#ambrosia-sys

[sleepingcatemojis]

Hi! I was wondering if you could do the tail stim one but with a tail that looks like this? I hope this drawing makes sense, it's just like a long black tail with a curly/floofy white tip! If you do thank you sm, I keep wanting to stim to my partner but there's nothing that looks like it :D ~Boo

here you go!

[echoesofaheart]

constantly torn between mentioning that i'm technically 14 bc its funny and not mentioning it ever so that people are normal about my existence and don't try to walk on eggshells around me

[help-an-alter]

Hey! We have some alters that are on the search for new names, and some pronouns would be neat too…

One currently goes by Deference and likes neutral leaning names. It identifies as a ball jointed doll that wears lolita, is divine, and has no feelings. It also likes purple.

The other’s source name is Verity, and she prefers feminine leaning names. She really likes anime girls, especially the ones who are bullies. She’s sort of rude and has a bit of a god complex. She also likes silver and pastel blue.

Sorry if this is too vague/wordy!

- 🫧🪸 (I can’t remember our system bloggg I’ll send another ask in a sec)

hellooo! i was very sleep deprived when i wrote most of this, but i think it’s good to post now! sorry for the wait, and i hope this can help them :)

@egc-sys

first alter

names: regal(ity), august, valor(ia), leon(a), soleil, devyn(e) (could be read as divine), dayanna, kiani, nadiya, esben, avleyn, siyon/scion, aquila, caelum, cae, callisto, polaris, comet, aether, celeste, eclipse, vega, vesper, zenith, ceres, cygnus, otava, altair, evren, amethyst/amethystos (the greek word!), kovidar, tyrian, indigo, lavender/evander/vander, dolly, ender, dionysus, crocus, vervain, enigma

pronouns: doll/dolls/dollself, div/ine/divineself (alt: div/divs/divineself), vi/violet/violetself, por/porcelain/porcelainself, stitch/stitches/stitchself, dolly/dollys/dollyself, ethe/ethereal/etherealself, ae/aer/aerself, cher/chers/cherself, lo/li/lolitaself, ro/roy/royalself, hea/ven/heavenself

second alter

names: alethea, aleta, vera, verina, dinah, astraea (astra for a nickname), lumina, xena, mana, ema, sterling, skye, skylar, mercedes, angelica, melanie, sasha, laila(h), seraphim, celine, celeste, eliana, celia, silke, vyomini, ambrosia, asteria, alice, azure/azurine, mazarine, lapis, marilee, viridian, lobelia, oceania

pronouns: sil/ver/silverself, ae/aer/aerself, cher/chers/cherself, xe/xir/xirself, shi/hir/hirself, blu/blue/blueself, ser/sera/seraphself, halo/halos/haloself, ae/aen/aenself, aen/gel/aenself (or gelself/aengelself), hea/ven/heavenself, fae/faer/fae(r)self, mir/mirs/mirself, sae/saer/saerself, ce/cer/cerself, ve/ver/verself

[tk-duveraun]

I got distracted with my last plantzun post, but I want grasses to grow around him when he's excited. I want flowers to turn to him like he's the sun. I want him to bleed sap that's like ambrosia.

Binghe's seal breaks in the demon realm, in a field of shoulder -high grass that cradles him like a cocoon. In the throes of unbalanced, mixed qi he scratches SY with his claws. SY's blood gets in LBH's mouth and the shock and rapture of it bring him away from the brink of deviation

(it's not bingqiu if they're not drinking each other's blood)

LBH is calmer but his body is still wracked with change and SY pulls the grasses closer like he could stuff LBH inside his own chest

They spend years in the demon realm until LBH can no longer stand how much SY clearly misses the human realm and the friends he made there. LBH will make sure his precious person is allowed in CQM or else

[jackhkeynes]

The Numeric Week

cutting in translation from the 14th October 1950 edition of the Roxa Comba, in their regular column called The Numeric Week. The Roxa Comba is a weekly paper based in the Groin [A Coruña] and affiliated loosely with the Russet Dove media guild.

Y Semman cas Nombr - Sambað 14 Octobr 1950 The Numeric Week - Saturday 14th October 1950

1500: Y lonctum par lau de Japetos III, y novel conjogntur Atlantic oy depos des Morrac vars Ambrosia eð ayent sy preu boðanç augtað je Maucr derran. Vellisquað cos original pall'eç administraçon a catr man d'an 1943, l'accommission dene demorað veg monfeyað deut ag confluyenç de hey cas bors e, lon digr, y sounç d'abat. Y snar conjogn y citað de Gadir ag floy Soux e Paratzon ne Brasil auster. 1500: The length in leagues of Japetos III, the new Atlantic link laid down between Morrack and Ambrosia which conveyed its first messages this last Wednesday. Originally conceived by the two administrations in concert in 1943, the endeavour was delayed several times due both to budgetary concerns and, of course, the outbreak of war. The cable connects the cities of Gadire on the river Soux [Agadir, Morocco] and Paratzon in eastern Brasil [St John's, Newfoundland].

3: L'enombr de vouð dessur dell'opposson ny cambr Yansief yon y soumission dy clou Zachet por interrogment sull'effectualtað de molin a forç sougl se cof yer eligt, ne souc d'un veðrvent imprefait cas y jure suajonnant dy Minister a Ðar. Partejan aun (ða lorry nosthubr sey visant vars y Collujon ben contrig) caglou irrayað cos divers sull'eç advantaç cohernt a men basant a astraphor Drengoçan e sull'occasion de l'Andron a Alchemy ne Lisbon extollir com mojol ny doujug mondial. 3: The number of votes by which the Mortar coalition's proposal to fund effectivity research into threshold force mills [nuclear power plants] passed in the Yansieve chamber yesterday, after a surprising volte-face from the Ministry for Farming advisory board. Proponents have (depending on their sympathies or lack thereof regarding the Collusion) pointed variously to the benefits of relying less on Drengot astraphor [electricity] and of elevating Lisbon's Faculty of Alchemy to a hub on the world stage.

[zoneofsmites]

2, 5, 15 and 16 for Sylas from the Tav asks?

Questions from here!

2 - what would their blood taste like to vampires?

I cannot answer this without likely changing it later. This shit keeps me up at night what does a bhaalspawn taste like - more importantly what does an actual titan made from divine flesh and blood taste like.

Currently my answer is this: Sylas would taste like Ambrosia. It tastes exactly like your favorite flavor, whatever that is - which means that it could change per day too!

Additionally I headcanon that bhaalspawn blood revitalises vampires more than other thinking blood does. Their blood drives Bhaalspawn to kill - an instinct vampires are already familiar with in some sense. Therefore I think drinking their blood would make vampires feel more full and also stronger and healthier for a short while after drinking Bhaalspawn blood.

5 - what does their tent area look like? where do they prefer to pitch their tent (next to water, covered on three sides, etc)?

The tent needs to be nestled closely next to something - a kind of wall preferably - to cover his flank. High ground would be nice as well but he prefers corners that he can camouflage in.

The tent itself is a little cobbled together from resources found on the way. It is not nice by any standards. At some point in act 2 some of his friends take pity on him and offer their own tents to share - he rarely takes them on the offer on the nights he actually sleeps because of the nightmare thing and lack of control :)

15 - what’s the description of their camp clothes in the inventory menu?

Sy' camp clothes are a modified version of Gortash' robes from this mod.

-- These decorated robes are made from well-crafted and expensive material. It is in excellent condition although perhaps slightly damaged from the crash. One stands to wonder how the amnesiac found himself with such finery. --

My reasoning for Sylas having some of his old belongings is that they were kept with a bunch of other things from the other experiments - they were boxed up and send along on the nautiloid so they could be rid of them. Sylas finds a few things here and there among the crash debris - things that feel familiar so he hangs on to it.

16 - what’s the description of their underwear in the inventory menu?

-- These red briefs are completely ordinary - except for the neatly embroidered text on the inside that reads 'Milord the Dark Urge'. --

(yes. Sceleritas Fel writes his master’s name in his underwear like he's still a child and I fully stand by that... and yes Sceleritas has been doing that for a century).

tysm for the ask 🧡

[orange-orchard-system]

Who needs a Carrd when you can pin posts?

[PT: Who needs a Carrd when you can pin posts? / End PT]

Hello! We're the Orange Orchard, sometimes referred to as Orange Orchard System or O²S (but we prefer being called the Orange Orchard). This is our blog, which is primarily centered around plurality, but other common topics are disability, alterhumanity, and philosophy. Other than that, you may occasionally see posts that specific headmates especially liked and wanted to reblog here.

Our collective name is Ambrosia and our collective pronouns are they/them/their/theirs/themselves or rul/tem/plur/plurs/plurselves. You're free to use this name and these pronouns when referring to us if you're not speaking about anyone specific in our system, or don't have or know anyone specific you want to talk to.

Who are we outside of our names? We're a mixed origin, hybrid, polyfragmented system with DID that likes to philosophize and write analyses and summaries on plural related topics, such as news articles and plural characters. We run four other system blogs: funnier-as-a-system, plegg-culture-is, factive-culture-is, and pluralprompts. We discovered our plurality a few years ago and have been working to become a cooperative collective ever since then, with a mix of fusion and healthy multiplicity.

We try to avoid hosting discourse on this blog, but vents may reference it on occasion. We'd also like to say, for the record, that we fully support endogenic, self-diagnosed, and non-traumagenic systems and plurals here.

If you want to support us, you can buy us a coffee here!

Under the cut are some quick links to posts of ours that we especially like as well as miscellaneous resources, some extra facts about our system and blog, and then some userboxes about our system.

Have a nice day, remember that any hate sent to us will just inspire more positivity posts, and feel free to send us asks about anything on your mind. Most of us don't bite.

---☆

Resources and Links:

[PT: Resources and Links: / end PT]

News Summary: "The blind woman who switched personalities and could suddenly see"

art of Emmengard's Plural Rings

discourse disclaimers

multitasking and the innerworld

summarizing a diagnostic guide on diagnosing DID

French plural vocabulary

What is a system?

~

More Than One

New Alter Carrd

The Plural Playbook

Pluralpedia

Resource Index – healthymultiplicity.com

The Plural Association

---☆

BYF/Other Info:

[PT: BYF/Other Info: / end PT]

We don't want pro-shippers to interact with us. This isn't so much a discourse thing as it is a personal issue we have regarding the community; for our own mental health we'd like it if we could just avoid each other.

We use a mix of terms to describe ourselves/our system members, though not everyone in our system is comfortable with every term out there. For followers or visitors of our blog, we ask you use "selves" or "others" when referring to us.

We're also uncomfortable with being called "friends" by other people unless we give permission. Nothing personal, we're just largely aplatonic.

Finally, to answer a question asked multiple times before, the flag in our icon is our system flag, designed ourselves to represent us. The orange blossom is a nod to our system name and the symbolism behind it, and the stripes have specific meanings:

White: Looking towards the future.

Yellow: Learning, sunlight, and self-improvement.

Reddish pink: Our complicated system origins.

Purple-ish pink: Communication, cooperation, and care.

Black: Bravery, secrecy, trust, and doubt.

Any other questions? Send them in an ask or DM.

[Description for first image: a divider showing a line of Emmengard's Plural Rings with a black line connecting all of them together in the background. /End ID]

[Description for the rest of the images: four userboxes, each with text on the right side and an icon on the left side. The userboxes, in order, are:

[One: a blue userbox with miniature gray and blue star charms as the icon. The text reads: This system's tags on posts are not always indicative of who is fronting.

[Two: a pink userbox with a fluffy pink rabbit toy as the icon. The text reads: This system is almost always using "I" loosely.

[Three: a pinkish-purple userbox with a pink flower as the icon. The text reads: This collective has trouble knowing when conversations are over.

[Four: a lavender userbox with purple flowers as the icon. The text reads: This system has difficulty feeling and understanding emotions, please be patient.

[/ End ID]

[jungledubs-archive]

ur sys' badass names inspired some of our fictives to choose fun new surnames n stuff and they wanted to share! they chose "Styx Thanatos Auretta" another chose "Vio Elle Belladrine" and the third chose "Ambrosia Everlasting Woolvine" ^.^

HELL YEAH those are awesome names im glad you guys have found cool names you like!! :D

[littlefreya]

Let Me In

Summary:  You have your very first fight and he is not inclined on apologizing properly. So he is trying a different trick of winning your heart back.

Pairing: Captain Syverson x Reader (You)

Word count: 2.8k

Warnings: Smut + Fluff, Captain Cunnilingus returns with some Oral Sex, sexual innuendo, manhandling, dirty language.

A/N: Based on a prompt requested by @wondersofdreaming AND inspired by my many conversation with @agniavateira who also is a queen and edits my work :3

Prompt: Kisses exchanged as they move around, hitting the edges of tables or nearly tripping over things on the floor before making it to the sofa, or bed.

Title: Let me In

You feel like an idiot. For 3 months, you’ve waited for him to get back from Iraq so you two can finally reunite. You’ve thrown the most outrageous outfit on yourself: a dark blue velvet dress that made your ass look like a piece of heaven on earth, and a pair of fuck-me-pumps which were set to send a clear message. 

And it worked its magic. Syverson’s hand possessed your ass in seconds, not wanting to let go. He collected you in his grip and had you in his lap for the entire evening, his manhood growing hungry for your hot embrace. It took every measure of self-discipline to battle the urge to take him to the pub’s restroom and let him fuck you on top of the sink like a furious train.    

Yet here you are, walking down the streets at midnight, teary-eyed and lips red with rage. Your uncomfortable heels echo on the hard damp road while you tug your skirt down, muttering to yourself how much you hate that big oaf. 

“Get back here, babygirl, we ain’t done talkin’.” You hear his voice yelling after you as he chases you down the street. His steps are heavy, thudding on the ground.

“Go away! I don’t want to see you anymore.” You yell back, not even bothering to look at him. 

You’re afraid that if you’ll see him you might just burst with anger and slap him, even though at this point he definitely earned it. Syverson’s long legs outmatch your heel-wearing feet, though. The large man quickly picks up the pace and Lord knows he has the stamina of a bull. 

This man is a trained special forces captain, after all. You, on the other hand, are just a girl.

“C’mon, doll, I didn’t mean it...” he walks along your side. You catch that stupid smile of his from the corner of your eye, and his voice shows not even the slightest hint of remorse as if he’s too proud to beg for mercy. 

“I didn’t think you'd be offended.”

“You didn’t think I'd be offended?!” You echo, eyes blazing with fury. Syverson looks down into your eyes, wearing a naive look on his gruff face. “You told your entire crew of soldiers that you bought me a vibrator so I can ‘fuck myself’ during our Skype calls, while I was sitting right. fucking. there!” 

Syverson shrugs, lifting his hands in the air as if he still doesn’t get what the big fuss is about.

“Ugh!!!” You grunt and turn on your heels, stomping your feet while rushing toward your home. “Go away Sy. Go back to your stupid friends at the pub, this is not happening tonight.”

He sighs, his hand brushing your wrist, carefully trying to grab you. But you slap it away, hoping that your small palm did enough to hurt the big log. “Babygirl, it was a mistake. Now don’t be like this, let me spend time with you.”  

Not even that deep, gravelly voice can help convince you. All you can think of is the redness on your cheeks as he casually told a group of deranged elite soldiers how you masturbate on video for him. Never in your life have you felt so ashamed. Syverson carried himself with such pride, adding to your embarrassment by mentioning: “It’s not as big as the real thing but at least it keeps her covered until I’m back home.” 

You’re almost at your apartment, stomping up the stairs angrily with Syverson trailing behind you, his sight fixed on your ass while you’re fishing for your key inside the tiny black purse. His aura radiates confidence, without even glaring at him you can tell this man is 100% convinced he is walking into your apartment and getting his slice of that cake.

Think again, buddy.    

“Leave! I’m not gonna ask twice.” You threaten him while unlocking the door. His hands come onto your forearms and in a flash, you’re shoved against the door with his body pressing you into captivity. 

“If I said we ain’t done talkin’ then we ain’t done talkin’, woman!” he says menacingly. You smell the whiskey on his breath and feel each of his hard muscles against your small figure. His knee pushes between your legs, keeping them apart as he offers you a smirk. 

“You want me to beg, babygirl? You know that ain’t happening. I ain’t no goddamn pooch like them city boys you’re used to.”  

You bite your lip trying not to whimper, your body already betraying you into submission, in need of that perfect Alpha male to give it what nature entails. You can already feel the smooth, sticky wetness against your panties, and your nipples harden through the velvet fabric, much to Sy’s delight.

His eyes beam with triumph. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? Now are you gonna let me in there, or are we doing this here where your neighbors can watch?” 

“You are not coming in,” you answer, your voice entirely unconvincing as you break into a tendril of tiny little moans, elicited by Sy’s coaxing hands. His skillful fingers roam at your curves, giving attention to every inch of your body. His thumbs graze at your nipples, circling around them before gliding down as he moves to kneel in front of you.

“Don’t,” you warn him, your eyes staring at the empty corridor with alarm.  But Syverson’s callous hands ignore you, holding your legs apart and running up the skirt of your dress. “Then let me in,” he suggests with a growl, his digits coursing their way into the heaven between your thighs, each stroke of his rough fingertips against your delicate skin makes you succumb more and more. 

You should know by now, Sy has no problem fucking you in public.

“Have you any idea how much I missed eating your pussy?” He murmurs in his thick Texan accent, his breath hot against your inner thighs as he pushes your legs further apart. Your black lace panties are already down to your knees. Being a military macho, Syverson sure misses a lot - but the fact that you wore a new, expensive pair doesn’t go over his head. He looks up to meet your gaze, wearing a smug grin on his chiseled face. 

You hate him right now, how he embarrassed you, how weak he makes you every single time, reducing you to a moaning whore.   

“No?” he asks, his eyes gesturing at your white knuckles that clutch the door handle. You collect every drop of strength still left in you and shake your head in protest. 

Syverson emits a bastard’s grin before his head dips between your thighs. His nose bumps against your clit, his beard grazing your tender skin as he shifts to taste the ambrosia at your core. You rush to cover your mouth, muffling the yelp that escapes you. 

It begins with a lover’s kiss, praising that which is kept waiting for him for months.  

You are so yearnful, so desperate, shying of the juices that drip from your womanhood as if there is any shame for being such a wanton woman. Yet Sy breaks through every prudent thought you’ve ever had. He pushes you to new extremes of pleasure with every sexual encounter between the two of you, and damn if he isn’t attentive and talented. 

Sy doesn’t just fuck or makes love, he wrecks you.  

You gasp, your breath making your palm moist while Sy’s tongue greets your swollen labia. He’s licking with lingering, long strokes, coating his tongue with every fervent drop of your desire, before delving inside. 

“Fuck,” you cry into your own hand, feeling the heat spilling from your abdomen while he twirls his tongue inside you and suckles on the peak of your pleasure. He feasts on you as if you were the sweetest of delights, his tongue lavishing with enthusiasm. It makes you tremble and attempt to clench your legs together as you can hardly take the stimulation inflicted upon you. Yet Sy forbids you to, restraining your legs before giving all his attention to your clit. 

You were wronged; this is not a prize, this is punishment. 

Syverson laps and sucks at you with angry passion, lips tightening around your engorged nub, the coarse hair of his beard leaving you red and raw. You fall apart in his strong hands, coming undone weak and powerless. 

Fuck, you missed this. 

Your underwear is still locked around your knees as Sy climbs back up to meet you, licking his lips with arrogance and wiping his wet beard.

“See? I knew you’d come around,” he praises you, impressed by the sight of your weary eyes and your lips that are plumped with lust. His body pushes against you once more, letting you feel his rigid cock. “Let’s go inside now, I’m really not in the mood for your neighbors catching me fucking you here.” 

You heave against him, his cocky smirk making you furious within seconds. No, this time you want power, you want him to beg and apologize properly instead of fucking you into submission as he always does.

“Beg for it, darling.” 

Your hand tightens around the handle and with great agility, you manage to sneak past the door and shut it in his dumbfounded face. 

Gasping with disbelief, you lean against the wooden surface, hearing Sy’s heavy breath on the other side.

“Babygirl, this is not funny.”

“Who said I was joking?” You call back, making sure the door is locked properly, just in case. “I told you, I don’t want to hear or see you until you apologize for being a jerk.” 

“Open up, darlin’, don’t make things worse for yourself,” he threatens, his voice becoming lower with authority as if he is speaking to one of his subordinates. You snort in reaction, shaking your head at yourself.

“Woman, I said open the door.” He demands again. You feel a slight creak as he leans against the door. A man like Syverson can possibly take that door down in mere seconds if he wanted to, yet he won’t do that. The big grunt has his limits and even though he is a rough lover, he will not act in such violence toward you. 

“Fuck you, Syverson. As you so clearly told everyone, I’ve got a toy now. I don’t need you or your dick anymore, so fuck off.”

There is silence on the other side of the door, accompanied by Syverson’s fuming breath. Even without seeing him, you can tell his nostrils are flared right now, that frown lowering his brow and making his lips curl with anger.

“Don’t bother callin’ me crying later.” He finally answers with spite, and you hear his heavy steps thundering away from your door. A gasp of air leaves your lips, you fall against the surface, fingers playing with the hem of your dress with disappointment. A growing sensation of void begins to form in your chest.

You certainly didn’t imagine your reunion after months of longing to end with you crying alone in your apartment. 

**

It’s 1 a.m. Syverson hasn’t called you, nor has he left any messages on your phone. Your tears have dried out after a couple of hours of alternating between hating him, missing him, and wishing you’ve never ran into him in your life.    

You pace around the house getting ready to sleep, dressed in one of his red t-shirts that got “lost” in your laundry basket. It still smells like him even after you washed it. Making your way to the bedroom, you hear a small knock on your door. 

Your heart jumps down to your loins, the glass of water in your hand slightly spills on the floor. You make careful steps toward the door, hoping that whoever is on the other side won’t hear you approaching.

“Kitten, you there…?” 

You sigh with relief, recognizing that baritone in an instant. The captain has returned and by the way his voice slurs you can tell he had more than a few drinks. You lean against the door, pressing your cheek onto the wood. You can smell the scotch from outside.

“Go home,” you answer, thrown between being flattered and disappointed. The latter is stronger though. You wish he hadn’t gotten drunk, that his apology would have been sincere but it seems like you’ve been asking for too much. 

“Please forgive me, kitten.” He murmurs, his fingernails scratching at your door like an abandoned little puppy. 

“Sy… just go, we’ll talk in the mor…”

“Wise men say only fools rush in, But I can't help falling in love with you. Shall I stay? Would it be a sin? If I can't help falling in love with you”

Your jaw drops to the ground as Syverson’s deep bass strokes the lyrics of the song ever so melodically. The captain has many talents, but this is the last thing you ever expected he’ll be good at or even want to try, being such a rough hardass.   

“Are you singing?!” You ask in disbelief, a huge smile beginning to spread on your face. Even in his drunkenness, he manages to carry out the song with an oddly enchanting vibe. He sings romantically, the chords of his baritone trembling tenderly with dedication for you.

“Like a river flows, surely to the sea, Darling, so it goes, some things are meant to be”

You feel your cheeks burning as you sit next to the door, a silly smirk breaking onto your face. Your muscles loosen with the hum of his voice as if this was some sort of a primal coital ritual.  

“You’re an idiot,” you blurt out, loud enough for him to hear. 

Syverson pauses for a moment and you swear you can feel the smile on his face through the door. That damn bastard knows very well that you’re sitting right on the other side, blushing like a schoolgirl. 

“You're just too good to be true, I can't take my eyes off you…”

He continues to sing, his drunken voice slurring the words, his voice deepening with intoxication. Still, he sounds surprisingly better than you’d expect. 

“You'd be like heaven to touch, I wanna hold you so much”    

“Oh my god...” You slap your forehead, convinced your neighbors must hate you by now, that is, if they haven’t caught your little performance from before. “Fine.”

Rising to your feet, you cave in, seduced by Syverson’s drunken tricks. That man has a grip on you that no one had before and hearing him like this, drunk as he may be, just raised the bar. You unlocked the door to find him on his knees, forehead sweaty, eyes drowsy with alcohol.

“I love you baby and if it’s quite alright…”

“Stop,” you shake your head at him and reach out your hand, signalling him that he’s forgiven and fallen under your good graces. The large man swaggers to his feet carefully, his body nearly blocking the entire entrance to your house as he stands in the doorway. You take his hand in yours and pull him inside. 

Once the door is shut, your hands wrap around his thick neck, pulling him into a passionate kiss. He tastes like whiskey and beer, but you’re enchanted, mesmerized by his devoted performance. No man has ever sang you love songs and when it comes to Syverson, no other man has ever made your heart spiral into chaos just with a gaze. He kisses you back sloppily, trying to lead the way on heavy feet. Your bodies bump into corners, tipping things over and ignoring them as they break on the floor. 

Both of you dance your way through the corridor as you try to make it toward the bedroom. You stop against the walls, peeling off your clothes hastily, bodies grinding into one another with desperation. 

“I was looking for this shirt,” Syverson frowns as his red t-shirt is discarded from your body, only now realize you’ve been wearing his clothes. You distract him with a kiss and shove him through the bedroom door, finally making it to the bed. With a devious look on your face, you grab his chest and push him to the bed.

“Woah there, kitten,” he smirks at you, putting his hands behind his head .“Am I to understand you’re assuming control tonight?”

“Yes!” You rasp with excitement. “Give me a second.” 

You skip toward your wardrobe, grabbing a pair of handcuffs as a brilliant idea springs through your mind. You realize he still owes you an official apology. Turning back around to look at Sy, your smile immediately disappears. 

Sprawled naked on your bed, the captain already has his eyes shut, emitting soft snores through his nose. You sigh and shake your head. With a little smile on your face, you move to lie next to him instead, putting your head onto his chest and playing with the soft hairs on his body. * Read part 2 - Set me Free 

[jackhkeynes]

Scandal Abroad

excerpt in translation from an article in the 14th October 1950 edition of the Fiellas Dimenja (Sunday Sheets), a Marsellan weekly newspaper focusing primarily on recreation and entertainment.

NOVEL ALLORS: SCANDAL! PRINÇ HASINIC ADMET 3⅊ MIL MYRIAD DEUT NEWS AFIELD: SCANDAL! HASINICK PRINCE ADMITS 30⅊ MILLION OF DEBT

Prinç Peðer Tamaha, heir men connuð des y dynasty hasinic famous, a admis por y nonçamen trey mil myriad de pois deïr (oc dou mil myriad de tron surcontant) com sculd a colluy speculatour e tan a tesoir païsal tras y tarmagn des Mascic vars Ambrosia. Prince Pether Tamaha, lesser-known son of the illustrious Hasinick monarchy, has admitted to the press that he owes thirty million poise (over twenty million trone) in debt to speculation companies and to national banks across the continent from Mashick to Ambrosia.

Par surcresc, sy granpaðr y Rey a refusað le sauvar de decoxion, stant jainç a dað lon preluïscment. Furthermore, his grandfather the King has declined to bail him out, in an unprecedented move.

Postulation jaçol es convencuð ig y joun prinç (oc ayent un jubilation opulent de nascenç trentem receut ny Davarn Heul fevruer nuverrem, ant may de cinq mil d'assistent) no's lon hiat sy redon despardent eð y scurtað dell'askouð parent confiant. Longtime speculation has held that the young prince (who hosted a lavish thirtieth birthday celebration in the Davarn Heul this February, with over five thousand attendees) has been regularly running through his funds and relying on his family's coffers.