ladykelsi 2025. please do not steal, copy, plagiarize, translate, or repost any of my works without my permission, including ai/c.ai/chatgpt/lore.fm and similar sites and softwares.
[navigation page inspired by the lovely @waves-against-a-cliff]
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giving him head and looking up at him with big, soft eyes and he throws his head back in pleasure but also because he’ll cum right then and there if he stares at you for too long
I don't want my cellphone to have AI I want it to have 3 days of battery time. I don't want my computer to have AI preinstalled I want it to have seven usb ports and high ram at affordable price. I don't want my games to have AI built levels I want them to be so optimized I could run them on a nokia.
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dreamt about a knight coming to you after a battle and getting on his knees in front of you and roaming his hands up your legs and smearing blood across your skin as he rests his cheek against your upper thigh. btw. additionally i would like to add taking his helmet off and hearing it rattle against the stone floor and running your hands through sweaty hair and praising him for protecting your kingdom. anyways.
i have such ai fatigue rn its unreal. i go to my corporate job; the docs are written & summarized by ai. i scroll through tiktok on the commute; i hit ai fruit love island and 17 ai kalshi ads. i come home and pick out a kindle romance that looks cute!! finally a small point of human connection in my day!! it's ai slop.
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you're in near-hysterics when ghost lumbers through the door, absolutely reeking, his perpetually foul coveralls unzipped and tied around his waist, white undershirt plastered to his sweat- and mud-streaked skin.
you're backed against the kitchen sink, doing a terrible job shielding the frozen limb beneath the running tap, the foot jutting out from one end.
ghost pauses in the doorway, taking in the pathetic sight. you know he knows you fucked up.
the mask on his face shifts as he snorts. his chin drops as he toes off his boots and kicks them aside for you to deal with later, then drops his work bag beside them. when he looks up again, he rolls his neck, adjusts the sack slung over one shoulder, and moves toward the kitchen island.
you start apologizing immediately, voice scratchy, throat suddenly parched with terror. you own up to the mistake. he already made the consequences of lying to him crystal clear weeks ago.
he heaves the bag onto the island with a heavy thump and ignores every word. reaching over your shoulder, he grabs a plastic cup from the cupboard and sticks it beneath the tap, diverting the stream away from the frozen leg while it fills.
your apologies taper off as he shuts off the water, peels off his mask, and chugs. the last few droplets from the tap plink into the sink behind you. you stare up at his ugly mug, at his chapped, scarred lips. when he's finished, he sets the cup beside you and pats your cheek.
"good thing i found a morsel on the side of the road on my way 'ome then. some takeaway."
you peer around his bulk at the bag. a reddish-brown liquid oozes from a dark patch on the sack, slowly congealing on the butcher block beneath it. sticking from the opening, a few red curls.
"take that out of the sink an' stick it back in deep freeze. we're 'avin' rump roast."
you nod frantically and get to work. after wrestling the leg back into its place in the freezer, you return to the kitchen and tie on your apron—crudely fashioned from one of his old ones. then it's back to the work you've learned by heart, helping him wrap cuts in butcher paper, label them, date them. you try not to think too hard about any of it while you help prep dinner. so long as it's not you on the table.
so you're not in quite as much trouble as you'd feared.
but after dinner, he yanks you outside and drops into a lawn chair. he watches while you hose out the truck bed, hand-rolling a cigarette and nursing a beer. when you ask what to do about the stubborn bits lodged in the ridges of the truck bed, he fetches you your toothbrush.
"You blush from your ears," you tell Sylus, like you're presenting him with groundbreaking knowledge. "It's never from your cheeks first, always your ears."
Sylus blinks, resisting the sudden urge to touch his ears.
"I don't blush at all, sweetie."
You hum, eyes sparkling mischievously.
"Of course you don't, oh big bad leader of Onychinus."
That small taunt earns you a soft swat to the bottom which you easily evade, delighted giggles pouring from your lips.
"Brat," he murmurs around a smile as you wink at him. "One usually has evidence along with their accusations."
You don't reply to that, don't say a single word but you look thoughtful and Sylus instantly knows that he's gotten himself into trouble.
The next morning, Sylus walks into the living room and stops right in his tracks when he's greeted by a blown up image of his face. The shot has been taken at just the right angle to show one of his ears. His ear which is flushed a deep red, the striking colour bleeding into the pale of his cheek.
Sylus stares at this photo for a long time, long enough for you to stroll into the living room with two mugs of coffee in hand. You pass him one, smiling victoriously when he silently accepts it.
"You asked for proof." Is all you say before you're sipping from your mug like the winner you are.
Sylus doesn't know whether to be proud, irritated or aroused.
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