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venus-haze · 2 years ago

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Baby Let's Play House (Homelander x Reader)

Summary: After noticing your exhaustion in trying to balance managing Homelander’s day-to-day and your relationship with him, he decides that you’d be happier behind a white picket fence than an office desk. You initially agree, but the housewarming party you throw reveals how differently the two of you view your relationship.

Note: This can be read as being related to My Destruction Is an Hour Late, but you don’t need to read that to understand what’s happening in this. Reader is a cis woman, but no other descriptors are used. First time incorporating Homelander’s perspective into a fic, also I took some creative liberties on how his costume works. Do not interact if you’re under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 4.7k

Warnings: Homelander is his own warning (I never tag his stuff as yandere because that’s just how he is), but toxic relationship that includes possessive tendencies, gaslighting, guilting. Mirrorlander makes an awful, misogynistic appearance. Sexually explicit content which involves coercion/dubcon, oral (m. receiving), brief orgasm denial and choking. Do not interact if you’re under 18.

Dating your direct superior was undoubtedly an ethics violation, but the trembling HR manager who signed off on Vought’s workplace relationship disclosure form couldn’t conjure up any protests when Homelander and you showed up at her office to make your relationship “HR official.” When you’d expressed concern about how dating him would affect your career, he scoffed, ‘What are you talking about? Babe, I am your career.’ You faltered under the weight of his gaze, knowing full well he could hear your heart skipping frantically along as you thanked him for his reassurance.

He’d resisted the idea at first, one you brought up almost immediately after you’d become his girlfriend and he gave you a promotion. He was The Homelander. He didn’t need Vought’s permission to date you. It wasn’t until you reframed it as a declaration rather than permission that he was on board. Stan Edgar could read the damn form and weep. No more publicity relationships, not when he had you. It didn’t take long for things to spiral out of control from there.

Your coworkers treated you differently, with a nervous politeness that was unsettling and isolating. Loneliness settled in soon after, almost as if by design. Suddenly, Homelander was the only one you could turn to, and by the nature of your job, he was almost always there, ready to fill whatever emotional void you needed filled, from co-worker to lover. He thrived off of your dependence, each display of it a hit that coursed through his veins. An addict in thought, he couldn’t get enough of you.

When he brought up this idea to you, not long after his grandiose proposal, you welcomed it. A cozy house in the suburbs didn’t sound so bad compared to the whirlwind of your responsibilities at Vought managing Homelander’s day to day on top of your relationship with him.

Now, as you walked up the pathway to the front door with the last of the groceries you’d needed before the housewarming party you were hosting the following night, the white posts of the picket fence that surrounded the house looked more like teeth rising out of the ground to devour you, red roses planted along the perimeter painted droplets of blood on the unhinged jaw. You knew it was never your choice.

Most of the time, things were good, and you and Homelander fell into a comfortable, domestic rhythm. When things were bad, however, there was nothing you could do but sit back and wait for it to end. That hadn’t happened in a while, and despite your excitement for the party, you could tell he wasn’t nearly as enthused. You foolishly hoped that the night you’d been planning for weeks wouldn’t end in disaster.

Almost as soon as you finished unpacking the groceries you’d bought, you considered what to make for dinner. Despite Homelander’s enhanced palette, he wasn’t that picky when it came to your meals. You wished he expressed some preference, though, since your Pinterest board for recipes was out of hand, even with your organizing it as best as you could.

“Hey babe,” Homelander greeted you with a smack on the ass, a domestic yet outdated gesture he favored upon seeing you in the kitchen. “What’s for dinner?”

He never used the services of Vought’s chefs after you and he began “going steady,” even though he did like their food more than yours objectively. Getting food cooked by a chef in an industrial kitchen and then brought up by an intern was too impersonal. You cooked with love, always adding a personal touch that made even the overcooked chicken cacciatore you’d served a few nights before worth eating.

“Do you consider soup a meal?”

“What is this, a Seinfeld episode?” he asked. “I don’t know. I guess it depends on the soup.”

“French onion.”

“That’s basically a deconstructed French dip. Sure, that’s a meal.”

“Perfect, I’ll make that, then.” you said. “I’m so excited for the party tomorrow.”

“Yeah, it’ll be a blast,” he mumbled, leaning against the kitchen counter and folding his arms across his chest.

“C’mon, I get to spend the whole night showing off my amazing fiance and our incredible home,” you smiled, giving him a kiss on his clenched jaw.

His pouty mood cracked just the slightest bit, though he didn’t like how your attention had been all over the place in the week or so leading up to the housewarming party rather than solely on him. It was all you could talk about, and to add insult to injury, you’d started ordering him around far too much for his liking. You’d ask about his day as if it were an obligation to do so, a segue into ‘Pick up these streamers’ and ‘Remember to ask Jason and Patricia about their baby’ and ‘Tell Vought you need to be home by five.’

His biggest reason for even getting you this house and convincing you to quit your job at Vought was so you’d have more time for him. Even though your work schedule had been mostly dictated by him, you found yourself exhausted most nights, passing out in bed almost as soon as dinner was over. That was no fun at all.

Far too soon for his liking the next day, your stupid friends made their way up the street and to the house, bottles of wine and wrapped gifts in tow. He realized that he shouldn’t have left so much of the planning to you. To his displeasure, the guests were evenly co-ed. Though your hugs and greetings to the men who entered your home were polite and platonic, he didn’t like it. Not one damn bit. Who the fuck kissed someone’s cheek as a greeting anymore anyway?

He watched as you played hostess, a tornado of hospitality as you ran yourself in circles around the house to refill drinks and jump in on conversations. You looked like you were having the time of your life, and his gloved hands balled into fists at his side every moment your attention wasn’t squarely on him, especially when you were all dressed up the way you were. None of them deserved to see how perfect you looked.

Finally, he crept up on you while you were speaking with your old college roommates who’d asked you to give the details on how you and Homelander got together. He was more than happy to indulge them, his arm tight around your waist as he took control of the narrative.

The version of the story that left Homelander’s mouth almost made you choke on your own spit. Of course, it started at work, with you harboring a crush on Homelander for far longer than he’d even noticed you. Your persistence was cute, though, and soon enough you’d wormed your way into his routine. Curious about your infatuation, Homelander would make excuses to keep you in the office late, until the projects became canoodling. He’d finally asked you out on a date, and you graciously offered to cook dinner for him.

He’d flipped the whole thing on its head. You had helped him with one project, and in the months spent building up your reliability, he was the one who’d become infatuated with you, until almost your entire life revolved around him. His story was far more palatable, as evidenced by your friends’ expressions of congratulations and how lucky you were.

You supposed you were lucky in a way. Homelander made sure you had nothing to worry about, except for him, of course. His moods were increasingly volatile as he was slowly pushed out of the spotlight of The Seven. The glance he gave you, loving to the untrained eye, was a warning. Despite your hope that the housewarming party would open up Homelander to the idea of you getting a bit more social interaction outside of just him, it was proving to have the opposite effect.

Then again, he never wanted to have a good time at the party, as you dejectedly reminded yourself. It was a shame, your friends all seemed to like him well enough, even if you did catch him being backhandedly rude to some of them a few times that night. He was so good at pretending when it came to the fans he supposedly hated so much. You weren’t sure why he couldn’t put up a front for a few hours for your friends.

By the time everyone left, you were exhausted. Drained physically and mentally from the demands of the party and your fiance, you were glad you’d opted for disposable plates and cups. The little clean up you had to take care of was just manageable enough to take care of before you headed up to bed.

“Glad that’s over,” Homelander said, drying the charcuterie board you’d handed him.

“Why were you so determined not to have fun tonight?” you asked.

“Excuse me if I don’t find entertaining your idiotic friends fun.”

“Then you suck it up and pretend, for me.”

“Don’t—don’t pull that.”

“Pull what?”

“That ‘for me’ thing. Everything I do is for you,” he said, huffing before lowering his voice, his icy glare making your breath catch in your throat. “You don’t need them. You don’t need anybody. Not when you have me.”

“Homelander, codependency isn’t—“

“Don’t pathologize me!” he shouted, slamming his hand on the granite countertop which cracked from the force he used. Upon noticing your terrified expression, he drew back a bit, letting out an unnerving laugh in an attempt to ease the tension he’d created. “You almost made me lose my temper there, missy.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, wide-eyed as you moved to take a tentative step back from him.

He quickly grabbed your arm, keeping you in place. “I know you are, darling, but a love like ours–it can’t be put into clinical terms.”

Fuck. You hit that specific nerve. It took him a while to open up about his childhood, the real one, not the Midwest little leaguer who loved god, mom, and the good ol’ US of A, in that order. That story sold comic books, it was comforting to watch on screen, the warm apple pie with a scoop of melting vanilla ice cream. Not even born in a lab, by his own accounts, but dumped from a test tube and caged like any other animal used for experimentation. Except Homelander had been a boy, scared and alone as white coats filtered in and out of exam rooms and testing labs, poking and prodding. Though, torturing was more like it, pushing him to see the extent of his powers, whether their unbreakable hero was truly unbreakable. Then he was unleashed onto the world, the weight of it on his shoulders.

Something was wrong with him, psychologically at least, and you knew the unhealthy fixation on your relationship as his sole source of emotional fulfillment would have sent you packing if it were anyone else. Every time you considered leaving, as if you even could, you just as quickly thought of how scared and hurt the most powerful man in the world looked when he recounted every painful experiment he endured, the plethora of human rights violations that became so entrenched in his identity. The ensuing tug of empathy and guilt at your heartstrings made you stay.

Still, you had to let him know that you wouldn’t tolerate an outburst like that just because you’d had a lapse in judgment when it came to your phrasing.

“I think you should stay at your old place tonight,” you said.

“Babe, c’mon, the counter can be fixed. I’ll have someone at Vought call a contractor tomorrow and—“

“That’s not what I mean.”

“You still love me right?” he asked, desperately searching your face for an answer. “Right?”

“Of course I do, but we both need space to cool off.”

He huffed, clenching and unclenching his fists. “Fine, have it your fucking way. As always, babe.”

He stormed out before you could get another word in, you mentally sent your apologies into the universe to whoever would end up being at the receiving end of his wrath.

A few cars were lasered to smoldering hunks of metal on his way to Vought Tower. He didn’t care, the company had millions of dollars set aside each year for superhero-related collateral damage. After all, they weren’t even nice cars as far as he could tell. He was doing them a favor that’d go unappreciated, not unlike you.

Homelander’s arrival to his suite was devoid of any fanfare or announcements of his return. He was embarrassed to be back. Standing dejectedly in the dark doorway, he glared at every object in the room with disdain. It’d been a fine place to live before he knew any better, before he’d experienced what a home truly felt like. You’d once described it as like being in a museum, and he couldn’t disagree. At one time he thought it was to his taste. Now, the suite he’d resided for so many years without you felt cold, hollow, and unfamiliar.

He looked out on the city, rage boiling in his veins. Things were fine when it was the two of you against the world. Your shitty friends had to come in and ruin that. No matter how hard he tried, it was like you refused to listen to reason and see that he did everything because he loved you. He loved you so much it hurt.

“Now this is really pathetic.”

“You saw how pissed she was.” Homelander argued weakly against his sneering reflection.

“She’s a woman. That’s their default state when they’re running the show.”

“She’s not running the show.”

“Really? So that’s why you’re banished to the proverbial couch?” his reflection taunted.

Homelander swallowed the lump in his throat. “What do you suppose I do, then? Flowers? A box of chocolates?”

“No. That’s practically admitting you did something wrong. Do you remember how you got her in the first place? You didn’t ask. You took.”

Homelander nodded along as his reflection spoke.

“What you do is remind her who’s in charge. You’re the man of the house. Take the respect, the devotion, you deserve.”

You awoke suddenly in the middle of the night to a figure standing at the end of your bed. At first, you thought it was a dream, until the figure began to move. Turning on the lamp on your nightstand, its soft glow illuminated your side of the bed, casting shadows over your fiance’s face.

“Homelander!” you gasped. “Oh my god, you scared me. What are you doing here?”

“I live here,” he said.

“You know what I mean.”

“You know the old saying, ‘Don’t go to bed angry.’ I already forgive you for tonight, but things need to change.”

“I need you to leave.”

“You don’t call the shots, babe. I’ve been way too lenient with you,” he said, a dangerous grin spreading across his face. “Think you need a reminder of who’s in charge here.”

“Honey, what’s this about? You know I love you.”

“Sure, but you don’t respect me.”

“Of course I respect you—“

“No, you don’t. By the end of the night, you will,” he said, before beckoning you over to him with a curl of his index finger. “C’mere, sweetheart. You haven’t even welcomed me home yet.”

You felt his eyes practically burning a hole through you as you silently complied, pushing back the covers you’d been bundled under and padding your way across the room to where he stood. He somehow loomed over you, stony-faced like a marble statue honoring a god with disdain for humanity. His eyes glistened as he took in your face, though, betraying the whirlpool of emotions that rushed through him whenever he was in your presence.

Dozens of dresses and lingerie sets had been casualties of his lust and strength, the material torn from your body like gift wrap and promptly replaced within a few days. This night was no exception, as with a flick of his wrist, your satin nightgown was a pathetic pile on the floor.

Though you expected as much, he captured your lips in a heated kiss that almost made you lose your balance with his intensity. He held you close, his arms wrapped around you the way old tree limbs twist and tangle around objects left in their course, time and nature making it impossible to separate the two without irreversible damage to both.

“John,” you whispered against his lips.

There were plenty of men named John. It was a disgustingly common name, chosen for him by Vought to give him that relatable, everyman persona. Bullshit. He wasn’t an everyman. He was a god. People praised and worshiped Zeus, Jupiter, Jesus, Homelander—not fucking John.

Whenever you used it, though, suddenly the name was his. His. Not some stupid placeholder the white coats gave him instead of “subject whatever.” He was grateful you couldn’t sense the crack in his facade, his heart skipping a beat at how lovingly you said his name. How could you ever expect him to want to share that? Reluctantly, he pulled back from you, releasing you from his embrace. He still had a point to make.

“Get on your knees.”

You looked almost confused by his words.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he warned.

Slowly, you knelt on the shredded satin that lay at your feet, and with trembling hands unbuckled his belt, avoiding eye contact with the eagle that adorned it as if the metal bird of prey were judging you. You tried telling yourself there was no reason to be nervous, you’d given Homelander plenty of blowjobs before, but his mood was always much, much lighter when you did.

When you pulled down the spandex pants of his suit that was practically painted on him, you were greeted with an eye full of his hardening cock, already leaking with precum when you took it in your hand, eliciting a moan from him that seemed to echo through the bedroom. You stroked his cock, leaning in to give a teasing lick to the head that made his breath hitch.

“You like that baby?” you asked. “Do you want more?”

He whined, struggling to respond as you pumped his hardening length.

“C’mon, baby, use your words and—“

“Shut your fucking mouth,” he snapped, grabbing you by the root of your hair and shoving his cock in your mouth.

You gagged, trying to adjust yourself to the sudden change. Although, you didn’t think you’d ever get used to how big his cock was. The bulge in his suit certainly wasn’t compensating for anything.

“Go on, put that smart little mouth of yours to good use,” Homelander said, fingers still tangled in your hair as he tugged at your scalp. “Or are you so helpless without me that you can’t even suck a cock on your own?”

With a whimper, you did your best to massage his length with your tongue, taking as much of him as you could, though you never managed to fit all of him in your mouth. It wasn’t without a lack of trying. You gagged again, and this time he seemed to bore of your struggle and instead began fucking your throat at a merciless pace.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “You’re it. You’re the only one for me. Why don’t you—fuck—get that?”

Your response was a garbled choking noise as you placed one hand on his thigh to steady yourself. The other reached out to fondle his balls, prompting an erratic thrust from him that nearly knocked you over. As unpredictable as Homelander could be, if you thought too much about how much self control he used to not accidentally kill you whenever the two of you were remotely intimate, your brain would start to feel fuzzy. Or maybe it was the way you couldn’t seem to catch your breath.

When you looked up at him through tear-filled eyes, he was barely able to keep his own open. Blonde hair flopped across his forehead, he looked at you with hooded eyelids, the faintest smirk flashing across his face before he groaned again, throwing his head back.

He never lasted all that long to begin with, woefully sensitive and touch-starved despite his experience. Normally, you found it endearing, but tonight you were grateful as you weren’t sure how much longer you could handle his mercilessly fucking your throat.

With another involuntary thrust, his cock twitched against your tongue. You struggled to swallow his cum that was pumping into your mouth. Some of it mixed with spit as it dribbled from the corners of your lips down your chin.

As Homelander pulled his cock from your mouth, he observed your ruined state—disheveled hair, puffy lips, tears tracked down your face. Pride filled his chest as he watched you try to catch your breath. He’d never pushed you quite this far before, and he wanted so much more.

“Messy little thing, huh?” he asked, swiping what had escaped your lips on his thumb and bringing it to your mouth.

With a shaky sigh, you wrapped your lips around his finger, weakly sucking the residue from it until he was satisfied, pulling it from your mouth.

He smiled, caressing your cheek with his wet thumb. “That’s my girl.”

You hummed in response, the most you could manage with how sore your throat felt. It was good enough for him, because he offered you his hand, pulling you up from your knees with ease. His gentleness as he laid you back on the bed felt almost foreign compared to his ruthlessness just minutes earlier.

The reprieve was short-lived, however. As soon as he shed the rest of his suit, he pounced, his eyes betraying the intention to devour you whole. Animalistic, manic, from his predatory gaze to the prominence of his canines, he could rip your throat out if he wanted to. There was no point in trying to conceal your concerning arousal at the thought, even if he hadn’t reached between your legs to feel your wet pussy, he could smell it on you from a mile away.

He licked his lips, leaning over you as he teased your clit while sliding his cock inside you.

“Oh my god,” you moaned.

Homelander grinned, rolling his hips against yours. “I know I am.”

He’d been aggressive in bed before, usually due to jealousy or possessiveness. The way he moved was far more calculated than impulsive, as if each thrust intentionally pushed you closer to climax as he rubbed circles on your clit instead of just him releasing pent up frustration and insecurity.

“You love taking it all, don’t you? Love the way I fill you up?”

His mocking tone went straight to your pussy, and you could hardly manage a coherent response as he pounded into you. Even then, it didn’t feel like enough, as you bucked your hips to get more of him.

He was studying you, observing every contortion of your face, feeling the way your wet pussy clenched around this throbbing cock as he thrust into it, the sound nothing short of obscene as it echoed with your desperate moans. Then, just as you were about to orgasm, he moved his hand away from your clit and pulled out of you so quickly, you almost started crying.

The look of hurt and betrayal on your face gave him conflicting feelings, but the one that won out was a smug superiority. He’d never loved anyone as much as he loved you, and it seemed like this ‘tough love’ approach was working. He wrapped his hand around your sore throat, his cold and intense stare as he leaned closer to your face sending a shiver down your spine that he could surely feel.

“You don’t come unless I say you can. You got that, sweetheart?” he asked, voice dripping with condescension.

You nodded weakly, a pained whimper trapped in your throat. As soon as he gave you a wicked grin in return, you knew that he wanted you to give in to your base desires like humans do. With so much of his life spiraling out of his control, he wanted to be sure he didn’t have to worry about you.

He released his vice grip on your throat, and, as if reading your thoughts from just a few minutes prior, leaned down, pressing a kiss to your neck before grazing his teeth down the tender flesh, feeling your racing pulse’s vulnerability.

“John,” you breathed, your voice inaudible to anyone but him.

“I know, darling. You want it so bad, don’t you?”

“Please,” you whimpered, “please.”

“It didn’t have to be this difficult, you know,” he mused, his fingers playing with your sensitive clit.

You choked out a sob at the almost painful feeling of overstimulation. “I’m sorry. I love you. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not that hard to be good for me, is it? To just do as I say?”

“No.”

“Good. I’d hate to have to remind you again,” he said, his voice soft and low as he pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I love you.”

The emptiness you felt between your legs was soon filled again by his cock.

You fell limp at this point, no movements in an attempt to match his thrusts. His reflection had been right, he just needed to take what he wanted and remind you who was in charge. He was in control, all you needed to do was lie back, look pretty, and take it. You should be thanking him for making things so easy for you.

He kissed you, reveling in how sweetly you moaned in his mouth now that he had you exactly how he wanted you. Your heart was racing, he could tell you were getting close, and he was too, but he wanted you to come first, to be the one to fold and give in to him completely.

“It’s all right now, darling. I’ve got you,” he whispered.

It felt like all of your muscles tightened before your release, your hips rocking involuntarily as your orgasm rippled through your body. The pent up pleasure was almost too overwhelming, and you had to grab his bicep to ground yourself, digging your nails into his skin. It didn’t matter, it wasn’t like you could break it anyway.

With the way your pussy squeezed his cock as you came, an unhinged moan and tears and vision clouded by stars, his own orgasm followed soon after. He never bothered with the pretense of pulling out. Filling you with his cum was right, it was natural, another way to lay claim to you. He hated condoms, but he knew his next course of action would be doing something about your pesky birth control soon.

You winced as you moved closer to his chest, allowing him to hold your body against his. Your muscles ached, and you knew that in the morning you’d hardly be able to move at all. It wasn’t uncommon with Homelander, and he loved your dependence on him on those mornings when he’d carry you from room to room, a reminder of his strength. He was the most powerful man in the world, you might as well have been a feather.

“How’re you holding up babe?” he asked.

“Fine,” you said softly.

He smiled, stroking your cheek. “I’m glad we’re on the same page now. It’ll make things so much easier, babe, you’ll see.”

You gave him a weak smile before closing your eyes, knowing fully well that he could hear by your thumping heart that you were faking sleep.

#homelander x reader #the boys x reader #homelander x you #the boys x you #homelander imagine #homelander #the boys

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simply-ivanka · 2 months ago

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Why Trump’s Conviction Can’t Stand

It rests on an intent to violate a state law that is pre-empted by the Federal Election Campaign Act.

By David B. Rivkin Jr. and Elizabeth Price Foley Wall Street Journal

Donald Trump runs no risk of going to prison in the middle of his campaign, thanks to Judge Juan Merchan’s decision Friday to postpone sentencing until Nov. 26. The delay gives his lawyers more time to prepare an appeal. Fortunately for Mr. Trump, his trial was overwhelmingly flawed, and a well-constructed appeal would ensure its ultimate reversal.

A central problem for the prosecution and Judge Merchan lies in Article VI of the U.S. Constitution, which makes federal law the “supreme law of the land.” That pre-empts state law when it conflicts with federal law, including by asserting jurisdiction over areas in which the federal government has exclusive authority.

Mr. Trump’s conviction violates this principle because it hinges on alleged violations of state election law governing campaign spending and contributions. The Federal Election Campaign Act pre-empts these laws as applied to federal campaigns. If it didn’t, there would be chaos. Partisan state and local prosecutors could interfere in federal elections by entangling candidates in litigation, devouring precious time and resources.

That hasn’t happened except in the Trump case, because the Justice Department has always guarded its exclusive jurisdiction even when states have pushed back, as has happened in recent decades over immigration enforcement.

The normal approach would have been for the Justice Department to inform District Attorney Alvin Bragg, who was contemplating charges against Mr. Trump, of the FECA pre-emption issue. If Mr. Bragg didn’t follow the department’s guidance, it would have intervened at the start of the case to have it dismissed. Instead the department allowed a state prosecutor to interfere with the electoral prospects of the chief political rival of President Biden, the attorney general’s boss.

Mr. Trump was indicted under New York’s law prohibiting falsification of business records, which is a felony only if the accused intended “to commit another crime” via the false record. Judge Merchan instructed the jury that the other crime was Section 17-152 of New York election law, which makes it a misdemeanor to “conspire to promote or prevent the election of any person to a public office by unlawful means.” Prosecutors alleged that Mr. Trump violated this law by conspiring with his lawyer, Michael Cohen, and Trump-related businesses to “promote” his presidential election by coding hush-money payments as “legal expenses” when they should have been disclosed publicly as campaign expenses or contributions—matters that are governed by FECA.

FECA declares that its provisions “supersede and preempt any provision of state law with respect to election to Federal office.” The 1974 congressional conference committee report accompanying enactment of FECA’s pre-emption language states: “It is clear that the Federal law occupies the field with respect to reporting and disclosure of political contributions and expenditures by Federal candidates.” Federal Election Commission regulations likewise declare that FECA “supersedes State law” concerning the “disclosure of receipts and expenditures by Federal candidates” and “limitation on contributions and expenditures regarding Federal candidates.”

The New York State Board of Elections agreed in a 2018 formal opinion that issues relating to disclosure of federal campaign contributions and expenditures are pre-empted because “Congress expressly articulated ‘field preemption’ of federal law over state law in this area” to avoid federal candidates’ “facing a patchwork of state and local filing requirements.”

In using New York’s election law to brand Mr. Trump a felon based on his actions with respect to a federal election, Mr. Bragg subverts FECA’s goal of providing predictable, uniform national rules regarding disclosure of federal campaign contributions and expenses, including penalties for noncompliance. Congress made its goals of uniformity and predictability clear not only in FECA’s sweeping pre-emption language but also in its grant of exclusive enforcement authority to the FEC for civil penalties and the Justice Department for criminal penalties. Both the FEC and Justice Department conducted yearslong investigations to ascertain whether Mr. Trump’s hush-money payments violated FECA, and both declined to seek any penalties.

Prior to Mr. Trump’s New York prosecution, it would have been unthinkable for a local or state prosecutor to prosecute a federal candidate predicated on whether or how his campaign reported—or failed to report—contributions or expenditures. In 2019 the FEC investigated whether Hillary Clinton’s 2016 presidential campaign failed to disclose millions in contributions from an outside political action committee. The agency deadlocked, and no penalties were imposed. In 2022 the FEC levied $113,000 in civil penalties against Mrs. Clinton’s campaign for violating FECA because it improperly coded as “legal services,” rather than campaign expenditures, money paid to Christopher Steele for production of the “dossier” that fueled the Russia-collusion hoax. In neither instance did any state or local prosecutor indict Mrs. Clinton under state election law based on failure to disclose these contributions or expenditures properly. If New York’s Trump precedent stands, Mrs. Clinton could still be vulnerable to prosecution, depending on various states’ statutes of limitation and the Justice Department’s potential involvement.

Mr. Bragg’s prosecution of Mr. Trump is plagued by many reversible legal errors, of which the failure to accord pre-emptive force to FECA is the strongest grounds for its reversal on appeal. The prosecutor’s interference in the 2024 presidential election process has created legal and political problems. The Justice Department’s failure to intervene before the trial is a dereliction of duty.

The department aggressively prosecuted Mr. Cohen based on the same hush-money payments, so it was well aware that New York’s prosecution invaded its exclusive FECA jurisdiction. This is another stark example of the Biden administration’s incompetence—or, worse, the distortion of justice through a partisan lens. It is left to the appellate courts, and ultimately the Supreme Court, to clean up the mess Mr. Bragg and the Justice Department have made.

Mr. Rivkin served at the Justice Department and the White House Counsel’s Office during the Reagan and George H.W. Bush Administrations. Ms. Foley is a professor of constitutional law at Florida International University College of Law. Both practice appellate and constitutional law in Washington.

#trump #trump 2024 #president trump #ivanka #repost #america first #americans first #america #democrats #donald trump

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lisenberry · 7 months ago

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Do you have any kink headcanons for the 141 ?

🔥🔥🔥

I just think they'd all be the direct opposite of who they are in the field. When they're on their own time, they let their guard down and process their trauma differently.

(I'm the most vanilla, basic bitch alive. This is barely even spicy.)

Price: After making so many decisions and holding the fate of the world in his hands, he just wants to be told what to do. Don't be shy. He hates that. Grab his hair and put him where you want him. If he's talking too much, distracting you from your pleasure with his contented sighs and mindless declarations of love, stuff your knickers in his mouth or give an extra sharp tug on his leash.

Ghost: He saves his violence for his enemies, and leaves it all on the field. When he gets home, he wants candles, romance, classical music. Soft sheets and cute little outfits on a pliable dove who likes to be spoiled. The mask and the gloves come off and he'll laze around naked for days, letting his body breathe.

Gaz: He goes a bit darker. He's the voice of reason and conscience at work, so he...leans into the gray areas in his personal time. He's not going to hurt you, anymore than you can handle. But he's not going to be liberal with his restraint, either. Sign the disclosure agreement and don't forget your safe word.

Soap: His work/play lines are the most blurred. He can't shut it off. No filter and no boundaries, he'll try anything, anywhere. Blowing shit up, watching it burn, and walking away clean. In public alleys, your neighbor's pool, under your desk at work while you're on a zoom call. 'Oh, they got a show, did they? Lucky them.'

#call of duty #141 x reader #captain john price #johnny soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #kyle gaz garrick #cod smut

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laughhardrunfastbekindsblog · 3 months ago

Text

The Start of Something New

Summer of Bad Batch 2024 | Week 10 | Prompt: "Just when were you planning on telling us that?"

Summary: This was the start of something completely new for Tech, and Hunter couldn’t be happier for him. POV: Hunter Rating: G (Word Count: 2971)

Read on Ao3

Notes: Yes, this is another Tech Lives story! The first part of the story takes place pre-"Tipping Point" (episode 14 of season 2); the second part of the story takes place post-epilogue/post-my other Tech Lives work. ( @domino-twinss This isn't exactly a chapter 2 for Lost and Found, but it kinda works as an unofficial follow up?)

Hunter leaned back, resting his elbows on the garden wall in Shep’s backyard, and closed his eyes briefly, welcoming the slight breeze that played across his face. He had just returned from a long but productive day helping move supplies to rebuild more of the homes damaged in the tidal wave. Tech had apparently finished his task of restoring power to the dozen or so homes that had been completed, for he had already been sitting at the table looking at his datapad when Hunter had arrived. Wrecker and Omega, who had both spent the day down at the docks, should be coming back any minute…

Hunter heard the telltale sound of running footsteps, and smiled as his brother and sister burst through the gate. Omega greeted him with a happy grin and a wave, but it was to Tech that she directed her first statement.

“Lyana says the reason why you came in late last night was because you asked Phee to go out on a boat with you,” she declared, her face bright with curiosity as she rested one hand on Tech’s forearm and slightly shook it in her excitement.

“When were you going to tell us you spent time with Phee?” Wrecker asked in barely concealed delight.

Hunter, his brows raised in mild surprise at this revelation, awaited the answer. He had assumed Tech had been on the Marauder completing one of his many research projects yesterday evening; he would never have guessed his brother had actually gone out with Phee.

Tech, who had remained completely unperturbed by Omega's enthusiasm, now glanced up from his datapad, looking slightly puzzled by Wrecker's question. “I wasn’t planning on saying anything," he replied.

Omega and Wrecker both visibly wilted in disappointment at this answer, and Hunter had to bite back a laugh. Omega quickly recovered, though, and eagerly patted Tech’s arm again.

“Well, since we know about it… Come on, tell us! How did it go? How did you decide on taking a boat out at night?"

Tech shrugged. "Phee mentioned she is interested in sea creatures, and many of the species found near this island have bioluminescent traits that are especially well observed at night, even with a full moon. I concluded she might enjoy some time on the water to see them.”

“You spent the entire time talking about the creatures and bioluminescence, didn’t you?” Hunter cut in drily.

“Most of the time, yes. What else were we supposed to talk about? At any rate, Phee is already remarkably well versed in marine science, and she was quite interested in learning more about the aiwhas on Kamino. I was more than happy to oblige.”

“I still can’t believe you weren’t going to tell us about it,” Wrecker protested.

“We’ve all spent time with Phee before, you know,” Tech stated, as if that fully explained his lack of disclosure.

“Yeah, but not on a date!”

“This was not a date. It was simply a friendly outing.”

Wrecker groaned in frustration, but Omega piped up again. “Well, we’d still like to hear about them!”

At Omega’s plea, Tech sighed and capitulated. “Very well, if it’s so important to all of you…”

“Good, you’re all back!” Shep called from the doorway. “Oh, Tech, Phee told Lyana and me how much she enjoyed last night.”

“That is… gratifying to hear,” Tech said steadily, seemingly ignoring Omega’s giggle, though Hunter got the distinct impression that, in this particular situation at least, the more solemn Tech appeared, the more embarrassed he was actually feeling.

“Dinner is about ready,” Shep continued gamely, “just a few more minutes.”

“Anything I can do to help?” Omega offered, moving toward their host.

“Well, if you want, you can help Lyana get the plates,” Shep smiled.

“I’ll come with you,” Wrecker instantly volunteered.

As the others trooped into the house, Tech silently put down his datapad and stood to follow them, turning back when Hunter spoke.

“Are you going to invite Phee to join you on more friendly outings?” Hunter asked, careful to keep any hint of amusement out of his voice.

“I intend to, yes,” Tech replied without hesitation, before his expression shifted; and while Tech often wore thoughtful expressions, Hunter had never before seen this particular brand of introspection on his brother’s face – it was almost as if Tech, for the first time since he had learned to speak, was grappling for the right words to express his thoughts. “She… is an exceptional woman,” he finally finished, a touch awkwardly though clearly sincere.

And as Tech made his way toward the door to join the others in the house, Hunter smiled.

This was the start of something completely new for Tech, and Hunter couldn’t be happier for him.

*******

Hunter, glancing out the cabin window, saw that Tech had returned from his visit with Phee and had taken up position standing by the low wall that separated the property from the long stretch of rocky soil leading out to the beach some distance away.

Gesturing to Batcher that she should stay where she was, curled up comfortably by the table, Hunter stepped outside to join his brother. It was perfect weather, a light breeze was stirring the air, and Omega would have been enraptured by the scenery of the sunset if she were here; but Tech had already pulled out his datapad and was taking notes. Hunter smiled a bit – despite time, aging, and critical life experiences, some things never changed, and Tech’s curiosity combined with his need to always keep his mind and hands busy were among those things that remained constant.

Any concerns Hunter may have had about Tech being able to adjust to life on Pabu with brothers who had changed so much in the intervening years had been short lived. The impossible had happened – the entire family was reunited – and the growth and life-altering changes they had each experienced in the past decade or so only served to enhance their immense gratitude for the chance they had to all be together again. Tech had offered to continue helping Omega and Echo with decryption and other coding tasks for their rebel missions, but only in a remote capacity; he sympathized with the Rebellion’s cause, of course, but he wanted to stay on Pabu. And while Phee had said nothing aloud upon hearing of this decision, none of the brothers had missed the fact that her stays on Pabu had progressively lengthened over the past year.

Hunter knew Tech and Phee had become extremely close ever since Tech’s return – the spark of mutual interest that had existed early on between them had quickly grown into a flame – and the two of them spending the entire day together had become the norm; but as he stood next to his brother now, Hunter could tell something was different, something had changed today - and Hunter couldn't be more thrilled.

“So, when were you going to tell us?” he prodded.

Tech looked at him, eyebrows slightly raised, but couldn’t keep a small smile from playing on his lips: he knew Hunter knew exactly what had happened. “Tonight,” he replied levelly, “when Omega contacts us. She always includes Echo in her transmissions, and that way we can tell the whole family at once. At least, that was the plan,” he finished wryly.

“Do you have a date set yet?”

“If Omega and Echo can come by month’s end, we will wait for them; if not, it may be sooner. Phee and I want to be married before we begin any travels.”

Hunter was careful to keep his expression and his voice steady, even as his heart now sank. “So you won’t be staying on Pabu?”

Sometimes Hunter wondered if Tech had somehow developed enhanced senses of his own; based on the glance Tech gave him now, Hunter thought the other must have somehow sensed his dismay. “This is still our home, Hunter. Phee says she was already considering retiring for some time before I returned, and you know she hasn’t set off on any acquisition operations for months now. But the news of what the Empire did to the refugees on Ghirtin II really shook her. She says it’s high time a liberator of ancient wonders became a liberator of modern people. She wants to do more to help those displaced by the war, and I want to help her.”

Hunter nodded and even managed a smile. He had known the moment he had witnessed Tech’s face light up upon first seeing Phee again that his brother was as devoted to her as he was to his siblings, and devotion such as Tech’s knew no bounds. And Hunter had been thrilled both for his genius, quirky brother and the strong-willed, witty woman who had always been such a loyal friend to the entire family; he had known they would make each other immensely happy, and Hunter, who had only ever wanted all his family to be safe and happy, couldn’t wish for more.

But…

“What is it, Hunter?” Tech asked almost gently.

Hunter sighed. “I’m happy for you, Tech," he said sincerely. "I know you and Phee will take care of each other – and really, the two of you combined will be unstoppable. It’s just…" taking a breath to give himself time to gather his thoughts, he continued, "It’s been almost a year, but it still feels like we just got you back. I don’t…” he trailed off, feeling that it would be far too selfish and shameful for him to say aloud I don’t want to let you go again.

It was moments like these that made him realize he had never, ever fully released the grief and shame of his failure as a leader, as a brother, as he had watched Tech fall out of sight on Eriadu. Even now, after finally and unexpectedly being reunited, and with so much good happening in their lives in spite of the stranglehold the Empire had on the galaxy, Hunter still felt the pang of regret of all the years missed, all the time Tech had spent lost and alone, working so hard on his own to regain his lost memories and discover where he belonged…

Hunter couldn’t look at his brother, and blinked rapidly to will away the tears.

He felt Tech place a firm, reassuring hand on his shoulder. “I know,” Tech said in a voice that prompted Hunter to look at him despite the threat of tears; and in the long moments of silence that followed, the look in Tech’s eyes said it all: he not only knew exactly what Hunter felt, he understood – and he wished Hunter would finally forgive himself for circumstances that had been outside any of their control.

“We’ll be here on Pabu far more often than we will be away, though,” Tech now continued matter-of-factly. “Besides, compared to any trouble Phee and I may find ourselves in, we all are in significantly greater peril whenever we allow Wrecker or Crosshair to man the boats during fishing expeditions.”

Hunter snorted – this observation was unfortunately all too accurate – and Tech gave a small smile.

“Well, just let me promise you what I promised Omega: if you or Phee ever need us, we’ll be there,” Hunter said.

Tech nodded. “It is, perhaps, obvious; but if you ever are in need of anything, you only need ask,” he replied.

Grinning now, Hunter slipped his arm over Tech’s shoulders, with Tech soon following suit so that they stood arm in arm, side by side, brothers as they always had been and always would be, come what may.

The sun’s last rays were now slipping beneath the horizon, but there was still enough light in the minutes before twilight that both brothers could clearly see Crosshair and Wrecker now coming up the path to the cabin. Hunter and Tech turned to greet them, and Wrecker waved as he drew closer, before abruptly stopping and dropping the package he was carrying, a wide smile stretching across his face as he looked at Tech.

“Don’t tell me, you and Phee are getting married!” he exclaimed.

Sure hope Tech and Phee weren’t planning on keeping this quiet, because with how loud Wrecker is, the entire island knows about it now, Hunter thought with amusement.

Tech, as usual, was unflustered as he replied, “Well, since you clearly already know about it, there's not much point in me telling you.”

Crosshair’s initial look of surprise at the revelation now turned into a smirk. “Did you ask Phee, or did she have to ask you?”

Instantly intuiting that an overly detailed explanation was forthcoming as an answer, Hunter settled in for the inevitable as Tech replied: “Well, we came to what might be termed a mutual understanding regarding our status as partners some time ago; but last week I came to the conclusion that it was time for me to issue Phee a formal request for her agreement to our eventual commitment to each other as spouses, and I completed that objective today."

"Tech, you can just call it a proposal, we all know what that is," Hunter muttered.

"Wait, you were planning this for a week?" Wrecker said. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"Yeah, we would have helped," Crosshair added.

"That is precisely why I didn't tell you," Tech said candidly, earning outraged squawks from the other two and a chuckle from Hunter.

"She said yes, so I guess you did it right even without our help, Tech," Hunter said, clapping his brother on the back.

A new thought had obviously struck Crosshair, for he now frowned a little. "Wasn't Phee talking a few weeks ago about wanting to help transport refugees or something?"

"That is correct," Tech nodded. "I'll be going with her."

"So, you won't be living here anymore?" Wrecker asked, looking rather crestfallen now.

"We will, we'll only be traveling occasionally."

"Oh, well that's alright then," Wrecker smiled, lightly knocking against Tech's shoulder.

Crosshair couldn't hide the flash of sadness in his eyes upon hearing that Tech would be leaving, even if only for a short while; but his smile was genuine. "Good man, Tech," he said; and Hunter knew that, while any separation would be painful, Crosshair would fully support his brother in this decision.

"You're going to tell Omega and Echo tonight, right?" Wrecker asked eagerly.

"Yes," Tech said, adding wryly, "though at this point, if Phee and I didn't tell them, you probably would."

"We should head in now to get all that put away before she contacts us," Hunter interjected, nodding at the large package of supplies Wrecker had dropped; and the brothers moved to act on Hunter's suggestion.

They had put away the supplies and just settled in to await the transmission when a brisk knock sounded on the door and Phee let herself in. One look at the brothers, and Phee shook her head ruefully.

"They all know already, don't they?" she addressed Tech.

"Yes, though I myself did not tell them," Tech answered.

"I should have known they'd figure it out themselves," she said, settling down next to Tech and sharing a quick kiss with him before grinning cheekily at Crosshair's usual grunt of mock disgust at the display. Tech took her hand in his, as had long since become his custom; and she squeezed his hand affectionately in return as she continued, "We just waiting on the rebels now?"

"As usual," Crosshair nodded.

"Do you want to share your news first, before Omega catches us up on her end?" Hunter queried.

Ever since Omega had joined the Rebellion, Phee had joined in on every transmission whenever she happened to be on Pabu, and was well aware of the typical flow of these conversations. Now, she glanced at Tech before shaking her head. "Nah, let Omega go first. No need to break tradition."

"Any minute now..." Wrecker said.

At that moment, the communications array beeped to indicate an incoming transmission, and Wrecker lunged forward to accept the message. Omega's image, with her bright smile and uplifted expression, blossomed into view before them; surprisingly, Echo appeared directly beside her, rather than coming in as a separate transmission.

"Hi!” Omega greeted them before excitedly continuing, “Guess what? Echo and I have been assigned to the same mission! Can you believe..."

Omega's eyes had been roving over her audience; now, her gaze falling on Tech and Phee, she abruptly paused, eyes widening, before she let loose an ecstatic high pitched squeal.

"You two are finally getting married??!?"

The surprised silence that followed was quickly broken by Wrecker bursting into a hearty guffaw, and Hunter couldn't help chuckling at the sight of Phee's stunned face. Tech, of course, remained composed as ever, though his lips curved up into a smile.

"How could you tell?" Crosshair, clearly holding back a laugh, asked Omega.

"I don't know," Omega replied, waving her hands helplessly at them as if this would help explain the unexplainable, "it's just obvious!"

"Good thing we didn't try to elope," Phee joked.

Tech just shook his head resignedly before saying, "If these three" - gesturing to Hunter, Wrecker, and Crosshair - "figured it out, I'm not surprised Omega did as well."

"Congratulations," Echo put in, nodding cordially at the pair. This was all he managed to say, however, before Omega erupted with more questions.

"How did Tech propose? Or did you ask him, Phee? When is the wedding? It'll be on Pabu, right? Can you wait for us to come? Will you be getting your own house now?"

And as Tech and Phee began explaining all their plans, Hunter, quietly basking in the celebratory atmosphere, sat back and smiled.

This was the start of something new for Tech and Phee, and Hunter couldn’t be happier for them.

@summer-of-bad-batch

#summerofbadbatch2024 #week 10 #just when were you planning on telling us that?#the bad batch #star wars the bad batch #tbb hunter #tbb tech #phee genoa #tbb wrecker #tbb omega #tbb crosshair #tbb echo #fanfiction #tbb fanfiction #tech lives #techphee #techphee forever

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missriyochuchi · 4 months ago

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Race to Capture the Flagbearer

Summary: On the eve of the start of the athletics events, the Torchbearer and the Flagbearer race to the Stade de France, betting that whoever enters the stadium first with the Flagbearer’s cape gets to chose the method of blessing the track.

Word count: 3.2k

Warnings: Established relationship. Sexual tension. Kissing. Very lame sexual innuendo I’m very sorry lolol

Notes: In honor of the start of the track and field events, my favorite because I used to run track, I give you this hot mess! This one really got away from me. Full disclosure: I have never been to Paris. GoogleMaps and Google Images were absolutely indispensable!

Once again, I strongly recommend reading The Torchbearer and the Flagbearer first, but if not, only a few details carry over: the two exist only during the Olympics, so they die and are reborn every two years; interaction with humans is strictly limited; and the Flagbearer’s horse is named Zeus. I use gendered pronouns only to distinguish between the two; otherwise, their physical descriptions are not gendered.

Read on AO3

Beyond the city center, just north of the historic hilltop of Montmartre, Paris slumbers as though it were any other balmy summer night. A few stores and restaurants remain open, hosting those too restless to neglect the City of Lights. The low murmur of conversations warms the air beneath the amber glow of streetlights and the verdant canopies of deciduous trees. On the Avenue de Saint-Ouen, the soft, unmistakable clops of a horse turn the heads of those shocked to a standstill on the sidewalk.

The Flagbearer sways in her saddle as she guides Zeus down the northbound lane at a leisurely clip. The few cars caught behind them pass when able, unhurried by the late-night hour. Whispered surprise and pointing fingers follow in their wake. She turns and nods to the few aiming cameras and smartphones in their direction. Several meters behind on the northwest corner of the Boulevards des Maréchaux, two tourists watch the hooded figure continue on her journey.

“Where’s the other one?”

“Other one?”

“They’re always together at night.”

“What are you talking about?”

From behind them, a woman points up and shouts, “Là-bas!”

Heads tilt towards the rooftops. On the east side of the avenue, beyond the cover of the streetlights’ shine, onlookers catch the faint, bright material of the Torchbearer’s hood bobbing from building to building. The gauzy fabric travels quickly, seeming to fly across the uneven architecture, unbothered by safety or gravity.

Sounds of the spectators acknowledging the Torchbearer’s trajectory build to a wave that rolls down the road and crashes on the Flagbearer’s cape. Her hood turns around, the shadow beneath facing the line of buildings to her right. She whips forward and digs her heels into the horse’s sides. In a flash, the rider and her mount take off on a gallop, and the telltale signs of the nimble nightwalker disappear from the rooftops’ edge.

“What happened?” A fourth bystander, looking as confused as the first two, joins the three on the corner.

“Elle l'a vu.” The woman smiles and, with her fore- and middle fingers, gestures from her eyes to the rooftops to the north end of the street.

“Oh, uh, pardonnez-moi,” one of the two tourists attempts haltingly, “je ne parle pas français.”

“Dude, you don’t need to know French to know what this,” his companion mimics the woman’s gestures, “means. She said—”

“‘She saw him’ is what she said,” clarifies the fourth bystander.

“He’s chasing her?”

“Ils font la course.”

“I— Where’s my dictionary? Sorry, could you, uh— répétez, s'il vous plaît?”

“‘They’re racing.’ Dude, I’m going to strangle you.”

“What? But he can’t win. She’s on a horse!”

The woman and the fourth bystander share a laugh as they continue down the road. “Depends on where the finish line is!”

No announcements had been made declaring the particulars of this after-hours contest, but the more observant tourists and Parisians who had witnessed the two hooded figures about town before could more or less divine where they were headed. The Stade de France marked the end of their race, the venue housing the track for which their relay was honoring. No one, however, not even those with firsthand experience of past Olympic Games, could guess the particulars of their side bet.

“The athletics events begin in a few hours,” the Torchbearer had said to the Flagbearer, 90 minutes earlier, as they crossed the esplanade of the Palais de Chaillot in the direction of the Seine.

She hummed and smiled, gazing at the ground and matching his stride, her hands folded behind her back. “One of your favorites,” she said fondly.

From the top of the steps leading to the Jardins du Trocadéro, the Olympic Torch was still visible in the sky. Small groups of tourists flitted about the site, aiming all kinds of photographic equipment between the Olympic Flag flying above the Place du Trocadéro to the Eiffel Tower glittering above it all.

“The stadium is about 10 kilometers away,” the Torchbearer continued, pointing in a general northeasterly direction.

“I am aware of the distance, ma chère.”

“Shall we go over the rules?”

“Zeus,” the Flagbearer lilted, turning to face her mount, “do you need to be reminded of the rules?”

Following close behind, the horse shook his head. The two Olympic guardians had spent the last few nights inventing details to include the stallion in their quirky tradition. He was forbidden from trotting faster than 12 kilometers per hour, the average speed of a human man running. Only when the Torchbearer was in sight could Zeus gallop to his top speed; once out of sight, the horse would return to an average walk. The Flagbearer had offered to send Zeus ahead to the stadium in an attempt at fairness, but even she knew her armor was a handicap in the Torchbearer’s favor. She needed her steed.

“Perhaps we should lift the ban on mechanical vehicles, just this once,” the Flagbearer offered sheepishly. She felt guilty that for all of the Torchbearer’s physical prowess and show on the rooftops during the Opening Ceremony, he was still no match for one of Earth’s fastest land animals.

“No, my love. I do not believe Zeus gives you an undue advantage. Besides, I have my own ideas for bypassing our usual rule.”

“Oh?” She stopped at the edge of the esplanade and crossed her arms. “Then perhaps I should remind you that a bicycle is a kind of vehicle and therefore forbidden.”

The Torchbearer laughed. “I know better than to repeat my own mistakes. No, I have something even less mechanical in mind.”

“Would you care to share so that I may approve your means of cheating?”

He gasped and recoiled in faux offense, bringing his fingertips to his chest in mock shock. “Darling, how dare you accuse me of such a thing! It is not in our nature to cheat!”

“I know,” she conceded carefully before resuming her command, “but just because the equipment is featured in the Games does not mean it is allowed in our little competition. However, I suppose for tonight, I can allow you to skateboard.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “You still have not guessed correctly. No, I am certain these types of wheels are permissible. No human law has ever classified them as a form of transportation.”

The Flagbearer dropped her arms to her sides and squared her shoulders, straightening her posture. “Now I am intrigued.”

Light cheers and applause bubbled up around them. The two looked up in time to watch the Olympic Torch descend out of sight. Only the Eiffel Tower remained bright in the inky night.

“That is your cue, chérie.” The Torchbearer extended a hand in a show of sportsmanship. “Good luck.”

The Flagbearer accepted the gesture. “Bonne chance à toi, aussi, my dear. If you do reach me, try not to pull too hard. Falling from Zeus’s height would hurt even more in this armor.”

“I shall hold back my strength for your safety, mon amour. Now go.”

The Torchbearer watched his partner mount her steed and quickly gallop back through the esplanade, gaining more spectators with each echoing hoofbeat. When she reached the road, she brought Zeus to rear on his hind legs. Gasps of surprise followed. Once Zeus righted on all four legs, she blew a kiss to the Torchbearer who caught and tucked it into his vest against his chest. With a nod, horse and rider trotted in the direction of the Arc de Triomphe. He waited for the sound of hoofbeats to fade away before running down the steps and across the garden and banking left to try to cut them off through neighboring roads.

What would normally have been a swift, straightforward race from the Place du Trocadéro to the Stade de France turned into an extended excursion into the more hidden side streets of Paris. Previous incarnations of the Olympic guardians allowed them to run unencumbered. The Flagbearer’s armored form, paired with Zeus’s presence, meant that they needed a creative twist to make up for their unique limitations. Eyeing the Flagbearer’s cape one night, the Torchbearer suggested a riff on the rules of Capture the Flag: one flag and one territory instead of the usual two each, her cape standing in for the desired marker and the stadium the sole safe place. Whoever entered the Stade de France first with the Flagbearer’s cape would win. What was once a race became a chase.

For more than 10 kilometers, the Flagbearer evades the more agile Torchbearer. She never hears him coming, his footsteps too light even in the silence of empty streets. She had been halfway through the Parc Manceau, hoping to use its lawns and trees to muffle Zeus’s steps, when she felt a rush of air graze her right leg. Her arm shot behind her and grasped her cape, its tough material caught up in the momentary gust. She sighed in relief just as the scrape of plastic wheels echoed on the pavement. She turned around and watched the Torchbearer come up from a crouched position and straighten up a few inches taller than his usual height.

“Rollerblades!” The Flagbearer was impressed. “Darling, you think of everything.”

He laughed. “They are not as quiet as I need them to be, but at least I have a chance to match Zeus’s trot.”

“It is not your speed that needs improvement.” She threw her cape behind her, taunting him as it fluttered back into place. “Your grip is lacking, my dove.”

With a swift tug of her reins, she brought Zeus to a gallop across the lawn where the Torchbearer’s wheels could not follow. He glided down a path to try to cut them off at the park’s edge, but lost sight of them behind the foliage. He stared at the five-road intersection and quickly picked up Zeus’s hoofbeats echoing down the Rue Georges Berger. Though he couldn’t see the source of the sound, he was sure of its direction. He took off down the Rue de Thann, hoping to catch them at the Boulevard Malesherbes. When he reached the corner, he found Zeus waiting riderless. The Flagbearer would repeat this strategy throughout the night.

With Zeus’s hoofbeats no longer a reliable sign of his partner’s presence, the Torchbearer takes to the rooftops for the higher vantage points. He flies freely — no cars or pedestrians to block his journey, no trees or walls to block his view. Despite the cloak of darkness hiding potentially dangerous nooks on which to trip, his step is sure. He falters only when he reaches the main thoroughfares, several lanes too wide to jump, and is forced to climb back down to the sidewalk. When he swivels around, hands on his hips and unsure of the Flagbearer’s location, a few wide-eyed tourists point him in the right direction. He nods or salutes before sprinting to the nearest building and resuming his flight across the darkened rooftops.

Meanwhile, the Flagbearer continues to use sound to her advantage. When she is not deploying Zeus as a decoy, she also relies on the few onlookers in her wake. Every time the Torchbearer nears, a low swell of claps and gasps announces his proximity, the spectators’ excitement at witnessing the phantom figure reenact his debut performance rippling through the air like a lighthouse beacon on a foggy night. The audible warning allows her enough time to pinpoint his location and break for a darker or wider street. Despite the weight of her armor and the agreed-upon limitations on Zeus’s abilities, she manages to stay ahead and out of reach of the Torchbearer.

Eventually, after breathless hours of looking over her shoulder, the Flagbearer comes into sight of the Stade de France. She is relieved but restless. It had taken longer to reach the stadium than she’d anticipated, and her daytime duties began to slip into the forefront of her mind. She senses dawn just below the horizon, hiding for another hour before warming Paris once more. She felt the urgency of concluding their game.

With no sign of the Torchbearer, the Flagbearer dismounts and walks the remaining distance to the parking lot surrounding the stadium. Zeus’s hoofbeats punctuate the whoosh of the few cars passing on the highway. They are 100 meters from a western gate when she hears the familiar roll of plastic wheels fast approaching behind her.

Without turning around, she smacks Zeus’s rump and grabs the horn of her saddle. She lifts herself high enough to put a foot in the stirrup as the stallion gallops towards the gate. She clings to her steed’s side, pushing sore muscles to their breaking point as her cape whips and drags in the wind. She pulls herself up and over to straddle the saddle and grasps for enough stability to turn her head around. She sees no hooded figure.

Only when Zeus stops abruptly in front of a gate does she see the Torchbearer. He had rolled to a stop a few meters from her position, holding her cape aloft in his right hand and waving low with his left. The Flagbearer quickly dismounts and points for Zeus to step away from the gate.

“Looks like I won, my sweet,” the Torchbearer taunts across the distance.

“Not yet, darling.” The Flagbearer advances slowly, cracking her neck and loosening her shoulders for what she assumes could turn into a wrestling match. “You have not entered the stadium proper. This parking lot is open space.”

His right hand drops to his hip, her cape billowing in the breeze. “You cannot outrun me in your armor.”

“Then play fair, ma chère. You know your agility is hampered by those tiny wheels.”

He lets out an amused huff before agreeing to her concession. He kneels on her cape, alternating knees so as not to lose it to the wind, and takes off the rollerblades. From behind his jacket, he produces and quickly puts on his shoes, readjusting his leg gaiters over the treads. All the while, the Flagbearer maintains her distance.

“A lesser opponent would have rushed me by now,” the Torchbearer observes as he stands up.

“A lesser opponent would have conceded defeat,” she counters as she steps forward.

He strides to the side, and she mirrors his move. “How do you imagine this will end, my dear?”

“With you pinning my cape back on me and blessing the track my way.”

“Darling, I would gladly pin you any day, but do tell what you had in mind if you do indeed win.”

The Flagbearer shakes her head as she takes another step closer. “As much as I enjoy your sense of humor, I would not deign to give you ideas before my victory is secured.”

“A wise move perhaps, but in truth, you read my mind.” The Torchbearer jumps several steps to the right, the entrance briefly in view, before she blocks him. “I can tell you with the utmost certainty that when I win, I shall pin you on the track.”

He is close enough to spy a smirk on her lips. She giggles and says, “And you call me insatiable.”

“My hunger burns eternal for you, my angel sweet.”

She comes up to her full height and points a finger in his direction. “You are distracting me.”

“An effective strategy, I would say. I have lured you away from the entrance.”

“By closing the distance between us.” The Flagbearer reaches out and jabs the Torchbearer’s shoulder with a firm finger. She enters into a slight crouch, palms outstretched, ready to reclaim her cape.

“Well, if we are to dance, mon amour,” he takes her cape in both hands and bunches opposing corners in his fists, “we must step closer.”

He swings the length of the cape over the Flagbearer’s head and around her shoulders, pulling her into his chest. She looks up, grabs the remaining free corners fluttering above their heads, and swings them behind his shoulders. They land in each other’s arms, enveloped by the Olympic Flag.

Hidden beneath the cover of the opaque cape, the Flagbearer removes her gloves, stuffs them into her belt, and brings gentle fingertips to the bottom edge of the Torchbearer’s mask.

“You win, my love. Would you like a taste of your prize?”

She lifts the mesh just enough to expose his mouth. His breath warms her hand as she presses the pad of her thumb across his soft lips. She cradles his jaw in both hands, keeping his mask in place over his nose, as they meet for a fevered kiss.

Only the Flagbearer is privy to the face beneath the Torchbearer’s mask, the covering quickly removed during private moments behind closed doors. No rule existed banning the public exposure of their countenances, but the Olympic guardians thought it best for their appearances to remain as neutral as the intentions behind the performance of their duties. They are as much a symbol of the Games as they are its players, and only with their features hidden can they best represent the best of humanity in all its forms and functions.

From the top of the steps leading to the upper parts of the stadium, the crackle of a security guard’s radio travels through the air and interrupts the lovers. They part lips with heavy sighs, reluctant to meet the world and its inhabitants.

“Change of plans,” the Torchbearer mumbles as he chases the Flagbearer’s chin with his mouth and finds the lower edge of her cuirass with his hands. “This audience will not do.”

She giggles and runs her hands down his chest, searching for the warmth beneath his many layers. “Our race took too long. If only we had reached the stadium sooner,” she sighs as he traces her jaw with the tip of his tongue and latches his lips just below her ear, “when it was less populated.” She pulls him closer, reaching for the backs of his neck and waist.

“A simple walk must suffice.” He pulls away, lowering the Flagbearer’s hands by her wrists. “I have had enough racing for tonight.”

“Have I worn you down?” She tugs on the Torchbearer’s lapels.

He laughs as he removes her gloves from her belt and glides them over her hands, the wind at his back keeping the cape in place. “I bow to your mastery of stealth and strategy.”

“Well, I learned from the best.” She readjusts his mask under his chin before he flips the cape behind her and secures it under her spaulders. “Be honest, dear, did I tire you too much?”

“I can manage a 400-meter walk.”

“And afterwards?” The Flagbearer nudges her hand into the crook of his arm, pressing her shoulder to his, and starts towards the stadium.

“I have enough strength for my duties. You need not worry.”

“I know. I had hoped for my own blessing before sunrise.”

The Torchbearer laughs to the sky before swinging his arm around her waist and opening his side to her embrace. “Darling, you truly are insatiable.”

“I merely wish for you to claim your prize.”

“The walk around the track—”

“Is still part of our duties. Your prize for catching me is far more enjoyable.”

He stops to hold her hands and run a finger along her jawline. “Then let us race properly, quickly around the track, so I may claim you.”

The Flagbearer giggles and starts down a tunnel leading into the belly of the stadium, the weight of her boots and the drag of her cape slowing her sprint. The Torchbearer captures her quickly.

Translations: Là-bas! - Over there! pardonnez-moi, je ne parle pas français - forgive me, I don't speak French répétez, s'il vous plaît - repeat, please Bonne chance à toi, aussi - Good luck to you, too

#*#olympics #paris 2024 #olympics 2024 #paris olympics #silvertorch #phantom of the olympics #phantom torchbearer #phantom of the games #torchbearer #assassin's creed torch bearer #flagbearer #flag knight #fic #fanfic #fanfiction #gifs are mine #why do i always pick the dying ships lolol KEEP 'EM ALIVE FOLKS #masked torchbearer

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librarycard · 1 year ago

Text

I thought i was done with talking about my chemical romance fandoms crazy gender essentialism and transmisogyny and misogyny in general but i have one more thing. actually two. because i have yet to discuss why this is so personal to me.

number one: i really, really hope you people don’t talk to trans women like that in real life.

number two and in relation to that: the way people (you know who they are, or you don’t, in which case consider this a general statement.) are about trans people, trans women specifically i should say, and have been talking about trans people on here in general, has been deeply concerning to me because what they’re doing has happened to me.

when someone is dealing with their gender identity, you dont just tell them what they are. You can make it a safe place for someone to come out WHEN THEY ARE READY just by being openly supportive and in arms with transness and the transgender community. unless a person is going through immense obvious suffering and cannot understand why that’s the case you should NOT fucking walk up to people and just tell them what they are because 1 you are not them and therefore can’t be sure 2 that isn’t your place and 3 everyone deserves to be able to figure out to what extent they would like to address their gender dysphoria and what their desired timeline for doing so is.

you can say IF THE SITUATION CALLS FOR IT “hey, it seems like you might be struggling with issues related to gender. have you heard of transgender people? if so, do you feel like addressing your problems through this lens might help alleviate your suffering?” <- or similar. of course, i figured this should be obvious to trans people, who typically (bar conservative “transmedicalists” who make for an entirely different conversation that i don’t want to have) know exactly how harmful the inherent association of physiological and sociological traits in human beings with gender identity (and, by extension, gender dysphoria) is.

but really just making sure a person knows it’s cool and awesome and most of all OKAY to be transgender openly if they want to is the most important. you don’t do this by telling them who they are but by exhibiting public love for and solidarity with trans people. it’s always supposed to be on their terms, not yours. if you realized you were gay or trans because someone told you you were, that’s okay. i’m ecstatic that you were able to discover that about yourself and i’m glad it did you more good than harm. but almost never does the situation call for that; as you should know, you are not the transgender monolith; there is no monolith; there is no straightforward path.

there is only support and solidarity, which is not the same as declaring that someone is x when they themselves have not clarified it or rather need drastic intervention for their mental wellbeing and are genuinely blatantly clueless. i promise you most people struggling with gender identity aren’t clueless and know they’re uncomfortable with the box they’ve been put in, so don’t feel like you should just go ahead and pick a different box.

now on the personal side: it was really harmful for me when someone who wasn’t even transmasc told me i was a transgender man and that i should just accept that. my gender identity was more complex than that and i was addressing it on my own terms at the time internally because it wasn’t the business of others. publicly, i told people i was okay with using any pronouns and i disclosed the name i went by, as well as telling people i felt kinship with transness, but that was it. (if you’re reading this as someone that is aware of the celebrity-stranger central to the discussion at hand, you may be familiar with their own similar public disclosures.)

the way that maleness was foisted onto me by (well meaning) others made me collapse in on myself. they used he/him pronouns for me and barraged me with questions about my comfort with she/they/etc, as if i did not know better than them.

in the end, i just wasn’t good at being a man. pursuing maleness made me feel worse about myself because it was incongruent with my internal experience. not always, of course, because i am mostly a masculine/gnc person, but there were key aspects of being a trans man i exhibited because people told me i was one that made me uncomfortable, and i, just wanting relief, chose to pursue that angle seeing as it was other members of the lgbt community that pointed me there. im from a small town in the bible belt deep south and i’d never seen the world, because my family was poor and conservative and there was nothing for them otherwise. my new college friends were from big cities and had seen much more of the world than i had.

in truth, i should have been allowed to figure it out as i would have liked to. these people were aware that i knew about transgenderism and related to it, and i had told them what pronouns i wanted them to use, but they continued to apply pressure onto me. to this day, years later, i am devastated that i was robbed of my path to self discovery as it might have come about naturally. i would have made some choices the exact same, such as hrt and top surgery, but the emotional gravity of what i experienced will always stay with me, and the insecurities that came with it are still being shaken off.

this is my personal experience, but i know other people have felt similar pressure to conform to what they’ve been identified as by outsiders who were flat out transvestigating them.

i’m trans; i love being trans; i love my transgender brothers and sisters, i love trans men and women, and i love gnc people and the nonbinary identity, which has more or less fit like a glove and allowed for self expression that has ultimately been the most comfortable for me.

i am not saying i am going to be the leading example of all trans people, but i am an example of the consequences of these kinds of invasive claims.

if you’ve made the conversation at hand a “we the gerard way transgender believers and knowers vs the deniers who claim gerard is male” you have lost, because that is not what people believe. I would say most of us are very comfortable associating gerard with transness because they themself have expressed kinship and solidarity with us.

i hope if you took the time to read this you take all i say in good faith and understand why this conversation has hit home for me so personally. i hope you were able to understand why i am so distressed by those standing on a soapbox preaching harmful rhetoric and practices. and i hope that people who have engaged in said practices perhaps discover that they are hurting a lot of trans people, out or not, and i hope that they express love for out trans women more than pursue what they appear to believe are “closet cases” or “flagging”. i hope we all learn from this as a community online and choose to engage only with gerard’s gender to the extent that they’ve verbally signaled they are comfortable with, which includes not assigning them labels, whether that be female, male, trans woman, cisgender, or otherwise, and at least when talking about them seriously, using their pronouns (no, i don’t think you lovingly calling gerard your girlfriend is the crime here. it’s why you do it that’s the issue; you aren’t doing it with solely affection but rather with a motive as well.)

just let them, as well as other people, especially those you might encounter in your day to day life, be themselves without argument or unnecessary investigation. just leave people alone about their gender identity, please.

#that’s all.

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