#i hope i conveyed the sheer difference in mass between them well enough

[phexart]

The Captain of the Dawnrunner and his mandalorian.

[cno-inbminor]

adsentio - stagnation

a/n: we’re back with prince!akaashi, royalty!au, extra part. i promise i was writing the wedding scene, but then it started storming pretty heavily...and my brain said, “no, Kay. it’s rainy hours. write angst. you know you want to.” and...this happened.

NOTE: for this specific scenario, it’s not 100% necessary to read ‘adsentio’, the main story. however, there are details that reference it and subsequent parts. the basic idea is: you and prince akaashi had been set up to marry since you were children, and while the both of you were against it for a while, feelings changed for the better.

summary: after a few years of being married, you find yourself firmly concluding that indeed, akaashi no longer loves you.  

genre: angst!! with happy ending though. wc: ~2.9k

main story: adsentio (pt. 1) | bonus letters (pt. 1.5) | the masque (pt. 2)

Whenever torrents of rain cascade over the kingdom, down the vine-ridden castle walls and pattering upon the lake, many will pause in their tasks and gaze out the nearest windowpane. Thunder may rumble and lightning may strike, yet everyone registers the same twist in their stomachs. An unease lies beneath their skin; a chill that wickedly summons horripilation. In an effort to battle the shadows, fires begin to roar, one by one through the castle. Aches and pains arise in bodies as the masses wait with bated breath for the rainbow to appear as it always does.

Smoke floats through the chimneys and taints the air, evident by the wisps of gray and onyx. Yet they are unnoticed and in stealth on this dreary night where everyone must succumb to the understanding that there will be no rainbow. The controller of the tides will peak above the midnight clouds and attempt to shine, but never strong enough to guide the nightly travelers.

Even with the tamed inferno in the chambers, a puff of visible air leaves your lips. Your hands clasp tightly together, your fingers intertwining with each other in your lap as you sit in front of your vanity. Raindrops beat against the glass of the balcony doors, glistening in their trail towards the ground. Yet as soon as they fall onto stone, the drop shatters and colors the surface. It paints and paints until the blemishes appear and the imperfections glare towards the skies.

Jewels sit heavy on your figure, your crown resting on a cushion atop your vanity. But in this moment, nothing weighs more than the wedding ring on your left hand. It’s crushing, suffocating; it burns a print and imprisons your appendage, reminding you of unspoken promises ghosted against your ear. The gems hold decades of memories, being passed down from queen to future queen, and you wonder if any of them proceeded with what you plan on doing.

Akaashi had entered the room as smooth as a serpent, silent like a zephyr. Your only warning of his presence is the raised hairs on the back of your neck, your body tensing just as his hands placed themselves on your shoulders from behind. Another breath is drawn from your lungs as he peers into the mirror at you, the faintest expression of happiness drawn from his lips. But it’s lifeless. It’s the one he reserves for meetings and pleasantries, for when he disagrees with his father but has no choice to comply. His eyes are darkened with death and dissatisfaction, and has been for almost two weeks now.

His brows only marginally furrow with concern at your lack of reaction, how you seem to be looking past him. Your own expression comes off as solemn yet nervous, as if you’ve committed a grave sin.

“Is anything wrong, my dear?” He asks gently, watching carefully.

Your lips purse as you turn your head towards the hand on your right shoulder. They no longer provide the warmth and comfort that they did so many years ago, but only serve to freeze your soul and weave together the insecurities that you had painstakingly unraveled. Akaashi continues to gaze at you in silence as you stand from your seat, wordlessly beckoning for him to take your place. With guarded hesitation, he does as you say. Instead of standing behind him as he did you, you instead take the space on his right, facing his side profile. Feeling unnerved, he turns to face you rather than his own reflection.

In times of vulnerability, you have always struggled to find your footing, to feel that you are powerful. You believe there is a strength in possessing self-awareness and having the ability to convey those thoughts to someone who cares and knows. Just because you feel small in the moment does not mean you must be small. You can tower over the other person as you do now, forcing your prince to lift his chin to speak to you.

“You are unhappy,” you whisper ruefully.

“I don’t…I don’t understand,” he fibs, his eyes wavering as he directs his gaze away from yours. In that brief moment of eye contact, you had seen the show end, but the curtains lifted, the gears turning and unveiling his chaotic despair.

“You cannot lie to me, milord. And only you are incapable of doing so with me.”

He lets out an arduous sigh and slouches his back, a pose of defeat and exhaustion. A dagger twists his heart at the title, but his reticence allows you to continue.

“I can only imagine that there have been many women in my position before, where they must continue to rule with locked lips and the key thrown. There must have been many who were as hopeful as me, and yet as time aged us, we had to turn the other way and simply learn to accustom ourselves to the new surroundings. With how long we have known each other, I know almost everything about you. To most, you may only have a few sitting postures. But to me, you have tens. Each little movement indicates something different, something you happen to be thinking or feeling at that moment. It’s ingrained into my brain by sheer force and repetition, and I’m beginning to wish I was more oblivious. Perhaps, then, I would at least have been a happy fool, content with my misguided beliefs.”

“What are you trying to say?” He enquires as he dares to face you again. With regret, loss, and grief, he watches as your eyes begin to shine with tears and the most bittersweet smile on your face begin to form.

“You no longer love me.

“And I have no objection to that,” you continue, raising a hand to stop any of his interjections. “I should have known that you would eventually tire and wish for what I had voiced all those years ago: some freedom, some choice. As much as you had convinced yourself that marrying me was unequivocally your free will, you no longer believe it. All of your interactions with me scream so, and I have no intentions to attempt to convince you otherwise. Doing so would be hypocritical of me. So for now,” you pause, looking down at your hands while catching your breath.

Akaashi can hear the tremble of your lungs over the crack of thunder and the beating of the heavens. But everything deafens when your right hand hovers over your left ring finger. They hesitate and shake, reaching then reclining, before grasping the ornate band and slowly, lamentably removing it. You then extend a hand to gently grasp one of his, placing the piece of jewelry in his open palm, then curling his fingers closed around it.

“For now, I shall return this to you. You may do as you wish, as I will not stop you. Perhaps…we were not lucky enough for love.”

You sleep with your back to him that night, unwilling to face him when only mere inches exist between you two. You miss how Akaashi turns to face your back, how his arm tentatively reaches to wrap around your waist before pulling back, and can only slip into his dreams when counting the strands of your hair.

-

“The Prince urgently requests that you meet him in the library, Your Highness.”

“Now?”

“Preferably, yes.”

“Very well, I shall be there shortly,” you sigh, your turning away signaling the messenger’s dismissal. Your head bends down to take one last look at the embroidery in your lap, your fingers finishing some last few stitches for an appropriate stopping point. Fingers cautiously smooth the wrinkles of your day dress, and you take one last deep breath.

The journey to the library is painstakingly laborious, as though each step you made had been done with shackles around your ankles. There is a weight to the sound of your heels clicking against the ground. Maids and butlers shuffle past you with heads bowed, though you seem to deep in a trance to observe.

Much of the energy and power that you felt you had exuded those nights ago had soon dissipated from your body. Your body resembles an empty shell, devoid of a plan to stand on your feet and continue with your normal activities. Your left ring finger screams into the numbing void, the missing weight almost bearing its own scarlet letter. You stayed in your room as much as possible, requesting meals to be delivered to the chambers. Akaashi nearly always needed to be away, taking care of kingdom affairs in preparation for his inevitable ascension to the throne. The only times you were ever near him were in the mornings and nights. You understood he was allowing some space for you, yet to request your presence…

Soon, you stand in the doorway of the royal library, the wooden entrance left ajar. The space acts as a safe haven for anyone in the castle; you gently press it open with the pad of your fingers. Hundreds of books on shelves line the walls with a few tables and lounging couches, yet it is eerily empty. Typically, there would be another person climbing one of the ladders to reach a high book, but even those are gathering dust for now.

Akaashi is in the farthest corner by the window, small stacks of bound journals and novels on almost every available space of the surface. He stands tall by the glass, looking out towards the gardens with his hands clasped behind his back. You take this moment of his oblivion to appreciate the back of the man before you, choking back and battling the agonizing twist of your heart. It is a moment you feel that you no longer deserve, but whatever it may be, the matter seems far less urgent than what the butler had told you.

You near him and clear your throat, the noise causing him to spin on his heels. He looks somewhat taken aback, but quickly composes himself as you curtsy. “I am here, Your Highness. I was told you had urgent matters to discuss.”

Akaashi sighs somewhat before sitting in the chair, beckoning you to come closer to the desk. His complexion seems pale and almost gaunt, and in turn, you frown. Was he not sleeping? Or eating? Has his father been putting too much pressure on his shoulders?

“I must confess,” he begins softly and refuses to meet your eyes. “The matter isn’t as urgent as I made it out to be. But I wanted to see you as soon as possible as it is still important and does concern you.”

“Did I…do something wrong?”

“Of course not,” he immediately denies, taking a hasty glance towards you before turning back to the books on the desk. “If anything…I am the one who has wronged you, and I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me,” he continues, his voice trailing towards the end of his confession. The desperation for forgiveness and repentance drown his words until they are all you can feel, yet you were so unsure of why he was seeking those. Did he pity you? Your emotions?

“I believe there is no reason to forgive you, as there is nothing you should feel sorry for,” you say stiffly, hands subtly wringing together.

“I must concur,” he kindly retorts. “Here, please have a look at this.”

He hands you a journal from the top of a stack, encouraging for you to take it. The leather feels aged and worn, but it is one you recognize from many, many years ago.

‘You could consider it a memoir.’

“Open it, please. And read what’s inside it.”

With a curious look, you unwind the ties and peel back the cover. The first page holds nothing, but when you turn the yellowing parchment, familiar handwriting greets you. A date sits in the top right corner, marking it a little less than a year before your eighteenth birthday.

‘I must say, I was pleasantly surprised to receive a letter from the princess. In my mind, she would have better things to attend to than to reply to me. After all, we both have our own duties, and in addition to hers, she must be attending some of her father’s meetings. I cannot deny the fact that my heart began to race swiftly when I saw her signature at the bottom of the letter. Even in her writing, I could hear her voice in my head, reading it the same way as if she were speaking to me. How I long for the summer months to quickly come.’

The beginning entry ends there, but as you thumb through the other pages rapidly, they are filled with his writing in neat, onyx ink. You begin to recall the days when you both were here in this very room, him scribbling away as you read your subject of interest. Your eye the other similar-looking journals and he confirms your unspoken questions.

“They’re all about you,” he smiles, though it seems sad and apologetic. “As you can see, I filled quite a few journals over the many years, but…unfortunately, as I grew busier, I was unable to write as much. When you said those words to me that night,” – a grimace on his complexion – “I couldn’t believe myself. Did I truly not love you anymore? At first, I struggled to find an answer…until a few days ago. I have spent much of my time reading through these pages, seeing what I have written.”

“You read…all of these? There must be almost twenty journals here,” you say in a mixture of disbelief and awe.

“I couldn’t quite put them down, I must admit. Some of my best work, perhaps.”

He stands from his seat and walks around the desk until he’s in front of you. Those pools of cobalt blue still find it difficult to meet your own eyes – they swim with contemplation and hesitation, but a sheet of determination soon clouds them. After you recognize that, he grasps your left hand with both of his and kneels on one knee, his forehead bowed down onto your knuckles either out of embarrassment or absolute respect.

“Keiji, what are you—”

“I was wrong. I had been so wrapped up in my own affairs that I failed to look after you as I had promised at the altar. I neglected you and unwittingly led you to believe that I no longer loved you. You do not deserve such a foolish man, so ignorant to forget how good you are to me, how there can be no other woman because you are my perfect match. I have been reminded of all the reasons of why I love you, and I swear on my existence that I love you more than I ever have.

Yet the truth is, I shouldn’t need to be reminded. You should never need to question my loyalty to you, and for that…I can only give my deepest apologies,” his voice trails to a volume so soft, yet so shaky with remorse. “The regret that I feel can’t even begin to hold a light to the pain that you must have kept bottled inside you, where you kept the cork in for as long as possible as to not burden me. I have failed you, and I will spend the rest of our days correcting my wrongs. In this very moment,” he pauses, inhaling a deep but quivering breath.

“I desperately and humbly request of you to give me this one last chance, to prove that I can be the man you deserve. I am begging you, my future queen, to forgive me.”

Your breath hitches with the last statement.

A prince never begs.

Yet he was here to lay it all out for you, imploring that you stand by his side, again, in more ways than one.  

“Please rise, Your Highness,” you call out softly, your hand reaching out to try lifting his chin and meet his gaze.

He stubbornly shakes his head. “Not unless you give me your answer.”

“Keiji, you don’t need—”

“Your answer. Please,” he beseeches with the last word, breath held. You know that when Akaashi becomes insistent, he never backs down yet somehow still allowing the other person to have a choice in the say. No thinking needed to be done, as your answer should be quite obvious.

“How could I ever refuse you, Keiji?” You tease softly with a smile.

Since the first moment he had kneeled before you, he looks up to see your face. Unshed tears glisten from the sun’s rays streaming through the glass. Your words are more than enough for him to stand on both feet again, soon wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his head into your shoulder. These acts of affection are only a small portion of what you had sorely missed, and you were counting on Akaashi to fulfill his vow.

“You are everything to me,” he breathes unsteadily into your neck. “And I will make certain that you never forget this, even after we pass.”

“I can trust you?”

“Yes. I promise.”

[nonbinarybrainstorm]

swerve/thunderclash where thunders just makes swerve a m e s s with praise and stuff because we all know swerve would die from that 👀 also size difference, if you may

You are absolutely right. Here’s the boy getting some good lovin’.

Additional content: fingering, strength kink (is that a thing? im making it a thing)

It’s late in the night cycle and everyone’s left, well, not everyone but mostly everyone. Swerve would never be able to ignore the mech that’s currently helping him put away the kegs of engex. Thunderclash carries the kegs around like they barely weigh anything at all, putting them in neat stacks with so much ease and speed that Swerve barely has to lift a finger. When Thunderclash had offered to help him, he had been stuck between not wanting to burden him with such a menial task and wanting nothing more to have a few hours all to himself with The Greatest Autobot of all time. In the end, when he couldn’t get anything through his nervous stuttering, Thunderclash had just flashed that winning smile of his and said he’d be around after hours and if he didn’t want him around Swerve could just say so then. Then, of course, posed the problem of not being able or wanting to send the wonderful mech away which left him with the wonderfully torturous situation of watching Thunderclash flaunt his strength while he just sat back and relaxed.

When all the kegs are put away, Swerve looks around helplessly, looking for something to say while trying to pass it off as looking for anything else that needs to get done but, of course, there’s nothing. Swerve stills when he feels Thunderclash approach and looks up to find Thuunderclash smiling sweetly as ever in that way that makes the sparks of everyone in the room do a backflip. He tries to say something but it comes out in a jumble of half-thoughts and incomplete sentences that devolves into a bunch of stuttering to his great dismay. Thunderclash saves him from trying to come up with something by putting a consoling hand on his shoulder.

“May I walk you to your room?” Thunderclash asks sweetly, optics crinkling with his smile.

Swerve gapes up at him for a moment then breaks out into a goofy, nervous grin, “Uh, yeah, I’d like that.”

Just walking down the hall with Thunderclash is just so nice and Swerve just can’t believe it. Without any task to focus on, all of Thunderclash’s attention is on the smaller mech as they chat idly about the going on's of the day and he listens patiently while Swerve rambles on about his day and all the trouble his patrons had gotten themselves into. Swerve’s spark leaps when Thunderclash’s laughs low and loud when he tells him about what Skids had done after trying a mix that was just a bit too strong. It’s so nice and Swerve just doesn’t want it to end but his room comes up and he turns to say goodbye but pauses at the hesitant look on Thunderclash’s face.

“Is something wrong?” Swerve asks, fiddling with his hands nervously as rampant thoughts flood his processor.

“Oh!” Thunderclash puts up his hands, “No, I was just… It’s just rude to invite yourself into someone else’s quarters but I was hoping that I might…”

Swerve’s optics flash in surprise and he turns away to face his door, possibilities tumbling one after another in his mind. Biting his lip, he opens his door and over his shoulder says:

“Want to come in?”

Thunderclash grins and follows happily after Swerve who sits on his berth and pats the spot next to him to invite Thunderclash to sit next to him. He does so, leaning back on his hands and he’s close enough Swerve that he can feel the faint heat from his frame and hear the soft whirring of inner mechanisms. While trying to keep his spark calm, he swallows roughly and turns to Thunderclash but he doesn’t manage to get anything out before Thunderclash is leaning towards. Thunderclash is propped on one hand placed behind Swerve while bending halfway over him, a shy smile on his lips.

“I was wondering…” Thunderclash begins but trails off, an embarrassed flush painting his faceplate as his optics dart away from Swerve’s, “It’s just, I’ve been thinking about you all day. Been thinking about you, in general, more often as of late, actually.”

“You’ve been thinking about me?” Swerve tenses in surprise, his hands coming up helplessly, “Why?”

Thunderclash’s optics flick back to Swerve as his mouth slackens in confusion then closes his optics with another shy grin. He puts a gentle hand under Swerve’s chin to lift his face up to look at him as he leans in closer, a soft glow lighting up Thunderclash’s optics.

“You have to know how absolutely attractive you are,” Thunderclash hums as he brushes his thumb over Swerve’s cheek making color rise to his faceplate, “It’s clear as day.”

“I, uh, what?” Swerve exclaims with a bit of a self-deprecating laugh, “Me?”

“Yes,” Thunderclash says with a hushed tone, frowning with something akin to concern, “Of course.”

“I…” Swerve tries then huffs a low laugh and pulls Thunderclash’s hand gently from his face, “Thanks but… So, what is it that you wanted to come in for?”

Confidence renewed, Thunderclash closes his hand around Swerve’s and leans in fully so that their noses are brushing which catches Swerve off guard and makes him gasp.

“I was hoping you’d let me show you my appreciation,” Thunderclash practically purrs, sending low vibrations through Swerve’s chest making him gasp again.

Swerve stares up at Thunderclash and without really thinking he nods and then all at once Thunderclash is upon him. He pushes his lips against Swerve’s and pushes him back with his sheer mass alone as he trails his hand down Swerve’s shoulder to his chassis then his hip. While rubbing circles into Swerve’s hip idly, Thunderclash kisses his cheek then his neck cables before making his way down Swerve’s chassis, planting slow, indulgent kisses along seams and sensitive plating. Swerve bites his hand at the attention, his frame slowly becoming hot under Thunderclash’s touch. He pulls up a leg and puts it over Thunderclash’s shoulder in a wave a need and before Swerve can feel embarrassed about it, Thunderclash catches his raised thigh in one hand and plants a long kiss on it. Thunderclash’s dim optics draw down slowly to meet Swerve’s gaze as he continues to kiss his thigh before opening his mouth wantonly, venting heavily then closes his optics as he presses his face to Swerve’s thigh, nuzzling it. His glossa flicks out over the plating in a slow lick that he cuts off with a quick kiss.

“Perfect,” Thunderclash vents outs, making Swerve’s breath hitch in his intake.

Thunderclash moves to loom over Swerve and meets Swerve’s shy smile with softly glowing optics that burn into him, conveying wordlessly how much he enjoys having Swerve beneath him now. He closes in to press a kiss to Swerve’s neck cables, humming appreciatively at the sound that he makes.

“You blush so beautifully,” Thunderclash punctuates his word with another kiss, this one needier with neck cables caught between his lips, “It lights up every part of you and makes your optics shine all the more brightly.”

Swerve makes a noise as if he’s about to protest while but whatever he was about to say dies in his intake as Thunderclash begins nipping and sucking on his neck cables. He brings a hand to Thunderclash’s helm who takes that as encouragement and bites down softly and Swerve gasps at the feeling of denta pushing into his neck cables that make him tense with charge crackling down his sensor net. Feeling dizzy and hot, he tries to make sense of what’s happening but his processor only comes back with reports of how good it feels to have Thunderclash play with his seams and kiss his neck. Thunderclash moves away from his neck and backs down his chassis, his optics flicking up to look at Swerve’s face as he licks over a seam while cupping his shoulder with one hand and his hip in the other.

“Such a lovely frame,” Thunderclash whispers, his vents tickling Swerve’s plating, “So thick and wonderful to hold. Perfect.”

Swerve cups Thunderclash’s helm, drawing his full attention to himself while venting heavily.

“Could you…” Swerve gulps to overcome his nerves, “Could you maybe put more attention… put more attention to my panels?”

Thunderclash smiles sweetly at him as though he’d just told him the best thing in the world and wastes no time licking over his panel. Swerve would be mortified with how quickly his panels transform away to reveal his array if it weren’t for how eagerly Thunderclash takes Swerve’s spike in his mouth. He hums, dragging his mouth slowly up its length then kisses the head when it slides free from his mouth. Thunderclash comes back up to prop himself on one hand while he moves his other to Swerve’s valve, rubbing over his node. Swerve grips Thunderclash’s forearms as he’s worked by his thick fingers, his gaze going distant in the haze of pleasure. His hold tightens when Thunderclash begins working a digit inside of him, lighting up nodes and bringing his attention back to the mech above him. Smoldering optics watch him intently and flare at every sound or expression he makes that in turn cause little curls of pleasure to come up in the base of his chest and he’s not sure what to do with so much attention but he doesn’t want it going anywhere anytime soon.

“You’re so soft and warm,” Thunderclash says above him, “I want to feel every part of you, the frame that fits so nicely in my hands. The sounds you’re making now are so soft and lovely, I want to hear you on the very edge. I want to see you come undone under me, breathless and beautiful.”

Swerve moans when Thunderclash adds another finger, surprised by how stretched he’s already becoming but the touch only makes him eager for more. Nodes light up under Thunderclash’s careful touch that creates shocks of pleasure that course up his spinal strut making him push his hips up into the touch.

“Thunderclash,” Swerve cries out in a moan as Thunderclash’s fingers delve deeper into him.

Thunderclash moans above him, falling to rest on his forearm and vents out, “Say my name like that again.”

It’s an easy request when he adds another finger, stretching Swerve even further in wonderful aching pleasure. Thunderclash continues to watch him with his attention never falling from Swerve’s face. Swerve turns his head aside bashfully only to have Thunderclash kiss his cheek affectionately then nuzzle his face as he works those large digits of his in Swerve. When overload comes over Swerve suddenly, Thunderclash captures his cries in a kiss while working him through his overload then drags them out to let Swerve come down somewhat. Still panting hard, Swerve looks down at the sound of panels transforming away and what he sees makes his optic widen. Thunderclash’s spike rests against Swerve’s pelvic plating, dwarfing his own and something about that makes his mouth go wet and he can feel charge building in his valve again just at the sight of it. He reaches over and wraps one hand around it, his hand not fitting around it completely and just that one touch has Thunderclash moaning over him and thrusting lightly into his hand. With a slight adjustment in position, Swerve brings the tip of Thunderclash’s spike to his valve and gasps when he accidentally brushes it over his node and moans at the feeling of the large spike pressing against his folds, wet with lubricant from his overload.

Thunderclash takes ahold of Swerve’s hips and begins pushing in slowly, making Swerve throw his head back with his mouth stretched wide at the feeling of his valve being filled so thoroughly. The process is slow and careful, Thunderclash watching for even the slightest sign of discomfort. If Swerve could become coherent enough to say something he’d tell him he was going too slow, Thunderclash’s thumbs soothing his hips and his large spike sending current after current of charge through him and making him writhe on the spike. Every twitch of his hips makes Thunderclash hiss out a vent or let a low groan but it doesn’t deter his careful movements or make him go any faster. Once he’s finally all the way in, to the hilt, Thunderclash pauses to catch his breath and Swerve trails a hand over his lower chassis, feeling the slight raise in his plating from where the spike is stretching him.

“Look at you,” Thunderclash breaths, “Stuffed full of my spike. You took it so well and you feel so good. I can’t get enough of you. You’re better than I could have ever imagined... than I’ve ever dreamed. You’re gorgeous like this: panting, hot, and fit to burst.”

Swerve moans and reaches out for Thunderclash who obliges and gets pulled into a heated kiss. He jumps a little as Thunderclash lifts him up and off the berth, his spike still deep in Swerve’s valve and begins moving Swerve along his spike, his pace slow and steady. There’s nothing for Swerve to do other than hold on while Thunderclash works him on his spike. As their pace begins to speed up, Thunderclash wraps one arm around Swerve’s back and cups his face in one hand while he continues to push up into Swerve’s valve. Swerve gets pulled into another kiss while the spike in him slams into his ceiling node, making him gasp and moan into Thunderclash’s mouth, the display of sheer strength on the larger mech’s part becoming absolutely intoxicating. He’s never been handled so easily like he weighs nothing at all and that, along with the spike that’s stretching his valve to its limit, only heightens the charge building low within him. With another thrust that lights up Swerve’s array and a harsh bite to his neck, Swerve is overloading over Thunderclash’s spike, dripping lubricant along its length. Thunderclash gasps harshly at the sudden tightness that drags him over the edge as well and spilling hot transfluid into Swerve’s valve that makes the smaller mech feel even fuller.

The air seems still around them as they come down, the sound of their panting being the only thing to break the quiet. Thunderclash rests his helm against Swerve’s, looking at him like he’s found the most beautiful thing in the universe. Swerve sucks in a vent as he feels Thunderclash’s spike slide free, never breaking eye contact and riding the high of being the sole object of Thunderclash’s attention. Swerve sucks in a vent and lets himself fall heavily into Thnderclash’s arms, no longer supporting himself on Thunderclash’s shoulders.

“Stay the night?” Swerve asks tentatively, still worried the larger mech might decide to leave.

Thunderclash smiles and turns his head into the crook of Swerve’s neck, kissing where his helm meets his neck and whispers desperately, “Please.”

[leviosarpg]

Congratulations, LARA! You have been accepted for the role of KASSIUS OLLIVANDER! Lara, I think it’s fair to say that your app left me a little speechless, to say the least. “But his vision of himself is so skewed, so different from what everyone else sees, that silver will always look dull, even in the sunlight.” That, Lara, that was when I knew Kassius was yours. You nailed his entire character in a single, beautiful line. Not to mention, the quality of your writing was absolutely incredible; I found your para sample to be especially stunning! So much about Kassius’s character is tied to legacy, but I have to admit what absolutely enchanted me about your app was the way you conveyed Kassius’s understanding of legacy, as in it’s ability to be weaponized. Lara, I think it’s safe to say your app was was pure magic!

Your faceclaim change to: Matthew Bell has been accepted. Don’t forget to send in your account to the main and complete the items listed on the CHECKLIST!

THE PLAYER

name/age/pronouns/timezone: Lara / 24 / she/her / EST

THE CHARACTER

desired role: Kassius Magnus Ollivander KASSIUS: of Latin origin, meaning “hollow”. A meaning which he defies, but one he cannot admit to himself that he feels. MAGNUS: of Latin origin, meaning “the greatest”. A meaning which he strives to feel, but that he cannot admit is perilously beyond reach. OLLIVANDER: of Mediterranean origin; the near mythic name of a long line of wand makers, the likes of which have never been matched in the field. A reverent name, and one that has been situated amongst the Sacred 28 families since the group’s inception – though they are notably one of the few open-minded lineages amongst them.

CHARACTER DISCUSSION – AKA, I WAS DRUNK WRITING THIS AND GOT EXCITED

Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once. Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, It seems to me most strange that men should fear; Seeing that death, a necessary end, Will come when it will come.

I was surprised at my attraction to Kassius at first, until it made perfect sense. I am most often drawn to the ambitious, the volatile, the dangerous; my tastes fall with the tortured ‘bad boy’ who cannot be tamed. My usual type is the villain – not the tortured intellectual. But the more I write, and the more I think on him, the more I realize that Kassius is entirely within the realm of my ‘type’, though he is entirely more complicated than just a mere archetype, as is he more good than any base tortured soul that I might call a muse. I will explain this in an examination of his personality – which will surely devolve into a stream of consciousness rambling about my love for this character, as it is far and wide. I would talk about my attraction to the character as a whole, but I would be better served analyzing him, for I was drawn to the sheer complexity of his character above all else. And GOD all he wants is to make the legacy proud; he doesn’t want to live up to the Ollivander name for fame and glory, but because inadequacy will eat him alive. He is more silver than gold, and he cannot quite come to terms with the fact that it is just as valuable, just as lustrous and coveted as gold is. He should have been a golden boy; his parents certainly thought him to be, all wild imagination and intelligence to match, all charm and ambition to command every room – but his vision of himself is so skewed, so different from what everyone else sees, that silver will always look dull, even in the sunlight. Inadequacy is a demon, a shadow that lurks in places that should shine – and the illusion of it (for he is not inadequate, though he might think he is) will eat him alive. The part in his bio that really stuck with me, and really serves as the axis of this analysis – and of his character in general, is as follows: “Kindness has become your last sanctuary, for you have become the eternal flame that demands more and more, that seeks to outlast time itself. Contentment is a virtue you will never know, for your self-inflicted agonies are rich with flowers and demons who ensure your thorns remain sharp.” He can be kind to others, to the world, to those who cannot find it in the world to be kind to themselves, and yet he, Kassius, is never kind to himself. He strives to be a beacon of kindness, of hope, of a legacy that has long-upheld the wizarding community in its stalwart truth – but he cannot be kind to himself. The disquietude he feels for his own self, while revering what he could be, what he should be, all while expending all vestiges of kindness and hard work upon the thankless world – this is what makes him so fascinating.

PERSONALITY TRAITS: + SCHOLARLY: You have to wonder how he managed to choose to shirk his parents and go straight for the jugular that is his family history, his family legacy. And it is just that – there is no stoic past for him to study, but a living, breathing body of life-history which still runs like an archaic myth, and an undeniable truth, through the veins of the wizarding world. There is no Hogwarts without Ollivander; and so it is his duty to learn everything, to know everything, to learn the histories of his contemporaries back and forth for it is the Ollivander legacy not to be a number amidst the masses, but to be almost godlike in how utterly untouchable the name is. He buries himself in books, spell tomes, historical records, preserved letters; the legacy sits heavy upon his shoulders like weights on a scale, and it is all he can do to keep them from tipping in one direction or another. + HOPEFUL: If there is one thing that can be said for hope, in the hands of Kassius Ollivander, it is that hope is kind. Hope, longing, and dreams walk hand-in-hand, and Kassius allows the line to blur even in the most crucial of moments when, perhaps, logic should prevail. He is a highly logical man, and yet the nebulous wonder of hope can muddle his logic and turn it to color in but a moment. Hope is dangerous, but wonderful; call it forgiveness with teeth and a firm bite. Hope is a demon; he bestows it upon the world while it eats away at his soul to the tune of malcontent. Don’t be fooled; Kassius is not hopeful for himself, but for what he might push himself to do for the world. Might. He hopes. +/- AMBITIOUS: This is a perilous line to walk upon. His ambition would make him fit well in the Slytherin crowd, but his ambition is not at the expense of others, but of himself. He is too hard on himself, ever reaching too high, stretching too thin. But he can do more, he insists; he can do better. He believes that he is nothing if he is not striving for something, that he is useless, a meaningless thorn in a bramble bush if he does not run himself dry in pursuit of the family legacy that he is saddled with. The problem with wanting is that it makes us weak – or it makes us hard. He is becoming more thorn than petal, though he tries so very hard to do all things with kindness, to help and protect those who cannot do so themselves, with his legacy as a weapon. - PERFECTIONISTIC: Perfection or nothing at all. This will be his fatal flaw, because he will work himself into the ground and still believe that the hole he’s dug isn’t deep enough. He does his best not to impose this impossible standard on anyone else, instead taking the brunt of his own miserable self-displeasure. It consumes him, this endless reach for perfectionism, and it takes an enormous toll upon his personal relationships. There are very few people, few things, few causes that can pull him from within himself and into the world around him. The aching for his legacy, to step into the shoes of Ollivanders past, started as just that – an ache. A wish. To be creative, to be something more than himself, something a part of something bigger. But the ache has grown, and it sits as a heavy weight between his shoulders, bending arched back downward so that he may never stop working. - ISOLATING: Reaching for meaning, for purpose, for validation, rather than reaching for connection; there is something so icy and lonely about Kassius’s struggle, and he often allows himself to become consumed by it, which often leads to him setting himself away from those who might be close to him. No matter how much he craves camaraderie, companionship, warmth, the self-imposed competition he has with himself makes it hard, most often, to emerge from the impossible chrysalis of his own creation. It’s a vicious and complicated cycle: he finds connection and community,  and is validated by those he connects with; inevitably he is reminded of what he has failed to do, to become, and he retreats in on himself to work; he sees others living freely and happily, either without the chains of expectation or within, and hates that he cannot be this free; he remembers, then, that he cannot be happy until he is right, until he reaches the level of legacy that befits him. Not enough. He isolates and works, always long-suffering and self-martyring, when he falls into the deep hole of inadequacy. He does his very best to connect, and there are few things that keep him engaged, and enthusiastic, and warm in his efforts and ambitions, but when he isolates, turning inward on himself, he can be cold.

It is also worth discussing his MOTIVATIONS, as they are as varied and changeable as anything. Though his intentions are largely good, there is no doubt in my mind that he could easily be swayed by the selfish nature of his ambition. Now, this selfishness may not always be malicious – motivations spurred on by ambition need not always be at the expense of others, but they most often are at the expense of the self. He wants the best for his friends, for The Liberation, for all those they seek to protect – but how can he be of any use to them, of any good to anyone, if he’s not enough for his own legacy? For himself?

Extracurriculars: Ravenclaw Quidditch, The Liberation, Astronomy Club, Charms Club, Dueling Club, The Slug Club. – Ever the overachiever, he has bitten off more than he can reasonably chew. But Kassius is never the sort of person to admit that he has taken on too much, because he - an Ollivander - is not meant to be capable of burning out, or of being squashed beneath the weight of too much work. Not to mention he genuinely enjoys everything that he’s involved in, and is honestly passionate about everything on this list that he has set his mind to. It also helps that Freya is around in some of these places – that always helps.

PARA SAMPLE:

The hollows beneath his eyes are cavernous, and yet he finds himself here, keen, bright, standing stalwart amongst those he called his allies, and those he called his friends. There is truly nothing more important than this; it is in moments of clarity like this one that he realizes it, time and time again, that his own obsessions fall like scales from his eyes to reveal the truth – legacy is meaningless, when those without die for the sake of it.

Legacy is why they are here; some use it as weapons, where his is a thorn in his own side. Weaponized legacy, a name sharpened into a knifepoint, is a bastardization of everything a legacy is meant to stand for, but this is not why he is here. He sets his own name aside and becomes one of the masses, a wall separating the innocent from the malicious. Here, amidst the Liberation, he is not Kassius Ollivander. He is just Kassius. And for once, that is more than enough.

In fact, it is more than enough, for as he stands at the head of the near-empty classroom, wand aloft, mirroring those who have snuck from their beds to meet tonight, Kassius finds all ghosts, whispering diatribes of inadequacy and doubt in his ear, to be absent. As they all stand in a line, wands pointed at hovering targets above their heads, he – for once – thinks not of the name Ollivander, but of the name Justice. Those around him care little what his name is; nor do the men, women, and children who the Liberation seek to defend against those who put more stock in blood than in mettle. For once, he is stronger in simply being Kassius, for the youngest of them all look to him as if he is not as tired as he truly feels. And so he holds his head higher; they are all that matters.

He thinks, for a moment, of Riddle’s gospel; his family had been expected to bow, for they sat amongst the Sacred 28. Perhaps this, this defiance, this decision to stand against tyranny and injustice, to protect those who cannot protect themselves – this is legacy. His gaze breaks for a moment from the target overhead, mind leaving the spell upon his lips and finding those who stood about the room with him, those brave souls barricaded in a classroom in which they could be discovered at any moment. He finds them, and all at once the ache in his spine from arching over paper, the tremble in his fingers from holding a quill far too long, the throb of tired eyes awake at work too long – all quiet, covered with the warm rain of camaraderie.

Yes, he thinks, turning his gaze upward once more, This is what legacy is for.

“Are you ready?” he calls, wand humming in his grip. He hears a murmur of agreement at all sides of him, and his lips twitch upward.

At your ready, Kassius! Someone calls out, and the assent rises. He turns his head to meet Perseus’s gaze, his dearest ally in this trying time; there is trust between them that allows both fear and exhilaration to exist in this space in equal measure. This moment is his masterwork, what he has spent so long belaboring in isolation. This mighty something born of his legacy’s proclivity for wandwork; this is a revolution. Somewhere in the distance, he imagines Tom Riddlesquirming. An Ollivander, someone pure, finding their own weapon in their name. Just Kassius – legacy abounds. They all cast at once, and the room is alight with blue, with spark, with light that blinds. At the boom it creates, he finds himself laughing, turning his gaze once more from the flying target, which now spins and bounces from the wall, to the room. The laughter echoes along the walls, moving through all of them like a wave, as he finds Perseus, Freya, the others, all family in arms.

He feels it swell within his chest before it breaks out across his face in a wide smile, lighting up the hollow corners of his tired face, warming the tense knot that seems to always occupy the pit of his stomach. Light and bits of dust still float down from the ceiling, from the charmed targets, which dart and spin across the ceiling at the behest of their sheer combined power.

Perseus offers him a nod; perhaps it is obvious that, as is so rare, Kassius has emerged from his withering disquietude, and has bloomed before their eyes, as is the power of their combined resistance and camaraderie. “This –” he gestures upward with perpetually ink-stained finger, lips pulled wide in a near-manic grin, an utterly giddy expression that is mirrored around the room, “is what we are capable of when we are together. Strength! Live together – die alone.” He offers Freya a glowing glance, and his stomach flips. “This is our legacy.”

OTHERS & EXTRA (OPTIONAL)

Could I possibly change his FC to Matthew Bell? Thank you!! :)

ALSO! I will link an inspo blog HERE that will be full of inspo, creations, headcanons, and the like :) thank you for reading this application!

[razieltwelve]

Negotiation: Part 2 (Final Rose)

Power.

Overwhelming power.

That was the image the Empire wanted to convey. Jane Shepard had absolutely no doubt about that. The little tour they’d been taken on had very obviously been designed to impress upon them how bad of an idea it would be to take the Empire lightly.

Their first stop had been the hangar where they’d gotten the opportunity to see more than a hundred smaller craft. She’d asked if the Fury was a carrier. Claire, the Fleet Admiral, had simply given her a faint smile and explained that all dreadnoughts carried their own complement of smaller craft. A real carrier, like the one she’d met, would have thousands upon thousands of craft at its disposal.

And then they’d gone to one of the observation decks. The view had been magnificent, allowing Jane and the others to see large portions of the Fury’s exterior. Her attention had immediately been drawn to how much weaponry the dreadnought had. There were what appeared to be laser batteries, plasma cannons, missile silos, mass accelerators, and a host of other weapons that she wasn’t sure she could identify.

There had also been a weapon that appeared to fire from the front of the ship. On a normal ship, she would have been certain that it was a spinal mounted mass accelerator. She was willing to bet that the Fury had something a great deal more destructive than that.

So she’d decided to ask.

“It looks like you have a weapon that fires from the front of the ship. On one of our vessels that would be a mass accelerator. What is it?”

Claire had shaken her head. “Some would say that it’s the most powerful weapon the Fury has. Of course, that’s a matter of debate. The Fury has many powerful weapons.” Her lips curled. “I don’t think there’s any harm in telling you since knowing what it is won’t give you any idea of how to build it. We call it the Nova Cannon. It is essentially a weapon that can create a focused blast with power exceeding that of a supernova.”

Jane had been hard-pressed not to ask for more. That sounded completely insane. A weapon with the power of a supernova? What possible need could there be for something like that. Then again… perhaps there were things out there worse than the Reapers. There must be because the firepower the Empire had was wildly in excess of what was necessary to engage Reapers.

After that, they’d made a few more stops, all of them designed to impress upon her and the others the sheer power the Fury alone possessed, to say nothing of the other vessels nearby. 

Finally, they made their way toward the conference room. The doors opened to reveal a large chamber. There were already some other people there, including someone who had what appeared to be cat ears on top of her head. That person and the others alongside her were all wearing different uniforms from Claire and her people. At the centre of the chamber was a large table with a data projector that showed an intricately detailed star map of the galaxy.

“Commander,” Claire said. “I would like to introduce Supreme Admiral Blake Belladonna-Xiao-Long-Schnee of the Schnee Mercantile Alliance, as well as her associates.”

Shepard nodded. “It is an honour to meet you Fleet Admiral.” She paused. “Is the Alliance part of the Empire?”

The woman with cat ears shook her head. Her eyes, a piercing amber, sparkled with amusement as she gave Claire what appeared to be a look of fond exasperation. “No. The Schnee Mercantile Alliance is a separate but closely allied faction to the Empire. We are their partners on this little expedition. So far, the Empire has roughly one hundred ships in this galaxy. I am in command of fifty.”

Jihm, who had spent most of his time speaking to Miranda and Liara about galactic politics, decided to speak up. “The Alliance and the Empire are the two most powerful factions from our galaxy. Between us, we control roughly 65% of our galaxy.”

“65% of a galaxy?” Mordin asked. “How many worlds?”

Claire gestured for them to take seats around the large table that dominated the chamber. “The Empire controls more than a million worlds. The Alliance, while having fewer worlds, still controls more than a million of its own.” “A million worlds?” Liara breathed. “How do you manage the distances involved? Do you have Relays?”

“We have something better,” Helios said. The Dia-Farron had been speaking mostly to Mordin, and Jane could tell how excited the salarian was to be speaking to a scientist from such an advanced species. “I won’t go into the specifics, but you can cross the entire galaxy in a little over an hour.”

“An hour?” Garrus was taken aback. “Incredible. What about your ships? You clearly have faster-than-light travel since you’ve been engaging the Reapers around worlds that are not near Relays.”

“Our galaxy is roughly 150,000 light years across in comparison to the roughly 100,000 lights years across that yours is. We can cross our galaxy in roughly five days using our standard hyperdrives. Using other methods, it’s possible to go even faster although not all of those are safe.” Helios chuckled. “There’s actually this thing we’re working on… I mean… wormhole jumps have this tendency to drive people insane if they’re too large, but…”

“We can speak about it later,” Jihm said. “Now, how about we all have a seat. We have a lot to discuss.”

Jane sat and looked at the others, who’d taken seats beside her. This was getting crazier by the second. It was probably safe to say that military ships like the one she was on were faster than civilian ships. That would make sense. Even so, to be able to cross a galaxy in five days was insane. Still, this boded well. If they could just get them on their side against the Reapers…

“I’ll begin by stating the obvious,” Jihm said, rising to his feet and gesturing at the star map of the galaxy. “You have a very big Reaper-shaped problem. Our scientists have already determined that their goal is to harvest you and turn you into more Reapers. I won’t go into the gory details, but I will let Helios here make a presentation. Helios.”

The professor stood up and gestured. The star map was suddenly awash with additional details. “This is your galaxy. The red dots indicate the Reapers. The green dots indicate your forces, as far as we know, and the blue dots, well, that’s where our forces are currently deployed against the Reapers. As you can see there are a lot of Reapers.”

Jane nodded slowly. There were millions of Reapers, most of which were still in dark space beyond the galaxy although many of them appeared to be moving. “How did you recover this information?”

“We interrogated a Reaper,” Helios said simply. “By which I mean we disabled its systems, hacked its mind, and decided to go through a merry jaunt through its memories and communications systems. We now know that they’ve been doing this for a long time, more to the point, what you refer to as the Citadel actually houses something called the Catalyst, which serves as the guiding Intelligence for the Reapers.”

Jane shivered. She’d already learned some of this, but to have it stated so plainly was confronting, and these people hadn’t even been here a week. 

“Based on some probing that our forces have done of the Catalyst, we believe that it intends to offer you four choices, and that’s assuming you can build the Crucible which you’ve been trying to assemble. You can either do nothing, you can become techno-organics, you can control the Reapers, or you can destroy the Reapers but also the Relays. As you can imagine…”

“Those options are all terrible,” Jane growled.

“Precisely. It’s almost like they were designed to make people mad,” Helios said, chuckling. “Thankfully, there is a fifth option. We go out and kill them all. Problem solved.” He gestured at the image again. “The Reapers are heavily reliant on the Relays to launch their attacks. We can use that to our advantage. If we take over or shut down/control Relays at these locations, then we can cut them off from each other, allowing us to contain their spread and wipe them out piecemeal.”

Jane studied the image. It was a good plan. It wouldn’t work with the ships she had access to, but with their ships, it just might. Even so… “You have around a hundred and fifty ships in your fleet. Will that be enough?”

Claire replied, “This isn’t a fleet, commander. This is a little exploration force. A full fleet numbers at least ten thousand ships at full strength. Should negotiations go smoothly, I will be receiving command of a fleet.”

Blake snickered. “Only one fleet? What, they couldn’t spare you a couple more?”

“One should be enough. Efficiency is important.”

“Well, I shouldn’t laugh. I’m in the same boat.” Blake shrugged. “Although I might be able to wheedle Weiss into sending two.” She smirked. “If I can convince Anna to come along, I’ll probably get ten.”

Claire shuddered. “Please, don’t. If Anna comes, I’ll find myself in command of half the navy.”

“Anna?” Miranda asked.

Jihm smiled. “The Empress’s sister is married to the President of the Alliance. both the Empress and the President are very fond of her. Her arrival would necessitate an… increase in our forces, which is why I don’t think she’ll be coming.”

“Spoilsport,” Blake said.

“In any case,” Jihm said. “As you can see, we are more than adequately prepared for what we want to do. The question is… are you?”

Jane took a deep breath and then stood. “I understand very well the position that I find myself and the rest of the galaxy in. You’ve already demonstrated your superior technology and firepower. We haven’t had much success at all against the Reapers, but you’ve annihilated them with fairly little effort. We need your help. I am… I am a practical person, and I’ve made my mark coming up with practical solutions.” Her crew members chuckled. “So, I’m going to be blunt, and I hope you don’t mind.”

“By all means,” Jihm said. “We would prefer to to do this in a straightforward manner.”

“All right.” Jane nodded firmly. “What do you want?”

Jihm folded his hands together. “As you might have guessed, commander, this was an exploration mission. Ideally, we would have found an unoccupied galaxy, just waiting to be settled. Of course, it’s not unoccupied. You wonderful people happen to live here, and we’re not in the business of committing genocide or simply conquering people because we can. However, the fact is that we do need to get something for helping you.” He gestured at the star map and several regions were highlighted. “These areas are currently all but useless to your various groups. They lack Relays, and they are too far for your propulsion systems to reach in a timely manner. We want them.”

Jane’s mind spun into gear, processing all of the possibilities with characteristic speed and efficiency. On the outside, it seemed like an easy deal to make. He was right. They couldn’t make good use of those systems. But in the future, what would happen? Those systems, and there were a lot of them, many of them bordered Council space or Systems Alliance Space. In the future, they would find their expansion hindered.

But if they didn’t agree, would they even have a future?

Someone else began to speak. She was sitting next to Blake. She had pale skin, blue eyes, and white hair. It was hard not to stare. She had a sort of ethereal beauty. “I would like to add to that. I am Selene Belladonna-Xiao-Long-Schnee. Like Jihm, I am diplomat of sorts. That territory would be split between the Empire and Alliance. However, we would also like guarantees with regards to diplomatic status, market access, and trading routes. As my faction’s name suggests, we like to trade, and we’ve just happened upon a whole galaxy of potential customers.”

Jane considered that as well. If their claims about controlling more than a million worlds were true then that combined with their advanced technology would give them an overwhelming commercial and industrial advantage. They might not be here to conquer the galaxy, or so they said, but would they have to if they could simply buy it all?

“There are other demands of course,” Jihm said smoothly. “But those are the major ones. We’ve prepared a fuller explanation for you to read later.”

“If we agreed,” Jane murmured. “What would you do in return.”

Claire's reply was simply, “We would deal with the Reapers.”

Blake rolled her eyes. “What she means is that we would wipe out the Reapers. I’m talking about full-scale obliteration with the only survivors being specimens that are taken in for study and research. Their technology isn’t very advanced compared to ours, but you never know…”

“And the results of that research?” Jane asked. “We’d like to have access to that.”

“That is acceptable,” Selene said after sharing a quick glance with Jihm. “Of course, we won’t be sharing out technology, but we will share our understanding of what the Reapers have developed.”

Jane was happy about that. The Reapers might not be as advanced as these people, but they were more advanced than the Council races.

“We’d also need a timeframe.”

“Two weeks or less,” Claire replied. “Once approval has been granted, our additional fleets will transit here. Our plan will first cut off the major Reaper forces from each other before herding them toward several locations where we can engage them en masse. At the same time, strike groups will meet the Reapers in dark space and annihilate them before they can reach the galaxy.”

Two weeks? Jane pursed her lips. A week ago, she’d have given anything for a guarantee like that. But now… people were being slaughtered and harvested.

“Can you shift your plan to accommodate the most populated worlds?” Jane asked. “It may not be the most tactically sound decision, but we need to save our people, many of which are not in ideal locations.”

“We could work with that,” Blake said. “It might increase the time frame, but it’s doable. My main concern is your Council. Not all of them will believe the footage they’ve seen, and our mining of your extranet suggests a certain level of…”

“Idiocy?” Jane offered. Garrus and the others laughed.

“I think they might be more willing to work with us once we give them a demonstration.” Jihm smiled. It was a charmingly urbane smile, but Jane couldn’t help but shiver. This was a man used to pulling strings. “Your home world is Earth, is it not, commander?”

Jane nodded. “It’s already fallen to the Reapers. I…” Her voice trembled ever so slightly. “I promised everyone, I’d get it back.”

“And you will.” Jihm looked at Claire. She nodded. “As a gesture of our goodwill and a demonstration that we’re not simply all talk, we’re going to take Earth and its system back for you. I think that should convince your Council that we’re serious.”

“Wait!” Garrus shot to his feet. He looked around the table. “What about my home world? Can you take it back?”

“My understanding is that Commander Shepard is authorised to negotiate for the Systems Alliance whereas none of you are currently authorised to negotiate for the Council.” Jihm shrugged. “I would hate to cause a diplomatic incident.”

Garrus threw a pleading look at Jane, as did Liara and even Mordin.

“While I cannot speak for the Council,” Jane said at last. “I am sure that securing their home worlds would ensure their agreement to any demands you had.”

Selene smiled warmly. “Well said, commander. A gesture of goodwill given to only one in a group can easily turn sour. What do you think, Supreme Admiral, can we manage it?”

Blake shrugged. “It’s fine. It’s not the ideal way of doing things, but we can handle it. I guess we’ll just have to kill more of those Reapers than we’d planned to at the start.” She bared her teeth. Her canines, Jane noted, were longer than expected. “And maybe I’ll see some action. This campaign has been less than exciting so far.”

Jane almost sagged in relief. The amused smile on Jihm’s face worried her. She realised then that they’d been played and played badly. She’d all but given them permission to station their fleets around the home worlds of the three most powerful groups in the galaxy. Sure, they would save those worlds from the Reapers, but their presence - and the firepower they would reveal - would be like a dagger held to the throat of the Council. They could agree to the demands, or they could find out for themselves what the Reapers had learned at great cost. She grimaced. It wasn’t like she had a choice. Losing the home worlds of the Turians, Asari, and Salarians would be disastrous. Culturally, the Asari might never recover, to say nothing of the tremendous psychological damage the Turians and Salarian would suffer if they weren’t able to recover their home worlds.

And even if it put them in a bad position… how many lives would they save?

“In that case,” Jihm said. “We can dispatch ships to those worlds as well. Now, commander, if you would like to review the details of our demands more closely, I’ve prepared a copy of the relevant documents. Once you give your approval, we can begin operations.”

[cstesttaken]

Control, Alt-Right, Retweet: How social media paved the way for President Trump

10 November 2016

How and why social media giants helped Donald Trump on his way to victory.

Russell Steinberg has since deleted the tweet that arguably started it all. “I was tired of being called bad words,” he wrote on the social networking site early this morning, explaining his decision to finally remove the 72-character message – dated 7 February 2013 – from his profile.

“If you hate America so much, you should run for President and fix things,” read the tweet that Steinberg – a low-profile New York sports writer – sent to @realDonaldTrump three years ago. The then-property-mogul, now-president-elect wasted no time hitting “reply”. “Be careful!” he wrote back.

To any rational person, it is clear that Steinberg is not responsible for President Trump. Yet this hasn’t stopped hundreds of people “blowing up” his account by tweeting him – some jokingly, some seriously – about their annoyance. But although Steinberg is in no way culpable, his message – and the subsequent reaction to it – is emblematic of how social media paved Donald Trump’s way to the White House. Steinberg was just one of millions of people who had instant access to the billionaire, and who the billionaire had instant access to in return, via his social media account.

We are now so used to social media that we might underestimate the importance of this. But whereas previously, presidential candidates needed television cameras and industrial printers to spread their message, now they can do so for free, in just a few seconds. Moreover, rather than relying on rallies to gauge the opinion of their supporters, candidates can now see public sentiment – and alter their own platform to fit with it – in real time. Their supporters can attack each other in unprecedented ways, but can also literally block out the people they disagree with at the press of a button. By giving us unparalleled access to hundreds of millions of viewpoints, but then trapping us in echo chambers of people we agree with, social media at once opens the door of democracy and then slams it shut again.

Nowhere is this more apparent than on Facebook. Thousands of people have been “deleting” friends who disagree with their own politics, but it’s not the users who are at fault for the impact the social network has had on the election. This August, Facebook fired its “Trending” news team – the people who decided which news stories show up in a sidebar on each of its 1.79 billion monthly users’ profiles – after criticism that the team didn’t promote enough conservative news. As a result, the replacement algorithm Facebook put into place began surfacing fake news stories to millions of people.

Facebook – which is now the biggest source of traffic to news websites, ahead of Google – failed to tackle this problem. Days after the trending team was sacked, the site’s founder and CEO Mark Zuckerberg announced that his business was “a tech company, not a media company”. Because of Facebook’s failure to acknowledge its culpability, the problem reached the point where teenagers created fake pro-Trump news websites and promoted them on Facebook in order to earn “easy money” via advertising revenue. They weren’t alone in profiting. The social network’s own income is directly tied to how engaged its users are, so it’s not in its best interests to remove news stories that resonate with their readers – even if they are untrue.

In this environment, lies thrived. It is easy to dismiss this is as similar to the methods tabloid newspapers have used for centuries – printing false stories and then sneaking in a tiny retraction days later – but this ignores the sheer magnitude of the problem. Social media gives people the illusion of being more informed in a way that a cursory glance at headlines never could. A recent study found that the more inaccurate a news story, the more likely it was to go viral on Facebook, while comprehensive BuzzFeed research revealed that 38 per cent of the stories on right-wing Facebook pages were untrue. Unlike the traditional media, which is subject to regulatory bodies and cynical scrutiny from the public, there is absolutely no one stopping the spread of such lies.

On Twitter, things are much the same. Last week, Donald Trump Jr and Trump’s social media aide Dan Scavino both retweeted unsubstantiated claims that Trump survived an “assassination attempt” in Reno. Trump Jr refused to un-retweet the message (though the immediate power of such a statement cannot be undone by the delete button) and the confusion surrounding breaking news ensures tweets are often given undue weight. As of October, Google is now highlighting unreliable sources in its search results, and there is nothing to stop social media following suit. The problem – or perhaps, for Trump, the beauty – of the entire scenario is that no one wants to admit that they’ve been fooled. Like the Brexit voters lied to by a bus, it is much easier for Americans to carry on believing lies than be exposed as fools.

To date, these lies have paved the way of the radicalisation of masses of people. When we speak of social media radicalisation, it is often limited to the work of IS, but in reality millions of white Americans have spent the last year learning to hate online. The alt-right – a new political movement of individuals with racist and misogynist viewpoints, who exist primarily on the internet – have thrived under Trump’s candidacy, and remained mostly unchecked by social media giants.

This isn’t to say, of course, that social networks should arbitrarily use their powers to block and censor those who we disagree with. Most must, however, improve the way they deal with trolls, vitriol, and death threats on their sites. Twitter – the social network where 88 per cent of abusive messages happen – allegedly failed to find a buyer in Disney because of its repeated failure to tackle harassment in a meaningful way.

But what do you do when the person hurling out abuse is the presidential candidate themselves? Some suggest Twitter should have banned Trump outright, like they did with famously contrarian alt-right spokesman Milo Yiannopoulos, but in the end, Trump’s own people silenced him for us. In the final days of the Trump campaign, his aides took over his social media account.

But what if they hadn’t? Might Trump have tweeted something so offensive or comical that he lost the election? It’s unlikely. Though Clinton and Obama both mocked the idea of a man who gets enraged on Twitter getting his hands on nuclear weapons, little that Trump has said seems to have deterred his supporters. In fact, when people mocked Trump by retweeting and sharing his absurd messages, they only gave him greater visibility. People love Donald Trump because he “speaks his mind”; they love him even more because he tweets it.

It all ended how it always ends: with a Snapchat filter. On 8 November, Trump’s team paid somewhere between $450,000 and $700,000 for a sponsored geofilter on the app, which overlaid a little cartoon Trump on the bottom of users’ pictures. Many millenials took to social media to mock the filter – parodying it with an orange – and it is unlikely the app affected the election's outcome in any way. Nonetheless, the decision was the icing on the cake of a campaign fought and won on social media.

Amelia Tait is a technology and digital culture writer at the New Statesman.

Getty

11 November 2016

Small media, red hats, and capitalism with a small “C”: how the president-elect’s folksy rhetoric could become reality.

America has taken a turn to the right. The White House, the Congress, the Senate and the majority of the Governorships are all Republican now. The last time this happened was under Ronald Reagan, but this is different.

The old version of capitalism, whether under the Republicans or Democrats, is out. There is no more appetite for the Capitalism with a capital “C” – the corporatist, cronyist approach that begat big money, big names and big firms. Trump’s mandate is the capitalism that gives everyone and every small business a shot.

Capitalism with a small “c” means smaller government, fewer rules and less red tape. It supports small business rather than big business, which helps explain why even some black and Hispanic people, and white women, supported Trump. They know the government won’t be able to look after them, given the huge debt problem. They want the freedom to build their own future. That means moving big government out of the way. Trump is the bulldozer that promises to clear onerous rules, ossified policy and the orthodoxy.

Why did they reject the Democrats? They saw incremental change was not working and that the old parties were incapable of delivering. In Trump, they get a loudmouth who speaks blue collar better than any politician in Washington. They see him as a friend to them because he attacks the Republican and Democratic establishment alike.

They see it working. He’s already profoundly disrupted the traditional business model in politics, proving that things can change. He spent nearly nothing on pollsters, which was wise because they were worse than useless, as Hillary Clinton discovered to her cost.

Instead, he spent money on cheap red hats. He understands that brands convey meaning and hope. Trump’s votes did not require big money. His votes cost less than $5 each. As a result, he suggested that American politicians no longer need to sell their soul to raise money. Trump is a dangerous man because the lobbyists and big money know that he succeeded without them. Inside the Beltway, they’re sweating about their future.

The big mainstream media business model has been blown apart as well. This election proves that the future of politics is no longer mainstream. It’s digital. It’s local. It’s driven by single private organisations like Twitter and Wikileaks.

The New York Times and the Washington Post can declare a candidate unfit for office but the public doesn’t care. Or, worse, such declarations against a candidate merely enhance their anti-establishment credentials. Mainstream media missed the shift. They backed the wrong team and then they wept about it and in so doing, revealed their bias.

Voters trusted Twitter more than the Post and Wikileaks more than the New York Times. Big media was thrown out of power along with the rest of the establishment. Small media is here to stay.

What about healing the divided nation? Well, the Republicans are not Trump. He will attack them as hard as he attacks the Democrats and the rest of the establishment. Trump will almost certainly go after the Clintons. That may look like vengeance. But it also may force the Democrats to remove the stain of corruption allegations and turn toward capitalism with a small “c” too.

The public voted for this President to have fairly unrestrained power, whether wittingly or not. His intention is to use it. Trump intends to downsize the establishment and attack its corruption until capitalism with a small “c” has enough oxygen and sunlight to thrive again. The country demanded a complete change of direction and that’s what they expect to get – a turn to the right and a “C” change the like of which is long overdue.

Pippa Malmgren is an American policy analyst and former presidential adviser.

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