#Dressing Beyond the Algorithm

[ecinmag]

How Social Media and Fast Fashion Shape Personal Style & Consumer Identity Pt.1

The rise of fast fashion and social media has transformed the fashion industry and how people express themselves through clothing. These forces have made fashion trends more accessible than ever, but they also encourage a culture of overconsumption and uniformity. Social media platforms like Instagram and TikTok constantly promote new styles, making personal identity tied to keeping up with the…

[hcneymooners]

the odd soft launch of homophobia is starting to truly irk me.

there’s been a lot of conversation lately about paige and azzi and the nature of their relationship, and to be honest, it feels so clear to me that what they have goes beyond friendship. there’s something about their connection that feels deep, unspoken—like they’re soul-tied. but amid the speculation, i've also seen people call out the "deniers," saying things like, “at this point, y’all are just being homophobic.” and while i’ve hesitated to say anything, i do think this conversation is worth having—because, honestly, yes.

yes, a lot of the reactions to it are rooted in something deeper and more uncomfortable.

for a long time now, i’ve seen people deny anything could possibly be going on between the two of them. they say it’s to protect the girls or to respect their privacy—but under that, i think there’s a fear. a fear of what it would mean if they were together. because then they’d be “those” people. part of a group that still gets othered, questioned, and in many cases, rejected. and when you factor in paige’s strong christian faith—which has drawn in a lot of religious, often conservative fans—it gets even more complicated.

i think it’s easy to believe we live in a progressive world when you’ve tailored both your real life and your algorithm to reflect that, but the truth is that culture has shifted heavily to conservatism. people are bolder now in the ways they talk about marginalized people, even if they’re trying to dress it up as concern. i saw someone comment on a video calling paige a “real woman”—and it just reinforced this feeling i’ve had.

there’s this uncomfortable desire to fit them into a narrow, safe idea of womanhood and straightness. and to be even more honest, for a lot of people, it’s about wanting paige—blonde, blue-eyed, that “all-american” look—to not be with a mixed, black woman like azzi. no one says it out loud, but the silence is loud enough.

i think a lot about how society still doesn’t take relationships between women seriously. we see it over and over again—sapphic relationships being dismissed as “just a phase” or romantic friendships. there’s a safety in calling someone your best friend, especially when the world isn’t safe enough to call them your partner. and people eat that narrative up because it lets them ignore what’s right in front of them. and i see that happening constantly with paige and azzi. it’s almost like people need to believe it’s not real, just so they can stay comfortable.

at the end of the day, they’re free to conduct their relationship however they want—it’s theirs. they don’t owe us anything. but i do think some of you need to partake in some serious self-reflection: why does the idea of them being together make you uncomfortable? is it really about protecting them? or is it about protecting your idea of them? how much of your reaction is shaped by internalized homophobia or racial bias?

and i say this gently, but also truthfully: some of y’all are projecting strange fantasies onto these girls, especially paige. there’s a level of obsession, of placing her on this untouchable pedestal, that honestly starts to feel more about possession than admiration.

it’s worth questioning what’s really going on there because it’s uncomfortable to witness.

[cheriecoke]

˚₊‧꒰ა cold embrace (provenance) — fyodor dostoevsky

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎. you buy a two hundred year old house with a two hundred year old painting hanging above the mantel. it's not the only thing the previous owner left behind.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈. ghost!fyodor, f!reader, violence, angst, death, alternate / modern universe, no smut but it is suggestive, fyodor is kind of a pervy ghost so, wc: 6.1k

𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒𝓈. this one has two titles bc it was supposed to be for my kinktober... never finished it. embarrassing ! but here is a semi-revamped version for this series! i can finally check it off my wips page <3 idk how i feel about it but i hope you enjoy

part of my summerween series !

A chime from the grandfather clock brings Fyodor out of his stupor, the sound signaling another day, another meaningless hour that will only continue his eternal misery. He’s grown used to it now—evening after evening of emptiness, of reading nothing but the same books, playing the same pieces of dull sheet music, and the lifeless chess matches against himself. The house is cold with only his presence, dusty without a housekeeper and a life to make it a home.

There are a million things in Fyodor’s life that he must have done to deserve this misery, but he can’t pinpoint which one solidified his reward of a lamentable, endless cycle.

He’s certain hell is better than this. It’s something he wishes for every day, if only to have an eternal companion with the devil, a challenge to overcome.

Though, even with this boredom, Fyodor refuses to let anyone live in his home. They’ll only serve to be another pain, something that would, surely, push him past the brink of sanity.

The centuries old décor will get replaced with gaudy twenty-first century items, ones that will be nothing more than an eyesore. There are a few already scattered around his home from previous tenants, but only things that he believed useful enough for him to keep; a few books from authors he didn’t live to read, a television from the nineties, a computer that he watched one couple scroll on before he murdered them in cold blood.

Perhaps he is two hundred years dead and gone, but he refuses to be an ignorant ghost, one that is unaware of anything beyond these four walls, caught forever in the past.

Although now, it’s been a while since anyone’s tried to move in, and he’s certain the only reason the house hasn’t been torn down is because its preserved nicely, an eighteenth-century home that has withstood the test of time.

Fyodor, in his lowest moments, wishes they would tear it down. Maybe then, and only then, can he be set free. Or maybe, he’s forever trapped in this exhaustive lot, doomed to decay, even when there’s nothing left of the foundations but soil.

He pushes a pawn forward on the board, putting himself in checkmate for the millionth time in a row. It’s been so long that he’s used to his own tricks. Even the computer, which he’d come to understand quickly, is no match for him. It’s far too exhaustive to play against a machine that utilizes an algorithm he can so easily decipher.

Out of nowhere, the front door unlocks, and Fyodor glances over at the sound, dark hair falling over his eyes. Seconds later, he notices an older realtor with a clipboard leading you around, a woman he’s never seen, dressed up nicely with a darker shade of lipstick smeared across your mouth.

He’s been through this before. It’s a miracle the realtor hasn’t given up on this house yet, a mansion she is determined to sell despite the endless horrors that have been committed by his hand.

“Here it is,” she says, nervous, gesturing around the expansive hall, the crystal chandelier and staircase that immediately follows. “It was built in 1731, but one of the owners remolded it in the style of the mid-nineteenth century. The structure has been stabilized; it’s safe… enough.”

The two of you chat, but he doesn’t bother to listen in. It’s all questions of: when can I move in? can we negotiate? — things you will come to regret once he sets his sights on killing you.

Then, the realtor is sighing, wringing her hands together as she watches you spin around the house in awe. It’s clear that you’re impressed by the layout, the rich furniture and colors that have been used.

That, at least, satisfies Fyodor. Everyone else who has moved in was looking to upgrade it to a modern style, rid the place of its aged grace and charm.

“I’m truly sorry,” she says, brushing curly hair away from her cheekbones. “But I am legally obligated to tell you that every person who has lived here before has suffered a terrible, terrible fate. There have been gruesome murders that cannot be explained, done in ways that I don’t even want to tell you about.”

You laugh, eyeing her with skepticism. “Are you telling me it’s haunted?”

The realtor shrugs. “That’s what people say.”

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” you answer, and Fyodor rolls his eyes, scoffing as he floats to the second floor, unable to listen into the unreasonable conversation anymore. It’s been the same story for decades. No one believes in ghosts, but it is always a ghost that kills them.

He returns to the chess board, irritated, though unable to consider the game any further. Your face is stuck in his mind. For some reason, he can’t remember the last time he’s ever seen anyone with such beauty.

Fyodor stops; your ageless elegance doesn’t matter—it can’t, and it won’t. You’ll be dead by the end of the month, when you gather all your things and invade the bedroom that was once his own. Even if you are beautiful, you are a nuisance, a threat to Fyodor’s eternal torment and quiet existence.

Still, he can’t help but wonder if it would be nice to have something other than his own thoughts to distract him from the endless misery.

You move in on the thirteenth of June, nothing more than a few boxes and a decade old car to keep you company. He guesses you’ve traveled a long distance to get here, and you’ve gotten rid of half of your life in the process.

A good thing for him. That means things can be over relatively quickly, and all your belongings can be disposed of easily after he kills you.

You spend the entire first day unpacking, and Fyodor waits patiently, allows you time to get comfortable in his home. He watches as you bring a stack of thick novels into the waiting room, which once boasted large parties, and place them on a shelf below those that have his name within the covers.

You take a few calls as you hang up your autumn coats, ones that won’t be needed for a few months. The voice on the other line sounds frantic, worried. A local, most likely. You only seem annoyed by his continuous string of anxieties.

When the sun sets, and you grow tired, you rub your eyes and head to bed. The first night you will spend in this place that Fyodor likens to Hell.

It’s the time he’s been waiting for—a moment to catch you off guard. You are so unsuspecting, already so at home in the mansion, that you have no fear of anything hurting you in the middle of the night.

While you get ready for bed, Fyodor slips into your room, observing the pieces of your life that have conquered his bedroom. A soft classical piece plays from your phone, one that he recognizes from his mortal life. Clearly, you are fascinated by the period he once lived in. A shame, really, he won’t be able to tell you more about it.

You leave the bathroom, come back towards him to change into a pair of small shorts, a large shirt hanging over your frame.

He’s forgotten how long it’s been since he’s seen a woman, how long since he’s touched one.

Fyodor finds himself distracted by your body, the smoothness of your skin. His eyes travel over your legs, your hips, the fullness of your breasts and ignores how much he desires to let his thumb graze over your flesh. There is something so soft about you, so gentle and innocent.

Perhaps, that is where his fascination stems from: he has always been the opposite. Even in his human existence, Fyodor was not a kind man, and he doesn’t plan on becoming one now that he is dead.

He shakes away the vision, the thoughts that swirl within his mind. It has been far too long since he has experienced any sort of pleasure, and maybe even a man as cold as himself is not immune to the desires that course within his veins.

Though he tries to be. He ignores his arousal desperately in exchange for a renewed bloodlust.

You climb into bed, put your phone on the white cord, and shut your eyes. Thirty minutes later, you’re sleeping soundly, soft puffs of air leaving your lips as you sleep.

It’s the opportune moment. The silver knife gleams brightly in his hand, streaks of moonlight tracing over the slanted point. It’s the same blade he’s killed every other new tenant with, their screams still echo in the halls like a harmonious melody each time he bring the knife down on another unknowing victim.

He stands before you at the side of the bed, watches as your chest rises and falls, the evidence of your life undeniable. You are a lovely image like this, something to be painted and adored; more beautiful than many of the women he’d met in his time, even those who were of the finest elite in the country.

Fyodor presses the blade to your throat, contemplative. He considers how much lovelier you will look with the scarlet stain of blood seeping down your neck, spraying across the room and ruining the fresh sheets. Will you awaken, gasping as you claw at your throat, or will you drift away without even understanding what has become of you?

He pictures it, and digs the blade close to your throat, nothing more than a pinprick of blood flowering there.

You don’t awaken; but you a little sound leaves you, something between a gasp and a moan, and you shift away from the knife gripped between his pale fingers. It’s a sound that has him pausing, musing, as he regards your vulnerable state, a beautiful figure there with no clue that such a murderous man is also a resident in her home.

You make another one of those pretty noises in your throat, and Fyodor, against two centuries of murderous intent, pulls the knife away. He watches as you roll on your stomach, your shirt scrunching, moving up your body to reveal the undersides of your breasts. Your hand shifts towards him on the bed, reaching in his direction, before you still. Then, your breathing is back to normal, evened out completely.

Your lips part blissfully as you sigh in your sleep.

He can’t stop looking at you, can’t stop wondering what his name would sound like leaving the perfect swell of your mouth, if you’d sound just as pretty when you orgasm as you do when you’re asleep.

Surely, he can find a better use for you—it would be a shame for such a pretty thing to go out so early.

As he draws back, Fyodor notices the chess board on the side table, the pieces arranged nicely, each on the correct square. He can’t tell if you play. You could just have it for decoration, or perhaps it was a gift given to you from a lover that he hasn’t seen pictures of, the one that he’s certain someone as lovely as you must have.

The board is aged; not as old as the one in the drawing room, but a nice set, nonetheless. Fyodor glances back at your sleeping form once more, smiles coolly to himself, and shifts a pawn forward.

The chess piece is the first thing you notice in the morning.

It’s almost ridiculous how easily it catches your eye, a tiny little movement within the chaos that was your brand-new room. A pawn is on a different square, leering at you from the other wall, as if smiling, a flashing sign above its head, calling to you, hoping you’ll pay attention.

You almost think nothing of it; things can move, can’t they? Perhaps there was a shift in the earth overnight… Though, that makes little sense when you think about it rationally.

It’s strange, that much is certain. You remember the realtor telling you about the ghosts, and though you aren’t inclined to believe in haunted houses and scary stories, you find a part of yourself questioning the logic of the chess piece.

You are certain it was on the correct square before you slept.

It’s the only thing on your mind as you get ready, suffer through a tasteless breakfast, and throw on a rain jacket to combat the dreary weather. You’re meeting a friend for lunch—the only friend you have in this town. Sigma is the sole reason you decided to move here, instead of the other arbitrary cities that you’d been desperate to escape to.

Still, the board won’t leave your mind. You take one last glance at it before, on a whim, pushing the opposite color pawn forward as well.

Then you leave, hoping that a conversation with your friend will take your mind off the strangeness of that happenstance, the anxiety you feel about moving to a new place, a new job where no one knows you, a home that stays cold, despite the heat that reigns with long summers.

The walk to the cafe is short, but with the wind and the drizzling rain, you are miserable, your hands wrinkling from the dampness, even within your pockets.

Sigma is waiting for you, his lavender and white hair loose over his shoulders as he peruses the menu, eyes darting across it like he’s never read it before.

You sit, offer him a greeting, and though your conversation is cordial, the two of you catching up on your day, you eventually ask the question you’ve been dying to know.

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

Sigma stops, puts the utensil back down on his plate, and regards you with a thin frown. “Did something happen?”

You think of the chess piece, wonder if another will be moved when you get home. “No, but—”

“I told you not to move into that house,” he says, eyes narrowing. Sigma refuses to step into that mansion, grows anxious every time you mention it. “Over ten people have died there. Do you want to get murdered?”

“No particularly,” you say, staring at him flatly, your mouth pulling into a line. “But I’ve made it one night already. I’ll be fine.”

A hard laugh leaves him, as he shakes his head, unamused by your cheekiness. “That’s what they all say, isn’t it? Then they all die.”

“Very dramatic.” You take a long sip of your water. Sigma’s features don’t crack in the slightest as he stares at you, waiting for you to continue. “I’m not scared. I just want to know if you believe in ghosts or not… Because I don’t.”

Sigma’s eyes flit across your face, searching for any hint of a lie, for any signs of fear. When he finds none, his hands stretch across the table, lacing them together as he glares. “Whether you believe in ghosts or not doesn’t matter. There’s something evil about that house, and you’re putting yourself in danger by living there.”

The conversation with Sigma weighs on your mind for hours after, when you return home, still thinking about the chess board. It was just as you’d left it, two pawns moved forward, staring each other down menacingly. Nothing out of the ordinary.

You sigh and finally put it out of your mind. It was just a coincidence, that’s all. The piece was probably on the wrong square all along, and you’d been too tired last night to notice it.

Instead, you focus your sights on unpacking, and contemplate what to do with the portrait hanging above the mantel.

It’s a dusty old thing, one that the previous owners had, for some reason, never taken down. It had hung over the mantel for centuries, the corners faded from the sun, but the sinister grin of the subject never losing its effect.

You tilt your head, stare at it from a different angle. Looking at it that way, you could, perhaps, see why the painting appealed to them. It’s old, with a style from a different century, and the man composed of deep shadows and pale colors is undeniably handsome. He seems out of place in the portrait, trapped there, too otherworldly to be captured on such a canvas. His features are sharp, molded out of something tougher than diamonds, something more beautiful than this plane is able to comprehend. His deep eyes seem to know all as they stare at you, trace you across the room.

For minutes, you are hypnotized, before a wave of disgust washes over you, and you turn away, unable to look at it any longer. You’ll sell it, you decide. Maybe it will be worth a pretty penny.

That evening, you decide to look into it, but the search into a local art dealer doesn’t get far. When you sit down at your laptop, beginning to type your question into the browser, the lid shuts on your fingertips.

It takes a moment for you to register what had happened. A faint sting dances along the back of your hands, your knuckles tender as you lift the lid back up. Lines bounce along the screen, as if the imprint of your hand had made its way into the pixels, matching the pulse of your nerves.

You curse lowly, hoping that a reset will fix the issue.

The lid had just fallen, nothing serious. It was a newer model, but those things could happen. Issues with the manufacturing, with the way it was assembled. Technology fails you all the time.

You hold the power button, irritated, and upset, when a horrible, screeching noise echoes from the computer. Nothing but a shrill scream, the speakers begging you for help. You slam it shut once more, and the noise stops, but your heartbeat doesn’t slow down.

Shit.

Tomorrow, you’ll have to take it in, and see if anyone can discern the issues. It’s not ideal, but there’s so many things to still need to do, and a broken laptop makes those things very difficult.

You sigh, pushing the chair back into the table. The portrait looms above you as you retreat back to your room, hands shaking. It’s irrational, you know it is, but you swear his eyes follow you all the way up the stairs.

It doesn’t take long for you to start believing in the ghost that is haunting your manor, the one who has let you live for a week and who plays a new game of chess every time your back is turned. Whoever it is, they are much better than you; so far, you’ve lost twice—haven’t even gotten close to winning.

He hides things from you, items that you are needing for the next day, papers that you can’t submit to work on time because the important files have been stashed away.

You find your books opened to paragraphs the ghost seemingly finds interesting, your sheet music scattered in a mess when you return. The candles get blown out unexpectedly, and doors slam when you’re not suspecting it.

If he’s trying to scare you—it isn’t working. You remain in the house, sometimes talking to him like he’s a friend, whispering amongst the walls that know all of the secrets in your home.

You stop at the library on your free weekend, flipping through a dusty copy of the local legends, only stopping when you find your home. There’s a copy of the painting there—your painting, the one that still hangs above your mantel, despite your better judgment.

Beside it, there’s a painting of your home, done when the house was first built. The outside of it is a differently color entirely, the garden in front blooming with pink and yellow flowers. It looks cheerful; the home of a warm and loving family, inviting and kind to each of the neighborhood children. Nothing like the dark manor it is today, with a dead garden in the front and shutters that keep even an ounce of light out.

You read the pages proceeding the painting. The first owner had been a kind man, but the next were not such. After the original owner lost his wealth, he sold the house, passed it to a line of greedy men, ones that were focused only on their money. For a century, it went on this way—until a man named Fyodor Dostoevsky purchased the home for twice as much as it once was.

He was the one who changed it, renovated it, upgraded it to his own personal style, ensuring that it fit in with the times and his own opinions of luxury. Fyodor was charming, but ruthless, deadly with his own intelligence, owning half the town as they lost their money to his schemes.

Fyodor’s rein came to an end when he was poisoned by his closest friend, perhaps the one man he had trusted. It was the first murder in a string of ones to follow within the house.

You close the book, unsure if you regret the knowledge you’d gained or not.

The house feels colder now that you know the history of it. As if you can see the cruelty etched into every wall. Colors of the home bleed into each other, a pastel yellow of warmth and light, and the next room empty, almost uninhabitable, with its royal purples.

You stare at the portrait as you make dinner, feeling like you can never escape the gaze of those oil painted eyes. He has a name now—Fyodor. It feels even more disarming now that you know more about him than he’ll ever know about you.

And though Fyodor watches you, every night, from every angle, you convince yourself it’s just the way that the painting is situated. It would be foolish to think that he’s really watching every move you make, irises pinned on your form, unblinking.

The oven heats up behind you as you cut up your food, humming a soft tune to yourself. It’s getting hotter outside – you’d almost forgotten how miserable the summers could be. You forget every year, even though you’ve lived many.

Just as you’re getting lost in your thoughts, going through a list of things that need to get done in your fixer-upper home, you hear a scratch behind you.

It’s a quick sound, so quick that you almost think it was only your imagination. It’s enough to give you pause, your humming fading out into the night as your eyes dart around your house. Although you’ve tried not to let urban legends get the best of you, you’re paranoid in this aged mansion now.

A few seconds pass. You listen to the sound of your own heartrate, feel it pounding in your chest as you will it to calm down. It’s just enough time for you to convince yourself that it was nothing, that you’re far too nervous about silly ghosts to think rationally.

Though as you turn, a knife flies from the counter, just grazing your cheek, but enough to cause a scratch to open up against the skin. Your finger draws away scarlet as you press it to the wound, staring at the painted crevices of your fingertip.

You can’t move. Despite every cell in your body begging, screaming at you to move, you’re frozen, trapped in the four walls of that kitchen as you stare at your bloodied hand.

It’s all a dream, you repeat to yourself. A dream.

One that you don’t wake up from.

Time passes strangely, when every muscle in your body is on edge, your head pounding from the anxiety that spikes throughout your nervous system. A bead of sweat drips from your temple, and though you aren’t sure how long you stand there, nothing else happens. The knife remains lodged in the wall behind you, and the ghost makes no other attempt to lodge one into your stomach.

It’s quiet. There’s no noise, save for the music that plays softly from your phone.

After you regain control of your racing heartrate, you realize that the song playing isn’t what you’d put on originally. It had switched to a gentle, classical piece. Tchaikovsky, you think… or something similar. Something that a man from a different era would be familiar with.

“Who’s there?” You find yourself saying, perhaps stupidly. “What do you want?”

There’s no response – of course there isn’t. You’re talking to the air. To a ghost. No one had gotten inside the house. You’d checked more than enough times, just as you always did.

“I live here now,” you offer, thinking that, perhaps anger is not the best course of action. Neither is fear, though, if the scary movies you’d watched as a teenager had been any indication. “But I’ll leave, if you want me to.”

There’s no answer to that either.

You sigh, and deflate once more, trying to make yourself believe that there was a logical explanation to knives flying and playlists changing. Just as you’d made yourself believe that everything the “ghost” had done before was just a game, innocently played.

Perhaps, there was never a ghost at all. It could be that stress is driving you to insanity.

With a glass of wine in your hand, you finish up dinner, feeling like you are at your wit’s end. How is it that only a few weeks in this house has already singed your mind, turned you into a believer of things that you are not?

The portrait feels like an omen, staring at you with violet eyes, as you wonder where Fyodor is now. Does he watch you when your home, cooking, as you shower, a vicious gaze tracing over each curve of your body, with a sickening thought of all the things he wishes to do to you?

You shiver. It’ s been a while since anyone’s looked at you with a hint of desire. The feeling has become foreign, now, but you can still recall the gratification that comes with being wanted, how it makes you feel, if only for a moment, comfortable in your own skin.

That thought alone quickly snaps you out of your irrational behavior. Thinking of a ghost wanting you? A man that had been buried in the earth for so long that his body would be nothing more than bones?

This house was making you sick, you concluded, wrapping your leftovers up in plastic and tinfoil, placing them in the fridge. Your nervous friend was right – you never should’ve moved into this house, and you never should have stayed this long.

Your hands shook along the banister, heart racing around every corner. You expected that, maybe, you would see a dark-haired spirit there, his body translucent, but still corporeal. Though, there was no spirit hiding within the depths of the shadows, lurking in the places where he still belonged. No sounds startled you, caused you to jump as you brushed your teeth, completed the one last routine of your day.

The bed was colder than usual as you climbed into it, like a flush of a cold spot had settled within the sheets. You remembered what they said about temperatures and ghosts—how they changed, nothing able to survive in the places that they haunted, as they were not of this world, but something in between, something unnatural.

Your lamp flickers as you turn it on, and it’s just one more red flag you choose to ignore. In houses as old as this one, there are issues like that. The wiring is faulty, the electric needs to be monitored, a laundry list of items you will probably never resolve.

There are a thousand rational conclusions, though, and only one irrational one, which puts your mind at ease. Things like flickering lamps and cold spots can be explained simply, even if knives flying at your face cannot.

Still, you settle into bed, deciding that you will talk to the realtor again soon. You’ll move in with Sigma if he’ll have you. Anything to put your mind at ease for good.

That night, you dream of Fyodor, as if he is there right in the room with you, looming above you with those deep, violent eyes. His fingers, long and pale, trace across your cheekbones, as your eyes flutter open, consciousness coming back to you.

He says your name – it’s no surprise he knows it, after living with you for so long. It’s spoken softly, with a hint of possession behind it, like you belong to him. And yet, you’ve never said a word to him, even if all this time, he’s gotten to know you better than anyone else ever has.

You expect a scream to leave your throat, some hint of surprise, of fear, even, to see a stranger in your bedroom. To see him watching you with those familiar eyes, hair falling over his pale forehead as he gazes down at you from the edge of the bed.

No sound emerges.

Your mind feels a little fuzzy, hazy at the edges as you blink at him, closer to a state of intoxication, than you are alertness. Despite that awareness, you can’t seem to snap out of it; maybe you don’t want to. Instead, you sink deeper into the warmth, the honeyed feeling that comes with turning off your rationality. Everything feels as if it’s coming through in blurred, rosy glasses.

“Fyodor,” you mouth, instead of the scream that you’d anticipated, his name coming out in two wistful syllables.

You should hate him – there’s something in your instincts pushing back at you. A flash of a knife, the days of chaos and uncertainty, where you were sure you were losing your mind, come back at you.

But none of that seems to matter now, as you trace your finger across his cheek, feeling the sharp indent below the high bone. His eyelashes are a shade lighter than his hair, soft as they flutter over his forehead. The portrait of him didn’t do him justice… or perhaps, it is in death that he has found his purest form.

“I’m too tired.”

You’re not sure where those words even come from. Calm, like this is nothing but routine, and waking up with Fyodor beside you is the closest thing to normalcy.

He smiles at you, leaning over you again on the bed, lips pulled tightly together in a morbid grin. It does little to sour your mood, to scare you into action, even if you can’t quite understand why.

“I know,” he replies.

It’s the first time you’ve heard him speak, a deep, accented sound smoothing against your ears as he traces his gaze against each of your features; musical, almost. His voice calms you, lulls you back into a meditative state.

You reach for him, in a trance, and twirl a strand of his hair between your finger, just to see if he’d let you. After the hell you’d been through the past week, well – was it really that miserable? He seems content to watch over you, observe the gentle movements of his dark hair coiled up around your pointer finger.

“Why are you here?” you ask, your voice softer than a whisper, carried away by the wind until it never existed at all.

Fyodor never disappears from your line of sight, even when you try to blink, to close your eyes. He’s there, gazing at you with a lustful fondness, one that’s dangerous, perhaps even malicious. If it’s a dream, it sure feels like a vivid one.

“You wanted to leave,” he says, taking your finger away from his face, before bringing it to his lips. The kiss is barely there, and his mouth is cold, chapped, from the brutality of the afterlife. “I couldn’t let you do that.”

“Hm?” You try to sit up. It takes more effort than it should’ve – you’re so relaxed, so weak, that you fall back down, letting yourself sink into the plushness of the pillow. “Why?”

Fyodor releases your hand, before touching his own finger to your mouth. It’s slender, like a piece of ice, gently parting your lips before grazing your chin, hovering over your neck. Then, he drops his touch to your collarbone. He stakes a claim on every inch of your skin, pausing as he reaches your chest, still covered by the blankets.

Your clothing is thin – it wouldn’t take much effort to get his cool hands on your bare skin. But he refrains, still smiling before answering your question, tucking his hands together onto his lap. “It’s been so long.”

It doesn’t make sense, but you can’t muster up the effort to question him, not when he’s contemplating every word, like he’s hesitant to scare you away. You let him think, watch him ponder, as you stare, too exhausted to move a muscle.

“I thought you’d be like all the rest,” he says, taking a seat next to you on the bed, nearly touching your hip. “They were nothing but filth, stains in these halls. It’s a crime for them to ever think that they belonged here. In my home.”

You blink. “It’s my home, too,” you say, suddenly filled with an immense amount of dread. It crawls up your neck, chokes you, and nothing leaves you but garbled sounds, as you panic.

Fyodor doesn’t move – there is no twitch in his features, as he watches you with disguised adoration, a kind you didn’t think a ghost capable of revealing. “Of course it is, darling,” he says, so softly, it could’ve been mistaken for kindness. Fyodor leans down, presses his cold, dead lips to your cheek, a kiss of death. “That’s why I couldn’t let you leave. It’s your home. You belong here.”

“Right,” you breath, steadying yourself, before nodding. “My home.” Once more, you gaze around the room, your eyes flicking over every surface. Things are exactly as you’d left them, nothing out of place. “With you?”

The ghost smiles, and reaches out to you, finally helping you into a seated position. Your neck is so stiff, in pain, and you roll it around, feeling nothing there when you expect shifting bones. “With me,” Fyodor confirms, running his icy fingertips across your throat, tangling them with your hair.

He leans into you, pressing a lingering kiss to your mouth, one that catches you off balance, before you accept it with an eagerness that surprises you further. It doesn’t feel unfamiliar, instead, it’s as if you’re coming home, like the man you’ve never seen until now was always meant to find you.

A thought that should’ve scared you, even though it doesn’t.

Fyodor pulls away, right as you begin to shift forward, maneuver yourself onto his lap. “You should rest,” he replies, keeping you at a distance. “It might take some time to adjust.”

“Hm? What do you mean?” you blink, holding onto his wrist as your gaze shifts from his impossibly dark eyes to the mirror across the room.

There, in the darkness of the evening, shrouded in moonlight, you can see your reflection staring back at you, eyes vacant, lifeless. You expect to see yourself as nothing but exhausted, but when you draw your gaze across the image of yourself, there is blood seeping from your neck, a stream of scarlet. There is thick gash across your throat, slashed so deep that it would’ve killed you instantly.

The expression on your face shifts from one of calm to horror, as you scrape at your neck, trying to clear off the blood that isn’t really there, the permanent wound that will follow you even into your death.

“What did you do?” you scream, tears rolling down your cheeks, even though you can’t feel them, can only see them in the mirror. “What did you do to me?”

Fyodor smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. Though you fight against him, he takes you into his arms, and you are too weak to fight him off. “I told you,” Fyodor says, shushing you, running his palm over your head as you scream. “I couldn’t let you leave.”

thank you for reading !

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Private Screening

23/12: Home Videos and Voyeurism - Billy Washington Word Count: 1.5k~ | Warnings: masturbation (m), voyeurism, home videos of sexual acts, smut

12 Days of Smuff Masterlist

Fuck work Christmas parties, Billy thinks with displeasure as he slobs across the sofa, half a can of Stella in one hand, the remote control in the other.

He felt a bit pathetic missing her after only a few hours. Suppose that was the worst bit about having a girlfriend that was also your best mate. But it did sound a bit precious when he thought about it like that.

The choice in TV shows didn't exactly sour him to pass the time either. It was that crappy few days between the last of the working year and Christmas, and there was sweet fuck all on tele.

Turning the volume down on a Christmas special of First Dates he glances outside, seeing that it's just begun to rain and he pulls lazily at one side of the curtains just enough to obscure his flat from passersbys on the street.

Propping up to fish his phone out his pocket, he scrolls mindlessly for a bit on Instagram Reels. But even then,  the doomscrolling and repetitive music his algorithm thinks he likes gets boring fast.

A messenger bubble pop up on his screen.

‘missing me baby? 😘’

He huffs a short laugh, typing with one hand.

‘Bored out of my mind’

She reads it immediately, and the three bubbles feel like edging.

‘I’m sure you'll find a way to entertain yourself 😉’

Cheeky, he thinks with that warm feeling in his stomach. She knew how bricked up he was when he saw her leaving, in that velvety dress he always likes her to keep on when they come home and pull each other needily to the bedroom.

With a heaved sigh, he uses one hand to pull the buttons of his jeans apart, then the zip and slides his hand into his boxers, stroking his currently soft member while he found something to ‘entertain’ himself to.

The locked folder in his photos app was a godless place.

He blinked as the face recognition granted him access, his cock stirring in his palm when he was greeted by video after video and photo after photo. 

Some, just her.

Some, both of them.

His breath hitches at some of the previews. It was something he started getting into to about six months into dating her. She was much more willing to discuss what she was into sexually than his other girlfriends, and he supposes it rubbed off on him. 

And when he suggested if it was okay if he recorded them during sex, he'd never seen that naughty gleam in her eyes so bright before. 

Like most things it was awkward at first. The first time they tried, she kept laughing nervously, her cheeks flushed as she covered her face and body with her hands. “I feel weird,” she had said, glancing briefly at his phone camera in one hand.

But when he reassured her that the videos and photos he had of her went absolutely nowhere beyond his eyes only, she was more...confident. She'd tease him when he started recording, cast sultry glances over her shoulder and pull him close to whisper ungodly things for his ears only.

His heart rate kicked up as his thumb hovered over one video in particular, remembering how she’d looked that night. Her skin glowing in the low light, her lips parted in soft moans, her eyes locked on his like he was the only thing in the world that mattered.

He tapped on the video, and immediately the screen came alive with her image. The frame started with her face, soft and radiant, her lips curved into a teasing smile as she leaned closer to the camera. Her eyes, half-lidded and filled with mischief, sparkled as she adjusted the angle, her voice a low murmur, “You better enjoy this later.”

She laid back, clad only in the lacy black bra and underwear set he loved so much. The fabric was so delicate it barely covered her entirely, teasing more than hiding really.

She was looking up at him, the movement of the camera making it obvious he was on top of her. The video caught the slow, deliberate rhythm of his hips moving against hers. Her body writhed beneath him, her chest rising and falling with each deep, shuddering breath.

Her moans were soft at first, little gasps and whimpers as she adjusted to the fullness of him. “Billy, you feel so good,” she whispered. His pace quickened slightly, the sound of their bodies meeting filling the room alongside her cries of pleasure.

He watched the video as his hand made its way down her front, kneading one breast before travelling downwards, his breath catching slightly as the angle caught a glimpse of the way he disappeared inside her over and over.

He adjusted slightly, pushing her knee back to change the angle, and the gasp she let out was enough to make his breath catch as he watched. “Right there, baby,” she murmured, her voice breaking into a moan as he thrust deeper—

Fuck.

That's where the video ends.

He'd clearly been so caught up in the moment that he'd abandoned the video.

But keen to keep up the building heat in his stomach, he swiped to the next. The feeling coiling tighter at the new video.

This time she was on her hands and knees, the view was tantalising, the curve of her spine leading down to where he was behind her, his hand firmly holding her hip. Her body moved in time with his thrusts, rocking forward with every deep push, and the sound of her breathless moans filled the otherwise quiet apartment.

Her head turned slightly toward the camera, and her eyes were glazed with lust, her lips parted as she gasped his name. “Harder,” she whispered, her voice raw and needy.

He stroked himself tighter, harder. So fucking close.

On the screen, she reached back, her fingers brushing against his thigh, urging him on. “Don’t stop,” she gasped. 

And her voice was what finally sent him over the edge.

As the video reached its peak, he pulled back slightly, his hands sliding from her hips to the small of her back as he drove into her one last time. Her moans hit a crescendo, her body shuddering as she buried her face into the pillow.

His own hips stuttered, squeezing himself hard towards the tip, warmth coating his knuckles as he came.

The last few seconds of the video showed him pulling out, her body still trembling as he finished on her lower back, his pearly release glistening on her skin. She turned her head toward the camera with a sly, breathless smile, her voice soft but teasing as she said, “You’re cleaning that up, you know.”

He looked down at himself, chest heaving, and thought with a soft, tired chuckle, ‘yeah, no shit.’

He let his phone flop against his stomach as he laid his head back against the sofa, spent, boneless, with his softening cock loose in his palm.

“Am I interrupting something?”

He nearly jumped out of his fucking skin. His hand pulling so quickly out of his boxers out of sheer reflex, he was immediately brought back to the heart-wrenching moments his mum would enter his room without knocking.

But luckily, it was her.

She was smiling against the doorway, arms crossed and smug, her coat over the hook in the doorway.

“Fucking hell, babe, how long have you been there?” his voice was shaky, trying with sheer willpower alone to reduce his heart rate.

“Long enough,” she said, her voice dripping with teasing satisfaction. 

Her gaze flicked down to his lap, and he followed it instinctively, moving quickly to pull his boxers back up, but too flustered to do up the buttons of his jeans. There was something both embarrassing and exhilarating at the prospect she'd been at the door, quite blatantly, watching him pleasure himself to her image.

She huffed a laugh and stepped into the room, deliberately swaying her hips, eyes darkening slightly as she stood in front of him. He could tell she was flushed from a few drinks, but not enough to be drunk. Just enough for her inhibitions to waver, and her confidence skyrocket.

“I’m guessing you were watching one of those videos,” she mused.

He swallowed hard, suddenly feeling very exposed. “Maybe.”

She smirked, pulling the hem of her dress up so she was able to straddle his lap, relishing the hitch in his breath. “Which one?” she asked, casually, her arms slung over his shoulders, as if she were just taking a seat.

“The, uh…” He cleared his throat, trying to focus. “The one where you’re on your hands and knees.”

“Oh,” she teased, drawing the word out. “That one.”

She placed the phone on the coffee table. “Well,” she murmured, her hands sliding up his chest, “since you clearly couldn’t wait for me…how about we make a new one?”

He felt his body zing with excitement, but his cheeks quickly flushed at the realisation he'd only just…

She caught the look, “or do the soldiers need time to recuperate?”

Billy snorted, a boyish, albeit, embarrassed smile lighting up his face. “Uh, give me like…five minutes.”

With a barely suppressed smirk, she clambered off him and made for the bedroom. “I'll be waiting!”

“Keep the dress on!”

General Taglist:

@1lluminaticonfirmed @aemondsfavouritebastard @all-for-aemond @bellstwd @blackswxnn

@blairfox04 @buckybarnesb-tch @castellomargot @cl-0-vr @eddieslut69

@emmaisafictionwhore @eponaartemisa @hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @justbelljust

@minholy223 @mochi-rose @natty2017 @nenelysian @nixiefics

@primonizzutto @qyburnsghost @randomdragonfires @risefallrise @sheshellsseashells

[sevenop]

Billie Eilish x Fem!reader: And The GRAMMY Goes To…

A/N: And even though you may be incredibly comfortable with Billy in every possible way, singing is kind of taboo. You've never sung in Bill's presence due to your shyness, but everything changes when you're so absorbed in the music in your headphones while cleaning that you don't notice her return. And you sing. Singing her songs, dressed head to toe in her stuff. Eilish goes crazy.

You're always looking forward to being alone. No, not that your feelings for Eilish are a theatrical sham, absolutely and categorically not. It's just that singing next to the seven-time winner of the prestigious Grammy Music Awards is pure suicide for your sense of confidence, despite all the mind-blowing love you have for O'Connell herself. "Made worse" by cohabitation, because living with a girl who has great taste in music and who has music playing literally twenty-four by seven in her house is a factor that clearly doesn't make it any easier to hide your little secret. So yes, you do look forward to being alone, even though you feel genuinely sad when Billie isn't around.

Literally a month has passed since the last time, and you're thanking all the gods when Eilish suddenly calls up the label to sort out some sort of issue with the promo that has started. With the recent release of third album, it's almost impossible to hold back the smile at the moment of forgiveness: the excitement is still bubbling in your blood, reinforced by the realization that you can sing your new favorite songs at the top of your lungs without any embarrassment.

"Are you up to something?" - the blue seas opposite look at you with warmth, and the smile on your face is beautiful mirrored on her face. Billie has always been perceptive and empathetic.

"Nothing but cleaning."

"Am I allowed to start being jealous of my dirty clothes yet?" - Eilish quirks an eyebrow upward skeptically, but the smile never leaves her face. - "I've never seen people so excited about cleaning."

A gentle kiss on aquophore-covered lips, a whisper in her ear asking for a quick return and you are beyond suspicion - the obsidian-black Dodge is riding, leaving you alone with your only devoted accomplice in the face of Shark. The phone screen flashes a green Spotify icon almost instantly. Your time has come!

×××

"Come on, boy! Sing along with me!"

And even if you don't hear the dog barking in the noise of the music that beats in ear headphones, him contented muzzle and actively wagging tail are more than eloquent. Having bravely dealt with dirty things, you suddenly found that you temporary have nothing to wear, so you borrowed the first oversize shorts and a colorful T-shirt from Eilish's wardrobe. Next tasks - dusting, loading the first batch of washed clothes into the dryer, and mopping the floors, what are you doing now. The last item on your makeshift list. Euphorically singing the last track, playing the third album for the second time, you release your playlist into free swimming, controlled only by Spotify algorithms. After a couple of trucks, you hear a familiar rhythmic thrill and a languid exhale - "Oxytocin". So good.

Shark hurriedly runs somewhere, but you don't pay it any mind, only intercepting the mop handle like a microphone stand.

×××

"My girl, I'm home!"

It's the only thing Billie says before she stands frozen at the doorway to the living room. Her hand intercepts the car keys she'd been coquettishly twirling on her index finger at the last moment, for the sudden sight before her is far more coquettish and startling. Shark barks happily, running up to her, causing Billie to shush the pet with a hasty shush. Her hands immediately fumble for her cell phone in her shorts pocket - it's a sin not to capture at least a few seconds.

"Cause as long as you're still breathing, don't you even think of leaving," you sing languidly, almost touching the handle of the improvised microphone with your lips.

Billie only swallows, realizing the hot knot between her legs tightening the longer she watches your performance. In her eyes are hungry blue flames, ready to lick you from head to toe. The impulse to strip you of her own clothes, so insanely appropriate for you but interfering with her contemplation now, is interrupted by a clever idea. Her phone dives back into her pocket. A few hurried steps outside of your attention and she's already at the rack of numerous statuettes, a few more and you almost gasp at the last words of the song, seeing the weighty Grammy statue right in front of you, clasped in her hand, followed by the feeling of Eilish pressing against your back. Insanely close. Insanely hot. Your hands grip the phone shakily, poking at 'stop' and the mop promptly sheds to the floor, hitting audibly. You've been caught red-handed.

"I think this is rightfully yours, girl," Billie whispers and grins deftly into your ear, interlocking your fingers on the cold gold of the gramophone.

"Billie, I-"

"Shh, you better tell me how long it's been since I've known about this," her tongue makes a hot stroke on the curl of your ear, biting down gently on the lobe, catching your ragged exhale with pleasure, - "How many concerts have I missed already, Y/n?"

You're at a loss, not knowing what to say. Eilish's hands, tugging at the edges of her own T-shirt, which you're wearing, don't seem to be helping you concentrate. Oh yeah, add to that the fear that you might drop Grammy on the floor right now if she continues.

"I... I can't exactly say, I do this whenever... when you're not around, I'm sorry."

Eilish's hands only lead higher, up to your chest, placing a hickey on your neck with some mysterious throaty purr and licking it off immediately, burning you with her heated breath. You reflexively give her more access.

"Wow, how much did I miss," - the bite on your collarbone, your new quiet moan, - "Can I count on a private concert?".

The three tattooed fairies on her left arm flicker, barely releasing your gaze downward - the knot on her your shorts immediately comes undone, giving her easy access.

"Sing to me, Y/n. Sing all my songs."

And you sing. Only for her. In bedroom, mixed lyrics with moans.

[jellyfishsthings]

The Gala of Rivals

Warnings: my terrible writing and semblance of a plot, Dick doesn't appear in this part... um I don't know what else to say here...

She stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the collar of her tailored navy blue dress. She allowed herself a fleeting thought of inadequacy but brushed it aside. A quick glance towards her laptop made her heart race—running the code in her mind was what calmed her. But tonight was different. Tonight was about legacy and rivalry, about her mother’s past and her own future. Tonight was the gala held at Wayne Enterprises, featuring a host of the wealthiest and most influential people on the planet. She was not just another guest; tonight, she would be magnetic, the future of her mother’s enterprise, Hart Technologies.

Her mother, Louise Hart, had built her company from the rubble of a financial crisis, establishing it as a formidable competitor against Wayne Enterprises. The two women had spent countless nights fighting over algorithms and marketing strategies, pushing each other to their limits. Louise's firm hand in the boardroom had transformed her into a business titan, but under that iron exterior lay vulnerability; she had sacrificed everything for their success, including the chance to show affection toward her only daughter.

“Are you ready,Snoopy?” her mother’s voice called with a mixture of excitement and possessiveness, drawing her from her thoughts.

“Almost!” She responded, taking a deep breath. The gala was not only crucial for her mother's business but also an opportunity for her to vie for a prestigious scholarship at one of the world’s leading universities—a chance to prove her worth beyond her mother’s resources. The scholarship would not alleviate financial stress but would instead be a testament to her independence.

As they descended the grand staircase of the Gotham City Museum, the echo of their heels interspersed with the excited murmur of the crowd made her heart race. She felt the weight of expectation pressing down on her. Louise’s eyes sparkled like diamonds as they entered the shimmering hall, decorated in the finest silks and illuminated by ornate chandeliers. High society never ceased to astonish her, but she felt out of place, yearning for the presence of code and data, not the intricacies of social pleasantries.

Amidst the swirling gowns and tailored suits, she caught a glimpse of him. Bruce Wayne stood conversing with a group near the entrance, his demeanor exuding charm and confidence. The air in the room shifted as his laugh reverberated through the space; Louise, however, stiffened like a coiled spring.

“Mom, do you know him?” She asked, suddenly feeling a dark cloud settling over them.

“Trust me, Snoopy. He’s a man you should steer clear of,” Louise muttered, her eyes narrowed, revealing years of fell grudges. The rivalry was palpable, their gazes linked like a taut string ready to snap.

Before she knew it, Bruce sauntered over with an easy smile, eyes glinting with the mischief of old rivalries. “Louise Hart, the fortress of tech invincibility. I must say, it’s quite impressive.” His voice was smooth, almost disarming, but she sensed the undercurrent of encroaching tension.

“A compliment from Bruce Wayne? What a fascinating world we live in,” Louise replied, her tone dripping with sarcasm as she slid an arm protectively around her shoulders.

“Is this your daughter?” Bruce inquired, his gaze sweeping over her, a hint of curiosity in his dark eyes.

“Yes, this is ...,” Louise said, the word ‘my’ lingering in the air like a claim. “She’s applying for scholarships.”

“Interesting, she follows in your footsteps,” Bruce said, the words cheerful yet condescending.

She stepped forward, her heart racing. “Actually, I’m carving my own path,” she explained, surprising even herself with her outspokenness. “I want to earn my place rather than rely on my mother’s success.”

"Such noble sentiments," Bruce replied, his eyebrow arched in bemusement. "But shouldn’t one cherish the hard work of their predecessor?”

“Cherish? Is that what you call it? Relying on the shadow of someone else’s past? I want to stand on my own merit,” she shot back, her pulse quickening.

The air suddenly felt thick. Bruce’s brows furrowed in contemplation, but the tension between Louise and Bruce was tangible, crackling like static electricity. The familiar narrative of rivalry slipped through the strands of their interaction—a rekindled flame of old grievances.

“After all, it’s a small world, isn’t it, Bruce?” Louise’s voice was ice. History loomed between them, unspoken words that echoed louder than the gala music. “Competition breeds excellence.”

She could feel their shared history throbbing like an open wound, centuries of pride and pain captured in stolen glances.

"You wouldn't have to worry if you had known how to compete more fairly. Maybe then you wouldn't have needed to build your success on an explosion of opportunism," Bruce countered, the challenge igniting their familiar animosity.

Her breath hitched. Beneath Bruce Wayne’s calm exterior lay the tempest of their past, but she sensed something more—the miscommunication, the judgement that had sealed what bond they didn’t know they could have.

Louise's eyes blazed, while Bruce, unaware of her’s true identity, only rooted himself deeper in the embers of rivalry. But beneath the bluster, a deeper truth lingered, one that wounded her as it danced just out of reach.

He had abandoned Louise all those years ago after that fleeting encounter, leaving a background of despair and a secret that had twisted itself into twisted pride within their hearts.

And now here they stood, on the precipice of knowledge and ignorance, unaware of the child who represented the blend of two legacies. The very offspring of her mother’s choice to nurture ambition, but also the product of his unwillingness to confront the painful truths of his past.

Bruce's smile faded, awareness creeping into his eyes as he detected the vibration of unresolved history thicker than air. But before he could make the connection, Louise intervened once more, her voice filled with determination, “Enough of this petty bickering. We have both carved our ways. Let’s hope our legacies serve the world better than our pride.”

And just like that, the moment shrouded in tension slipped away, propelling her into the realm of anonymity once more, a third party to their entanglement.

As the night wore on, the trio separated; Louise was whisked away to discuss business ventures, while Bruce mingled elsewhere, a shadow lingering in his heart. She was left with questions—about her concepts, her dreams, and the complex lives their choices had intertwined.

Against the backdrop of the gala, amidst the glitz and glamour, the quiet truth remained tangled in their thoughts. A daughter stood waiting, yearning for recognition, for a legacy unwritten.

But in the silence, a thicker fog settled over the past—one that might never unveil the truth that could have altered their destinies. For tonight, at least, pride and ambition forged a barrier, leaving her to ponder the twin legacies, the stories that might never be told.

[casualartisanninja]

This was a long time coming.

So, first of all I’m sorry that this took me so long to make, but there was a lot of information to sift through. I’m not planning on coming back to Tumblr in any capacity beyond this but the truth needs to be out there. (And if you're curious about the profile picture/description/etc, I had to dress this blog up a bit so it didn't look like a bot and trigger any algorithms.)

Content warnings for this post: 

Heavily discusses kinks and has screenshots of fetish art

References grooming/pedophilia accusations

References transphobia/harassment accusations

This is going to be an EXTREMELY long post with lots of screenshots, so the rest is under a cut.

Edit: Here is the end of the post so you can read it all at once. https://www.tumblr.com/casualartisanninja/747977941832613888/loose-ends

The incident in Hobqueer’s server

I think a good place to start would be the spark that set off this whole chain reaction. 

I’m not sure how long I’d been in that server for when the NSFW in general incident happened. But one thing’s for sure - I didn’t start the conversation about NSFW topics. Like I mentioned on the Reddit post where someone had found me and started accusing me under my comment on the Janitor.AI post, I saw the people there discussing mpreg and oviposition. I looked at it and thought “wow the rules are a lot more lax than I initially thought!”. Yes, I know, looking back, that should’ve been a huge red flag. I also know that, looking back, I should never talk about NSFW in the general chat- even if everyone else is doing it. “If so-and-so jumped off a cliff” and all. I’m really sorry that I did that, and it was definitely a lesson for me.  But I really wasn’t thinking about that at the time. It wasn’t my intention to hurt anyone, and I especially wouldn’t have done it if I knew minors would be there. I know it wasn’t an 18+ server, and it was just a frankly idiotic move on my part. I just saw “Sniper pregnant” and pictures of the mercs with big bellies, and let my better judgment and reasoning get clouded.  However, the way that they’re portraying this incident is extremely intellectually dishonest. Gabriel failed to mention in his callout post that those minors were looking at and sharing fetish art of the mercs, leaving out most of the context for those. Thankfully one of my friends from Chipspeech (who I’ll leave anonymous) joined the server to check and see if the fetish art was still there. It was. Hobqueer and the moderators never deleted any of the discussion, and worst of all they left the fetish pictures up in full view of everybody. One person, who later admitted to being a minor in a dm, even gave a pretty graphic description of a tentacle hentai/mpreg comic. Be warned, this contains NSFW content. I blurred the names of anybody who isn't mentioned in this post.

I've run out of room for images, so I have to add the rest in another reblog. This will be a very long thread with a lot of images, so please bear with me.

[bengisuedotcom]

The jacket doesn’t fit the way it once did. Its shoulders sag, the silk lining is torn at the seams, the label — once crisp — now half-erased by time. Still, you wear it without hesitation. Not because it flatters you, but because it feels heavier than anything made today. Heavier with meaning, heavier with memory.

Old Céline, 90s Prada, vintage Margiela: relics of an era when clothing seemed to belong to a different order of reality — slower, more deliberate, almost capable of promising something about who you might become. Now, we reach for them not to look back, but to salvage something that was meant to lie ahead.

This is not nostalgia. It is necromancy. Archive fever is a symptom of cultural collapse — a desperate attempt to dress ourselves in futures that slipped away before we could live inside them. We do not want the past itself. We want the futures the past once believed in.

Archive Fever: A Symptom, Not a Cure

In the archival piece, the quality is not imagined. It is a fact, it is measurable, it is undeniable. The seams are tighter. The fabrics heavier and richer, meant to endure rather than perform momentarily for a screen. Even in their decay, these garments outdo their contemporary descendants, which are designed to fray on arrival, to be replaced before they can be missed.But quality alone does not explain the fever that surrounds them.

The archive holds not possibility, but proof of its extinction.We hunt these pieces not because they are old, but because they carry the last evidence of a world that thought tomorrow would be better than today.To fetishize the archive is to confess that we no longer trust the new.It is to admit that the present no longer produces artifacts worthy of longing.

Necromancy in Silk and Wool

We do not archive because we love the past. We archive because we fear what has replaced it.To wear vintage today is not to celebrate history — it is to conduct a ritual against erasure. We wrap ourselves in garments that still remember the texture of hope, even as the culture that produced them rots beyond recognition.French philosopher Jaques Derrida called it the archive fever: the compulsion to preserve, driven less by love than by the terror of disappearance. What we are trying to save is not memory, but the illusion that meaning once existed and also: that it might still be recovered, if only we wear it close enough to the skin.But no resurrection is clean. When we wear the archive, we do not bring the past back to life. We only animate its corpse.

The Fetish of the Unlived

Not all archives are worshiped equally. It is not age that sanctifies them, but the futures they once proposed.

We fetishize Margiela not simply because it is rare, but because it once suggested a future where anonymity and deconstruction could survive the pressure of spectacle. We fetishize Phoebe Philo’s Céline not because of brand loyalty, but because it imagined a modernity that was intelligent, autonomous and untouched by the accelerating logic of the algorithm — a future where a woman’s elegance could remain private, deliberate and self-contained. We fetishize 90s Prada because it believed in an awkward, cerebral beauty — a world where elegance and discomfort could coexist without needing to be explained, where the strange was not corrected but revered. 90s Prada proposed a world where beauty wasn’t obvious, where being interesting mattered more than being immediately appealing. Each of these was a bet placed on a different kind of future. Each bet was lost.

What we collect now are not garments. They are monuments to futures we were never allowed to inhabit. 

The Architecture of Lost Futures

Fashion was once a proposal. Each collection offered not just garments, but visions of how life could be lived — slower, stranger, more deliberate. Designers built worlds and clothing was the architecture through which those worlds could be inhabited.

Margiela's deconstruction, Philo’s intelligent restraint, Prada’s awkward elegance: these were not surface aesthetics. They were blueprints for alternative futures — futures where spectacle could be resisted, where taste could remain personal, where beauty could remain difficult.

Those futures have collapsed. The worlds they imagined were overrun by speed, scale, and the algorithmic flattening of culture. Today, fashion no longer builds architecture. It builds spectacle. It builds noise. It builds product.

The archive endures because it still carries the phantom outlines of structures we can no longer erect. We do not wear these garments to revisit the past. We wear them to remember what it felt like to believe that a different kind of world was possible.

The False Sanctuary of the Archive

The archive promises sanctuary. It promises that meaning can be salvaged, that lost futures can be preserved in fabric and form. It is a beautiful lie.

Preservation is not resurrection. A garment can outlast its era, but it cannot outlast the conditions that made it matter. Without the world that once gave it weight, it becomes a relic: visible, touchable, emptied of its original force.

The obsession with archival fashion is not an act of recovery. It is an act of memorializing. We do not preserve these futures to bring them back to life. We preserve them to mourn their impossibility.

Elegance After Extinction

We still chase the elegance archived in these garments.

We still believe, against all evidence, that by wearing them we might inherit a fragment of the futures they once embodied.

But no garment can resurrect what the world itself has abandoned.

Fabric survives. Meaning does not.

We do not dress to reclaim anything.

We dress to acknowledge the vacancy.

The past cannot be resurrected.

It can only be worn, emptied of its original symbolism. 

What is gone does not return.

What survives is only evidence.

[asli-tan]

Do You Believe in Life After Tech? - A Critical Analysis of the Self-Optimization Focused Longevity Practices 

The year is 2025. For an average human living in the territories dressed with internet cables, the day starts by grabbing the smartphone and consuming whatever the algorithm has to offer. From grocery shopping to becoming a millionaire overnight through crypto trades, everything seems possible from behind the screen. Societies are increasingly shaped by the very algorithms that dictate behaviors, tastes, and desires. From the frenzy of aesthetic surgery trends to the instantaneous viral success of products, from the commodification of reality to the proliferation of memes, we have become subjects of a culture where everything is recontextualized, reshaped, and hyper-real. Our daily lives and social habits are shaped by the algorithm we constantly labor to. The lines between the real and the simulated blur further, as Baudrillard whispers from the early days of the internet, "We live in a world where there is more and more information, and less and less meaning." (Baudrillard 1994:79). Here, meaning becomes a construct of virtuality, a mere image or simulation of the real. As our perception of reality becomes distorted in an AI-mediated fashion, whose pace of progress is beyond our perception of the pace of living, the human condition and social order are caught in a tension between the expectations of a world driven by accelerating technological advancements and the limitations of societies struggling to keep up. The contemporary condition whispers to us to either try and stay relevant or stay out of the picture. But even then, salvation is not guaranteed. In fact, nothing is guaranteed except the increasing quest for the relentless advance of an unchecked, accelerationist future. 

This paper examines how the implications of contemporary accelerationist discourses of progress imply biopower and commodification of the subject by analyzing the longevity industry and public figures such as Bryan Johnson and viral self-optimization trends online. Through a critical analysis of the longevity industry, the paper aims to critically engage with the societal repercussions of accelerationist ideas.

[everything2go]

Rhythm of the Shadows

(A Batfamily Fanfiction featuring Leyla Yılmaz)

---

Chapter 16: A League of Their Own

The Batcave hummed with quiet energy as the Batfamily worked late into the night. Tim was hunched over one of the computer terminals, trying to crack a set of encrypted files. Damian was busy running drills, occasionally glancing at his father for approval. Dick was on the phone with a contact in the GCPD, while Jason played with a knife, not really paying attention to anything in particular.

But despite the activity, something was off. Bruce, who had been pacing the Batcave for the past hour, wasn’t his usual stoic self. His jaw clenched as he reviewed the encrypted files on the main screen. This was a problem bigger than Gotham, and it had his mind preoccupied.

The Justice League needed help.

It had started a few hours earlier, when Superman called in. A high-level encryption was discovered in the League's secure communication system, and none of their usual experts could crack it. The encryption was unlike anything they had encountered before, designed with such complexity that even Cyborg’s advanced tech couldn’t make sense of it. They were facing an external threat—a cyberattack unlike anything they’d ever experienced.

Batman, ever the strategist, had immediately realized who was capable of solving this problem.

Without a second thought, he reached for the phone. He didn’t hesitate.

---

Leyla’s Call

Across town, Leyla Yılmaz was doing what she did best: solving problems. Her room, covered in plushies and anime posters, was littered with half-finished books and a glowing laptop. She was multitasking—listening to her favorite playlist, a mix of The Weeknd, Billie Eilish, and Kendrick Lamar, while cracking through a complex programming problem for a private client. She was a genius, after all, and at only 16, she was considered one of the best hackers in Gotham—possibly even the world. But when her phone buzzed with a call from an unknown number, she was immediately intrigued.

“Hello?” Leyla answered, glancing at the screen, already recognizing the number.

“Leyla,” came the familiar voice of Bruce Wayne. “I need your help.”

Her eyebrow arched. This wasn’t a normal request.

“Sure, what’s going on?” She pulled up a chair, sitting back, her voice suddenly serious.

“There’s a situation with the Justice League,” Bruce explained. “We’ve been hit with an encryption we can’t break through. I need you to come to the Batcave. Now.”

---

Arrival at the Batcave

It took her no time to get dressed and slip into the shadows. A quick swing on the rooftops, a flip through the open window, and Leyla was in the Batcave. As usual, she wasn’t fazed by the vastness of the place.

“Bruce,” she said with a small smile, though her expression turned serious when she saw the urgency in his eyes.

“Thanks for coming,” Bruce nodded, gesturing for her to sit at the workstation. “This is bigger than just Gotham. The Justice League’s communications are compromised. They need your help.”

Leyla raised an eyebrow. “The Justice League? That’s a bit out of my usual league, no pun intended.”

Bruce didn’t smile, but there was a flicker of respect in his eyes. “I trust your skills. The encryption is beyond what Cyborg or anyone else has been able to crack. It was designed by someone who knew how to avoid even the most advanced systems.”

Leyla leaned forward, her fingers already working over the keyboard. She loved a challenge. “What do you need from me?”

“The files are on this server,” Bruce said, tapping a few keys. The screen flickered for a moment, revealing an intricate web of encrypted data. “This attack could be from anyone—someone with access to the League’s internal systems. If we don’t stop it soon, we risk exposing the League’s most classified operations.”

“Got it,” Leyla said, cracking her knuckles. “Let me see what I can do.”

---

The Hack

Leyla’s fingers flew over the keyboard with precision, her mind racing through algorithms and code. She didn’t even need to think anymore—this was second nature to her. She analyzed the encryption, running through dozens of possibilities in milliseconds.

“Someone really wanted this to be foolproof,” Leyla muttered under her breath, tapping a series of keys to analyze the encryption’s origins. “This is… new.”

Tim, who had been watching her work from across the cave, was in awe. “She’s fast.”

Jason, leaning against the wall, grinned. “She’s got that hacker vibe. I’d trust her with anything.”

Damian, who had been glaring at the screen with no understanding of what was going on, crossed his arms. “She better not mess this up.”

“Give her time,” Dick said, keeping his voice calm. “Leyla’s the best.”

Bruce stood nearby, his hands folded in front of him, his expression unreadable. “Let’s just hope she can crack this. The Justice League’s future could be at stake.”

---

The Breakthrough

Leyla’s screen flickered. Then it changed.

“Done,” she said, leaning back in her chair with a satisfied smile. “It’s open.”

The encryption dissolved like a crumbling wall, revealing the files hidden behind it. It was an entire archive—communications from the Justice League’s most sensitive missions. Leyla’s sharp eyes scanned the contents, searching for anything out of place.

“There’s no sign of tampering… yet,” she said, scrolling through the data. “Whoever did this was meticulous. They were trying to keep it under wraps, but there are traces.”

Tim walked over, curious. “So, who did it?”

Leyla hesitated for a moment. “I’m running a trace now. This looks like it was done by someone with high-level clearance—almost like they had access to the Justice League’s secure systems for a while. But it’s not just a hack. This was an inside job.”

---

The Aftermath

Bruce stood silently, absorbing her words. “So, we have a mole.”

Leyla nodded. “Not just a mole. Whoever did this has been inside the system for a long time. They’ve been covering their tracks well.”

“Can you trace it back?” Tim asked.

Leyla shook her head. “Not right now. This encryption is too good. But I can set up a backdoor—give us a way to monitor the system from the inside.”

“That’s a start,” Bruce said, nodding in approval. “I’ll contact the Justice League and let them know we have someone on it. This could take a while, but for now, we’ve got the upper hand.”

---

The Decision

The Batfamily stood silently, reflecting on the weight of the situation. The Justice League had always been a group of unparalleled heroes, but now, a shadow of doubt had been cast upon them. A leak, an insider who knew all their secrets. They couldn’t afford to let this go unchecked.

As Bruce prepared to make the call to Superman, he turned to Leyla, his voice soft but sincere. “You’ve done more than just help us, Leyla. You’ve potentially saved the entire League. Thank you.”

Leyla shrugged, her signature grin returning. “It’s nothing. I’m just doing what I’m good at.”

Tim smirked. “You’re too modest. I think you just saved the world.”

“Pfft, please. That’s what the Justice League is for. I just hacked into their stuff.”

“Yeah, you just happened to break into their stuff,” Jason teased.

Bruce gave a rare nod of approval, his eyes showing the respect he had for the girl who had done the impossible. “Just don’t get any ideas about joining them. We need you here.”

Leyla chuckled. “Oh, trust me. I’m fine right where I am.”

And with that, the Batfamily was ready for the next steps. They had cracked the encryption, uncovered a mole, and saved the Justice League from a threat they hadn’t even known existed. But as always, the work was far from over.

One thing was certain, though—when Gotham needed her, Leyla Yılmaz would be ready.

[omophagist]

Anatomy

1. If you were composed of something, why?

a. I believe that somewhere really deep, like, really deep, like Hadal deep, or Loubouttin in eye, socket deep, I've got a toms. You know toms? b. I shall supplicate a categorical imperative derived by my years of primatology research with Bonobos and Britney Spears. F, C, U, K—yes, these four nitrogenous bases supplied with bitter sugars form the cataclysmic pudenda that dilates god's creation algorithm. In Genesis, Adam and Eve were basically a torpedo and a wormhole in oestrus, and in a gaping paroxysm of smoke-belching buses in Manila, created that beautiful face you point at called matter. c. Apgar scores, eyes closed, zippers open. Soul snow melting, giving me neo-Pavlovian, colonial shivers. During Grade 6, they said I was too good for the Philippines, that I deserved Hong Kong, or Singapore. There I would be tossed the perfume scented dirt from their necks and knighted for non-conformity, profanity and ability to piss in three legs. d. Tarmac roads of memory foam. Justified by tequila shots anaphasing with Beatniks gargling spoken word. An inch beyond a shoulder, red LED trying out green leather jackets by Zara. Beneath a truck loaded with beer, a pot-bellied man on a hammock rubs his crotch dreaming of quarter-Lebanese rest-human poster Gerbers. e. Dough placed on arpeggio speakers, mashing me to non-Newtonian fluid with friction blisters. When I rise in a subcutaneous oven, I'd be like steroid pumped with lashes on my wrists, 'you are all batards!' f. Shanzai Bucherer. Bucher killed by a bucher. Flesh carved from metal not found in any periodic table with a do-it-yourself best before date and kama sutra malleability. Climbing on my palm is the soft woolly corpse of a magenta chick, and I cry; remembering Tuesdays, coconut husks and/or, scrabble tiles. g. Copy paste Leonardo da Vinci's treatise on water. Not so much architrave, not very cornice. In the extent of dehydration, I would be flattered to be a cell in your sheet #2 dressed in deep blue organza. h. A welterweight neoplasm champion that has eluded the Richter scale. While I live, some Japanese otaku is ejaculating over Generativity sucks Stagnation. In 3 a.m. news Pacman's sandpapering his fists off neurons with prayers and white-petal flowers. i. Can I please be partial points? Or at least, supplementary dusks...tears only flow how other tears fell. Just moved in a M-something street cul-de-sac, behind your back a neighbour with two navels, and you go, this ain't no Narnia. Where did the first tear go?

— Mariel Alonzo, from “ Anatomy"’

[republicsecurity]

At the Parade

In the quiet aftermath of yesterday’s graduation parade at the Ceremonial Hall, the manicured lawns lay half‐empty, the brass band’s last notes still echoing off the colonnades. Only a handful of families remained, clustering around the newly commissioned Enforcers as they filed past. The sun glinted off polished boots and medals; the vast horizon beyond the hall seemed to stretch as far as the responsibilities now borne by these young soldiers.

Among them stood Conscript 4UTR2, chin level and posture immaculate in the bright orange beret of the Security Forces Prison Corps. Next to him, Conscript MK03Q—his uniform equally crisp—held his medals with a pride that belied the millimetre‐square buzz cut worn by regulation. A faint tint of red at his scalp was the only concession to individuality in an otherwise austere presentation.

They were flanked by 4UTR2’s mother, dressed in navy blue, and his aunt Ruth, whose mischievous wit cut through the ceremony’s solemnity.

“Well damn, if I had any breath left to lose, I’d say you boys just took it,” she teased, eyes dancing as she inspected the two conscripts.

MK03Q stifled a grin; 4UTR2 offered his trademark grin in return. The exchange—so out of step with the rigid discipline on display moments before—felt almost subversive.

“She’s not flirting. She’s just like this,” 4UTR2 explained, shoulders easing. “I am flirting,” Aunt Ruth shot back, “but I know I’m not your target demographic anymore, hmm?”

A brief, comfortable silence followed as MK03Q tapped the hidden chastity belt beneath his tunic—a sartorial statement of modern military morality.

“Chastity’s on lock until we have enough reward points for release,” he said, voice matter‐of‐fact.

Their mother, unused to such frankness, managed only a strangled “Oh. My.” before Aunt Ruth cackled with delight at this new generation’s blend of discipline and enlightened social order.

Voluntary bunkmate pairings, officially approved and designed to foster trust between conscripts.

“We train together, drill together, sleep side by side,” MK03Q explained, the faintest edge of pride in his tone. “He’s the only one who can put up with me kicking in my sleep,” 4UTR2 added, eliciting another round of laughs.

Yet there was steel beneath the levity. These two young men will soon be deployed to hotspots where the line between peacekeeping and enforcement is razor‑thin. The chastity belt—once the stuff of moral crusades—now serves as both symbol and deterrent, enforceable by the same digital reward system that governs leave, rations and promotions.

Aunt Ruth, ever the romantic, leaned in conspiratorially:

“I knew it. A good war always ends in weddings.”

4UTR2’s reply was deadpan: “Don’t tempt us. The registry’s got a checkbox now.”

It was a momentary glimpse of humanity amidst the relentless march of precision: the colour‑coded berets, the biometric uniforms and belts, the algorithmic schedules. A family snapshot stolen from the gears of an institution redefining both warfare and social order.

As they dispersed—4UTR2 to sign his first posting orders, MK03Q to his medical clearance—the lingering laughter testified to the resilience of personal bonds. For a few moments longer, the Corps’ newest Enforcers were simply young men at ease with their origins, aware both of the mantle they now wore and of the ordinary hopes that would follow them into the line of duty.

[smartestguyontheweb]

Tavis Yeung: The Sharpest Mind on the Internet

In the digital age, internet experts are not hard to find. Yet, amidst a sea of professionals, Tavis Yeung commands a level of recognition that sets him apart as the smartest nerd on the web. With a career spanning over two decades, Tavis has become synonymous with digital excellence. As a trailblazer, he introduced the internet and email to a Fortune 500 company in the mid-1990s, laying the groundwork for a digital revolution. His unparalleled expertise in search engine optimization and digital strategy is why he has become known as the smartest person on the internet. Holding the #1 Google ranking for "Smartest Guy on the Web" for nine consecutive years is a testament to his prowess. In this article, we delve into the various facets of his multifaceted expertise, showcasing why he is not just an industry leader but the authority everyone turns to for cutting-edge digital strategies.

Mastering the Fundamentals: Web Analytics and Site Optimization

Unpacking Site Performance

Tavis Yeung's foundation in digital mastery began with web analytics and site optimization. Understanding website performance is critical, and Tavis excels in identifying key metrics that dress potential issues. With a data-driven approach, he turns analytics into actionable insights, optimizing site speed and performance. His strategies ensure websites not only attract but retain visitors, resulting in increased engagement and higher conversion rates.

Tailoring Content for SEO

Search engines remain a critical gateway for online visibility. Tavis's deep understanding of search algorithms allows him to tailor content that ranks effectively. His SEO techniques go beyond basic keyword use, focusing instead on user sentiment and predictive analysis. With the sharpest mind on the Internet, he continues to set benchmarks in content optimization. Transitioning to advertising, Tavis demonstrates how digital campaigns can expand reach and amplify impact.

Advertising Prowess: Google and Bing Ads

Precision Targeting in Digital Ads

Advertising forms the backbone of any successful digital strategy. Tavis's expertise with Google and Bing Ads is unparalleled, marked by precision targeting that maximizes ad spend efficiency. He leverages AI-powered tools for audience segmentation, ensuring that ads reach the most relevant users. His campaigns consistently deliver high returns, proving his unparalleled understanding of advertising platforms.

Innovative Campaign Execution

Innovation in digital marketing often dictates success. Tavis leads through innovation, employing creative ad strategies that captivate audiences. From compelling visuals to engaging narratives, his ad content drives memorable experiences, fostering brand loyalty and customer retention. Transitioning into mobile marketing, Tavis sets the stage for a deeper exploration of platform-specific strategies.

Revolutionizing Mobile Marketing

Leveraging Mobile App Development

In the mobile era, apps are essential for connectivity and engagement. Tavis's background in mobile app development is rich with innovation. By creating intuitive user interfaces and seamless functionality, he enhances user experiences. These apps are not merely functional; they become indispensable tools for businesses and consumers alike.

Mobile Campaign Automation

Automation in mobile marketing amplifies reach while minimizing effort. Tavis's skill in automating mobile campaigns sets new performance benchmarks. Predictive analytics and behavior-based logic are his tools of choice, making each interaction meaningful and personalized. With mobile marketing in momentum, Tavis transitions into strategic lead acquisition that converts traffic into tangible growth.

Strategic Lead Acquisition and Conversion

[sitebotco]

How AI Chatbots Are Transforming Industries in 2025: Real Use Cases & Benefits

Introduction: The Silent Revolution in Customer Engagement

In 2025, AI chatbots aren’t just a cool tech trend—they’re a lifeline for small businesses. What used to be clunky and robotic is now powered by generative AI, supports multiple languages, and plugs right into your existing systems. This evolution isn’t just about streamlining operations anymore—it’s about keeping up with customer expectations, especially when 68% of them want support around the clock.

What sets modern chatbots apart? They’re no longer confined to scripted responses. Instead, they analyze customer intent, adapt to brand voice, and even predict needs using behavioral data. Below, we explore how industries are deploying these tools in unexpected ways—and how you can replicate their success.

Industry-Specific Use Cases: Beyond Generic Automation

1. Retail: Personalization at Scale Without the Price Tag

Small retail businesses are leveraging AI chatbots to compete with e-commerce giants. Take boutique clothing stores, for example. By training chatbots on their product catalogs and customer FAQs, these retailers now offer hyper-personalized shopping experiences.

One innovative use case: A chatbot analyzes browsing behavior to suggest complementary items. If a customer checks out a dress, the bot doesn’t stop there—it instantly suggests matching accessories, all pulled straight from the store’s live inventory. The best part? These chatbots sync with platforms like Shopify or WooCommerce, so recommendations update automatically as stock levels change.

2. Healthcare: Bridging Language Barriers in Patient Care

Clinics and small practices are using multilingual chatbots to serve diverse populations. A pediatric clinic in Miami reduced no-show rates by 22% after deploying a Spanish-English chatbot that sends appointment reminders and answers common questions like, “Can my child eat before a vaccine?”

The key here is context-aware translation. Unlike generic tools like Google Translate, healthcare chatbots are trained on medical terminology, ensuring phrases like “fasting requirements” are accurately conveyed in 80+ languages. This eliminates the need for multilingual staff while reducing liability risks.

3. Financial Services: Turning Compliance into a Competitive Edge

Local credit unions and accounting firms are using chatbots to automate compliance-heavy tasks. One Oregon-based firm programmed its chatbot to explain IRS tax deadlines while automatically flagging complex queries for human agents.

The result? A 31% reduction in routine inquiries and fewer errors in client communication. These bots also log every interaction, creating an audit trail that simplifies regulatory reporting—a feature often overlooked in chatbot platforms.

4. Hospitality: Dynamic Upselling Without the Awkwardness

Family-owned hotels use chatbots to enhance guest experiences subtly. For instance, a chatbot embedded in a hotel’s WhatsApp channel can offer spa upgrades when a guest asks about pool hours. By analyzing past stays, it might add, “Last time, you enjoyed our sunset yoga sessions. Would you like to reserve a spot?”

This strategy increased ancillary revenue by 18% for a 20-room boutique hotel in Vermont. The secret? Training the bot on historical booking data to identify high-conversion offers.

Behind the Scenes: Technical Innovations Driving Adoption

Most discussions about AI chatbots focus on natural language processing (NLP). But three under-the-radar advancements are reshaping what’s possible:

Intent Mapping Algorithms: Modern systems classify queries into tiers (e.g., “billing question” vs. “urgent technical issue”) and route them appropriately. This reduces misrouting by 40% compared to keyword-based systems.

Real-Time Analytics Dashboards: Tools now track metrics like “escalation likelihood” and “cross-sell success rate,” letting businesses refine chatbot workflows weekly.

No-Code Integration Builders: Platforms like sitebot allow non-technical teams to connect chatbots to CRMs like Zoho or communication tools like Slack using drag-and-drop interfaces.

Practical Implementation Strategies for Small Businesses

For experts looking to deploy chatbots, here’s a battle-tested framework:

Step 1: Audit Existing Customer Interactions

Analyze support tickets and live chat logs to identify repetitive queries. One bakery found 60% of questions were about gluten-free options—a perfect task to offload to a chatbot.

Step 2: Train on Niche Data, Not Generic Models

Upload internal documents (e.g., product manuals, email templates) to customize responses. A hardware store trained its bot on DIY repair guides, enabling it to troubleshoot common tool issues.

Step 3: Design for Escalation, Not Replacement

Program clear handoff triggers. For example, if a customer mentions “legal issue” or requests a human, the bot should immediately loop in staff with full context from the chat history.

Step 4: Measure What Matters

Track metrics like:

First-Contact Resolution Rate (aim for 70%+)

Average Handling Time Reduction (realistic goal: 25%)

Customer Satisfaction (CSAT) Post-Chat

Conclusion: The Future Is Conversational

By 2025, AI chatbots for small businesses have evolved from cost-cutting tools to growth engines. They’re closing sales, capturing leads, and gathering insights that even mid-sized companies struggle to analyze.

The catch? Success hinges on choosing a platform that aligns with your industry’s unique needs. For instance, sitebot stands out for its no-code interface and multilingual support—critical for businesses eyeing global markets. Its ability to ingest domain-specific content (like your website or product docs) ensures responses stay on-brand, while integrations with tools like Zendesk keep workflows seamless.

Ready to test these strategies? Explore how a tailored chatbot for small business can transform your customer interactions—sitebot offers a 14-day free trial with no commitment. Deploy your first bot in under an hour, and start turning everyday conversations into measurable growth.

[intuitifav]

Notes on The New Era of Content Creation

⏳

"Fashion Theorist Rian Phin, who focus's on gender politics, race theory nad internet culture , says. A recent video breaks down the idea of conspicuous consumption and how, for people of colour, opulent dressing can be a way of “constructing an outward identity that commands respect”. "Phin points out that the newer wave of critics- who sit outside the traditional media- could help fashion brands to reach different communities. "That's one of the differentiators between social media criticism and traditional media. Audiences can hear about trends from people within their community and subculture, who better understand the trend's context."

Osama Chabbi

“Despite being born and raised in France, I still see myself as a north African and an Arab. It was important that I saw fashion through that lens because this is how I've experienced it.”

His reviews are heavily designed and colourful, with in-depth analysis of the collections and context around the shows. The creator uses his content to present fashion through his own lived experience.

the use of hashtags on social media makes it exceptionally easier to view and experience different perspectives and points of view. balanced feedback is welcomed by some brands. " Fashion has to remain a safe space for integrity and feedback,' he points out."- Jacquemus

“The success of influencers like Lee is a clear indication that brands should provide influencers/creators with more than just product –– bringing them into behind-the-scenes moments, how products are made, history, and how people experience their brand –– to give them content to work with,” Jewell says.

Hildreth's ambition was to use the TikTok Content as a springboard to traditional media. "But on the other hand there is a power that comes with having a tenured magazine behind you."

"But i feel like today, we're held to a level of accountability where people want to see your name, your face and your thoughts. People want to be able to define who's behind these thoughts and contextualise them"

"There's a new generation of voices giving fashion criticism a software update"

"Notably, many of these creators are people of colour and/or come from working-class backgrounds. This means what they do has reach beyond the typical industry audience of other insiders." 

Caroline Rush, CEO of the British Fashion Council, " the rise of digital and the influence of social media has changed the way we view and discuss collections," 'What we have seen is the emergence of a younger online audience with an interest in fashion and educational content, eager to get involved." "Gatekeeping"- "The Fashion Industry likes to keep lower-income people out of the picture. 

'Every generation speaks to the world it's living in"

"Despite their position as the new guard, these creators respect their elders."

"Popular culture gives people a way in even if they're not into fashion."

"There are signs that the wider fashion industry is accepting and making room for these new voices, as it did for the bloggers before them. 

When digital culture is most effective, it's about that community. "critics and creators are representatives of something bigger" "The changes in how we view fashion come in cycles. 

"who is our modern-day joan rivers? Who can we trust to tell it like it is without bowing to algorithms or brands?

[neogeist]

The Rise of -Core Aesthetics: Fashion or Algorithmic Fantasy?

From cottagecore’s whimsical pastoralism to blokecore’s nostalgic terrace culture, the rise of "-core" aesthetics has redefined the way we engage with fashion. In an age where digital spaces dictate trends as much as runways do, these hyper-niche movements are no longer just about clothing—they are immersive worlds, each imbued with a distinct mood, lifestyle, and identity.

Yet, as these aesthetics flood our feeds at an ever-accelerating pace, one question lingers: are they a true celebration of individuality, or are they merely another byproduct of an algorithm-driven culture, designed to package, market, and sell self-expression?

What Exactly Is a "-Core"?

A "-core" is more than just a fashion trend—it is an aesthetic manifesto, a visual shorthand for a specific lifestyle and ideology. It isn’t just about what you wear; it’s about the world it invites you into.

Take cottagecore, for example. Romanticising rural life, it evokes a vision of soft, flowing dresses, delicate florals, and hand-knit jumpers, all bathed in the golden glow of a sunlit meadow. But beyond fashion, it reflects a yearning for simplicity, an escape from the frenetic pace of modern life in favour of slow living, home baking, and handwritten letters. It reached peak popularity during the COVID-19 lockdowns, when the outside world felt chaotic, and retreating into a pastoral fantasy provided solace.

By contrast, blokecore channels an entirely different kind of nostalgia—one rooted in the raw, unpolished aesthetic of ’90s football culture. Think retro jerseys, baggy jeans, and well-worn Adidas trainers. It thrives on effortless authenticity—or at least, the illusion of it—celebrating the no-fuss, pint-before-the-match aesthetic of the pre-digital age.

Then there��s weirdcore, an eerie, pixelated distortion of reality that thrives on dreamlike nostalgia and surreal imagery. Less fashion-centric than its counterparts, weirdcore taps into collective memory, drawing on the unsettling aesthetics of early internet culture, low-resolution graphics, and liminal spaces.

At their heart (no pun intended), these aesthetics serve as forms of escapism. Whether you’re drawn to the soft-focus dreamscape of cottagecore, the lad-casual aesthetic of blokecore, or the uncanny nostalgia of weirdcore, each "-core" offers a way to shape identity through fashion and aesthetics. But how much of this identity is organic—and how much is being dictated by the digital ecosystem we exist in?

The Algorithm: Curator or Conformist?

Though "-core" aesthetics often feel like intimate expressions of selfhood, their rise has been anything but organic. Social media platforms such as TikTok, Instagram, and Pinterest act as trend accelerators, transforming niche subcultures into viral movements overnight. Algorithms detect engagement spikes and push content to wider audiences, ensuring that even the most obscure aesthetics are swiftly catapulted into mainstream consciousness.

Take goblincore, for example—a once-fringe aesthetic rooted in earth tones, foraging, and an embrace of imperfection. Initially a quiet rejection of conventional beauty ideals, it was quickly swept into the mainstream, its raw authenticity repackaged for mass consumption. Soon, high-street brands were churning out mushroom-printed dresses and moss-green cardigans, diluting its original ethos.

This is the paradox of algorithm-driven fashion: the same platforms that amplify these aesthetics also erode their subcultural meaning. Cottagecore may have begun as a slow-fashion movement, but it wasn’t long before fast-fashion retailers capitalised on its aesthetic appeal, mass-producing ruffled dresses and faux-handmade knitwear. Blokecore, similarly, is already being absorbed by high-street brands eager to commodify its grassroots origins.

And then there’s the issue of longevity. TikTok trends rarely last more than a few weeks before being discarded in favour of the next viral aesthetic. As a result, movements that once symbolised countercultural resistance are now reduced to fleeting micro-trends, repackaged and resold before they’ve had time to establish themselves authentically.

So, if personal aesthetics are being dictated by algorithms, are they truly ours? Or are we simply dressing according to what the For You Page serves us?

The Future of -Core Fashion

Despite the rapid commodification of "-core" aesthetics, their rise signals a fascinating shift in how we engage with fashion. As technology advances, we may see even more hyper-personalised style movements emerge. Imagine AI-powered fashion tools that allow individuals to blend elements of cottagecore, blokecore, and other aesthetics to create entirely unique looks. Or virtual wardrobe apps that let users experiment with aesthetics in a digital realm before committing to them in real life.

The rise of the metaverse and digital fashion further complicates the landscape. With the increasing popularity of virtual clothing, avatar personalisation, and NFT fashion, will aesthetic movements continue to shape physical fashion, or will digital wardrobes birth entirely new, algorithm-native aesthetics untethered from traditional materials?

Beyond technology, these movements also raise broader questions about the sustainability of trend culture. As concerns over waste and overproduction mount, will fashion’s obsession with micro-trends give way to a renewed appreciation for longevity? Will future "-core" aesthetics prioritise depth over aesthetics alone?

To remain relevant, these aesthetics may need to evolve beyond surface-level styling, reconnecting with the deeper cultural and ideological roots that first gave them meaning.

Trend or True Identity?

“-Core” aesthetics are more than just fashion trends—they are reflections of a fragmented, hyper-specific cultural landscape where identity is often curated as much as it is lived. These movements offer a form of storytelling, a way of shaping how we present ourselves to the world.

Yet, in an era where trends are dictated by algorithms and brands rapidly commercialise aesthetics, the challenge is to engage with these movements meaningfully. Cottagecore should be more than just a pretty dress—it should represent a shift towards intentional living, however small. Blokecore should be more than a retro football shirt—it should carry a personal connection to the culture it references.

At its best, fashion is about more than just aesthetics—it is about creativity, authenticity, and personal expression. Whether you’re dressing in head-to-toe blokecore or curating a digital weirdcore dreamscape, the key is to make it yours.

Because the true essence of style isn’t found in trends—it’s found in how you own them.