#vaught on ice?

[squidwardontheside]

The boys season 4 is not playing about antisemitism and it’s honestly so refreshing

[plutoswritingplanet]

Vicarious (Homelander x Female!Reader) pt.1

a/n: guys... you can't tell me y'all weren't expecting this. Title from the song "Vicarious" by Tool. Really wanted this to be a one shot, but as usual, I have shit to say. Will be Cross-Posted on AO3 as soon as they open the site back up.

Warnings: Nothing Explicit YET, some sexist remarks and creepy behavior from the man of the hour, Questionable Corporate Ethics, Set Before The Events Of The Show, Reader is written to be Plus Size.

Summary: Sidekick projects have been scraped completely after numerous accidents, but as a viral video of your hero work makes rounds through the public, you're forced to take part in a six moths program, that will forever change your life, as well as Homelander's

PT.2 Pt.3 Pt.4 Pt.5

It all started with a video. An insignificant, minute-long nothing posted to TikTok by an account, that up until then, made short edits specifically of A-Train and some B-list no-name hero. Quickly, it gained traction, making rounds throughout the app, bleeding over to other services, all the way to national television. First, an independent local station, soon picked up by a Vaught-affiliated one. Normally, that's where it would've stayed. Stillwell would extend an offer of a chance at an interview, alongside one of the Seven. But for some unknown reason, that small piece of nothing climbed all the way up to the floor eighty-two of Vaught Tower.

Well, to be quite honest, Stillwell knew exactly why she was in this situation. After a very messy graduation speech at a small college, Homelander lost almost twenty points with a young adult demographic. It would've been an easy fix, if not for the delicate nature of the breached subject, and Madelyn knew, this sudden interest in a nobody from nowhere, who, coincidentally, fit the demographic perfectly, was anything but a happy accident. It was a test, both for Homelander, and for her.

Which is why, Madelyn Stillwell and Homelander, the Homelander, the most American supe to ever exist, are cooped up in your living room, glancing about the modest decor, as you pour iced tea into three glasses with tacky fruit print all over them.

You've refused every single invitation, every single Vaught representative that knocked on your door. Your inbox was flooded with emails, your phone number was blowing up two, three times a day. And yet, your answer remained the same. You were not interested in a collaboration, thank you for the opportunity, please leave me alone.

That wouldn't fly, not with Madelyn, who, pushed by the constant nagging from the upper levels of the Tower, decided a more direct approach was the right one. So, she dragged herself into this… Well, to be quite honest, bum-fuck-nowhere, and brought her star pupil with her. No one would refuse working with Homelander himself, after all. At least that's what they both thought.

-I appreciate the effort - there's a practiced, borderline bored intonation in your voice, and Homelander's hands flex on his thighs - But I've already talked with, um, Jerry? From HR? The answer is still no.

Your house is small, but cozy, with sunshine pouring through the windows, reflecting onto the beaded curtain hanging in the doorway to your kitchen. An artist's home, through and through. Homelander hates it, hates the ordinariness of it all. He was so much above all this, sitting on your worn down couch physically hurt him. And the smell. The smell was the worst part. Reheated lasagna, mixing with a lingering aftertaste of cigarette smoke, and an undercurrent of weed, that almost made him retch. If it weren't for that damned video, you would be nothing more, than another brainless ant under his boot.

-Well, we - Madelyn offers her best, brilliant smile, gesturing to herself and Homelander - are very passionate about discovering new talent.

Your mouth twitches into a knowing smile, and for just a second Homelander feels flames of intrigue rising in his chest. Not for long, though, because you recline back into an armchair, taking a sip of the iced tea, and his eyes flash to the way your throat moves as you swallow. You could be hot, he concludes. Young, and with a truly spectacular rack. But there was something off about you, like you were constantly on the verge of dying from boredom, some invisible weight always on your shoulders. No amount of fake smiles and high-end makeup could cover that up.

He'd fuck you. If you'd beg him.

-We want to offer you a new, revised contract - Stillwell extends her hand with a rather thick binder of papers, and you hesitate for a moment, before reaching over. - Hopefully, it will make you reconsider.

You don't even show them the decency of looking through it, placing it on the table instead, and Homelander feels an itch form itself in the corners of his eyes. Stillwell looks taken aback as well, her brilliant smile faltering for just a second. You on the other hand, take another sip of your drink, before placing it right in the middle of the contract, the moisture from the ice creating a wet circle in the paper.

Your heartbeat is even, it doesn't pick up even a smidgen, when you look between Stillwell and America's Greatest Hero, who is slowly but surely growing annoyed by your persistent indifference.

-Thank you, but I already said no - you repeat, and this time, Homelander shifts on the couch.

-And why not? - he asks, tension entering his voice in a way, that makes Madelyn squirm - Countless supes, with much more impressing powers than you, I might add, would kill to be in your place.

"To work with me" goes unsaid, but he can see in your eyes, you read it from thin air of superiority engulfing him. Annoyingly perceptive. You nod your head slowly, before turning away from them, looking out of the window of your living room. There's a small patch of grass, and a second house, so similar to yours, but at the same time, completely different. Your chin sticks out in its direction, and Homelander follows with his eyes.

There are paper butterflies stuck to the windows, cut out clumsily, most likely by children's hands.

-My neighbour, Missus Johnson - you explain - She lives there, with her three kids. Her husband died in a fire caused by your friend, Lamp Lighter.

Madelyn stills, Homelander raises an eyebrow.

-I can afford this house, only because my mother signed an NDA, after The Deep sank my father's fishing boat. - again, your heart stays completely unaffected - Accidentally, of course.

-I was not aware… - Madelyn starts, and it's hard to decipher whether she's talking to you, or Homelander.

Someone at the research department is going to have a very unpleasant evening.

-That's alright - you interrupt her with a raised hand and a small smile - This whole neighborhood is filled with similar cases. And I'm very, very attached to this place.

Why, Homelander couldn't tell. For all he knew, this was some shit hole, right in the suburbs outside New York. Not even the half decent ones. A forgotten by everyone, dying piece of land, that housed insignificant humans, who would never amount to anything, you included. He lived in a lavish apartment, inside a miracle of modern architecture. Who wouldn't want the same?

-And - there's something new entering your tone of voice - If I'm going to betray everything I stand for, I need to give something back to those people. Does your contract reflect that?

Madelyn bites the inside of her cheek, her scrutinizing gaze making your skin itch. Still, she sighs after a moment, excusing herself with that same, practiced expression she uses on every shareholder. Homelander follows her out, nodding his goodbye to you, but before he can leave this dump, Madelyn stops him with a hand pressed against his chest. She gives him one look, makes him aware that his job isn't over, and he can feel the muscles of his face twitch.

So, obediently, he lingers in your doorway, taking a few calming breaths, before facing you once more.

You've changed positions, your armchair abandoned in favor of sitting by the window, one leg bent in a way, that shows quite a nice view of your calf, your long skirt pooling around you. Homelander's eyes trail up with mild interest, and he indulges in his X-ray vision. He's just being curious, nothing more.

Your underwear is, well, for the lack of a better word, plain. The bra seems to be slightly ill fitted, digging into the sides of your breasts, making them almost spill from under your pits, and Homelander swallows thickly at the sight. There are little, pink hearts on your panties. The colors are dull and washed out from frequent use, and the once frilly lace is starting to fray at the edges.

Apparently Vaught's compensation was not sufficient for you to buy some decent undergarments.

-Do you want something to eat? Drink? - you ask from your place by the window, and Homelander is snatched back to reality - Do you even need food?

The bluntness of the question startles him, makes him feel defensive, but Madelyn wanted results, so he puts on a mask of his trained smile, and crosses the room. Back straight like an arrow, he looks wildly out of place between all the linens and cushions. He doesn't look at you, trapping your smaller form in the confinement of the window, as he watches over the neighboring house.

-I'm not hungry - he shoots down your offer with a wave of his hand - I've already eaten.

A lie, but he'd never stoop low enough to take any leftovers, especially from you. Still, the offer seems nice. He does like being pampered, even if it's with lackluster things. Your eyes linger on his boyish smile, another practiced thing, and Homelander shifts focus to your heartbeat once again.

-Alright then - your voice sounds indifferent as ever - Well, if you don't mind, I'm going to make some dinner for myself.

He offers a small nod, and watches you from his position by the window, as you slip past him. It does require quite a lot of manoeuvering, but you manage to stand without touching him. He has to admit, watching you balance, as you try to avoid him, was amusing. Still, your heart beats calmly, and, not wanting to be left on his own, Homelander follows you to your kitchen. The beads of the courtain drum delicately over the bronze eagles on his shoulders.

The fridge is buzzing something awful. He can see just how run down the inside mechanism is, the hinges squeaking unbearably, as you reach for a box of reheatable spaghetti. There's cheep beer inside, a moldy lemon, a carton of milk pretty close to expiring, and a half-used bottle of spicy ketchup. Homelander doesn't even recognize these brands, they're not sponsored by Vaught, that's for sure.

Cheap, tasteless, basically offering no nutritional value.

-Would you step back for a second? - he asks, already wrenching himself between you and that pathetic excuse of a meal.

Again, your body sways to avoid touching him, and for some unknown reason, he finds it very amusing.

Then, you watch with a raised eyebrow, as he turns towards your spaghetti, a red sheen overtaking his eyes. An unbearably hot beam shoots out, making the insides of the plastic packaging sizzle. Finally, that gets him a reaction, as you gasp and reel back, colliding with the barely functional fridge. Your heart does a flip inside your chest, and Homelander soaks up your shock like a man starved.

Only when the red fizzles out of his gaze do you dare to move, approaching him slowly, your eyes bearing into him in a way that is frankly uncomfortable.

He turns to you with another one of his charming smiles, trying to handle this sudden scrutiny in as flippant a way as possible.

-I had no idea you can control the intensity of your lazer - you admit, voice slightly breathless.

-Pretty neat, huh? - perhaps he's fishing for more attention, but he doesn't care, because your eyes light up for just a moment in sheer wonder.

-Super cool, actually.

Yeah. Yeah, that's fucking right, he is super cool. And your heart is beating so much faster, and finally you're looking at him as if he's more than just some guy, some living advertisement you're determined to ignore.

And then your eyes shift, eyebrows furrowing ever so slightly, as you zero in on his shoulder. Something akin to a wave of amusement flickers across your expression, and to his general surprise, Homelander wants to know what's the cause of this shift. Your lips pull back into a smile, teeth peaking at him in all their glory. He can almost imagine them running down his skin, before he pushes the thought back all together, as the lower portion of his suit becomes slightly too tight for comfort.

-Well, thank you for saving the spaghetti - your eyes hold a spark of amusement - My hero.

Okay, alright, he's hard. There's no point denying it. However annoying and insignificant you were moments before, your quip goes straight to his loins, burning enough, for him to consider just how mad Stillwell would be, if he'd have a taste of this newly discovered talent.

If he stands any closer to you, he might find out, because this special little moment you two have shared, is crudely interrupted by Madelyn clearing her throat. Homelander nearly jumps back, you however barely turn your head, reaching for your spaghetti and arming yourself with a fork.

-I've spoken to my supervisor - Stillwell announces, clearly peeved by the way you start chewing on the noodles - A new version of the contract will be emailed to you as soon as possible. Hopefully it will be satisfactory.

-Thank you, Miss Stillwell - you answer with an inclination of your head.

With that, Madelyn nods her goodbye at you, refusing to shake your hand, which does amuse you, you're not going to lie. Homelander however, goes all out, capturing your fork-weilding arm, his fingers sneaking around your wrist like a bracelet. Or a shackle. Then, you watch with a confused arch to your eyebrows, as he brings you closer, until his lips press onto the protruding knuckles. Now that, admittedly, gets your heart going. You were not an easily embarrassed person, not by a long shot, but you could feel blood rushing towards your face all the same.

He has to hold his breath, as he kisses your hand in that charming, gentleman way he's seen in old movies. The smell of pasteurized tomato sauce blows in his direction, like a direct assault on his senses. Still, he needed something that would make you swoon. If everything failed, he knew how to be intimidating, but for now, perhaps he wanted to try something different. Something that would yield much more pleasant results, for the both of you. Mostly for him, let's be honest.

Madelyn asks him to stay back, spy on you throughout the night, and he begrudgingly agrees, if only to mask the fact, that he would do so of his own volition, had she not brought it up. And as such, he floats into the rapidly cooling air, disappearing into the darkening sky, where you wouldn't be able to see him even if you tried. He could see you however, and hear you, and he was about to make the most of the situation.

He spends the whole evening just watching you exist within your space. Normally, it would piss him off beyond belief. You weren't doing anything scandalous, anything that could warrant his attention. And yet, as he floats on, in time lowering himself just slightly, to get a better view, he just can't seem to look away. The spaghetti is gone in approximately fifteen minutes, as you inhale the supermarket food, walking around the living room, the kitchen, getting a few bites on the porch even. You seem so utterly unfazed by the events of the past hour, like you haven't just had America's Greatest Superhero try to convince you to work with him. It's honestly insulting, this lack of reaction.

Then, finally, he can hear a distinct ping of a new email come from your laptop, and you sit down on the couch with a small huff. Your eyes move, your lips twitch, and then he hears your heart stop in your chest. As if working on autopilot, your hand travels up, covers your mouth in shock, and you lean back against the worn-down sofa, eyes glued to the screen illuminating your face in a blue-ish light.

-...fuck… - you whisper, and despite himself Homelander floats even closer to your window.

Finally, he has the chance to peak over the curtain. To sneak into the backstage of the award winning production of your defenses, and see what goes on in those bored eyes of yours, when they're not guarded. And what he sees makes his suit feel much too tight, his body too warm. Quite an unusual thing to get so worked up about, but he's the goddamned Homelander, he can get hard whenever he fucking wants. And so, as saliva gathers on his tongue, he presses himself against the tiles on your roof, all the warmth of the day soaking into his skin through the thick material of his suit.

With a shaky hand you reach over towards your phone, putting in a number and pressing the call button, before standing straight from the couch, almost knocking the laptop over.

-Hey, what's up? - someone says on the other end of the line, and Homelander tries to focus more on the words flowing from the receiver.

-Oh, you gotta sit down for that one - you warn with an anxious chuckle, taking the familiar place by the window.

With your free hand you reach up to open the window all the way. Then, Homelander sees your fingers slip between the pillows and pull out a rather beaten up pack of cigarettes.

Naughty, naughty, he thinks, watching you produce a lighter from that same hiding place.

-Alright, I'm sat like never before.

The voice sounds vaguely female, although the shitty quality of your phone makes it hard to decipher. Your lips pull back into a toothy grin, and you blow out the smoke through the window. It curls upwards and dissipates into the air, right above the roof, where Homelander swallows thickly around a coughing fit.

-You will not believe who visited me today…

-The ICE - the voice deadpans, and you snort around another huff of smoke.

-Pretty fucking close, let me tell you - he doesn't appreciate the joke, not at all - Fucking Homelander.

The line goes completely quiet for a moment, and with every second your grin seems to be growing.

-Deadass?

-Yup - your lips purse, and Homelander zeroes in on the expression - Flew in all Star's Spangled Glory with some Vaught big fish. They tried to convince me to join the Seven.

-And obviously you said yes, because what the fuck else do you do in that situation?

Your grin slowly fades away, and you lean your forehead on the window frame.

-You didn't?

-I didn't.

Again, it's quiet.

Homelander shifts a bit in his position, adjusting against the warmed up tiles of the roof, his X-ray vision bearing into you. Out of curiosity, he looks deeper, eyes floating over your insides. You're relatively healthy. Some vitamin deficiencies, but nothing too serious. And despite that nasty habit lodged between your fingers, your lungs are clear, at least for now. There's a softness to your body, your muscles barely visible, as if you're just another gray human. Oh, and there's a bit of an eyesight problem forming, not enough to warrant glasses, but that shouldn't take long, considering your lifestyle.

-The contract they gave me was really good, you know - you muse to the phone, your leg dangling from the windowsill - Six months of working under Homelander, a Sidekick kinda situation.

-I thought they scraped the Sidekick program - the person on the other side wonders - Too many casualties or something.

-Yeah, well I guess they want to bring it back.

-Why did you say no then? I'm sure they pay is gigantic.

Again, you smile. This one much more reserved, bordering on sad. There's that strange kind of exhaustion settling into your bones again, same one Homelander noticed when he first saw you. Your shoulders slump forward, and you curl into yourself between the cushions.

-It was, it was… - you mutter - But I needed something more, for the neighborhood, ya know?

Your caller hums softly in understanding, and Homelander feels like something is passing him by. Some unspoken fact, that you and your friend find obvious.

-And - you hesitate, eyes flickering towards the laptop, your heart beat picking up ever so slightly - They sent me a revised contract. And it's fucking good. Really fucking good. It could help this entire place get back on its feet.

-But you still don't want to - the voice says for you, without judgement.

-No - you sigh - I really, really don't.

-Say no then - your friend supplies, and once again Homelander feels a flame of annoyance start to burn within him - No one else knows about the contract, there will be no expectations.

Slowly, you nod your head, clearly relieved by the way your friend reacted to the news. Homelander however, caught you right where he needed you. That's your lever. Not seduction, not intimidation, just plain, stupidly human guilt.

-Thank you - you whisper into your phone, finally smiling again - Oh, wanna know one more thing?

-Obviously.

-Homelander's wearing a padded suit.

Something's stuck in his throat, as he reels back from his position. Before he can stop himself, his eyes begin to glow red, because how the fuck did you know?

-Okay, that's bullshit.

-Unless his shoulder dislocated in the middle of talking, then no, it's definitely not bullshit.

Your friend gives out a choked laugh, one which you mirror with your own. If Homelander wasn't so utterly flabbergasted by your (correct) observation, he would've stopped to appreciate the sound. As it stands, however, he pushes himself off your roof, a couple of broken pieces falling off of the tiles. And then he's up in the air, cutting through the winds, headed straight for the Tower, leaving you in the comfort of your insignificant, smelly home.

The contract is leaked before the sun is up.

You're awoken to thousands of news articles flooding your timeline, all listing the truly wonderful and selfless points in the fated email. With a white face, you read them all, the speculations, the theories, the angry comments about you being chosen without an actual casting, while all those up and coming supes are busting their asses in auditions.

Soon enough, you're visited by every neighbour possible, congratulating, thanking you. A barbecue is set in the street, as a way of celebration, and you want to throw your phone, and subsequently yourself into the nearest river.

Madelyn Stillwell sends you an email, scheduling a meeting at the Vaught Tower. No need for pleasantries at this point, you stare at the bare bones invitation. "We eagerly await the start of our partnership" looks back at you, mocking your resolve. And thus, the end of your life as you know it begins.

"Project Delinquent"

The words are printed in an ugly, corporate font, and they stare back at you, outlining the mold you're supposed to fit in, in such a perfect way, it actually, almost makes you retch. True, during high school you were quite the little rebel, but people grown and learn, and seeing your character be watered down to that simple word, does send a wave of nausea through your insides. Even if this is hell of your own making, even if you're ready to swallow it all down with a smile, there's a pang of humiliation stinging your heart.

The armchair in Stillwell's office is uncomfortably narrow. It barely has enough room to accommodate your hips, and you wonder if this design is intentional. There is a growing ache in your calves, as you sit so close to the edge, you can't fully relax into your position, balancing on your feet instead. The armrests dig into your sides, and the way the sun is shining through the gigantic windows of the office, is shaping this charade of a meeting into an overstimulating nightmare. Still, you endure. For all the wonderful benefits enclosed in your contract, the charity work Vaught is going to supply.

Or at least, that's what you keep telling yourself, stuck between the marketing department representatives and a literal Devil of a woman.

Madelyn Stillwell doesn't know what to make out of you. Your files were filled with all sorts of questionable activity, especially around the college area. It's honestly a miracle you've managed to get your degree, and attend all those silly little demonstrations at the same time. Your criminal record has been wiped clean, weeks before you even agreed to sign the contract, just in case any leaks would find their way into the media. Leaks that were not orchestrated by Madelyn, of course.

High school rebellion was almost too easily marketable, Madelyn decided to focus on that part of your life as much as possible, her vision slowly coming to fruition. All she needed, really, was cooperation. And while you seemed to be mostly receptive to her ideas, she needed to make sure Homelander was on his best behavior. Which, well… Could go sideways in the worst way imaginable, but Stillwell tried to have some faith in her best superhero.

The idea of releasing details of your contract to the public, was a stroke of genius, she did not expect from Homelander, and she made sure he was thoroughly rewarded. With him, it was always better to choose the hands-on approach, unfortunately. With you, however, ideals were the key. Whatever feeling of solidarity you harbored towards your neighborhood, provided a leverage relatively easy to control. Still, as Stillwell looked you over, crammed into her office in your, frankly, lousy attire, she couldn't help but be just a tad worried about your compliance.

-…And then - the marketer continues with a dramatic gasp - Homelander comes in. America's Greatest Hero, offers you a mentorship. And you…

You look up at the representative with a rather sour expression. They have to work on that too. Media training was crucial. You won't be able to sell anything, if you keep grimacing like that all the damned day.

-… Are starstruck - your mouth twitches - You strike up a deal, selfless. A rebel with a heart of gold. Finally, you can make some real change happen, so you push aside your anti-corporate values, to discover, that Vaught is so much more, than you could possibly imagine.

It's hard not to laugh, and you swallow thickly, biting your lip, as a middle-aged woman you don't recognize gets up from the couch, and makes her way to the wall opposite of your torture chair. There, tucked in a corner and hidden under a black cloth, stands a mannequin, roughly your size. With a flourish you find utterly out of place, the woman tugs at the cape, and as it falls to the floor, so does your stomach. You can't hold it in any longer. A rough snort of laughter rips out of your nose, and you cover your mouth instantly.

-That better be a laugh of delight - Ashley, a ginger menace, mutters under her breath, and Stillwell turns to you with a tight expression on her face.

-Something the matter?

-I mean - you take a deep, grounding breath, tying your amusement in the back of your throat - I knew it's going to be skimpy, but this is…

You look around the room, seeing various stages of corporate outrage, and then you lock eyes with Homelander. Stillwell insisted on his participation in the meeting, as the both of you are supposed to work closely together, and throughout the whole ordeal, he looked borderline ready to die of boredom. Now, however, his eyebrows lift in a curious manner, as he takes in the, to be completely honest, horrendous costume, and your full figure. Something dangerously close to disgust twists your features, as he shamelessly drags his eyes all over your body.

Who would've thought America's Sweetheart was a fucking creep?

Rolling your eyes, you get up from the cursed armchair, your knees cracking loudly. Crossing the room, you take a closer look at the clothing, or rather, lack there of. Torn fishnets, plaid tennis skirt, and a corset top, made out of some leather-like material. Truly, a fetishists wet dream. Your fingers sample the fabric of the skirt. Surprisingly stiff, it seems to beg for a wardrobe malfunction. With a frown pulling down your lips, you lift the material up, and as expected, find no safety shorts underneath.

Homelander watches you intently, as you inspect the costume. Just the thought of your soft body in this skimpy, corporate bastardization of a rock star, makes heat rise in the lower part of his stomach. With every disapproving pull of your, and don't quote him on that, perfect lips, he's more and more convinced this whole charade is just an early birthday present. He'll have to thank Stillwell. Or better not, because as soon as he throws her a sidelong glance, he discovers, she's already looking at him. With a rather tense expression at that.

He feigns innocence, almost raises his hands in mock defeat, but decides against it at the last second. You're still watching him, torn between inspecting the costume, and shooting disgruntled looks in his direction.

Then, as if pulled by some invisible force, your hand sneaks to the front of the corset, fingers closing over the full cup, where your breast will soon reside. You give the mock leather two squeezes, and a high-pitched laugh wheezes out of your lips. Homelander's head nearly snaps with how fast he turns to look at Stillwell, confusion clear on his face.

She's looking at you cautiously. He knows that expression all too well, he's seen it multiple times during their partnership. She's calculating, with bated breath, just how much of a problem you'll inevitably become. How to turn it around in the company's favor, how to steer you in the right direction, should the need arise.

But then, you clap your hands, still giggling quietly, and turn to the designer, who's been watching your reaction with a growing distaste.

-That's one hell of a push-up bra - you comment with a raised eyebrow - My tits will fly straight out of this, if I even think about moving my arms.

Now, that's something Homelander would love to see, and you note his leering face with an uncomfortable shift in your posture.

-Your physique has to be god-like. There's no shame in a little padding - the designer answers simply, and your eyes glimmer with amusement.

-Oh, I bet - your eyes float for just a second in Homelander's direction, and he wonders if lasering you down right now would be too harsh of a reaction.

The image had to be kept up, however, and he deflects your blatant provocation with a bright smile. Or rather, it would've been a bright smile, if his cheek didn't twitch in a way, that portrayed exactly how forced his pleasantries are.

-There will be a press conference, seven PM sharp, where you'll be introduced to the public - Ashley informs you, her eyes glued to her tablet - Homelander will give a welcoming speech, explain that you're a temporary member of The Seven. Then, you'll need to say a couple of words. We'll send you the talking points ASAP.

-Right… - you mutter, not particularly thrilled by the idea of public speaking.

Stillwell looks over her shoulder towards Homelander, giving him an expectant, raised eyebrow. Slowly, he moves from his spot by the window, hand extended in a greeting, teeth flashing in a smile. Your eyes involuntarily shift towards his rather sharp canines, and for the first time, since you've signed the contract, you truly feel uneasy. His eyes are almost unnaturally blue, a perfect, American shade, that glimmers just a tad too dangerously. There's no need for super senses, he can feel your nerves in the very air you breathe.

-Welcome to The Seven - his voice is smoother than you've ever heard before - Fireball.

Wait a god-damned minute.

Confusion covers all previous feelings, and to Homelander's growing annoyance, you leave him with his hand extended, in favor of turning towards Stillwell.

-That's not my name - you point out, and Madelyn nods her head in a practiced expression of understanding.

-Due to some copyright intricacies, we can't let you use Smirnoff - she explains.

You suck in a deep breath through your teeth, looking back towards the costume. A moment's hesitation, you close your eyes as you breathe out, and once again Homelander feels as if he's able to peak under a carnival mask you carefully placed upon yourself. He lifts it just enough, sees the way muscles on your neck twitch. Your jaw sets in a way, that is slowly becoming intoxicating, and then you turn back to him.

-I'm honored - your voice is hollow, locked far away in the column of your throat, and you don't have enough strength to even attempt a smile.

That's alright, he has enough charm for the both of you, his imposing stature pushing towards you, as his arm sneaks around your shoulders.

Fuck, you're warm. He can feel the heat of your skin seeping into his costume. There's a vaguely familiar smell clinging to your form, mixing with the scent of cigarette smoke. Jasmine flowers, he concludes, and absent-mindedly remembers a rather large bush growing in your backyard. He wonders, if you'd let him fuck you, if he showed up with a bouquet at your door. Women seemed to like those, and although you didn't strike him as the most romantic person, he's positive he could charm his way into your pants.

-I'll show you to your room, sweetheart - perhaps he's laying it on a bit heavy with the nickname.

He can hear Stillwell's heart jump, and he immediately knows, he's going to have to sit through a stern talk later today. You, on the other hand, wrench your head to the side, disgruntled with this new form of familiarity. Your entire body goes tense, and you try to wriggle yourself further away from him. On instinct, his fingers dig into your shoulder, a mockery of a friendly expression, and with just a small fragment of his true strength, he pushes you forward, out of Stillwell's office.

He can do whatever he wants, and Madelyn is getting awfully pushy with guarding you from him. You're just a temporary toy to satisfy the higher-ups. A six months worth of an experiment, that he's forced to be a part of. After your contract is up, Vaught won't care whether you live or die, and you bet your rather ample ass, he's going to exploit that to the fullest. Not only is it borderline insulting, to deny him life's simple pleasures, it's pathetic.

-Nervous about the press? - he asks in a light tone, his jaw clicking softly, when your slide out of his grasp as soon as the doors close.

The casualness of this question throws you in a bit of a loop, but with a couple of rapid blinks, you're back to normal, letting him lead you towards the elevator.

-Public speaking isn't my best asset - you mumble.

Homelander presses the call button of the elevator, then leans against the wall, watching you with a strange twinkle in his eye.

-Sounds like someone's not a people person - he notes, wiggling his finger at you in a manner that is confusingly playful.

-I am a people person - you defend yourself, albeit a bit awkwardly - Just… Not when there's a lot of people.

He laughs at that, a practiced, almost theatrical bark that's as fake as his hairdo. All you have the strength to do, is flash him half of a smile. Thankfully the elevator pings before any more small-talk is required, and you slip into the confined space, standing in the corner. His eyes roam freely all over your body, a shameless act that makes your guts twist, makes the already small space of the elevator even more stuffy. And then, he enters after you, pressing a button to the right floor, and taking a spot much too close to you, than what's necessary.

You suppose it's one of the things you'll have to get used to. This constant invasion of your personal space. Perhaps, if it were someone else, someone that wasn't as empty as you, those actions would've been more intimidating than annoying. Alas, as you watch his chest rise and fall in steady rythm, out of the corner of your eye, his actions remind you of a petulant, spoiled child, rather than America's Greatest Hero. "I can't play with this toy? And what if I do this?" For just a second you entertain the idea of gentle parenting Homelander, and the thought makes the corner of your mouth twitch.

-Something the matter? - he asks, tension sneaking into his friendly tone.

-Just happy to be here, sir - you answer, and he knows it's a blatant lie, another one of your snarky provocations.

Doesn't matter for now, there will be a time to teach you some manners.

The elevator arrives at the right floor, and you bolt out of your place as soon as the doors slip open. Homelander follows closely behind, before closing the distance in a couple of long steps. Then, he's in front of you, and you nearly collide with his form, as he suddenly comes to a stop, in front of a pair of large doors. "Fireball" is etched into a small plack, and you throw the offending piece of metal a withering glance.

-That's your stop, sweetheart - he comments, and once again, you grimace at the nickname - Take a look inside, I'm sure it will blow your socks right off.

Why is he talking to you like you're a fucking child all of a sudden, you'll never understand. The door clicks softly, as you open it, revealing your living space for the next six months. The sight chokes a laugh out of you, because truly, the ammount of "punk" memorabilia is staggering.

-Does cocaine addiction come with the package, or…?

He doesn't even react to your joke, and you don't blame him. For all his creepiness and fake interest, he doesn't strike you as the funniest person on earth. There are guitars hanging over a rather large bed, there's a pristine stop sign next to them, which you suppose is meant to look rebellious. The usage of leopard print is tacky at best, and you truly start to wonder if they even consulted someone out of the corporation to design the space. Most likely no, wouldn't want to waste resources on such a small project.

-Fireball - Homelander's voice is barely above a whisper, but it makes your heart jump all the same.

He's standing so closely behind you, you can feel the warmth of his breath at the back of your neck, but for some unnknown reason, you can't force yourself to move. Instead, you feel him take a deep breath trough his nose, his chest brushing against your back. Your eyes stay glued to a drum set, pushed against a gigantic window. Light reflects off of the cymbals, in your mind you're already playing it, far away from this nightmare of a superhero.

-I'll see you at the press conference - Homelander's hand clasps itself over your shoulder, squeezing a couple of times, as if testing the softness of your body - Don't even think about being late, young lady.

You don't know when he dissapears, as you stand there, frozen. One foot over the threshold of your room, breathing shallow and borderline panicked. It could've been seconds, could've been hours, until your head finally snaps to the side. He's not there anymore, you're alone in the corridor, and as you slam the door closed behind you, something you've only suspected before becomes abundantly clear.

There is something deeply wrong with Homelander.

[jessjad]

Unexpected

Chapter 8

Summary: After a Halloweenparty Y/N actually didn't want to got to, her life seems to be turned around. The reason is a very stubborn Supe that seems to have her in his visier. Is it just a coincidance or more?

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x Reader

Word Count: 2590

Warnings: some language, character death (mentioned), graphic violence and a little hurt/comfort (as best as possible)

A/N: Aaand we're back. This is going to be a little emotional. Do we all remember Y/N's sister Jenny? Yeah, we're going there. Buckle up, guys... All mistakes are mine.

My Masterlist Series Masterlist

The tension was high. In the last couple of days the world seemed to be upside down. No matter what channel Y/N decided to watch, Homelander was all over the place. The horrific pictures of his son Ryan killing the poor boy on the other side of the street were still shown. Wheter it was anchormen or so called experts in superhero topics who discussed the situation over and over again, kept it alive. All of a sudden Soldier Boy was not the most important thing to talk about anymore.

After this, Annie has gotten way more followers. Anti-fans of supes, as they started to call themselves now, made their own videos of supes and what was so wrong about them. Some of them even catching a glimpse of misbehavement and recklesness. The danger that came with this kind of research willingly forgotten.

Homelanders followers on the other hand were still on the side of Vaught and all the other supes. Calling the straight up murders little accidents and just collatteral damage. Nothing to worry about. It had Y/N's stomache churning with disgust and disbelief. But not just her. Ben seemed to be more stressed too. He also stopped venturing out as much as before. He did not say it, but Y/N could see it in his face. The worry behind his stoic eyes and the small crease on his forehead that showed his tables turning in his mind.

Mallory had contacted both of them more than once after the live broadcast and was pressing changes in their plan. Not even now, after all these weeks, Y/N still didn't know any more details about THE plan and what they were trying to do and how they wanted to stop Homelander. It was kinda frustating to be left in the dark, to feel like a puppet on strings. On the other hand though, she was a little glad not to know everything.

"I was really worried there for a second, girl! Seeing you falling into the ice cold Hudson River..." said Caroline and brought Y/N's attention back to her. "I mean, you know that I never really cared about Vaught and the supes... But after everything I saw on the TV..."

Her gaze traveled to the screen on the wall on which the news showed the incident with Homelander again and discussed what would be happening next. Ben was sitting on the couch, deep in thought.

"Yeah... It's not the first time that happend. It's only the first time, that the whole world is seeing this."

"And..." Care was getting a little closer to Y/N and started to lower her voice. "... I did some research online about... Ben." She pointed with her head to the man on the couch.

"Don't... say it."

"But... he is one of them. The original one, I believe. And he is no different than Homelander." the woman said.

"I'm nothing like the flag licking dick sucker." Ben interrupted from the living room with a short glanze to the kitchen table. "And I can hear you."

Y/N smiled a little. "Anyway... this whole situation... is a mess and I had my problems with it too in the beginning. Care, trust me..."

And to make it clear to her friend she told her as much as she could about it all without giving to much away. Her best friend gasped a couple of times and couldn't hold back on the dirty jokes, when the story came to certain points. Y/N had to laugh a little and the realization hid her that it felt good to finally talk to someone about it. She was pretty isolated in her own apartment.

Of course she had Annie or Hughie to talk to, but that was not the same. Only the supe who shared the apartment with her was 24/7 around her, but he was not the biggest talker. Although it seemed as if he was trying to open up a little more to her.

"... and now we... we came to terms. And it's fine. For now."

"Okay." Caroline nodded her head. "I trust you if you say so."

Y/N nodded too and laid her hand on top of her friends.

"But, Care... it would've been better if you didn't have come here. There is a reason why I went into hiding."

"I know, I know. I get that." Caroline agreed. "But I needed to know that you were okay." That really touched her heart. "But it was not just me, Y/N. I talked to your mom and she is worried, too."

"Yeah, I know that." Y/N sighed. "But it would be to risky if I kept in touch with her. Not just for me, but for my family too."

Caroline nodded in agreement. She totally got that, now that she knew what had happenend. And she assured Y/N that this was the only time she would come looking for her. The silence that followed was comfrotable. But then...

"Y/N, your mom... told me about Jenny..."

"What are we supposed to do now?"

In a dark, small corner somewhere in the abandent building outside of New York that served as Victoria Neuman's operation center were two men standing and hiding from unwanted eyes, whispering to eachother.

"We have to keep going." Johnson answered. "We know now where he is hding out and what his plan is. We only have to give him as much time as we can."

"But... with Homelander involved now? It is not that easy anymore. We can not fool them forever."

"I know, Harlow!" Johnson said with a little bit mor force, but dialed back to whispering. "But we owe Soldier Boy, you know that. Better than me. That's the only reason I took this job."

"Yeah, yeah, I get it." Harlow sighed and crossed his arms infront of his chest. "But we have to be careful. And we can trust noone, except us."

Johnson nodded and a moment of silence followed, before Harlow spoke up again. "All of this is going to bite us in the ass. I can fucking feel it in my bones."

"Don't worry, my friend. It will all play out in the end." Johnson smiled a little and gave Harlow a assuring clap on the shoulder before both men parted ways to get back to their duties.

But noone of them noticed the third person near them in the shadows.

Shortly after Caroline left, Y/N started to cook. She needed to do something with her hands, keeping herself busy. That her mom had told Care about Jenny was unexpected, but in a way she understood why she did that. They were branded by what had happened a long time ago. But she didn't wanna talk about it and her best friend didn't force her do to so. She just wanted to let her know, that she knew and was there for her if needed.

Thirty minutes later, the pasta sauce was cooking and she started to boil water, Y/N heared noises from behind her. She glanzed at the couch and saw Ben laying sprawled out and sleeping. But his brows were creased and his fists were balled. His upper lip shivered almost aggressivly. Y/N went slowly over to the man, as he started growl and grumple, before he began to shout and squirm.

"Ben?" she tried carefully and touched his shoulder with a soft hand. "Ben!"

He catched her wrist almost painfully, as he suddenly sat up, shocked out of his nightmare. His green eyes darted wildly through the room to fight of the pictures in his head.

"Ouch! Ben!" she exclaimed. "You're hurting me!"

That brought his attention back to her and fighted off the pictures of his torturous years with the commies. He released her wrist right away and got up. Turning his back to her, he wiped his face with his hand and he cleared his throat.

Y/N could already see the bruise on her wrist form. This was not the first time she experienced Ben's nightmares. They didn't happened often, but she assumed that his PTSD was fighting his way back up to the surface, now that he did not take the hard drugs anymore.

"I didn't... want to..." was all he said, without looking at her.

"I know. Don't worry about it."

Y/N really didn't mind. He didn't do it on purpose and with all the other bruises on her body from their mattress sports it was just another mark he gave her. And she just knew how much he liked to mark her up. But she could still sense that he felt uncomfortable, probably because he thought he now looked vulnerable. So, she went back into the kitchen and finished the food.

The silence was deafening and a little uncomfortable, but Y/N tried not to show it. Ben kept an close eye on her, but she only smiled a little everytime she saw him looking at her her. And everytime he seemed to relax a little more. When they both sat down on the table to eat, Ben poured himself a full glass of whiskey, before he started to speak.

"Who's Jenny?"

Y/N was about to take her first bite but she paused with wide eyes.

"What?" the surprise fully displayed on her face.

"I asked you this once and you didn't wanna talk about it. But now..."

Ben didn't finish his sentence and he didn't need to. She understood what he was getting at. He had a moment of weakness and now he wants her to repay it. She sighed and put her fork aside.

"Jenny was... my sister."

"Was?" he crocked an eyebrow.

"There is a reason why I hate Vaught and the supes." Ben huffed, but Y/N slapped him lighty on the arm. "You knew that already."

"Yeah, yeah..."

She sighed. "Our dad worked in the army. He had a lot of friends that worked for Vaught and once a year... there was some kind of ball. You know? To celebrate a year of good work and to honor certain people. And when my dad decided to retire, the whole family was invited. Jenny was younger than me by two years and I have always been a little protective over her."

The memories from the past started to play infront of her third eye.

"That night, a lot of supes were there, too. And Jenny got introduced to a supe named Skyrider. He was in his mid twenties and he had wings. Strong, fast and he had a charming smile that lured Jenny in." Y/N laughed dryly.

"While she was talking to him, I was wandering around the room. Dad was talking to his general and nobody really noticed me. So, I went out in the hallway to search for the bathroom and there, in a corner, I heard to other supes talk about a woman and what they did to her."

Y/N started to slightly shiver. "I can't remember everything they said, but I remember that I was utterly shocked. They laughed and then I thought 'Oh, maybe they made a joke. A very bad one at that, but... just a joke'. However, days later I still had a bad feeling."

She had wanted to talk about it with her dad, but when she heared that Jenny was starting to date Skyrider, she didn't wanted to ruin it for her. Her sister seemed happy about it and that's all she ever wanted for her. To be happy.

"So, I kept my feeling for myself and for a couple of months everything seemed fine. Jenny was happy and we got to meet Skyrider officially. There was nothing to worry about."

Y/N smiled, but that expression faded quickly. She sucked in her lower lip with her teeth and Ben could see the tears starting to form in her eyes.

"It was on the weekend of the 4th of july. Skyrider wanted to spent the weekend with Jenny somewhere far away. A little trip just for the two of them... but that had me worried again. He didn't wanted to tell us where he would take her to, in sake for it being a surprise." Y/N sighed. "I did not like that."

Now, she grabed Ben's still full glass of whiskey and took a big sip out of it.

"A week later, they still weren't back from their trip and we all started to worry. My dad tried to contact Skyrider, but he was nowhere to be found. Vaught also wasn't willing to help and after another week, we got a phonecall from the police in Mexico City. They had found Jenny. Dead. Skyrider had brought her to an luxury villa... which had security cams installed."

Tears made their way down her cheeks.

"On the video... Skyrider had forced her to take drugs and while he... was recideing about how great the supes were, what great power they held over the world, so that they could do whatever they wanted and that she could be so happy to be with him... he started to force her into sex." Y/N had to get up, couldn't sit down anymore. "He kept talking and talking, but I can't remember any of the words anymore. The only... the only thing I remember were the screams... that escaped my little sister's mouth while he hammered into her so hard... that you could hear her hips break while blood was bursting from her sides."

She couldn't hold herself back anymore. While she hugged herself, Y/N sobbed and turned away from Ben. The supe didn't stay untouched from her telling, he had tuned into her thoughts and the pictures he saw made him understand her pain. He also slowly got up from his stool, the food already forgotten.

"He laughed. All the while... he assaulted and... mutilated her... he kept on laughing." she paused to try to take some deep breaths. "And... when her screams of pain were becoming to much for him... he... he cruched her skull while he came in her..."

Her legs gave in and she landed on her knees while he sobbed uncontrollably. The pain about it all was still so fresh. That's why she never wanted to talk about it. She'd buried it deep inside her and promised to never let her become weak again. Ben could understand that. He came around the table to her, sat down on the floor next to Y/N and scooped her up into his lap. Maybe, just maybe, he asked to much of her.

"I... I should have talked to someone, to my dad... I" she said and clung to Ben's chest like he was the only safety net she needed.

"Sh..." Ben stopped her from talking and rubbed her back lightly. "You could've done nothing against it."

"But... but I could have at least tried!" she looked at Ben. "I should've done something!"

"Y/N..." he took her cheek in his hand and dried it with his thumb. "It's not your fault." He catched her gaze so that she truly listened to him. "Trust me. No matter how... he still would've done it."

And eventhough she did not like it, Y/N could see the truth in his eyes and it made her question, if the supe infront of her that was holding her right now, had once done the same.

A/N: Yeah, the truth hurts. But in this universe it's a fact. And they bonded once more. Hopefully that will not backfire... 😉

@lyarr24 @k-slla @leigh70 @deadlydivergentgirl @deans-spinster-witch

[justlookatthosesausages]

The Boys being more and more explicit that it's Disney corp they're dragging in the mud in their superhero entertainment monopoly and capitalism satire with "Vaught on Ice" being a thing now I'm cackling

[micsmasmuses]

Not me seeing James post about being an extra voice in the boys with that Vaught on ice thing 😭

[possum-tooth]

did i literally just finish a cup of coffee? yes. am i already thinking about another cup ill have right after class? maybe

[marvelwitchergilmore]

A Soldier in Montana

Summary; Butcher knocks out Soldier Boy and so he finds himself in the middle of nowhere with a woman who isn’t like most women he’s met before... 

Warning: Swearing, mentions of death etc. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Whoa, hey, easy there Soldier."

He turned to look at her. Last he remembered he was in the middle of the city. Where was he now?

"Where am I?"

"On a ranch in Montana."

"Montana?"

The woman nodded. "Montana."

"Listen doll, I don't know who you are-"

"Sophia."

"Excuse me?"

"The name's Sophia. Not doll. Not sweetheart. Not darling. Sophia. I have a name. I'd prefer it if you used it."

Soldier was confused. He didn't really know what to say. He'd usually say something but she was a lady and he didn't know where he was so if he had any chance in getting out, it was her.

"What's yours?"

"What?"

Sophia rolled her eyes. "You're name, Soldier. What's your name?"

"Ben."

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Ben."

"Where am I?"

"Montana. I told you." Sophia repeated. "Now, if you just sit down, I can check you over and make sure you're not dying. I don't know about you but I'd rather not have to bury your body in the backyard."

He had no other option, so he did as she said.

"Good."

"How did I get to Montana?"

"Butcher." Sophia told him. "They were the one's that woke you up in Russia. You exploded a building in Midtown so he tracked you down and knocked you out with some gas he picked up in the lab. He didn't really know where else to take you since Vaught's looking for the one who did the damage, so, here you are.”

"I need to go back."

However, as he went to stand up, Sophia's arm went across his chest and he was pushed back onto the bed. 

"No, you don't, Soldier."

"How the fuck did you just do that?"

No-one ever had the strength to push Ben down. Ever. Not even those who were on his team. He was always the strongest. Always the one who could practically move mountains compared to the rest of them. And she'd just knocked him back onto his ass. 

"That's for me to know, and for you to never found out."

"What are you? Are you a Supe? Answer me.”

Suddenly a hand was at her throat, nearly choaking the life out of her. Thankfully, however, Butcher strolled in through the bedroom door. 

"Whoa, at ease Soldier. She's on our team."

He looked to Butcher for a few moments before finally dropping Sophia back to her feet. 

"Nice timing."

"You're welcome." Butcher said before taking something out of the brown paper bag in his arms. "Got what you wanted."

From his bag he chucked over a packet of dish towels and a bag of ice. 

"Thanks."

"You mind?" She asked, turning to Ben. 

Slowly, she placed the cold wrapping to his cheek. Only now did he realise he had a small bruise to his cheek. He never bruised. 

"Yeah, sorry about that Lad. It took a while before you'd go to sleep." Butcher explained before looking back to Sophia. "Oh, and here. They didn't have your usual so I got you what was left."

Butcher chucked her a tub of mint ice-cream before throwing her a bag of chocolate chips, one's she wasn't expecting so naturally as she looked up, they hit her in the face. 

"Ooh, sorry, Love."

"Thanks, Butcher." Sophia replied, her eyes still closed before she slowly opened them again and picked the bag of chocoalte chips from the floor. "And I thought I told you - It's Sophia."

"Oh, come off it. You love it when I call you love."

Sophia sighed and walked around the bed. "No. I hate it."

"Do you always keep a spoon in your bedside cabinate?" Butcher asked her as she found one. 

"Always." Sophia told him. "For every Saturday movie night."

"You mean where you watch Connery as Bond from the 60s. Do you even like the new movies?"

"I...like them. It's just...okay, look, they're classics. Hey, last weekend me and Kimiko watched Singing in the Rain. So, it's not always Bond."

"Who are you people?"

Butcher turned to look towards Soldier Boy. "I'm what you'd call...an Agent of the people. You know, helping clean out all those corrupt cunts from Vaught tower. And, after what happened in Midtown, I'd figure you might need our help. Especially after what you did to Countess in her trailer. So, I propose this to you. I help you clean up the rest of your team who sent you to the Reds and you help me kill their Number one. Homelander."

It took a few minutes but he eventually agreed. Butcher would handle the rest of Team Payback - as much as he hated it, but he needed to recharge. But, hopefully by the time Butcher would be finished, he'd have enough power to kill Homelander and finish what Butcher started. 

"So, you recooperate here and I'll be back in a couple of weeks."

However, as Butcher began to leave, Sophia realised what he just said. However, as she finally caught up to him, he was almost out of the front door. 

"He - He can't stay here. He needs a trained professional. Not a...ranch owner with telekenetic powers."

"Hey, you're the only one out of us, or anyone, who has enough strength to handle him. So, it's either you or he blows up half of the country."

"What am I meant to do with him?"

"Teach him the ways of modern life." Butcher offered after a moment or two. "We both know he's gonna need it."

"Butcher, he's the 80s Homelander. Why are you working with him?"

"Because he's the only one who has enough power to perhaps kill the cunt. I owe that much to Becca."

"Becca wouldn't want you pumping your blood with green stuff."

"Green- How did you-"

"Are you kidding?" Sophia asked him. "I can practically smell the rotting flesh on you for down the road. And, you're brain's bleeding." She said, pointing to Butcher's ear. "It's slowly killing you and you might not like it, but I'd rather have you living than dead in a ditch somewhere because you just couldn't let this mission go."

Butcher didn't say anything else other than got into his car and said; "Just keep an eye on him. I'll be back in a couple of weeks."

Without another word, Billy pulled down the road leaving nothing but dust in his place. 

"Guess I'll start making breakfast."

[mcrningstxr]

@blxsscd-x-fxrsakcn​ || Gabriel hadn't answered texts. Nor calls. Voicemail each time. Still worked - couldn't be damaged. Day passed, nothing. No reports of missing person. Dusk fell. Still no word from hospital or local shelters. Coming home, the brunet artist was found hunched over the kitchen sink. Nose and mouth stained crimson. Knuckles bruised. And right eye left blackened. Beside him, wadded towels with melted ice pack. Doesn't glance over. ( for vaught )

All day... no word. Calls straight to voicemail, texts unanswered. Vaught didn’t worry easily, but he could feel himself working into a panic. Gabriel never went this long without messaging him at some point during his shift. All through work, Vaught kept an eye on everything. Missing persons, even reached out to local shelters and the hospitals. All leads came up empty.

The officer was now in full blown panic mode.

The minute his shift was over, Vaught hastily gathered his things and all but ran for his car, breaking a few laws in the process of getting home. Speed walking into the house, Vaught made to go for the bedroom to change before stopping dead in his tracks.  ❝ ..Gabriel? ❞ The state the brunet was in; mouth and nose bloodied, hands bruised and eye blackened, Vaught felt a rage slowly begin to fester inside of him. Who had done this?

Slowly making his way over, making sure that Gabriel could see him at a moment’s notice, the blonde stopped at the edge of the kitchen counter, wanting to reach out for the other but fought against it. Last time Gabriel had been in a similar state, Vaught let Gabriel come to him. Let him have control of the situation. This time was no different.

❝ Gabriel... what happened? ❞

[landtownbabe]

It was half past ten and Dove was having a hankering for her favorite ice cream. Her parents would scold her, complain about how years of paid training went to waste all because of a single indulgence. They meant well, she told herself. It was something she told herself over and over again lately. Her parents, her employers, they were all looking out for her best interest-- weren’t they?

She lets out an ah ha, picking up the Ben and Jerry’s and ponders briefly if Kilian would want something until a figure with a red hat is in her peripheral. Dove recognizes the logo and shakes her head. Curiously, she allows her eyes to wander to their face. She just found it hard to believe that someone could still possibly support such a monster.

The ice cream carton nearly falls to the floor but she manages to save it. It didn’t seem like he noticed her, but the Red Cape’s powers were more than impressive. Pulling up the hood of her sweatshirt she watches him, studies him, fighting the urge to attack him there. She’d never hear the end of it from Vaught or Terrance. Dove waits patiently for him to make a move.

[colorfulkittydeer]

How to Explain strain with highest thc to a Five-Year-Old

Tetrahydrocannabivarin (Thcv) Fundamentals Explained

Table of ContentsHigh-thcv Strains You Should Know About for DummiesThe 2-Minute Rule for Thcv: Everything We Know About So-called 'Diet Weed'The Only Guide to Marijuana Strains: The Best Of Indica, Sativa, Hybrid, And MoreThe Facts About Everything You Need To Know About Thcv With Rare Revealed

Front end Range Biosciences creates pressures abundant in THCV. These strains have in the past been actually tough to grow and also refine, due to the fact that they could not be actually quickly sized up as a result of to little bit of requirement and a costly isolating procedure. As for THCV by itself, "it's a little bit of less very clear," Vaught mentions. THCV is actually generally discovered in cannabis items together with THC.

This idea is actually backed by a couple of animal research studies. For instance, a proposed that THCV may lower food intake as well as weight increase - thc-v vs thc-p. A discovered that it might minimize blood sugar prejudice pertaining to obesity. O'Sullivan was actually the top writer on a human trial examining the results of THCV on patients with type 2 diabetic issues.

Having said that, there was actually no influence on appetite or even body weight in these patients with THCV procedure compared to the team that obtained placebo. A checked out just how a solitary dosage of 10 mg THCV influenced food items incentive and hostility. The writers located that THCV actually enhanced the account activation of numerous brain locations in action to dark chocolate or to aversive food items stimulations (rotten strawberries) - cbga.

"Taken together, the released clinical evidence performs not however assist the idea that THCV is actually an appetite suppressant," O'Sullivan states. O'Sullivan includes that, though the court is still out on THCV's appetite-suppressing residential properties, preclinical creature analysis recommends there may be a part for THCV in a broad series of diseases and conditions, featuring: Human research along with THCV is more limited, however an amongst cannabis discovered its own possible to minimize some unfavorable impacts of THC (african haze strain).

It's expensive," Vaught claims. Vaught mentions he and also his team have discovered people separating THCV coming from plants and instilling it in to various made products, like edibles and also marijuana cocktails. This opens up the door, he adds, to enhanced return as well as supply establishment accessibility by attracting producers to make even more THCV. It additionally breaks the ice for more traditional products, like bloom or vapes, that come directly from the plant (as opposed to, for instance, a nutritious infused with an isolate) (pictures to look at when you're high).

The Facts About Cannabidiol Inhibits Sars-cov-2 Replication Uncovered

Like a lot of slight cannabinoids, THCV is still under-studied and also under-produced. Yet, with the help of buyer rate of interest, it seems to be like that could be altering. is thcv stronger than delta 8. Merely watch out for overenthusiastic cases around weight reduction and also other effects, as the analysis on THCV is actually still in the extremely early phases, specifically on its own impacts on people.

She likewise creates a email list and also organizes a podcast, both concerning cannabis society (thc-v buddy). Additional of her job may be found here.

The information on this internet site is actually certainly not intended to become a substitute for specialist medical guidance, prognosis or even procedure - sativa vs indica tincture.

And also no surprise; cultivars with extreme amounts of THCV have a tendency to share a hereditary descent with landrace sativas, known for their stimulating highs. purple pineapple las vegas, nv. However it is essential to note that THCV on its own is actually not psychoactive. THCV looks to a little lower the psychoactive impacts of THC. That alone produces THCV-rich strains an eye-catching selection for individuals seeking a high-functioning experience.

With all the benefits this cannabinoid includes, you're perhaps questioning why there may not be extra high-THCV stress and also marijuana products out there certainly (weed strain that helps you lose weight). THCV's loved one one of a kind creates it certainly not simply tough to discover yet tough and expensive to segregate as well as remove. Still, there are a handful of cannabis cultivars that are normally high in THCV, and nearly all of all of them stem coming from landrace sativas coming from in Africa.

The smart Trick of Thcv That Nobody is Talking About

If the various benefits of tetrahydrocannabivarin interest you, listed below are actually five high-THCV tensions you require to understand about (best thcv brands). Durban Poison originates from the port area of Durban, South Africa as well as was very first imported to the united state in the overdue 1970s by some of United States's very first international pressure seekers, Ed Rosenthal.

But the end results promote on their own: Port the Ripper continually weighs in at 5% THCV or even much higher, along with THC information that varies from around 15-25%. Regardless of those broad varieties in psychoactive effectiveness, Port the Ripper sustains among the greatest THCV accounts of any pressure to date (pink gummy strain). The good news is, Jack the Knife has ended up being so cherished amongst farmers and entertainment customers that it is among the easiest high-THCV pressures to find (best weed to lose weight).

THCV and also THC share a bunch of similarities, specifically in framework. In truth, THCV and THC are therefore similar in framework that their only variation hinges on the reality that people possesses a propyl group while the other possesses a pentyl team. This difference may certainly not imply much to those not familiar with chemistry, however what you need to have to know is that THCV as well as THC interact with the cannabinoid receptor CB1 in various ways.

THCV also possesses a much higher boiling point than THC, thus will certainly you require to obtain THCV to a greater temperature level if you organize to use it on a vaporizer. Among the various other primary differences between THCV and also THC is actually the amount of research in to each cannabinoid - high sativa strains las vegas, nv. THC has actually been so much more completely examined as well as possesses several more researches posted on it than THCV.

That said, research study released on the results of THCV is actually coming to be more and more popular. Yet another difference between THCV and also THC lies in their health benefits. While THCV and also THC carry out share some identical effects, you are most likely to experience different health and wellness profit from each cannabinoid. Due to the fact that THCV is actually so comparable in framework to THC, you may be pondering if THCV can get you high.

Fascination About High-thcv Strains You Should Know About

Research studies have found that THCV can easily activate bone blemishes buildup and also collagen development, suggesting that it may meaningfully bring about bone tissue growth. Due to this, THCV presents a bunch of pledge in the treatment of bone-degenerative conditions like brittle bones, although more investigation is required. One significant health and wellness advantage of THCV is its own potential to lessen swelling.

While more investigation is required right into THCV just before conclusive insurance claims could be made regarding its own clinical viability, the early indications tell our company that it is actually certainly an interesting cannabinoid and one to always keep an eye on (sativa and indica highs las vegas, nv).

Where when cannabis seemed to be like a simple vegetation, in the last few years it's ended up being an ongoing scientific research project filled with phrases and also wellness promises. CBD couldn't be more widely known, CBG is actually capturing up to it in level of popularity, and also CBN is actually just going into the competition. So, of training program, it's about time (wordplay wanted) for a new unusual cannabinoid to enter our collective mindset.

THCV is very most commonly located in pure sativas originating in Africa, China, Nepal, Pakistan, India, Thailand, and Afghanistan (thcv vs thco)." Through contemporary scientific research, this THCV compound could be extracted from plants only like CBD can. Unlike CBD, Delta Nine THCV has some prospective for psychoactive end results at a higher dosage, along with the above website pointing out, "At high dosages in strong stress, THCV will generate psychoactive impacts that are normally activating and also ensure psychological clearness - cbdvarin.

Vendors of products along with this cannabinoid claim it is blissful, uplifting, invigorating, as well as motivating. Assessments are actually blended, though. While some individuals claim they enjoy it, various other testimonials mention it is actually unworthy the buzz - thcv distillate. It's also been revealed to be actually neuroprotective and likely practical for symptoms of health conditions like Parkinson's Disease and also epilepsy.

[blxsscd-x-fxrsakcn]

Given space. Recognizing his flinch. Tried not to let show. Sleeves pulled down further. Over tattoos, over forearms. Speckled in blotchy bruises. Couple of precinct pricks happened to discover him the week before. Took a beating or two.

Sinking into warmth. Wind howled. Snow hammered windows. Built-up around them. Thick sheet of white. Dark shapes - trees? - bent. Muffled crack, like gunshot. Blues widen. Ice-wrapped branches burst through, glass shattering. Sprinkling shards.

❝ Fucking - shit - ! ❞ Scrambles back towards Vaught. Up against the cop. Hand thrown up too late. Surprised, pained yelp. Scored down cheek by sharp wood. Blood oozes, stinging in fresh wave of cold.

@mcrningstxr

blxsscd-x-fxrsakcn​ // Gabriel:

❝ Yeah, whatever. ❞ Trademark eye-roll. Hands rub together. Soft breaths into palms. Chills bring goosebumps. Snow sticks. Shadows cast. Movement on right, keys jangle. Interrupting thought. Blues watch the officer. Darting from hands, to face, and back again.

Instinctively flinches when Lucifer too, joins in the backseat. Looming shape, intimidating figure. Quiet click as cuffs unlock. Weight across when jacket settles. Slick material outside, lined on inside. Trapping heat. Blinks, brows furrow. Thrown off completely by touching gesture.

Fingers curl, gripping zipper teeth. Smells like heavy aftershave and stale coffee grounds, is the thought. ❝ I - what the hell? This - V, you can’t. Take it back. It’s yours. Not - not too cold. ❞ Insisting despite tremor.

@mcrningstxr

Seeing the flinch, Lucifer allowed his frame to lean back against the car door, giving the other his space as he placed the keys in the pants pocket. It showed how other officers had treated him when they brought him into custody, and it sent a flair of anger through him. Things were going to change.

❝ Gabriel, don’t argue, ❞ Lucifer replied with a shake of his head, body tightening to keep the shiver going through him from being seen. ❝ Your clothes are thinner than mine, therefore you need it more than I do. The last thing I want is for you to get sick. ❞ It was obvious he was enjoying the heat, seeing how the fingers held the coat close and curled around the fabric.

@blxsscd-x-fxrsakcn​

[lesliewofford83-blog]

BOF NEVER GABRIEL AND NEVER WAS MADE A BIRD A NEWBEC OR ANYTHING SHORTER THAN LESLIE AT 5′5 AND 3 QUARTERS INCHES TALL! AND FOR PEOPLE TRYIN TO BE ME AND INVADE ME THESE PEOPLE DIED, EVERY YEAR MORE AND MORE WILL DIE FOR TRYING TO STEAL MY STUFF OR HURT MY FAMILY OR KIDNAP MY KID(S) EVER OR HAVE ME LIVING MORE THAN ONE LIFE.

March 2002[edit source]

1 – David Mann, 85, American songwriter.

1 – Roger Plumpton Wilson, 96, British Anglican prelate.

3 – G. M. C. Balayogi, 61, Indian lawyer and politician.

3 – Calvin Carrière, 80, American fiddler.

3 – Harlan Howard, 74, American country music songwriter.

3 – Al Pollard, 73, NFL player and broadcaster, lymphoma. [1]

3 – Roy Porter, 55, British historian.

6 – Bryan Fogarty, 32, Canadian ice hockey player.

6 – David Jenkins, 89, Welsh librarian.

6 – Donald Wilson, 91, British television writer and producer.

7 – Franziska Rochat-Moser, 35, Swiss marathon runner.

8 – Bill Johnson, 85, American football player.

8 – Ellert Sölvason, 84, Icelandic football player.

9 – Jack Baer, 87, American baseball coach.

9 – Irene Worth, 85, American actress.

11 – Al Cowens, 50, American baseball player.

11 – Rudolf Hell, 100, German inventor and manufacturer.

12 – Steve Gromek, 82, American baseball player.

13 – Hans-Georg Gadamer, 102, German philosopher.

14 – Cherry Wilder, 71, New Zealand writer.

14 – Tan Yu, 75, Filipino entrepreneur.

15 – Sylvester Weaver, 93, American advertising executive, father of Sigourney Weaver.

16 – Sir Marcus Fox, 74, British politician.

17 – Rosetta LeNoire, 90, African-American stage and television actress.

17 – Bill Davis, 60, American football coach.

18 – Reginald Covill, 96, British cricketer.

18 – Maude Farris-Luse, 115, supercentenarian and one-time "Oldest Recognized Person in the World".

18 – Gösta Winbergh, 58, Swedish operatic tenor.

20 – John E. Gray, 95, American educational administrator, President of Lamar University.

20 – Ivan Novikoff, 102, Russian premier ballet master.

20 – Richard Robinson, 51, English cricketer.

21 – James F. Blake, 89, American bus driver, antagonist for the Montgomery Bus Boycott.

21 – Thomas Flanagan, 78, American novelist and academic.

22 – Sir Kingsford Dibela, 70, Governor-General of Papua New Guinea.

22 – Hugh R. Stephen, 88, Canadian politician.

23 – Ben Hollioake, 24, English cricketer.

24 – Dorothy DeLay, 84, American violin instructor.

24 – César Milstein, 74, Argentinian biochemist.

24 – Frank G. White, 92, American army general.

25 – Ken Traill, 75, British rugby league player.

25 – Kenneth Wolstenholme, 81, British football commentator.

26 – Roy Calvert, 88, New Zealand World War II air force officer.

27 – Milton Berle, 93, American comedian dubbed "Mr. Television".

27 – Sir Louis Matheson, 90, British university administrator, Vice Chancellor of Monash University.

27 – Dudley Moore, 66, British actor and writer.

27 – Billy Wilder, 95, Austrian-born American film director (Double Indemnity).

28 – Tikka Khan, 86, Pakistani army general.

29 – Rico Yan, 27, Filipino movie & TV actor.

30 – Queen Elizabeth The Queen Mother, 101, British consort of King George VI.

31 – Lady Anne Brewis, 91, English botanist.

31 – Barry Took, 73, British comedian and writer.

April 2002[edit source]

1 – Umer Rashid, 26, English cricketer, drowning.

1 – John S. Samuel, 88, American Air Force general.

2 – John R. Pierce, 92, American engineer and author.

2 – Robert Lawson Vaught, 75, American mathematician.

3 – Frank Tovey, aka Fad Gadget, 45, English singer-songwriter.

4 – Don Allard, 66, American football player (New York Titans, New England Patriots) and coach.

5 – Arthur Ponsonby, 11th Earl of Bessborough, 89, British aristocrat.

5 – Layne Staley, 34, former Alice in Chains lead singer.

6 – Nobu McCarthy, 67, Canadian actress.

6 – William Patterson, 71, British Anglican priest, Dean of Ely.

6 – Margaret Wingfield, 90, British political activist.

7 – John Agar, 82, American actor.

8 – Sir Nigel Bagnell, 75, British field marshal.

8 – María Félix, 88, Mexican film star.

8 – Helen Gilbert, 80 American artist.

8 – Giacomo Mancini, 85, Italian politician.

9 – Leopold Vietoris, 110, Austrian mathematician.

10 – Géza Hofi, 75 Hungarian humorist.

11 – J. William Stanton, 78, American politician.

14 – Buck Baker, 83, American member of the NASCAR Hall of Fame

14 – John Boda, 79, American composer and music professor.

14 – Sir Michael Kerr, 81, British jurist.

15 – Will Reed, 91, British composer.

15 – Byron White, 84, United States Supreme Court justice.

16 – Billy Ayre, 49, English footballer.

16 – Franz Krienbühl, 73, Swiss speed skater.

16 – Robert Urich, 55, American TV actor.

18 – Thor Heyerdahl, 87, Norwegian anthropologist.

18 – Cy Laurie, 75, British musician.

18 – Sir Peter Proby, 90, British landowner, Lord-Lieutenant of Cambridgeshire.

20 – Vlastimil Brodský, 81, Czech actor.

21 – Sebastian Menke, 91, American Roman Catholic priest.

21 – Red O'Quinn, 76, American football player.

21 – Terry Walsh, 62, British stuntman.

22 – Albrecht Becker, 95, German production designer and actor.

22 – Allen Morris, 92, American historian.

23 – Linda Lovelace, 53, former porn star turned political activist, car crash.

23 – Ted Kroll, 82, American golfer.

25 – Michael Bryant, 74, British actor.

25 – Indra Devi, 102, Russian "yoga teacher to the stars".

25 – Lisa Lopes, 30, American singer, car crash.

26 – Alton Coleman, 46, convicted spree killer, execution by lethal injection.

27 – Ruth Handler, 85, inventor of the Barbie doll.

27 – Baron Hans Heinrich Thyssen-Bornemisza, 81, German Industrialist and art collector.

28 – Alexander Lebed, Russian general and politician.

28 – Sir Peter Parker, 77, British businessman.

28 – Lou Thesz, American professional wrestler.

28 – John Wilkinson, 82, American sound engineer.

29 – Liam O'Sullivan, Scottish footballer, drugs overdose. [2]

29 – Lor Tok, 88, Thai, comedian and actor Thailand National Artist.

May 2002[edit source]

1 – John Nathan-Turner, 54, British television producer.

2 – William Thomas Tutte, 84, Bletchley Park cryptographer and British, later Canadian, mathematician.

3 – Barbara Castle, Baroness Castle of Blackburn, 91, British Labour politician and female life peer.

3 – Mohamed Haji Ibrahim Egal, 73, president of Somaliland and formerly prime minister of Somalia and British Somaliland.

3 – Mohan Singh Oberoi, 103, Indian hotelier and retailer.

4 – Abu Turab al-Zahiri, 79, Saudi Arabian writer of Arab Indian descent

5 – Sir Clarence Seignoret 83, president of Dominica (1983–1993).

5 – Hugo Banzer Suárez, 75, president of Bolivia, as dictator 1971–1978 and democratic president 1997–2001.

5 – Mike Todd, Jr., 72, American film producer.

6 – Otis Blackwell, 71, American singer-songwriter and pianist.

6 – Harry George Drickamer, 83, American chemical engineer.

6 – Pim Fortuyn, 54, assassinated Dutch politician.

7 – Sir Bernard Burrows, 91, British diplomat.

7 – Sir Ewart Jones, 91, Welsh chemist.

7 – Seattle Slew, 28, last living triple crown winner on 25th anniversary of winning Kentucky Derby.

8 – Sir Edward Jackson, 76, English diplomat.

9 – Robert Layton, 76, Canadian politician.

9 – James Simpson, 90, British explorer.

10 – Lynda Lyon Block, 54, convicted murderer, executed by electric chair in Alabama.

10 – John Cunniff, 57, American hockey player and coach.

10 – Henry W. Hofstetter, 87, American optometrist.

10 – Leslie Dale Martin, 35, convicted murderer, executed by lethal injection in Louisiana.

10 – Tom Moore, 88, American athletics promoter.

11 – Joseph Bonanno, 97, Sicilian former Mafia boss.

12 – Richard Chorley, 74, English geographer.

13 – Morihiro Saito, 74, a teacher of the Japanese martial art of aikido.

13 – Ruth Cracknell, 76, redoubtable Australian actress most famous for the long-running role of Maggie Beare in the series "Mother and Son".

13 – Valery Lobanovsky, 63, former Ukrainian coach.

14 – Sir Derek Birley, 75, British educationist and writer.

15 – Bernard Benjamin, 92, British statistician.

15 – Bryan Pringle, 67, British actor.

15 – Nellie Shabalala, 49, South African singer and wife of leader/founder of Ladysmith Black Mambazo, Joseph Shabalala.

15 – Esko Tie, 73, Finnish ice hockey player.

16 – Edwin Alonzo Boyd, 88, Canadian bank-robber and prison escapee of the 1950s.

16 – Alec Campbell, 103, Australia's last surviving ANZAC died in a nursing home.

16 – Dorothy Van, 74, American actress.

17 – Peter Beck, 92, British schoolmaster.

17 – Joe Black, 78, American first Black baseball pitcher to win a World Series game.

17 – Earl Hammond, 80, American voice actor best known for voicing Mumm Ra and Jaga in the television series Thundercats.

17 – Bobby Robinson, 98, American baseball player.

17 – Little Johnny Taylor, 59, American singer.

18 – Davey Boy Smith, 39, 'British Bulldog' professional wrestler.

18 – Gordon Wharmby, 68, British actor (Last of the Summer Wine)

19 – John Gorton, 90, 19th Prime Minister of Australia.

19 – Otar Lordkipanidze, 72, Georgian archaeologist.

20 – Stephen Jay Gould, 60, paleontologist and popular science author.

21 – Niki de Saint Phalle, 71, French artist.

21 – Roy Paul, 82, Welsh footballer.

22 – Paul Giel, 69, American football player.

22 – Dick Hern, 81, British racehorse trainer.

22 – (remains discovered; actual death probably took place on or around May 1, 2001), Chandra Levy, 24, U.S. Congressional intern.

22 – Creighton Miller, 79, American football player and attorney.

23 – Sam Snead, 89, golfer.

25 – Pat Coombs, 75, English actress.

25 – Jack Pollard, 75, Australian sports journalist.

26 – John Alexander Moore, 86, American biologist.

26 – Mamo Wolde, 69, Ethiopian marathon runner.

28 – Napoleon Beazley, 25, convicted juvenile offender, executed by lethal injection in Texas.

28 – Mildred Benson, 96, American children's author.

June 2002[edit source]

1 – Hansie Cronje, 32, South African cricketer, air crash.

4 – Fernando Belaúnde Terry, 89, democratic president of Peru, 1963–1968 and 1980–1985.

4 – John W. Cunningham, 86, American author.

4 – Caroline Knapp, 42, author of Drinking: A Love Story.

5 – Dee Dee Ramone, 50, founding member of The Ramones.

5 – Alex Watson, 70, Australian rugby league player.

6 – Peter Cowan, 87, Australian writer.

6 – Hans Janmaat, 67, controversial far-right politician in the Netherlands.

7 – Rodney Hilton, 85, British historian.

7 – Lilian, Princess of Réthy, 85, British-born Belgian royal.

8 – George Mudie, 86, Jamaican cricketer.

9 – Paul Chubb, 53, Australian actor.

9 – Bryan Martyn, 71, Australian rules footballer.

10 – John Gotti, 61, imprisoned mobster.

11 – Robbin Crosby, 42, American guitarist of rock band Ratt.

11 – Margaret E. Lynn, 78, American theater director.

11 – Robert Roswell Palmer, 93, American historian and writer.

11 – Peter John Stephens, 89, British children's author.

12 – Bill Blass, 79, American fashion designer.

12 – George Shevelov, 93, Ukrainian scholar.

13 – John Hope, 83, American meteorologist.

14 – Jose Bonilla, 34, boxing former world champion, of asthma.

14 – June Jordan, 65, American writer and teacher, of breast cancer.

15 – Said Belqola, 45, Moroccan referee of the 1998 FIFA World Cup final.

17 – Willie Davenport, 59, American gold medal-winning Olympic hurdler.

17 – John C. Davies II, 82, American politician.

17 – Fritz Walter, 81, German football player, captain of 1954 World Cup winners.

18 – Nancy Addison, 54, soap actress, cancer.

18 – Jack Buck, 77, Major League Baseball announcer.

18 – Michael Coulson, 74, British lawyer and politician.

19 – Count Flemming Valdemar of Rosenborg, 80, Danish prince.

20 – Enrique Regüeiferos, 53, Cuban Olympic boxer.

21 – Henry Keith, Baron Keith of Kinkel, 80, British jurist.

21 – Patrick Kelly, 73, English cricketer.

22 – David O. Cooke, 81, American Department of Defense official.

22 – Darryl Kile, 33, Major League Baseball player.

22 – Ann Landers, 83, author & syndicated newspaper columnist.

23 – Pedro "El Rockero" Alcazar, 26, Panamanian boxer; died after losing his world Flyweight championship to Fernando Montiel in Las Vegas the night before.

23 – Arnold Weinstock, 77, British businessman.

24 – Lorna Lloyd-Green, 92, Australian gynaecologist.

24 – Miles Francis Stapleton Fitzalan-Howard, 86, 17th Duke of Norfolk.

24 – Pierre Werner, 88, former Prime Minister of Luxembourg, "father of the Euro".

25 – Gordon Park Baker, 64, Anglo-American philosopher.

25 – Jean Corbeil, 68, Canadian politician.

26 – Barbara G. Adams, 57, British Egyptologist.

26 – Clarence D. Bell, 88, American politician, member of the Pennsylvania State Senate.

26 – Jay Berwanger, 88, college football player, first winner of the Heisman Trophy.

26 – Arnold Brown, 88, British General of the Salvation Army.

26 – James Morgan, 63, British journalist.

27 – Sir Charles Carter, 82, British economist and academic administrator.

27 – John Entwistle, 57, English bassist (The Who), heart attack.

27 – Russ Freeman, 76, American pianist.

27 – Robert L. J. Long, 82, American admiral.

27 – Jack Webster, 78, Canadian police officer.

28 – Arthur "Spud" Melin, responsible for marketing hula-hoop and frisbee.

29 – Rosemary Clooney, 74, singer.

29 – Jan Tomasz Zamoyski, 90, Polish politician.

30 – Pete Gray, 87, American one-armed baseball player.

30 – Dave Wilson, 70, American television director.

[i-globalone]

Like many other major cities in the United States, Houston is a fantastic place for eating out due to the diversity of the restaurants in the city. There is something to suit all budgets and occasions. Although Texas is generally associated with steakhouses and Tex-Mex food, these are not the only options. Houston has a vast array of restaurants serving both locally and internationally inspired cuisine. One option is to dine in one of the many seafood restaurants, epically if you are a fan of fish and seafood. Here are the 20 best seafood restaurants in Houston in 2019.20. Bernadine’sBernadine’s is a relative newcomer to the line-up of Houston’s seafood restaurants, but it has already earned an excellent reputation. The menu is described as being a love letter to the Gulf Coast, and features dishes using the catch of the day. The most impressive appetizer is the I-10 Tower, which is ideal for sharing and features crab claws, oysters, and pickled shrimp. A Southern theme features through the entrée list, but the list of dishes changes seasonally according to what is available.19. Bayou City Seafood & PastaFor those who want to dine somewhere casual, Bayou City Seafood & Pasta in Upper Kirby is an excellent choice. While the pasta dishes are obviously inspired by Italian cuisine, the seafood section of the menu is Cajun-inspired. The portions are large, so many people opt to share a meal with their fellow diners and simply add some sides. One of the most popular options on the menu is the seafood jambalaya. This restaurant has a happy hour with reduced wine and beer, so this is the ideal time to visit if you have a limited budget but want to sample some of the best seafood in Houston. 18. Tony Mandola’sTony Mandola first began cooking Italian food on the Gulf Coast during the 1980s. He is now a well-known name in the restaurant industry. This restaurant has a style that you would expect to see in the French Quarter in New Orleans. The menu is a combination of classic Italian fish and seafood dishes alongside Southern and Cajun favorites. You can also order wood-fired pizzas, one of the best of which is the gumbo pizza that combines Italian and Cajun flavors.17. Masraff’sA favorite among locals living in the Galleria neighborhood of Houston, this is an elegant and premier restaurant. Despite the high-end style, it is surprisingly affordable. The team at this restaurant is committed to using only the best and freshest ingredients, and they pay attention to detail in the preparation of their dishes. They serve classic fish and seafood dishes that have flavorsome twists with international inspiration. Guests can dine indoors or out on the patio if they prefer. A sommelier is on hand to offer advice regarding the perfect wine pairing for your chosen meal.16. Goode Co. SeafoodThe unusual railroad setting makes this a unique place to dine. Goode Co. Seafood specializes in Gulf Coast seafood, such as oyster Po’ boys and stuffed crab. This restaurant is also known for its mesquite grilling, which is a technique used in the preparation of many of the dishes on the menu. The entrees come in generous portions with an abundance of side dishes. There are two locations from which you can choose, The flagship restaurant is in Westpark, and the second restaurant is in Upper Kirby. 15. Connie’s Seafood Market & RestaurantYou will find this Mexican seafood eatery in The Heights neighborhood of Houston. Connie’s Seafood Market & Restaurant has an eclectic style and a great atmosphere. The interior features neon lights, glass block counters, and vivid walls. These features make dining here feel like a quirky experience. Despite the fun nature of the restaurant, the quality of the food is taken very seriously. Customers are even allowed to pick their own fish before it is prepared. It is worth noting that this is one of the most affordable seafood restaurants in Houston, so it is ideal for seafood lovers on a budget.14. Christie’s Seafood & SteaksRegardless of whether you have meat lovers or seafood enthusiasts in your dining party, there is something for everyone on the menu at Christie’s Seafood & Steaks. Located in Galleria, this well-established restaurant has been open since 1917. Originally, it was a simple food and drink stand before becoming a proper restaurant in Houston. Now, it is a family-friendly restaurant that is known for its fresh shrimp platters and homemade tartar and remoulade sauces. In addition to the seafood, they also serve top-quality steaks and there are many more options on the menu.13. Rudy & Paco’sRudy & Paco’s is a Latin American inspired seafood joint that is changing the fine dining scene in Galveston’s historic district, says Thrillist. Open for both lunch and dinner service, this restaurant offers a different experience depending on when you choose to dine at this venue. Lunch is a more casual affair where you can enjoy a stylish version of fish tacos or other tasty bites along with tropical drinks. Dinner is more formal, but there is still a great vibe. Some popular options from the entrée menu include Ahi tuna with cognac mustard sauce, fiery shrimp diablos, and plantain-crusted red snapper. It doesn’t matter if you are not a seafood fan because they also serve steak and several other meat options. 12. Number 13 Prime Steak & SeafoodThere is something for everyone on the menu at Number 13 Prime Steak & Seafood, regardless of whether you are a meat-lover or a seafood fan. Its location is by the Pelican Rest Marina, and it boasts an indoor dining room and a two-story, island-style terrace. This seafood and chophouse screams luxury, both in terms of the décor and the food on offer. A highlight of the menu for many people is the iced seafood tower, which includes shrimp cocktail, oysters, tuna tartare, mussels, scallops, and either king crab or lobster.11. La FisheriaDespite the rather French-sounding name of this seafood restaurant, it is actually a Mexican seafood venue. One of the best items on the menu is the Vuelve a la Vida soup, which contains lots of spice and an abundance of mussels, shrimp, octopus, and oysters. Other options you might see on the menu include seafood tacos, charred octopus served with garlic and yucca, lobster with black beans and rice, and traditional Mexican ceviche. The meals are hearty and full of flavor, while the restaurant has a great vibe. It is an excellent place for people to dine out with their family or a group of friends.10. Lotus SeafoodWhen this restaurant first opened in Westchester in the 1990s, it was a ‘you buy, we fry’ shop. It has come a long way since then, as it now serves some of the best seafood in Houston. Lotus Seafood is particularly well-known for its shrimp and crawfish fried rice. This is smothered in garlic butter sauce and has more shrimp in it than you can imagine. In addition to the original Westchester location, there are also locations in Northwest and Southwest Houston. This means that you can easily access a Lotus Seafood Restaurant from wherever you are in Houston. 9. Danton’s Gulf Coast Seafood KitchenAn old school style Creole and Cajun restaurant, the familiar flavors of this Southern cuisine is what appeals to its returning diners. Typical dishes you can expect to see on the menu include platters of oysters, seafood gumbo, crawfish etouffee, catfish Po’ boys, and fried clams. If you visit this venue on a Sunday, you can enjoy your meal while the music plays as they have a Sunday jazz & blues brunch.8. Brennan’s of HoustonBrennan’s of Houston is popular with both tourists and locals alike, says Vacation Idea. It is the sister restaurant to Commander’s Palace in New Orleans. Most of the menu is traditional Creole dishes with a modern twist, such a gumbo, turtle soup, and shrimp and grits. Also featured on the menu are some dishes inspired by Texan flavors, including venison and steaks. If you love Southern-style seafood, then you will love this restaurant. It is a high-end option, so it is ideal for celebrating a special occasion.7. SaltAir Seafood KitchenSaltAir Seafood Kitchen has a globally inspired menu. Therefore, you can enjoy a vast array of flavors from the light spices of the Moroccan-spiced redfish to tuna poke or saffron fettuccine with jumbo crab meat. Chef Brandi Key is a master of balancing flavors, so you will not be disappointed no matter what you choose. If you want to give SaltAir Seafood Kitchen a try, you will find this establishment in the Upper Kirby area of Houston.6. Caracol Mexican Seafood KitchenGayot ranks Caracol Mexican Seafood Kitchen as one of the best seafood restaurants in Houston. This is part of a food empire run by husband and wife team Chef Hugo Ortega and Tracy Vaught. Their other restaurants include Mexican eatery Hugo’s and the Southern restaurant Backstreet Café. The dishes on the menu at Caracol are inspired by coastal Mexico. Along with the flavorsome seafood dishes, the desserts at this restaurant are delightful.5. Eddie V’s Prime SeafoodLocated on Queensbury Lane, Eddie V’s Prime Seafood has earned an excellent reputation for the way it prepares and serves fresh fish and seafood. It is also known for its extensive wine list. There is an amazing raw bar, and they serve steak and other meat dishes for those who are not fans of seafood.4. Holley’s Seafood Restaurant & Oyster BarKnown by the locals simply as Holley’s, this restaurant has Chef Mark Holley at the helm. It is located in Midtown and has several special features in addition to the main menu, such as a caviar service and a rad bourbon program. The restaurant is famous for its freshly shucked oysters, Crudo, and ceviche. However, there are plenty of creative dishes on the menu from which you can choose. This is a great venue to visit at brunch as diners can enjoy scotch bloody Marys along with tasty bites.3. Gilhooley’s Restaurant & Oyster BarAlthough this restaurant serves dishes other than oysters, it is the oysters that bring customers back time and again. They are some of the freshest oysters served anywhere in Houston, and they come in various forms. One of the simplest options is oysters with a squeeze of lemon, but the house specialty is Oysters Gilhooley, which are oysters brushed with garlic butter and Parmesan that are cooked in a wood BBQ pit.2. ReefEver since this restaurant was opened, it has been on the lists of the best seafood restaurants in Houston. At the helm of this modern restaurant is Chef Bryan Cashwell, who uses seasonal and locally sourced ingredients. Due to this approach, the menu is continuously changing. Regardless of what the menu features during your visit, you can guarantee that your meal will be flawlessly executed. In addition to the exceptional food, this restaurant is known for its extensive wine list that includes more than 400 labels.1. PESKA Seafood CultureAccording to Thrillist, the best seafood restaurant in Houston is PESKA Seafood Culture. This fine-dining venue is so swanky that there is even a seafood sommelier to guide you through the menu. Other points worthy of note about this restaurant are its impressive raw bar, an in-house fish market, and the globally-inspired flavor profiles of the dishes. Some examples of the meals on the menu include butterflied red snapper with two sauces, lobster cappuccino with white truffle foam, and miso bacalao.

http://www.globalone.com.np/2019/11/the-20-best-seafood-restaurants-in.html

[johnaffeymuseum]

From the JAM Archive...

In this series of posts, we present some of the unpublished materials which can be found in the John Affey Museum’s archive.

The fourth part of the Ascensorescetis Mss., click here for Part C.

Will it surprise you, beloved reader, that every week or two, as I go about my day, I stop entranced, and run my hand over the smooth flat surface of my desk? That I pause, and place my fountain pen with exaggerated carelessness on the edge? That I spend long minutes watching it do precisely nothing, its braided grey and green silk heartstring spooling away across the calm expanse, utterly unrequired? Perhaps it might shock you to enter my office, only to come upon me find me sprawled like a cat, cheek upon the burnished oak floorboards, patting them with my palm as though calming a horse? But surely, perceptive reader, it will not much astonish to learn that I cannot sleep but in a hammock? Some old salts can't give them up, after a life below decks. Does this not make me a mere creature of habit, like the whale? Eminently biddable, given the appropriate pressures are applied? Like many less advanced peoples, I am very partial to strong alcohol. I have but little self-control, though I keep this vice to myself, alone in my office. There is something of a craze for racial psychology currently sweeping the papers. How does my own race weigh on the scales, or rank in the measuring calipers? We have a good streak of independence, of that there can be little doubt. My people often travel alone upon the sea for hundreds of leagues, with naught but their own resources to rely upon. But is that independence merely casting in a more favourable light what is in reality brute stubbornness, as evinced to even the most basic physiognomic assessment by our markedly pointed chins?

I am fortunate enough to have on hand a copy of Vaught's utterly invaluable treatise on the subject of practical character reading; a fundamentally sound work, you will no doubt agree, for all that it lacks in subtlety. (And after all, what more can one reasonably expect of an American?) The Whale Riders... no, let us Latinize, for a more formal tone. The Ascensorescetis have the dubious merit of possessing the very model of Vaught's Selfish Ear (Page 62). That is, I have checked mine against the illustration, and barring a somewhat more distinct lobe, they are identical. That I am a selfish man, there is no doubt: I am one who has abandoned his home, his country and his family for purely personal gain. But what of the ears of that family, my clan? Were my ears atypical? I must confess, I have tried to recall the ears of my mother without success, and if I cannot recall her ears, upon which I must have gazed for hours as an infant strapped into my mother's parka, what good are my recollections, after all? I was at least not mercilessly mocked by my playmates for having pointed ears myself, as I was for so much else as a child. One assumes then that my ears were normal, or at least less abnormal than my other parts. Our smallish snub noses – I do remember that my nose was not unusual – most nearly fit Vaught's 'good and bad' (Page 80), upon which he sadly provides no further commentary. I confess, this ramble into science's demesne has all too quickly bewildered me. Any trained expert could tell across a crowded room that I don't have the requisite faculties, and that for all my native wit and parrot-like ear for language, I have not the true rational intelligence of the civilized Englishman.

I found Roald Engelbregt Gravning Amundsen to be a fair master, and ever eager to learn new tricks for survival. I later discovered he had spent time with the King William Islanders, who call themselves the Netsilik, learning how to fashion good clothing from skins and work with dogs and sledges. It took him I think all of twenty four hours to become decided that the juncture of my cuffs with my mittens was superior to his own, and to order the adaptation of the gear of all his crew accordingly, though they were on their way out of the Antarctic by then, their mission accomplished. Amundsen was a ruthless pragmatist, utterly uninterested in propriety and convention, and I took to him immediately. In the interests of transparency, it must be said that I had never had a true father figure, and Amundsen was the very archetype. He taught me my first words of English, which I have always considered my father tongue. English has no time for the layered conditionals and hypothetical hedgings of my people's languages, which – as they know of no other – is simply called linkha, the double tongue. English, with its blunt utility and forthrightness, is nothing like the effete equivocating linkha. But at Framheim, his base camp in the Bay of Whales, we spoke almost exclusively Norwegian. The Norwegian for tongue is tunge, as I learned quickly, due to the frantic exclamations of Amundsen's men at the shape of mine. To put it plainly, my tongue is forked, as are all those of the high-caste members of my people. We are born with a pronounced hereditary groove in the centre line of the organ, and an indented tip. This is not itself a forked tongue, however: that oddity can only be produced by what will no doubt appear a most barbarous practice.

In infancy, the centre of the tongue is pierced and a bone spigot inserted, much as with the ear lobes of the female European infant, or the noses or lips of various savage peoples. Using sinew fishing line, the central section of the tongue is bound between the resulting hole and the tip, and this excruciatingly tight binding gradually separates the foremost part of the tongue into two independently mobile sections. This ghastly procedure is usually carried out while the infant is teething, and the same numbing jellyfish toxin we feed to our whales is used to reduce the pain. To those of you who balk at my description of this foreign practice, think only of circumcision, and you will begin to understand its significance to our culture. And unlike circumcision, nothing is removed. Rather, a faculty is added, which will astound all who have not witnessed it. The two forks of the tongue are independent, as I have stated, but they become also independently mobile, and with practice they can be dextrously employed to grasp and manipulate the most delicate of objects. Within the sensitive confines of the mouth, and paddling all the while, the Ascensorecete can, with pressed lips and a careful tongue, thread the eyelet of the most delicate fish-hook, and with nary a risk of losing it overboard. The forked tongue is used besides in the tying of certain knots, and can be of great value while dining, in the extraction of small fishbones. Certain of our lancets and awls would seem to be fashioned for use by elves, were it not known that they are excellently suited to the prehensile, bifurcated tongue.

At Framheim, however, the dire connotations of the forked tongue to the European became quickly apparent to me, though it took me several years to fully comprehend its origin. The snake, a most deadly animal in many parts of the world and widely feared even where it is harmless, possesses a forked tongue. The forked tongue is thus an attribute of evil, and of the epitome of evil, Satan the Enemy, Father of Lies. The symbolism partakes also of all that is two sided, split, and thus duplicitous. Add to that a sensuous, sibilant hissing, whispering of subterfuge, and the case is closed. I learned quickly to press the two halves of my riven organ together. Among the dour, righteous folk of this iron coastline I call my home, what consequences would follow the revelation that I have a forked tongue in my mouth do not bear thinking on. I may as well be outed for owning a pair of horns beneath my cap, or a pointed tail tucked into my longjohns.

As it was, there on the Antarctic ice, it was only Amundsen's inviolable authority and unconcealed disdain for all talk of luck and fate that saved me, I am certain. That, and the irrepressibly jubilant mood of the camp, for Amundsen had only recently returned from his triumphant assault on the South Pole, that most distant and inaccessible point so precious to the Occidental mind. The point where all meridians intersect, and which – though utterly desolate and devoid of life – pegs out the farthest corner of Civilization's rectilinear conquest of the globe. The squaring of the circle; the point where Euclid's straight and parallel lines inevitably meet. The success of this superhuman feat of derring-do, strategy and endurance – undertaken rather at the last minute in lieu of mastering the recently deflowered North Pole (and much to the disgust of a certain Captain Scott) – impelled the inhabitants of Framheim into the most expansively benevolent of moods. Much hearty backslapping, gay singing, and toasting with akavit were indulged in, and even I – a totally alien stranger who had stumbled alone out of the white wilderness mere days before – was invited to the party.

Hobart of 1912 was a town obsessed with the Antarctic, bravely re-making a name for itself in newspapers worldwide and proud of its eighteen years of self-governance. Captain Scott's Terra Nova had put in there to provision, and the bars were full of hopefuls looking to ship to the Great White South, or braggarts claiming that they had. It was a town of whalers and adventurers, at least in the streets around Franklin Wharf, though the whole place had a empty, faded feel just beneath the brash exterior. The great days of whaling – and the money that it brought – were over for Hobart, and everyone knew it. The Henry Jones IXL jam factory was the great hope now, though there is something comparatively less heroic about the manufacture of tinned goods, no matter how they or their manufacturers “excel”. But say what you like about tinned goods, they were certainly popular on Antarctic voyages. I myself was brought up on a diet of raw fish and seal meat, and tinned food is still a novelty to me these many years later. Amundsen got himself to the pole eating a goodly number of dogs, which have a distinct advantage over tins in that they'll carry themselves about for you before you eat them. To all things, as the Good Book says, there is a season.

I soon learned in Hobart that the best way to get drunk and learn a little English was to act as though you wanted to be left alone, at which point one or another young hopeful would try to engage you in conversation about exploration, whaling, and the seafaring life by plying you with spirits. I slept mostly on a little dinghy I patched up, as sleeping on the wharf made me feel seasick. I had the characteristic bow-legged sway of the mariner as I made my way about town, and learned that spending enough time on the sea automatically makes you part of a close-nit and violent family, who will enthusiastically do each other grievous bodily harm over the least imagined slight, but will never let one of their own go without food, booze, or a pinch of tobacco.

The drink was new to me, and for a while it was all I wanted. This marvellous fluid, that made you thirst the more you drank! I spent the nights singing at the top of my lungs with my new brothers, staggering from inn to inn, spewing up my guts over the wharves, and generally making a sorry exhibition of myself. The moment any lull appeared in the raucous wharfside merrymaking, my newest shipmates would entreat me to demonstrate my uncanny balancing abilities, which I had discovered shortly after I became able to walk in a straight line upon the land. Amongst my own kind I was a cripple, but here amongst these giant men I was an acrobat. I would stand upon a chair, and tilt the chair so that it would perch upon one leg, balancing knives upon my nose and indulging in other foolery until the room erupted in thunderous hollering, stamping and applause. I confess the first speech I learned among this unsavoury, rambunctious company was not the King's English as I write it now, and fully half of my early vocabulary is as unfit to set out on paper as it would be unintelligible to the decently educated reader.

Amundsen's party landed in March, 1912, and it was not until September of that year that I became sober, and then only because I washed up in a Christian hospice in a state of utter collapse. I had spent the winter months of June and July battling an endless bout of influenza, and was taken in by the Seamen's Mission on Harrington Street, quite at death's door. There I was taken on as the personal project of one of the chaplains, a grandson of the late Baptist Rev. Kerr Johnston. I have since realized that this adoption was a somewhat political anti-Calvinist finagle, to demonstrate the value of working for the salvation of the pagan soul. William Johnston taught me to read Scripture, and found me an able student of hermeneutics and exegesis, for I had been raised to perform a similar task on the heartstrings of my people, fishing within the stories’ deeper currents for flashes of meaning. Chaplain Johnston was himself an avid fisherman, and soon discovered in me the perfect companion, for I could paddle the whole day without tiring, and no land-born can match one of my people when it comes to reading the clouds, the waves, or the fish. As I regained my strength during the warmer months, we spent our days out on the water and our evenings in the study of the Bible. I was, I am sure, an infuriating but addicting pupil, as I remembered every detail, dedicated myself fully to my studies, but swallowed not one single word among the lot of it.

The story of Jonah spoke to me, as might be imagined. But to the good Chaplain's exasperation, it spoke to me not of God, but of the landlubber, as the seamen say. The certainties required by the land-born, which they cling to, instead of swimming. Their terror of being engulphed, their horror of immersion. It spoke also to their ignorance; which whale was this, if whale it was? And if that distinction were meaningless, then why distinguish between birds or beasts, or anything at all? It spoke too of hermeneutics, in which discipline the Chaplain attempted to school me, and of satire. For Jonah, the Dove, is satire; no true reader can deny it. The Book of the Dove is, in its forty-eight pithy verses, a scathing critique of the institution of prophets, and their purposes. And as to the various commentaries on Jonah, particularly that of John Calvin, in the Rev. John Owen's translation of 1847, printed in Edinburgh! For the Chaplain, as for Calvin, Jonah is valuable as an historical figure, the recipient of both the gift of prophecy and a miracle, and most importantly as a typological prefiguring of Christ Jesus. That volume, from the Calvin Translation Society, was given me as a parting gift when I sailed from Hobart for Scotland, and it sits before me now, on my great steel desk. It is a slim volume, with a beautifully debossed black binding, a fine gilt rendering of Calvin on the cover looking in silhouette, in his double-brimmed conical cap, not unlike one of my own people, a fact for any students of coincidence. We have such a conical cap, though the brim is a touch wider, and the fur-lined cone is stiff leather to ward off rain. The ear flaps are very like, though. The Hebrews, the true Hebrews, if such there were, I do not regard as land-born, for they are born to the desert, and follow the herds. Such a desert I have never seen, but it has been described to me by one who has, that the desert is to the sand dunes of the shore as the sea is to a river. An ocean of sand.

Calvin, in his scholar's cap, presumes a lot, it seems to me.  His philosophy is that of a people who have settled, who live upon the land as a tick upon a sow, or a barnacle upon a whale. A people with a short memory, eager to deny change and movement. Calvin even presumes, repeatedly, to paraphrase YHWH himself, writing “as though he said”. He also presumes that YHWH is not to be trusted, that His motives are in fact to shame Israel, and nothing to do with the mysterious “wickedness” of the Ninevites. And moreover:

“We hence see that there is a twofold view of God, — as he sets himself forth in his word, — and as he is as to his hidden counsel. With regard to his secret counsel, I have already said that God is always like himself, and is subject to none of our feelings: but with regard to the teaching of his word, it is accommodated to our capacities. God is now angry with us, and then, as though he were pacified, he offers pardon, and is propitious to us. Such is the repentance of God.”

This from Lecture Seventy-Ninth. We are to believe that Calvin has access to God’s secret counsel, beyond God’s misleadingly worded Word, which is accommodated to our capacities – though not to Calvin’s, needless to say, which far surpasses not only that of all mankind, but particularly that of Jerome. Calvin’s poor Jerome, so “frivolous”, “foolish”, “puerile” and “dull”. A learned and laborious father of the Church, a blessed translator, one might imagine, were it not for this “wayward disposition” apparent everywhere, but nowhere more self-evident than in this: his ridiculous sympathy with Jonah’s rage at being thwarted, denied the eagerly awaited spectatorship of Nineveh’s apocalyptic destruction. The petulant rage of one who is forced to carry a prophecy of impending doom to the Ninevites, only to witness their eager repentant fasting, decked out as for a play in sackcloth and ashes, yea down to the last cow. Truly, the only thing worse than being a prophet to the ignorant and doomed heathen is being perfectly heeded, thus finding oneself the unwitting instrument of their salvation, just when you’d picked out the ideal spot from which to witness the final act. But enough of this dry-as-dust exegetical excursioning, which I have included merely as illustration of how infuriating and heretical a student I was then to Chaplain Johnston, and unfortunately and unrepentantly, do so remain.

But back to Etzequel, our hero. In a state of Nature, he had fulfilled the place set out for him. What could one read on his impassive face? Pride, of a sort. A defiant gull. Distain, or rather a watchful readiness to be displeased. The nurses I have seen about Edinburgh town with children perfectly turned out, and in that perfection barely satisfactory, the best being only just about enough. In the gazes of those nurses, the stern demanding look, I witness again Etzequel’s expression. Etzequel and Ilahahl, a seeming-two, joined nose to giant nose with braided sagas richer than a hundred tapestries, a hundred novels, at least to our poor nation’s estimate. I myself was such, once, it is said; a seeming-two. But though my own seeming-two, my twin, preceded my entrance into the world across the shore of our mother’s waters by a moment, she couldn’t make the cry of passage from the warm belly ocean into the stinging, frozen air. No wave of breath washed into her, I have heard the women say, with my bellystring wrapped about her throat.

Crouched in the qalbaminach, the great braid hanging from his nose, Etzequel grew fat as a leopard seal, and as ferocious. Calling in the erhunni to play for him his Great Sister’s songs, sending them away in sudden curt disgust, only to call for them again as they slept. And soon it was my turn, though my brother had not shown interest in sharing breath with me in seventeen dark winters. The call came, and I took care to dress as though about to leave on a spirit hunt. Clothed thus, shabby but bedecked, transparent in my shaman’s habit, I crouched before him in the bone and skin hut where I had slept so many times before. All was changed. His khulhuqqa had not begun to return to their family aminachi as the weaning of Ilahahl wound to a close. Instead, they sat in hunting kayaks, an open ring of eyes behind me on the sea. The harumman too remained bound to their new title, squatting shiftily in the low circumference of the floating house, ducking in and out on one errand or the next. I saw at once that I had misjudged my aim, as so often. In my cleverness, I had knotted myself. I had thought that, dressed to go on a voyage, I might be excused the sooner, more easily dismissed; a bird who circles now and then, otherworldly and of no consequence. Instead, I saw that Etzequel, though apparently in calm repose, was tossed by constant troubled motion beneath his skin, signed upon the surface by turbulent ripples. Forever out sporting against the waves, Etzequel had lived as his namesake the albatross: a being forever on the wing. Leashed here, over-fed and fussed over in forced ease, Etzequel was standing barely able to contain himself, itching for release. In my misjudgement, I had presented him with the very seeming of untrammelled flight and no-strings voyaging, which he would never more enjoy. I glimpsed the shark in his eyes, though it swam deep and he himself was perhaps too close to spy it beneath him, and I saw at once I was in peril of my life.

It was not for me to speak first, and this whale would be long in breaching. Etzequel would wait as long as breath held before spouting. And how should I comport myself? Patient comfort: no, for this was one fish Etzequel could never catch, and since all to him was besting or defeat, this would spur his anger all the more. Impatience too would rile him, signing disrespect. He wished to ease his suffering, as ever he had, by taking pleasure in the suffering of another. Etze had always been one of those who saw balance only within a small horizon. Very well. I sat proudly for a spell, crooked right hand open, ready to clasp his arm as though expecting a greeting of honoured brothers. Gradually, I allowed the pain in my spine, my shoulders, even my opened hand to build. An easy choice, for my body has an unlimited store of suffering prepared; I am one of those born aged already, with trembling knotted muscles and sore joints as though pre-worn by a life of hard use. Perhaps as others lie basking in the warm amniotic waters of the belly ocean, I had indeed been hard at work, hunting strange prey, or paddling leagues through the boundless red night, encountering the seal my namesake. Whether the case or no, the pain grew, unfeigned. My posture began to fail, spine slipping off true with skewed shudders, half-raised hand sagging slowly as I fought to keep my dignity. In flickers, my face betrayed my pain, my confusion, my increasingly exhausting struggles to maintain my straight and dignified seat. I began to sweat, small seal-like grunts escaped my nose and my pressed lips grew pale. And as my suffering increased, Etzequel grew calm. His eyes narrowed with pleasure, and he settled into his nest of white seal pup skins with a new-found ease.

As my neck began to spasm in earnest, and my hand dropped to my lap of its own accord, Etzequel signalled to one of the uneasy young men nearby, who left. Some time later, a time which had stretched into one long oar-stroke of howling muscles, each involuntary shudder wringing new stifled whimpers from my throat, I noticed Maraïal was rubbing fragrant white parmacetti oil into Etzequel’s powerful shoulders. She had begun her task with dignity and bemused pleasure at this uncharacteristic request, which then flowed into confusion and concern as Etzequel requested the oil now on his impressive chest, and now, reclining, further down his newly-padded abdomen. All had seen, to my braided shame and pride, how my eyes had followed Maraïal for the last three winters. Maraïal, plump and smiling, with oiled black hair and dextrous tongue, whose eyes saw deep beneath the surfaces of things. Maraïal, who looked to Bhi’iq, and he to her, with two squalling pups between them and – it was said – more on the way. Maraïal who had once, looking deeply into my eyes, taken both my hands in hers for just a moment and pressed them together.

As I began to twist and twitch, flopping then to my left side with arms wound up to my thin chest like flippers, a hoarse mewling high in my nose and salt in my eyes, I put off my skin like a cloak and stood back from it. I saw myself curled there like a shrimp on the woven leather, juddering, and with a thick cord of spittle hanging from my parted lips. I saw two women move to cradle me, and the smile that surfaced briefly on Etze’s lips.

Later after a long sleep I set out in my kayak, the Great Bright Mother drifting red between the ice floes on her daily migration around the upper ocean. One of Etzequel’s khulhuqqa set out after me. He was a young hunter, with little patience. I outpaced him easily with the seeming of that exaggeratedly slow, laborious passage he expected of a cripple. On his first look, I was dragging myself over the waves as clumsily as a seal over rough ice. On his next, I had disappeared utterly among the floes, without leaving him even a glimpse of my tail.

[israel-jewish-news]

FOCUS: U.S. Coastal Growth Continues Despite Lessons of Past Storms

New Post has been published on http://hamodia.com/2017/09/17/focus-u-s-coastal-growth-continues-despite-lessons-of-past-storms/

FOCUS: U.S. Coastal Growth Continues Despite Lessons of Past Storms

A house rests on the beach in Vilano Beach, Fla., on Friday, after collapsing off a cliff from Hurricane Irma. (AP Photo/David Goldman)

Rising sea levels and fierce storms have failed to stop relentless population growth along U.S. coasts in recent years, a new Associated Press analysis shows. The latest punishing hurricanes scored bull’s-eyes on two of the country’s fastest growing regions: coastal Texas around Houston and resort areas of southwest Florida.

Nothing seems to curb America’s appetite for life near the sea, especially in the warmer climates of the South. Coastal development destroys natural barriers such as islands and wetlands, promotes erosion and flooding, and positions more buildings and people in the path of future destruction, according to researchers and policy advisers who study hurricanes.

“History gives us a lesson, but we don’t always learn from it,” said Graham Tobin, a disaster researcher at the University of South Florida in Tampa. That city took a glancing hit from Hurricane Irma – one of the most intense U.S. hurricanes in years – but suffered less flooding and damage than some other parts of the state.

In 2005, coastal communities took heed of more than 1,800 deaths and $108 billion in damages from Hurricane Katrina, one of the worst disasters in U.S. history. Images of New Orleans under water elicited solemn resolutions that such a thing should never happen again – until Superstorm Sandy inundated lower Manhattan in 2012. Last year, Hurricane Matthew spread more deaths, flooding and blackouts across Florida, Georgia and the Carolinas. From 2010-2016, major hurricanes and tropical storms are blamed for more than 280 deaths and $100 billion in damages, according to data from the federal National Centers for Environmental Information.

Harvey, another historically big hurricane, flooded sections of Houston in recent weeks. Four counties around Houston, where growth has been buoyed by the oil business, took the full force of the storm. The population of those counties expanded by 12 percent from 2010 to 2016, to a total of 5.3 million people, the AP analysis shows.

During the same years, two of Florida’s fastest-growing coastline counties – retirement-friendly Lee and Manatee, both south of Tampa – welcomed 16 percent more people. That area took a second direct hit from Irma after it made first landfall in the Florida Keys, where damage was far more devastating.

Overall growth of 10 percent in Texas Gulf counties and 9 percent along Florida’s coasts during the same period was surpassed only by South Carolina. Its seaside population, led by the Myrtle Beach area of Horry County, ballooned by more than 13 percent.

Nationally, coastline counties grew an average of 5.6 percent since 2010, while inland counties gained just 4 percent. This recent trend tracks with decades of development along U.S. coasts. Between 1960 and 2008, the national coastline population rose by 84 percent, compared with 64 percent inland, according to the Census Bureau.

Cindy Gerstner, a retiree from the inland mountains of upstate New York, moved to a new home in January in Dunedin, Florida, west of Tampa. The ranch house sits on a flood plain three blocks from a sound off the Gulf of Mexico. She was told it hadn’t flooded in 20 years – and she wasn’t worried anyway.

“I never gave it a thought,” she said during a visit back to New York as Irma raked Florida. “I always wanted to live down there. I always thought people who lived in California on earthquake faults were foolish.”

Her enthusiasm for her new home was undiminished by Irma, which broke her fence and knocked out power but left her house dry.

In Horry County, where 19 percent growth has led all of South Carolina coastline counties, Irma caused only minor coastal flooding. The county’s low property taxes are made possible by rapid development and tourism fees, allowing retirees from the North and Midwest to live more cheaply. Ironically, punishing hurricanes farther south in recent years has pushed some Northerners known locally as “half-backers” to return halfway home from Florida and to resettle in coastal South Carolina.

Add the area’s moderate weather, appealing golf courses, and long white strands – the county is home to Myrtle Beach – and maybe no one can slow development there. “I don’t see how you do it,” said Johnny Vaught, vice chairman of the county council. “The only thing you can do is modulate it, so developments are well designed.”

Strong building codes with elevation and drainage requirements, careful emergency preparations, and a good network of roads for evacuation help make the area more resilient to big storms, said the council chairman, Mark Lazarus. Such measures give people “a sense of comfort,” said Laura Crowther, CEO of the local Coastal Carolina Association of Realtors.

Risk researchers say more is needed. “We’re getting better at emergency response,” said Tobin at the University of South Florida. “We’re not so good at long-term control of urban development in hazardous areas.”

The Federal Emergency Management Agency helps recovery efforts with community relief and flood insurance payments. The agency did not immediately respond to a request for comment. It provides community grants for projects aimed at avoiding future losses. Some projects elevate properties, build flood barriers, or strengthen roofs and windows against high winds. Others purchase properties subject to repeated damage and allow owners to move.

But coastline communities face more storm threats in the future.

Global warming from human-generated greenhouse gases is melting polar ice and elevating sea levels at an increasing pace, according to the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. That amplifies storm surges and other flooding. Also, some climate models used by scientists predict stronger, more frequent hurricanes as another effect of global warming in coming decades.

“There will be some real challenges for coastal towns,” predicted Jamie Kruse, director of the Center for Natural Hazards Research at East Carolina University in Greenville, North Carolina. “We’ll see some of these homes that are part of their tax base becoming unlivable.”

Hazard researchers said they see nothing in the near term to reverse the trend toward bigger storm losses. As a stopgap, communities should cease building new high-rises on the oceanfront, said Robert Young, director of the Program for the Study of Developed Shorelines at Western Carolina University in Cullowhee, North Carolina.

He said big changes probably will not happen unless multiple giant storms overwhelm federal and state budgets.

“The reason why this development still continues is that people are making money doing it,” he said. “Communities are still increasing their tax base – and that’s what politicians like.”

[gdmli]

First Day of School Jitters

By Katie Stevenson

As the chatter of summer vacations, sunburns and the Iowa State Fair turn to football games, Halloween costumes and plans for labor day it can only mean one thing; August is here and school is back in session. On August 25, the sounds of the Leadership Institute’s Class of 2018 households mimicked those of nervous freshman teenagers preparing for their first day of High School.

1. “The dress is code is casual! What does casual mean? I literally have nothing to wear!”

2. “Do I have all of my school supplies packed? I better check one more time.”

CLP name badge ✔

Three-ringed CLP trapper keeper ✔

Four to five pens, just to be safe ✔

CLP name badge ✔

A notebook for the awesome notes I’m going to take ✔

Pre-class homework which I have written in perfect penmanship for probably the only time this entire year ✔

CLP name badge ✔

CLP water bottle. Do you think it HAS to be the CLP water bottle or do you think I could bring my own? Hmmmm, to be safe I’ll just bring the CLP water bottle. I want to be sure to fit in on my first day ✔

Okay, I think I have everything. Wait! Did I remember my CLP name badge? Oh yes, here is it. ✔ 

3. “I have never been to Caspe Terrace before. I better plan to be there 30 minutes early to be safe.”

4. “I wonder who my new friends will be? What if they don’t like me? What should I say to them? Maybe something like, ‘Hello, my name is Katie.’ Ya, that’s perfect.”

5. “I wonder what our ‘teachers’ (aka speakers) are going to be like.”

FIRST PERIOD

As day one began taking shape, the feeling of starting a new journey continued to build. The first period began with Scott Raecker from the Robert D. & Billie Ray Center. Through ice breakers, group discussion, and even a class video, we learned that leadership is rooted in all relationships; including relationships with those who are most opposite ourselves. In order to lead effectively, we needed to learn to be intentional with the relationships we build and learn to disagree without being disagreeable or difficult. Together, we developed a compact for excellence list that the entire class promised to uphold in order to create our best work and treat each other with respect and care.

Class of 2018 Compact for Excellence Promise:

Create collaboration Be present Challenge each other respectfully Stay open-minded Remember the purpose of why we are here Leverage each other's strengths with intentional feedback Be Authentic Get uncomfortable- It’s okay Have Fun

SECOND PERIOD

By the start of the second period, the rumors that had been traveling the class were indeed confirmed. The coffee pot had gone dry and our brains were going to be on their own for the rest of the day. Lucky for us, Kristi Knous’ message about the future plans for Capital Crossroads 2.0 had all of us aiming higher and dreaming bigger without the need for caffeine to stimulate our minds. While she painted the vision for the future of Des Moines the reality of our personal responsibility to our community started to sink in. Now, more than ever we all realized our potential to lead change in Des Moines and understood that our success lied in all 10 of the capital projects developed in CXR 2.0.

THIRD PERIOD

It was bound to happen eventually. By third-period ‘cliques’ began emerging throughout the class. Steve Vaught, with Organizational Architects, divided us up into four groups based on our personality types to show that we did, in fact, have factions within our group.

First, you have The Blues or the Relationship Specialists. They are going to be your feelers, who prefer one-to-one interaction. They are people-pleasers, who avoid any conflict, value close relationships and need harmony.

Opposite of the blues you have The Golds. They are the Achievement Specialists who get the job done. They need structure and order, they enjoy rules and authority. They value loyalty and duty and have a need to be useful.

Then there are the Process Specialists or The Greens as we call them. Work is play to them. They are thinkers and analyzers who are highly proficient, like to work alone, are correct to a fault, and always have to be competent.

And finally, there are The Oranges, or the Social Specialists as they proudly called themselves. They are fun and overly excited. They like to work in groups, are competitive risk-takers who need variety. They work hard and play hard.

Whether we wanted to deny it or not, there definitely were cliques in our class. Steve helped teach us that by understanding our different personality types we could use our knowledge for good to strengthen team building, communication, and leadership.

FOURTH PERIOD

After lunch and a fun recess full of wandering Caspe Terrace and exploring everything it had to offer, we reconvened for our final 3.5-hour session with Alan Fierer of Group Dynamic. With full bellies, and no coffee you would think heads would be bobbing fighting off the afternoon slump, but Alan’s dynamic and humorous personality kept everyone engaged and entertained.

We spent the afternoon diving into The Five Practices of Exemplary Leadership:

Model The Way 

Inspire A Shared Vision

Challenge the Process

Enable Others To Act

Encourage the Heart 

As we continued to hear stories about a young, naive band teacher, whose name also happened to be Alan, we were able to break down every misstep the humorously green leader made along his journey. 

Midway through the afternoon session, we broke for gym class. Everyone gathered outside in the parking lot for instructions on the physical activity that we were about to be tested on. As it just so happened, the Caspe Terrace parking lot had transformed into a river of hot chocolate. Although very delicious, the heat of this river was so scalding, that a burnt tongue was far from our biggest worry. 

Alan handed out pieces of paper...er... I mean marshmallows to our group and told us that we could use the marshmallows to get across to the other side of the river. We worked together as a team to ensure that everyone made it across the river in only a few leaps and bounds. Even though we had a few missteps along the way everyone made it across safely. This was very lucky for us because I can’t imagine the rest of the weekend activities would have been as entertaining if we had lost a classmate. 

FINAL PERIOD

Finally, the moment we had all been waiting for was here. It was time to learn our team assignments for the group projects. As the white board flipped around to reveal our group pairings, “oohs” and “aahs” filled the room. We spent final period meeting with teams, going over the logistics for the field trip we would be taking in the morning and exchanging contact information. 

FIELD TRIP

On Saturday, August 26, the entire class met bright and early at Gateway Market for breakfast. Dressed in our most comfortable walking shoes, equipped with a map and our buddy system, the entire class was ready for the Des Moines History Tour. 

From the start of the tour at the Woodland Cemetery to the end at the World Food Prize, the entire group felt more connected and educated about the long standing history of our city, than ever before. Aside from the perfect weather, and informational stops along the way, we were able to truly take in the beauty of Des Moines as we walked throughout its streets. 

As the class opening retreat came to a close and the first day of school jitters subsided, there was one thing that was certain; The Class of 2018 is most definitely going to be “the BEST class ever”.