignorance, so I spent most of my childhood screaming into pillows.

Then I went to university. And suddenly, I got it.

The eye rolls I used to witness from my family, I was now doing myself, sitting in rooms full of predominantly white, middle-class academics. The language they spoke felt like an exercise in self-identity rather than a tool for action. It felt stagnant, self-postulating, and frankly, fucking infuriating.

I sat in lecture halls full of blatantly privileged people—not that they’d admit it. They’d seek out people like me for ‘validation’ of their relative deprivation, then argue amongst themselves about who had it worse in their leafy Surrey suburbs. Meanwhile, the men with a ‘nice guy’ complex were still pulling out chairs like 20th-century gentlemen—before you found out half of them had SA’d multiple women.

I went from being excited to be around like-minded, politically engaged people to feeling more isolated than I ever had in my life.

Because it wasn’t about fixing anything. It was about proving how right you were. The truly talented people in the room kept quiet unless it counted towards their grade. The rest just shouted over each other.

I watched one girl throw a pencil case at someone over an ontological debate.

To be fair, that was pretty funny.

But here’s my biggest issue with middle-class activists: they don’t understand the difference between academic rigour and lived experience.

In the same way that reading about WWII doesn’t give you the lived experience of a soldier, reading about the working-class experience doesn’t give you the right to speak over us and pretend you know what it’s like.

And working-class people can sniff that out a mile off. It feels disingenuous. You can empathise, you can imagine, and maybe you experience prejudice in other ways, but that’s not the same as living under centuries of classist policy designed to keep us at the bottom.

And this is exactly why the right is growing across Europe.

Because the left refuses to have hard conversations. Instead of engaging with working-class people who are becoming increasingly disenfranchised, they dismiss them as bigots, fools, or victims of misinformation.

What could possibly go wrong?

Working-class people aren’t stupid. They know their towns are changing. They see the high street is dead. They see more people out of work. They know a yearly holiday is a pipe dream. And yet, the only people speaking directly to them are racist, posh twats who have convinced them they have their best interests at heart.

The left could fill that gap.

But it won’t.

Because it’s more obsessed with policing language than winning arguments.

Every time there’s a glimmer of hope about a Labour government, someone on the left immediately tries to put it out because it’s not Corbyn swinging a block of tofu around his head.

There’s a denial of reality in activist spaces. A refusal to accept that socialist policies can’t be implemented without actually involving the working class in the conversation. But instead of creating a space where difficult conversations can happen, middle-class leftists have made activism a gated community where people are exiled for using the wrong terminology.

They care more about catching someone out on Twitter than asking why working-class people don’t respond to them.

I don’t have a resolution.

Consider me the perfect Philosophy student.

But I wish that, instead of constantly holding up mirrors to others, the left would hold one up to itself.

Because, sweetpeas, the class divide isn’t getting better.

[free-luigi]

December 8, 2024

Providers and patients united in solidarity. Class consciousness across the aisle. No sympathy for corporate greed, considering the CEO’s crimes against humanity. Only the rich and the sheep of the rich condemn this act.

Original article is ad-walled, here’s another source:

[bisexualseraphim]

USAmericans will literally live in a trailer working 3 jobs for $7 an hour surviving off gas station food and still call themselves ‘middle class.’

Here in the UK if you’re middle class you’re probably a neurosurgeon with a stable-barn and a mansion big enough to have its own name. US middle class is our working class.

Not got owt to say about it, just really fuckin weird innit. I’ve had a few USAmericans describe me as middle class and I’m like mate… I make half of what you do lol

EDIT: I have since been corrected on this!!! Please stop reblogging this without checking the notes first, I was quite wrong!!!

[clwhowrites]

The Fatal Flaw in Economic Theories, Part 2 - Socialism

Just to show I will not be picking on American capitalism (as it will be the main topic after this), I’ll start with socialism. This scene wasn’t just a joke. First, lets define terms, because most in the US don’t even know what socialism is. Socialism is an umbrella term for multiple economic philosophies and theories largely based on classless systems with worker or collective ownership of…

[personal-blog243]

Don’t get me wrong I know plenty of working class and lower class people who like Trump, but there is definitely something to be said about a class of “rich whites who THINK they are poor” and how that class of people specifically is arguably more likely to support the far right.

Trump literally has rallies for people who own BOATS which are definitely a luxury status symbol 🙄. And I bet they spend those rallies talking about how they supposedly “can’t afford a gallon of gas”. 🙄

[brainpukeblog]

[charmed-quill]

The Art of Desire// B.B x Reader ch 1

authors note at the end of the chapter

summary: Benedict Bridgerton longs for more than society’s expectations, drawn instead to art and freedom. Y/N, a fiercely talented but struggling artist, fights for recognition in a world that dismisses women of her class. When their paths cross, fascination sparks—a shared passion for art bridging the divide between privilege and survival. But their growing connection threatens them both in a world where reputation is everything. As scandal looms and duty calls, they must choose: conform to society’s rules or risk everything for love, ambition, and the art that brought them together.

word count: 3k

Next

Chapter 1- The Woman in Midnight

Spring had begun its slow descent upon London, and with it came the arrival of the ton’s most anticipated spectacle—the social season. A whirlwind of grand balls, glittering soirées, and whispered intrigues, all centred around one singular pursuit: matrimony.

For most eligible bachelors, this meant long evenings spent enduring the scrutinizing gazes of matchmaking mamas and their carefully groomed daughters, each hoping to secure a future filled with wealth, comfort, and a respectable lineage.

But one such eligible bachelor had, quite deliberately, abandoned the gilded halls of Mayfair this evening. Instead, he found himself navigating the narrow, twisting streets of a far less refined corner of the city, where the gas lamps burned lower, the air hung heavy with the scent of damp stone and soot, and the cobbled paths bore the weight of a world entirely different from his own.

Benedict Bridgerton walked with purpose, though there was little doubt he did not belong here.

His finely tailored coat, made of the richest wool and cut to perfection, set him apart like a beacon amid the worn, fraying fabrics of those who called this place home. His boots, polished to a mirror shine that caught the flickering lamplight, were ill-suited for the uneven, muck-strewn streets. And his very bearing—upright, confident, yet tinged with something dangerously close to curiosity—was at odds with the wary glances of those who scuttled past him, their expressions ranging from indifferent to outright suspicious.

It had not escaped his notice that the moment he stepped beyond the familiar avenues of the ton, the world had ceased to look at him with admiration. Here, he was not a Bridgerton. Not a second son of a powerful family, not a young man whose presence at a ball might set the gossip mills turning. Here, he was an intruder.

And yet, he could not bring himself to care.

He had heard whispers of this place, this secret, hidden exhibition, passed through an almost comical chain of acquaintances. A friend of a friend’s older brother’s cousin, or something equally convoluted. But despite its vague origins, the information had lodged itself in his mind, tempting him in a way that few things did.

An underground gallery. A space where art, unbound by society’s rigid expectations, was allowed to breathe.

How could he resist such a thing?

Benedict recited the directions he had been given, though he was beginning to suspect that the man who had relayed them to him had neglected to consider that a gentleman such as himself might struggle with their execution.

“Turn left at the old butcher’s shop.”

He glanced around. There were, by his count, at least three shops that might once have belonged to butchers, all with grime-streaked windows and crooked signs that did little to indicate their current purpose.

“Take the alley beside the bookshop.”

Bookshop? He squinted at a small storefront, its sign so weathered that only half the letters remained visible. If it had ever contained books, it certainly did not now.

“Knock twice, then once.”

That instruction, at least, seemed simple enough—provided he ever found the door in question.

Benedict exhaled, his breath curling into the cool night air, and pressed forward, dodging a man pushing a cart laden with cabbages and something that smelled suspiciously of fish. A pair of children darted past him, barefoot and laughing, their clothing little more than patched-together remnants of fabric.

It struck him, as he walked, how very small the world of the ton truly was. How neatly contained within its glittering bubble, so self-important, so entirely unaware of the lives lived beyond it.

And yet, here he was, desperate to step outside of that bubble.

His heart gave a small leap as he spotted a door tucked into the shadow of a narrow alleyway, a faint light spilling out from beneath its threshold.

He had found it.

Without hesitation, Benedict stepped forward and knocked.

Twice.

Then once.

The door opened.

It was nothing like what he had been expecting.

Though, if he were being truthful, he had not been entirely certain of what he had been expecting.

A dimly lit salon filled with eager, young artists hunched over their canvases? A hidden enclave where the city’s lesser-known talents gathered in secret? Perhaps a gathering of radicals, discussing the merits of unshackled creativity over stolen glasses of brandy?

Whatever his mind had conjured, it had not been this.

The space was dark, not in the way of neglect or decay, but in the deliberate manner of something designed to keep its secrets. Flickering candlelight cast long, sinuous shadows against the walls, their glow barely touching the vaulted ceiling above. A haze of pipe smoke curled lazily in the air, lending the room an almost dreamlike quality, as if he had stepped into something half-formed, something unfinished.

And the people—so many people.

They moved like whispers through the room, their voices low but fervent, their laughter laced with the thrill of indulgence. It was a gathering unlike any he had ever attended, where lace-gloved hands brushed against soot-stained fingers, where silks and brocades mingled with rough linens and ink-spattered cuffs. Here, in this dimly lit sanctuary, titles meant nothing. The only currency of value was passion, an understanding, unspoken yet deeply felt, that all who stood in this space were bound by a singular devotion.

The love of art.

Benedict wandered deeper into the gallery, his gaze drawn to the pieces displayed on the walls and makeshift easels. He had been prepared for something avant-garde, something outside the neatly confined lines that the ton so carefully enforced. But even he had not anticipated the audacity of what he now beheld.

A woman, nude, reclining in the golden spill of sunlight, her limbs soft and unashamed, her expression one of lazy pleasure, as though she had just been woken from the most decadent of dreams. The brushstrokes were bold, almost reckless, yet they conveyed such tenderness that he felt, for a moment, as though he were intruding upon something deeply intimate.

Another canvas, this one more haunting—an alleyway at dusk, the cobblestones slick with rain, the blurred silhouette of a man disappearing into the mist. The paint bled at the edges, deliberate in its imprecision, evoking a sense of longing so palpable that Benedict felt it coil in his chest.

He turned, pausing before a piece that stole the breath clean from his lungs.

It was unlike the others.

A storm, wild and unrelenting, stretched across the canvas, its dark fury captured in thick, sweeping strokes of oil and shadow. The sky churned with violence, and the rain slashed down in torrents, but at the heart of it all, barely discernible amidst the chaos stood a lone figure. A man, his back rigid, his face tilted upward as though daring the heavens to break him.

It was raw. It was powerful. And it unsettled something deep within Benedict’s chest.

"Striking, isn’t it?"

The voice, smooth yet edged with something unreadable, pulled him from his thoughts.

Benedict turned.

The woman beside him was draped in darkness. A gown of deepest midnight clung to her frame, the flickering candlelight playing tricks upon its fabric, giving the illusion that she was shifting between shadow and substance. Her hair was pulled back in a manner that suggested it had been tamed only reluctantly, stray curls slipping free to frame cheekbones and a mouth that looked as though it had been formed for secrets.

She was watching him—not with the idle curiosity of a casual observer, but with something keener, something knowing.

"It is," he found himself saying, his voice quieter than he intended. "I feel as though I should look away."

"But you won’t," she murmured, stepping closer. "No one ever does."

Her gaze flicked back to the painting, her expression unreadable. "That’s the thing about storms is they demand to be watched. Even when they threaten to consume us."

Benedict’s brow furrowed. There was something peculiar about the way she spoke, as though she understood the piece not just as a viewer, but as something more.

"And what do you see?" he asked, tilting his head toward her.

For a brief moment, something flickered across her face—something vulnerable, something deeply personal. But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by a slow, enigmatic smile.

"I suppose that depends," she said, her voice lilting with amusement. "What do you see?”

Benedict turned back to the painting, the storm, the solitary figure, the unspoken ache buried in its depths.

"I see a man standing against something greater than himself," he admitted. "I see someone who refuses to yield, even when he should."

The woman exhaled a quiet laugh, though there was no humour in it. "Ah," she mused, more to herself than to him. "Yes. That is what most men see."

Benedict turned to her again, studying her expression, the curve of her lips, the way her eyes lingered on the painting as if it held something of herself.

Before he could press further, before he could ask why she had phrased it that way, she met his gaze, her dark eyes gleaming with something unreadable.

"Enjoy the rest of the exhibition," she said smoothly, offering him a slight nod before slipping away into the crowd.

Benedict watched her go, a peculiar weight settling in his chest.

He looked down at the plaque, his gaze lingering on the name etched in crisp, precise lettering.

L/N.

No grand title, no sign of patronage, no indication of noble lineage. Just a name. Plain, simple. And yet, it held weight. It carried presence.

Benedict let the syllables roll through his mind as he drifted through the gallery, seeking out more of this enigmatic artist’s work.

He found them scattered throughout the space, bold strokes of color against the dimly lit walls, each piece whispering of stories untold.

A young boy, barefoot, crouched on the edge of a gutter, his hands cradling a broken toy. The detail in his face was exquisite, the shadows clinging to the hollows of his cheeks, the hint of longing in his wide, hollow eyes. A portrait of childhood lost to hunger, to the cold, to the indifference of a world that did not stop for the likes of him.

Further along, a woman. Not one of the carefully powdered and perfumed ton ladies who floated through Mayfair’s drawing rooms, but a woman of the streets, her apron stained with the day’s work, her hair falling loose from its pins. She stood at the threshold of a doorway, her gaze fixed on something beyond the canvas, her lips pressed tight. The lines around her mouth hinted at years of quiet endurance, of burdens shouldered without complaint.

It was not the kind of art one found in a nobleman’s collection.

These paintings did not seek to flatter. They did not capture beauty for beauty’s sake. They revealed.

They peeled back the layers of London—the true London, not the manicured gardens and opulent ballrooms of Grosvenor Square, but the damp alleyways, the coal-dusted faces, the sharp edges of a city that did not care who thrived and who starved.

Benedict exhaled, a slow, deliberate breath.

Who was this artist?

Surely, a man. The weight of the work, the depth of its perspective—it had to belong to someone who had seen both sides of this city. Someone who had lived it.

His mind painted the image of an older gentleman, perhaps. A recluse, an intellectual, someone who had spent a lifetime observing the world from a distance and now sought to preserve it in oil and pigment.

It was unthinkable that such work could belong to a woman.

He was still deep in thought when he felt the weight of someone’s gaze upon him.

Turning, he found himself once again in the company of the woman in the midnight gown.

She stood just at the edge of the candlelight, the flickering glow catching on the dark silk of her dress, making it shimmer like ink spilled across parchment. There was something distinctly defiant in the way she held herself, her chin tilted ever so slightly, her arms crossed loosely over her waist.

Benedict inclined his head toward her, nodding to the painting beside them.

"These are extraordinary," he said, his voice tempered with genuine admiration. "Do you know anything of the artist?"

She studied him for a moment, and he could not tell whether she found his question amusing or tiresome.

"I know them quite well," she finally replied.

He glanced at her, brow slightly furrowed at her cryptic response. "Are they here tonight?"

A pause.

And then, with the faintest tilt of her lips—"Yes."

Benedict’s eyes flickered over the room instinctively, scanning the gathered crowd for some figure that fit the vision in his mind. Someone older, worn with experience, perhaps standing in the corner, observing rather than engaging.

And then her voice, smooth as velvet, cut through his search.

"You are looking in the wrong direction, Mr. Bridgerton."

His gaze snapped back to her, confusion flitting across his features.

She held his stare, and when she spoke next, there was no mistaking the quiet power in her words.

"I am Y/N L/N."

Silence stretched between them, taut and unmoving.

Benedict felt his breath catch, his mind scrambling to rearrange itself around this revelation.

Her?

A woman?

The thought was so immediate, so ingrained, that he had barely contained his surprise before it flickered across his expression.

Not fast enough.

Because he saw it then, the moment her amusement cooled, the subtle shift in her stance, the way her chin lifted, but not in pride. No, this was a shield. A defense against the inevitable reaction she had clearly seen too many times before.

"Ah," she said softly, the curve of her mouth sharpening at the edges. "You hadn’t thought it possible, had you?"

Benedict opened his mouth, grasping for words that would mend whatever damage had already been done.

"It is not that—"

"Isn’t it?" she interrupted, her voice still poised, but her eyes darker now, less forgiving. "It would not be the first time a gentleman such as yourself found it difficult to reconcile the artist with the art."

He exhaled, his jaw tightening. "You mistake me. I merely—"

"You merely assumed," she cut in, her smile polite but distant now. "That this work must have belonged to a man. A scholar. Perhaps someone with a fine education and a patron to sponsor his brilliance."

Her voice was smooth, but the ice beneath it was undeniable.

"What would a woman from my world know of things that truly matter?" she mused.

Benedict felt the words strike deep, but before he could protest, before he could explain that she had misunderstood, she was already turning away.

And for the first time that evening, he found himself wanting desperately to follow.

He did not see the woman in midnight after that.

She had vanished into the crowd, swallowed by the dim candlelight and the low murmur of voices, slipping away as easily as ink bleeding into parchment. He found himself scanning the room for a glimpse of dark silk, for the unmistakable shape of her—her poised shoulders, the unruly tendrils of hair that framed her face, the sharp glint in her eyes when she had spoken to him.

But she was gone.

And yet, she was everywhere.

Her presence lingered, woven into the very fabric of the gallery itself—hidden in the wild, unrelenting strokes of her paintings, in the aching vulnerability of her subjects. He had walked these rooms seeking out her art, only to realize, too late, that he had been seeking her all along.

There was something about her.

Something that pulled at the edges of his memory, as though he had seen her before, known her before.

But where?

She was not a debutante. She was not someone he had danced with under the grand chandeliers of Bridgerton House or exchanged idle pleasantries with at a garden party. No, she was something else entirely.

And yet, the way she had held his gaze, the way she had spoken with quiet certainty, as though she knew him just as well as he wished to know her, it unsettled him.

It fascinated him.

By the time he stepped into the quiet ofhs bachelor lodgings, the city was wrapped in the hush of early morning. The world was still, London’s usual roar reduced to the occasional distant sound of carriage wheels on damp cobblestone.

He should have gone straight to bed.

Should have tried to shake her from his thoughts.

But instead, he found himself sitting before his desk, fingers smudged with charcoal, his sketchbook open before him.

And, without thinking, he began to draw.

The lines came hesitantly at first. The curve of a jaw. The slope of a neck. The gentle sweep of a mouth that had smirked at him with knowing amusement.

His hand moved on its own, compelled by something he did not fully understand, as if trying to pin down the thing that had eluded him all evening.

Eyes.

Clever, assessing.

Daring him to see more than he had been willing to.

The midnight dress, melting into the shadows.

The way she had looked at him, not with admiration, not with reverence, but with something sharper. Something that had left him feeling exposed.

He sat back, exhaling as he stared down at the sketch.

It was not quite right.

He had captured the shape of her, the tilt of her chin, the way her mouth curved with the weight of unsaid words. But it was missing her. The fire in her gaze, the impossible enigma of her.

Benedict frowned, tapping his fingers against the edge of the desk.

Who was she?

And why—why, for the first time in a very long time—did he feel as though he was standing at the edge of something he did not yet have the words to name?

a/n: so I decided to read Bridgerton to get me out of a really bad reading funk and all of a sudden I am in love with Benedict Bridgerton??? so I did the most logical thing and decided to write fanfiction so here were are! this is gonna kind of be a mix between the Netflix series and the book series

[estera-shirin]

Ice Cream Vendor at Shooting Range, Tehran, Iran, 1880-1928 CE

[noimpressionlackingpassion]

and sometimes the rich I know I pain them

walk through their gardens don’t have to maintain them

though they take more than needed to sustain them

i think we’re all guilty of that

[bandomfandombeyond]

if the Great American North is so Progressive, and all the poor, dirty, stupid Southerners should be crawling all over each other trying to escape, why (when the average rent is already 3-4x what it is in the South) do Northern landlords still collect security deposits and first/last month's rent? why aren't they making it easy and appealing for poor Democratic voters to leave the South, if it's such a lost cause?

oh, is it because class and access to capital is a more powerful societal division and motivator than where you live on a map? *gasp* scandalously shocking! totally new information!

[dumbass5202]

Hashtag don’t eat the rich eat their ass

-i found this in a note from 3 months ago, i do not remember writing this i do not remember creating this, they are getting to me