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tigereyes45 · 4 months

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AOS mckirk + 43? ❤️

Prompt 43 was, "Why aren't you eating?" You can find the list of prompts here. I originally wrote a version of this request where it's Jim not eating, but then my mind kept saying, but what if it was McCoy. So I did that. XD There's going to be a second part to this where Jim is the one not eating. You can also read the story on AO3 here:

Summary:

It's easy to push aside eating in favor of finishing a task at hand. Everyone needs reminders sometimes.

Start:

When Jim Kirk steps into McCoy's private office space, there's a swagger that's ever-present in his moves. A self-confidence that's more act than reality. Leonard has enough kindness to keep from announcing the fact. The doctor lowers a PADD that had been claiming his ever-dissipating attention, for the last hour and a half.

"Nurse Chapel tells me you haven't been eating." The doctor drops his PADD onto his desk as if he couldn't be bothered to read it for another moment.

“She told you.” McCoy corrects before rolling his eyes. It’s official. No more late-night lab tests with Spock. The vulcan’s beginning to rub off on him. Leonard shakes his head. His fingers impatiently tap against the PADD’s screen. "Christine needs to learn how to keep information to herself." Jim’s foot began to subconsciously tap along with Bones’ fingers. McCoy huffs and crosses his arms. "It's unprofessional."

"She worries about you Bones." Kirk leans against the doctor's desk. A knowing smile on his face. "I worry about you."

That’s obvious. Despite his role as captain, Jim has never been able to hide his favoritism. He’s kept those who he first encountered on the ship closer than most others. Their history throughout the academy resulted in McCoy being allowed closer than most. Even more so than the bridge crew.

"I don't need you worrying over me." Bones insists. How many times have they had a conversation like this? With another huff, he stands up. "And leave Christine alone. She's a rather skilled nurse. I'd hate to lose her. Again." That last word came out with a little more bite than he intended.

"I'll keep that in mind."

There's so much work to do. Wounds to heal, chests waiting to be sewn up, check-ups, vaccinations, physical therapies to watch, paperwork to sign off on, newly released research to catch up on, and then review. All before they head off to start this new five-year mission. The work never ends, and damn it! He's a doctor. If anyone knows how far and long their body can go, it's him. No puffed-up captain is going to tell him otherwise.

"Bones," Jim's soft call is followed by a hand clapping around McCoy's shoulder. Leonard shrugs the handoff. Concern fills Jim's face. His usual smirk now hangs awkwardly open. No doubt the gears are turning in that quick mind. Nimble as a fox. That's what his father would’ve called Jim.

If they ever had the chance to meet.

"I just want to make sure you keep some meat on you." Jim jokes, rounding on McCoy. He folds his arms over his chest and offers a light smile. Even that small smile would be enough to brighten up most of McCoy's days. Not now though. There’s no time. He’s due for a surgery in about eight hours. Eight hours that’ll pass in a blink of an eye if he’s not careful.

"I've got work to do Jim." Leonard tries to step around.

Jim swiftly sways and weaves to keep in his way. "Come on Bones. Join me for lunch."

"I can't."

"Yes, you can.” Jim’s the one rolling his eyes now. “Take a break.” He throws a hand out, leaning in the doorway. Thoroughly blocking McCoy’s only way out. “Captain's orders." He adds with a wink.

"I said I can't." It’s not that he doesn’t want to, but there’s too much on the scales. He has to keep going just to keep them balanced. Otherwise, Jim will be short on crew, and missing talented people. Individuals that may keep him alive. Out there in the vast emptiness, they’ll only have each other to count on. Starfleet won’t be able to help if they get into trouble. They can’t have come so far for McCoy to make a mistake. Not now. Not again.

McCoy furrows his brows and fights back the memories threatening to take his attention. Deep down Leonard knows why he’s doing this. Why it has become so easy to push his own needs aside and focus on all the lives on board.

Part of it is his training. Doctors of all kinds learn early on in school how to push down the biological signs of hunger and stress. When you have lab results due in the morning, but the tests haven’t run their full course yet, and midterms are around the corner, while professor after professor is encouraging you to start thinking about your thesis work now before you even manage to get out of undergrad, well stress becomes seconded nature. Exhaustion, hunger pangs, and increased anxiety that verges on panic attacks, all get swept under the rug, and suppressed until a body can’t go on anymore. By the time they get to medical school most students have bodies that are simultaneously, in a horrendous state, yet conditioned to work through it. They keep to themselves. Reminding himself with post-its, handwritten notes scrawled in the empty spaces of his books, and phone alerts to drink water, eat food, and take five minutes to close his eyes before pushing on. Always aware of the fact of the hypocrisy between the instructions he gives to patients on how to care for themselves as he works himself to the bone.

Leonard’s trained not to share his own problems. To ignore his own needs, but even that can only go so far. Deep down there’s more to it. A fear deeper than the grief that washes over him as he loses a patient. Something that motivates him more than any fear he experienced when in school or out in space.

He can’t lose Jim again.

"And I said you can." Jim opens up his arms, talking with his hands. "You're not much help to anyone if you're all skin and bones."

The timing had been more. Leonard knows that’s not what James was saying. He wasn’t invalidating the fear, but rationality wasn’t home today. "Damn it Jim, I said no!" McCoy’s hand goes flying past Jim, towards the door’s control. Fingers catch on the bottom of Jim’s long sleeve as his palm smacks the buttons.

It’s painful how ingrained that loss had become in his life. Terrifying how the mere thought of it sends his mind spiraling as if lost to a deep, powerful vortex that sucks everything else away.

"Hey!" Jim pushes a hand against Leonard's chest. "Watch the hand, McCoy."

McCoy pulls his hand back. His fingers were shaking. With a deep sigh Leonard folds them in. Doing his best to calm his racing nerves the doctor closes his eyes. Doing his best stern, yet calm voice Leonard says, "Just get out of here Jim. I've got lives to save, and people who need fixing." People you need.

Leonard opens his eyes slowly. The look on Jim’s face was one of determination. Better than heartbroken. McCoy can only imagine his own expression. He needs to get back to work.

“Nurse Chapel.” Christine appears right behind him, as if waiting for Jim’s call. “When is Doctor McCoy’s next scheduled appointment?”

“In eight hours sir. It’s Lieutenant Alfonse’s surgery.” An engineer skilled enough, that Scotty himself has been asking after his health since they first discovered the kidney issue.

“Does he have any pressing matters in the meantime?”

Christine doesn’t even bother pretending to look at the datapadd in her hands. “No sir?” Her eyes stare McCoy down.

“He’s officially off shift. Call me directly if there’s an emergency.” Leonard fights back the urge to swear. Jim really isn’t going to let this drop.

“You sir?” Chapel asks, trying to get a look at the captain’s face. The man keeps his back to her, and his eyes trained on McCoy.

Jim crosses his arms. “He’ll be eating with me in my room.” A new smirk adorns his face. “Won’t you Bones?”

Sensing no room for argument McCoy agrees through gritted teeth, “I guess I will, sir.” He added that last word to make it clear that while he’s bending he’ll remember this. If Jim’s bothered by that idea, he doesn’t act like it.

Jim steps aside, finally letting Leonard pass by. Chapel steps back out of the way, heading over to the bio beds, with a polite nod of her head. Leonard steals a glance at her datapadd. It wasn’t even turned on. They planned this! Jim comes bounding after. He lightly pats Leonard’s arm, as he falls into step beside the doctor. “No be angry Bones. You’re gonna like this.”

“I like working.”

Jim playfully smacks McCoy’s chest. “No you don’t. You like fried potatoes, dumplings, and steak bites.”

That stops Leonard dead in his tracks. “What?” He turns to face Jim whose got the biggest shit-eating grin. Sickbay’s front door slides shut behind them.

Jim grabs both of McCoy’s arms, and fix the end of his short sleeves. “Like I said,” Jim leans closer practically bubbling with energy. “You’ll like it. I even used basil.”

This time Leonard couldn’t keep his face from forming a wide, disblieving smile. “You what?” Did that mean Jim actually cooked? Yeah they were still on Earth but it must’ve been out of his way to go and grab actual food from a market. McCoy’s stomach growls, voicing it’s lack of care over where the food came from, or how it was prepared. Either way he has to try it now. As if it wasn’t already being required by Jim.

A home cook meal. Literally. It shouldn’t be such an odd thought considering that the Enterprise was going to be his only home for the next five years. Leonard had expected to only eat synthesized food for it all. An actual cooked meal, made with fresh ingredients, his mouth starts to water.

The captain was already a few steps down the hall, as McCoy’s feet finally lift and start to follow. With each step bringing him a little bit closer to the promise of food, his body grows lighter. There’s still a lot of work to do. Guilt threatens to rear it’s ugly head back up, but Jim’s smile banishes the thoughts to the deepest recesses of Bones’ mind.

Sometimes it’s easy to forget to actually enjoy his time with the people he wants to save.

Another lesson trained into the practice, unfortunately.

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starr-fall-knight-rise · 4 years

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Humans are Space orcs, “Revelation.”

Hey guys, I had a bunch of trouble writing last night for some reason, but I managed to get something out, so I hope you like it :)

“So what do you think, am I more of a Han Solo type or a Captain Kirk type because you know if I am being honest it really depends. I think I would like to think of myself as a Han Solo type, you know dashing and sarcastic, the hero you want to have come in to save the day, but Captain Kirk I can also see. You see I make dumb decisions sometimes and get everyone into trouble. Oh oh oh!! wait ! How about Captain Malcom Renylds. I feel like he is just enough of an idiot and just enough of a badass to work, what do you think detective?”

The Detective groaned loudly and took a long slow breath, “Admiral, listen to m-”

“You know I was also thinking about other parallels. You know how about that old animated movie Titan EA. I think I kind of look like Cale, and Sunny acts just a bit like Stith, you know, the angry chick with big legs. I liked captain Korso of course, just for simple aesthetic reasons, than he had to go and be a bad guy, but damn that redemption arc was surprising and well timed, at least I think, others may disagree.”

“ADMIRAL VIR I-”

“You know I have seen every space related science fiction movie and TV show that ever existed, and I am totally cool to keep talking. I mean I have to pass the time somehow until my lawyer gets here. You see my mother always said I liked to talk. I talked early, in fact, my brothers don’t like the fact that I talk so much, they say I talk TOO much, can you believe that.”

With an angry yawl like a Cat who just got their tail stepped on, the detective rose to his feet, hands to his head, “That is IT, that is IT. We will continue this interrogation LATER.” He turned on his heels and stormed out of the room muttering to himself the entire way, “I need a break.”

Adam Vir watched him go with an expression of pure innocence on his face as the door closed, only to morph into an expression of devilish amusement not dissimilar to that of the grinch in his original animated form. He leaned back in his chair resting his hands behind his head. The Detective had seen fit to undue his cuffs as it might make him more cooperative. The irony being that he would totally love to cooperate if someone was willing to cooperate with him, and actually believe his story.

He cleared his throat wishing he had accepted the drink of water offered to him earlier. He had been talking for about five hours now, straight. Apparently a filibuster isn’t just something you can use in politics. It is apparently a very effective way of driving young and inexperienced detectives insane.

He smugly leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

Interrogation techniques were designed to work on the guilty, or, if done wrong, on the slow, but he was neither of those things. Granted he was kind of an idiot, but he was more of an idiot in the way of his idols like captain Kirk and Malclom reynolds and less of an idiot like every disney villain’s cronies. He was smart just…. Selectively.

He cracked an eye as the door opened opposite.

At first he expected to see the detective ready to go another round already, but instead a group of Drev guards walked in. He smiled his best winning smile at them and rose from his seat, “Back to the cells boys.”

The Drev didn’t say anything.

He tried a different tactic, “Zhad chal dana tsa najastich.” May the sun watch over you: A traditional, and respectful, Drev greeting

The two creatures pulled up in their tracks.

“Tsa Dzhal cheeych” You speak Drev

“Yid.” Yes

His little greeting had the desired effect, and soon he had the two Drev warriors conversing like two Rundi at a political debate. They laughed together as they walked down the halls of the precinct.

Still in Drev, the three of them continued to converse, Adam talking animatedly, “So then I told him that I can’t hit kids right, and he was all like. Then you can fight me.”

“What happened.”

“Got my ass beat. You don’t just challenge a sentinel to open combat as a rookie, and you know, at only six feet tall.”

The Drev chirped with laughter, coming around the corner to nearly run face first into the Detective who was open mouthed and staring, holding a fresh mug of coffee before him. The Drev’s laughter died down seconds to late, and the man narrowed his eyes, glowering at them.

“What are you doing?”

Adam turned to look at the other drev, “Tin Najastich.” watch this.

HE turned to look back at the Detective, “Ne’e j’ya eeneenat nehtehich.” He can’t understand us. He didn’t do much, but he could tell by the face the detective made, he had done it right.

It was a little trick he had learned from Sunny, a Drev dialect that tended to cause breaks in the middle of words as if adding a apostrophe, while simultaneously pronouncing all the ts and ks as clicks, the ts as a forward mouth clicks and the ks glottal clicks at the back of the throat. Either way, it was like putting on a thick southern accent to confuse an alien translator, and it seemed, it simultaneously worked for Drev.

The Drev began to laugh and babble at each other in the dialect as the detective sat there in frustrated anger, “What are they saying!” He demanded.

Adam frowned allowing his face to go straight as he deadpanned, “I wouldn’t know. I am xenopobic and would never dane to learn an alien language, you know, like Drev, or Vrul, or.” he leaned towards the Dredv, “I am currently working on learning tesraki.”

The Drev continued to laugh as they pulled him back towards his cell.:

Adam grinned and waved at the Tesraki guard as he walked past, “You know I have it on good authority that stock prices are about to go way up for holywood inc. They are working on becoming intergalactic. I would suggest getting on that bandwagon”

The Tesraki looked surprised, but grinned and waved at him as he was moved into the other room.

Behind him, the Detective was practically blowing steam out of his ears as the door slammed shut.

***

The human glanced over at Krill for the fifteenth time eyes wide in an expression of barely concealed terror.

Krill would have rolled his eyes if his eyes could roll.

Catching the look, Sunny frowned and leaned in, “You did threaten to eat him.”

Krill scoffed, “I don’t even have TEETH sunny, how was I supposed to eat him!” He turned to glance over at the man who was still giving him a bit of a side eye. He frowned, “Well, I suppose blending him up and turning him into a meat smoothie could work.”

It became pretty evident in the next few seconds that they hadn’t been speaking quietly enough, at least when it came to the comment about a meat smoothie.

Krill waved him off with a hand, “Oh just ignore us, now when is this meeting supposed to take place.”

“Ten minutes, maybe.”

Sunny tilted her head back, looking overhead at the darkened sky and approaching rain.

It was just beginning to drizzle when the man nodded and pointed forward into the darkness, “There.”

Sunny squinted hard, just barely able to make out a shadowy shape slipping through the darkness.

Sunny nudged him forward, “Well, go on. If you do this for us, I won’t let captain cannibal hurt you.”

WIth that urging, it didn’t take long for the man to vanish off into the dark, boots slapping on the wet concrete.

Krill turned to look at her in annoyance, “Its only considered cannibalism if you eat your own species.”

“Whatever,” She muttered, moving into a low crouch and slipping into the shadows off to the side. She managed to parallel the movement of their man for a few streets by ducking behind dumpsters and concealing herself within dark alcoves. At one time in her life she might have considered such actions to be heretical against her beliefs, but her opinions on such things had changed as of recently, and she continued to inch forward through the darkness.

Besides, this was about saving Adam.

Didn’t matter what she had to do, she was going to do it.

The human was close now stopping a few feet away from the shadow. The way the rain fell, it almost concealed the two figures as they spoke. Any bystander just passing by might not have noticed them, but Sunny was not just any bystander.

As the two figures disengaged, she had eyes only for one.

The human, likely scared out of his skin went sprinting off into the darkness likely thinking about krill and his meat blender, but his escape didn’t matter to Sunny. She could find him later if she had to, they had his name after all. What they didn’t have was knowledge about this strange hooded figure in black. The one who had paid the humans to incriminate adam, and themselves by proxy.

Sunny didn’t know much about stealth as a general rule, but She, still, somehow managed to make it up the street without being seen, tailing the small dark figure. That was her first clue, whoever it was was either a very short human, or not human at all. Now that didn’t really narrow things down as there were several species who could fit into that category, burg iotins even some rundi, or a finnari to name a few. Not that she would ever assume a finnari of doing something like this.

She watched as the figure slipping into one of the large buildings, door shutting quietly behind it. She might have worried about losing the tail if she hadn’t already considered that, and lowjacked the package.

She crouched in the darkness her hands resting on the ground before her, eyes narrowed,

A soft rustling behind her, and she turned nearly jumping out of her skin as a figure scuttled from the darkness, its movements disjointed and aggressive.

“SHHH!” Krill hissed

She snorted fuming, “What the fuck, krill you scared the shit out of me.”

“What, why.”

“Oh I dont know, maybe it has been your recent pension for violence, or the fact that you keep talking about eating people, or your uncanny ability to sneak up behind me.”

“You know, I find all of this to be very insulting. You can stab people in the face, and adam can threaten to punch people in the trachea, but the moment I do something that is even slightly off color, it bothers everyone, and then people get all uppity.”

Sunny sighed, pulling her hood up over her head to block out the deluge, “Generally Adam and I don’t threaten to eat people, Krill. That is the difference.”

“Well no one ever told me there were rules.” He said, gripping onto sunny’s cloak as they inched forward into the darkness, following the signal towards the dark building. They didn’t take the same entrance as the cloaked figure, instead going for a more discreet entrance, finding themselves in a maintenance tunnel lined with pipes and power boxes.

The only illumination they got was afforded to them by the glowing dimness of red lights above and the occasional emergency strip. Somewhere, a distant roar alerted them to the presence of some sort of generator.

They moved up the hall in near silence as the rumbling continued, and Sunny was forced to stop a few times, listening to the distant echoes of footsteps up the hallway though none of them ever came close enough to cause a real problem.

KRill followed at her back.

Soon enough, they had made it out of the maintenance corridors, following a set of slim metal steps upward and into a nice, tiled hallway. The make was very modern for Tesraki, emulating human style which was rather popular in the galaxy these days, and signified wealth despite the fact that humans were hardly the wealthiest of species.

Fake plants, or maybe real ones --sunny didn’t know-- lined the hallways as little fountains of water trickled through artificial streams on the floor.

The aesthetic was rather pleasing, giving an almost outdoor field inside a city that hadn’t seen green in over a thousand years.

They were almost to the end of the hall when sunny went very still freezing in her tracks fast enough to cause krill to plow into her open back.

“What are you doing.” krill hissed glancing over her shoulder, pausing when a pointed finger motioned him to the target.

“No. That can’t be right.

“I am afraid it is.” ***

Adam woke that night not knowing why.

It was almost as if he had hard a strange noise somewhere in the darkness, but when he sat up, the only thing he could see was the glowing blue/purple wall of the containment field.

He tried rolling over and going back to sleep, but something just felt wrong.

Eventually he forced himself to sit up and look around. In the galaxy, human intuition was nothing more than mere myth, but, despite what others said, he believed in it, and wasn’t about to ignore it’s prodding as it moved him up towards the edge of the containment field to peer into the darkness.

His eyes were almost immediately drawn to one of the other cells -- the one where his attackers had been staying--. Squinting past the glowing surface and into the darkness, he thought he could sense movement.

It was at that moment, that the containment field went down, and he was left blinking into the darkness backing away into his little field of light. When nothing happened, he inched forward and out into the darkness.

Had the containment field malfunctioned?

He took another step into the darkness before turning on the infrared on his mechanical eye and flipping up his eyepatch.

He immediately froze in palace gasping in shock.

“NO!”

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ghoul-lover9000 · 4 years

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Random Facts about Dating The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974) characters

Sally Hardesty

Sweetest girl you’ve ever met. Very quiet, but in a way that you know that she’s listening to you and genuinely wants to hear what you’re saying.

Her Texas accent is the loveliest thing to hear and, if you want her to and ask her to, she’ll talk forever even sing.

She loves slow dancing to Elvis Presley and singing excitedly to The Beatles. When you both do it together, you have a fun time and you both just feel more connected to each other.

I don’t know why but I have a clear vision of you both having a ball at a department store. You both try on a shit ton of clothes together and laugh together and try on crazy combinations stuff. She tells you you look beautiful even if you’re wearing the ugliest shit ever. Sally’s just admiring you like “You’re beautiful, baby!”

Jerry

He can be uptight sometimes, but he’s ultimately fun to be around because he does like to fool around.

Unironically says groovy all the fucking time.

Jerry: Hey, babe, I think you’re real groovy.

You steal his shirts all the time because they’re amazing. Look at that pattern, and they’re so comfy. He gets annoyed by this, but he thinks you’re cute.

Try to mess up his hair. I dare you. He will have a fit.

You hang off of him a lot and it makes him happy because you’re a cutie.

You both like to laugh and he teases the hell out of you, but it’s all in good fun.

If he ever gets serious and uptight, just kiss him on the cheek and he’ll be a mess and forget what he was being uptight about.

Pam

One of the first questions she asks you on your first date is “What is your star sign?” and she loves to read about the compatibility of both of your signs and problems that both of your signs have.

Imagine drinking coffee in the morning with her while she reads you both of your horoscopes. It’s very peaceful, fun, and indicative of your relationship as a whole.

If you’re going through a rough time, Pam lays your head on her shoulder and she talks about how it’s probably just because Mars is going into retrograde right now and it will get better because things will change and planets will move and she will always be there to take your mind off of it.

She definitely burns incense and lavender. Not sage because she doesn’t like the smell and the fact that it gets rid of all energies good or bad. She definitely believes in energies and vibes. She will only date you if you simply vibe well with her.

She loves Fleetwood Mac and wants to be Stevie Nicks.

Kirk

This guy admires the fuck out of you and is dummy supportive of your interests. He will listen to you talk about whatever because you’re his girl/boy.

Imagine you and him relaxing together while he lazily strums his guitar. Maybe you smoke a little pot. Who knows it’s the 70s and you’re both young and free.

You both definitely go to music festivals together and hang out with friends all the time. You both are always doing something.

Put your head on his chest and he will be the most content man in the world.

He has the cutest little tooth gap and when he smiles he’s just the cutest.

Just a well meaning Southern boy all around.

Franklin Hardesty

He’s just a sweet Southern boy. Like he loves you, he loves his mother, and he loves good Southern food kind of Southern boy. And I appreciate that.

You’re the only one in the group who makes sure he’s never left out and you help him with his chair as much as you can.

He plays with your hand when he gets nervous or starts thinking a lot.

When he gets interested in a topic, Franklin talks about it all the time. He’s got a lot to say about the meat industry.

He’ll zone out while looking at you and have a little content smile while he does.

I think he gets pegged as an annoying character a lot, but he was left behind and made fun of a lot by the others and he had the most character.

Nubbins Sawyer

To loosely quote Steve and Gary from Cabin in the Woods, he may be a pain-worshiping backwoods idiot, but he’s your pain-worshiping backwoods idiot.

Probably met him while you were hitchhiking through Texas when he was trying to get a ride home and he was charming in a weird we’re-stuck-on-a-back-road-together and he talks enough to make you not go completely crazy because you’re alone.

Can you imagine the family dinners? I bet they would be murder. (Haha funny) But on a serious note, Drayton would hate that he took you to the house and now demands to let you live. Bubba’s kinda chill with you once Nubbs explains the situation.

Nubbins: N-naw, we don’t kill this one. They’re good.

Good luck if you’re a vegetarian because you’re either gonna have to switch to an all meat (mostly human) diet or try to explain to the whole family why you’re not eating your perfectly good thigh stew.

After a while when you’re apart of the family, Drayton warms up to you and asks if you would like to learn how to gut a human like a father offering to play catch with his son.

You and him walk to town once every month or so to stock up on stuff that’s not meat (You know fruits, vegetables, Oreo cookies. I think he would really like Oreo cookies if you introduced them to him.) and watch him dig up some graves.

I’m not really into Leatherface so I’m not that motivated to write for him, but I hope these are good. It was interesting to write for these characters because I’ve never seen headcanons of any kind for them. Thanks @erikaec for the request. I hope this is at least kind of what you wanted.

#the texas chain saw massacre #texas chainsaw massacre #nubbins sawyer #nubbins headcanon #nubbins imagine #kirk #jerry #pam #franklin hardestly #sally hardesty #headcanon #texas chainsaw massacre headcanon #leatherface #x reader #dating would include

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bluemoonbabes · 4 years

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Jim Kirk Headcannons

(I imagine these as aos Kirk, but they could probably work for tos too)

(Tarsus IV warning as well as talk of PTSD and depression)

• He may look like his dad, but Jim is 100% his mom

• Jim was sent to Tarsus IV to live with his two aunts (who I - and I don’t know why - imagine to be something along the lines of Carol Danvers and Maria Rambeau). They taught him the ins and outs of aviation and engineering, but with old tech

• On Tarsus IV, Jim and his kids didn’t have access to good weapons so they made their own. Thanks to his grandpa, Jim had experience with a bow and arrow. He was forced to kill three people and never missed a shot

• The citizens of Tarsus IV sent out five distress signals. Only one was received by a transport ship that alerted Starfleet. The others were either intercepted or failed to send. This caused an almost six month delay of rescue from the time of the execution to Starfleet’s arrival

• Jim knows how to speak 17 different languages, some of them being German (because of his mom), Vulcan (because of an old friend on Tarsus), and Sign Language (because there have been situations where he couldn’t talk)

• He learned Swahili just so he properly apologize to Nyota for being such a dick to her. They’ve got a brother, sister relationship now

• When he was younger, Jim got his ears pierced. He still wears earrings every now and again, and will steal some of Nyota’s (and vise versa)

• A lot of people doubt Jim and his skills, especially since he’s so famous within Starfleet (some people even believe he paid his way through), which is why they are shocked when he proves to be an experienced fighter and survivalist, and a damn good pilot and captain

• Had Pike not found him in the bar, Jim probably would have gone on to join the Air Force

• Jim is very supportive of his crew and very protective. They’re the only ones that stayed. His crew knows this and recuperates those feelings just as much

• Jim knows how to do makeup, and if you ask nicely, will let other people do his makeup. First, it started with Galia wanting to practice new looks on him, then Nyota found them in Jim’s quarters as she was looking for Galia and made adjustments to “match Kirk’s "coloring"”, and now they’ll sometimes tag-team him a look for big events

• When there’s a lot to be done, Jim will help where he can in engineering

• Some of his nicknames are JT, Jimmy, Jammy (drunk Bones), Big Cat (Sulu called him that once to try and calm him down. Now it’s just a thing the Enterprise’s command division calls him), Kock/Jock (drunk Scotty talking about Jim and Spock), Jerry (error in a name list), and Jimothy

• He’s almost a motherly figure to the younger members of his crew, including Chekov

• Jim and Sulu spar together. It started when Sulu found Jim in the gym early morning, angrily beating the shit out of a punching bag (cause of a nightmare). After he calmed down a bit and Sulu had stretched, Sulu offered to spar. They’re keeping tract now of who’s won, and some of the security officers will place bets

• Uhura, Bones, and some of the other higher officers place bets on Jim and Spock’s chess matches

• Bones, Scotty, and Jim have ritual get together nights where they get drunk as fuck

• Jim is actually pretty good at giving advise, something that a lot of people find shocking

• The senior crew have learned Jim’s brashness and playboy act is all a facade, and that he’s just a scared and scarred man. They get annoyed/angry when people insult him for it or try to make him seem like a terrible person

• Jim has depression and PTSD. He can’t eat really chewy or gamy meat, nor really earthy, dirty plants. Natural, overgrown ponds set him off because on Tarsus they were used as mass graves. Fireworks, gunshots, and other similar noises are a big no-no because they used bullet guns on Tarsus, and grandes were used to destroy buildings that Kodos thought held stowaways. Out of all his symptoms, Jim’s nightmares are the worst. When his PTSD is really bad he’ll see a few illusions, most commonly auditory or smell. His crew have learn what’s triggering for him and how he acts, so when he’s having bad days they keep track of him and make sure that he’s taken care of. The senior crew will take turns talking to him in the observation deck which is usually where he goes after a nightmare, illusion, or some sort of attack

• Jim is big soft with his crew and only his crew

Bonus

• George as two older siblings - a sister (who I imagine to be like Carol Danvers) and a brother. They come from a family that likes to use practically ancient tech

• George took Winona’s name when they got married

• Winona was born in and grew up in Germany

(Feel free to add more!)

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pennywaltzy · 6 years

Text

The Prince Next Door (3 - 4/7 - A “The Hidden Royal Prince” Story)

So I know I should probably be posting three chapters of this tonight, but there are so few left I figured I’d do two and then drop down to one a day until it’s all up. Tomorrow will be the last of the old chapters and then the two new ones will go up. Hope you all enjoy (especially you, @greenskyoverme)!

The Prince Next Door - There’s something about the Vulcan who lives in apartment 2B, something Jim doesn’t find out until the Vulcan is attacked: he’s Prince S’chn T’gai, trying to hide from the planetary troubles on his home planet. But the man, who tells him to call him Spock, ends up becoming more important to him and in his world than he ever realized.

Chapter 3

Bones’s bar was a hole in the wall type place, the type that never had any advertising but was always full of people. It reminded him of that old Earth bar in the sitcom, the one that Ted Danson was in. It had its normal crowd of regulars, a few people who wandered in by accident, and then people who heard about the place from word of mouth. That was really the only way most people heard about the place; since there were no flashy signs advertising it outside and there were no neon-lit signs in the windows for the different brands of beers or liquor his place served, most people didn't even realize it was a bar. Add to it the fact the bouncers sat inside the door so you actually had to step inside to have your identification checked and for all someone knew it was a place that smelled like great food at almost all hours of the day.

It was just the way Bones liked it: low-key, low trouble, low hassle.

So Jim knew he was going to get an earful for bringing the half-human/half-Vulcan prince who was on the run from assassins to the bar to be kept safe and hidden and then bring his human mom along too for good measure. But there really wasn’t any other option; the complex wasn’t a safe place for Spock now and since he knew the truth he felt obligated to help. And Bones was the only person he knew who could do anything. He was going to catch hell, but Bones was a doctor once upon a time so if there was anyone who would feel just as strongly about keeping people safe and...well, alive, it would be Bones.

They’d gathered up what they needed most, which for Spock had been surprisingly little, and gotten a cab to the bar. Kirk had the feeling leaving his bike at the complex meant he probably wouldn’t see it again, but he supposed it was a sacrifice he was willing to make. He could get another one later, rebuild one, something like that. It wasn’t as though it was his dad’s bike; that was still in Iowa under the custody of his uncle. He’d rather have that but...hell, he’d left everything behind to make it on his own. He was just going to have to deal with never having that, never having real links to his past.

It seemed to take longer getting to the bar in a cab than it did on his bike, and when they got there Kirk motioned for Spock to go towards the alley entrance instead of the main entrance. They made their way there with Kirk looking every once in a while to make sure no cars had followed the cab or no people had taken an interest in the two of them that they shouldn’t. He had to do it while remaining inconspicuous, but apparently, they hadn’t been followed, so he allowed himself to relax just a little.

“Are we not permitted to use the main entrance?” Spock asked curiously.

“Around this time of day, Bones is making some hellish combination of southern food for his breakfast in his apartment. The people in the bar are the regulars who want to get shitfaced before noon. Bones won’t be tending bar to them. Nyota will be there because the regulars want the pretty face first thing in the morning.” Kirk nodded his head towards a set of stairs. “We go up the stairs, that’s where the living space is. There are four bedrooms, but Bones usually rents out three of them. Not that he needs to. He makes a pretty decent amount of money with the bar, even if it’s just a hole in the wall. The regulars pay a ton of money for peace and quiet and no hassle.”

“And you help provide that service?” Spock asked as they made their way to the stairs on the side of the building.

Kirk nodded. “I’ve had my share of arguments to break up, but I usually get out of most of them without blood being shed. At least inside the bar. Outside...that’s a different matter.” He got to the base of the stairs and then climbed them two at a time, almost bounding up them. When he got to the top he knocked on the door hard. “Bones! Need some rooms from you!”

It took a few minutes but by the time Spock joined him the door had swung open and a man in a blue button-down shirt with dark hair and a glare on his face was staring at them both. “Jesus, Jim, I’m going to burn my grits.”

“Look, I’ve got a situation,” Jim said.

Bones rolled his eyes. “Find out the last girl you slept with had a boyfriend?” he asked.

“Think interplanetary,” Jim said, pointing to Spock. “Meet my next door neighbor, the hidden prince of Vulcan.”

Bones looked from Jim to Spock and then sighed. “Shit.”

“Exactly. He was attacked because his guards turned on him, so he needs to hide somewhere else, and--”

“Hold it,” Bones said, holding up a hand. “You got yourself involved in an interplanetary dispute? Good God, Jim, can’t you get into normal trouble like a normal person?”

“You know me, Bones,” Jim said with a smirk. “Go big or go home.”

“Go home is right,” Bones muttered. “I should boot you both on a transport back to Iowa.” Then he shook his head and moved out of the way. “I am going to regret this, but come on in.”

“Thanks, Bones,” Jim said, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “Oh, and one more favor?”

“What, hide the King, too?” he asked in a sarcastic tone.

“Close. Queen,” Jim said.

“Of course,” Bones said. He looked up at the ceiling and shook his head. “Jim, if this all goes to Hell, I am personally taking it out of your hide. Got it?”

“Got it,” Jim said. He turned to Spock. “Let’s go grab rooms and then let’s figure out if your mom is okay and how to get her here.”

Spock nodded. “Very well.” He turned to Bones and nodded his head towards him. “You have my deepest thanks.” Bones grunted and shut the door behind them, heading back to the kitchen. Spock then turned to Jim, looking confused. “Have I offended him?”

“He’s just an old grump. I mean, not that old, but just...extra grumpy,” Jim said. “You get used to it.” He nodded towards the rooms. “Come on. We have plans to make.”

Chapter 4

Bones left them to their own devices in figuring out which room was going to who. Jim thought Spock would take the largest of the three open rooms but he suggested that be his mother’s room when she joined them. He couldn’t really argue with that. He did insist Spock take the second largest room. Not that there was much difference, but it was next to the room his mother would take and he felt Spock would appreciate that.

Once their things were stowed away they went to the kitchen to join Bones. There were two plates laid out with food for them. One had all the fixings of a normal Bones breakfast, the other had grits and a bowl of strawberries next to it. Jim gave Bones a strange look and Bones shrugged. “Most Vulcans are vegetarians. Grits are made with hominy and water with a little butter, usually. I don’t have all that much vegetarian fare on hand but he can have the last of the strawberries.”

“Thank you,” Spock said. He took a spoonful of the grits and chewed it for a moment before swallowing. “This is most satisfactory.”

“It tastes better with cheese but I didn’t know how strict a vegetarian you might be,” Bones said.

“I am not as strict as most Vulcans, as I am half-human,” Spock said. “I will eat meat substitutes and dairy products.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Bones said with a nod. “I know Knucklehead here goes through a gallon of milk every couple of days. So share, Jim.”

Jim rolled his eyes and began digging into his food. “Hey, I pay you back.”

“With low-fat crap instead of whole milk,” Bones grumbled. “Health consciousness should not extend to milk.”

“You used to be a doctor,” Jim said. “Shouldn’t you be pushing that?”

“Hey, fat people aren’t necessarily unhealthy,” Bones said. “And skinny people aren’t necessarily healthy. Why do you think I was a popular doctor? I didn’t buy into that skinny fad shit from hundreds of years ago.”

Spock looked at Bones. “Is that how you knew of my dietary preferences?”

Boned nodded towards the outside of his window. “With the Starfleet Academy so close, it helped to learn as much as I could about alien species. I would help out at the Academy clinic sometimes when they didn’t have enough doctors in their program. You get people who want to travel the stars and all, but getting doctors away from cushy assignments to keep those idiots safe while they’re in space? Easier said than done. No doctor in their right mind wants to be subjected to a million space diseases when they can have a nice place on Earth.”

“But you’re damn good at it,” Jim said.

“Damn good,” Bones said, nodding slowly. “I just got tired of the pro-human contingent. When the hospital I was working at wanted me to stop working at the clinic and stop treating aliens, I gave up. What’s the point of exploring the damn universe if you think humans should be the only ones treated on Earth? It’s stupid. Those crazies are going to cause serious problems one day.” He paused. “I could have gone into the Academy as a student, maybe even taught there for all I know, but I just decided hell with it, it’s time to get out.”

“I did not realize there was a contingent of this community that was anti-alien,” Spock said.

“You’re human passing. You’d probably be fine if you weren’t a freaking hidden prince. I mean, cover up your ears, who can really tell?” Bones said. “Which reminds me. What are you two planning to do? Hide out here for a while with the Queen? Then go back to Vulcan and...what, exactly?”

Spock shook his head. “Rightfully my father should lead the people of Vulcan, as he is next in line for succession. I think he wants to abolish the aristocracy and replace it with a democratic system, but I am not privy to his plans.”

“Typical father,” Bones said in a huff. “You’re the prince, whether your people like it or not. At least you should know whatever the hell he’s planning.”

“When is the last time you spoke to him?” Jim asked, interrupting Bones' tirade.

“When I arrived in San Francisco,” Spock said. “Our conversations were brief, however, and mostly concerned my mother.”

“Does your dad not like you or something?” Jim asked.

“Jesus, Jim,” Bones said, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. “Don’t ask questions like that.”

“Well, it’s a pertinent question,” Jim said.

“He is not fond of me as I have had...ideas...he does not agree with,” Spock said slowly. “While he loves a human woman, he does not seem to know how to love a half-human son.” He went back to his food. “Though if his plan is to change the political ruling nature of Vulcan to a democracy, that is not something I oppose. I have no interest in politics.”

“What are you interested in?” Bones asked.

“Science,” Spock replied. “It has been a passion for many years, to use human terminology.”

“Is that why you’re here in San Francisco?” Jim asked before having more of his food. “To be near Starfleet Academy?”

“My father would never let me enter,” Spock said. “Though he has different opinions on Vulcan society than most, he would not be so lenient to let me do anything other than entering university-level classes on Vulcan. Therefore, my education will be postponed until the matter is settled.”

Jim opened his mouth to reply but Bones glared and he shut it. He wondered what would happen if the matter was never settled and the planet was stuck in an ongoing civil war because it seemed like bullshit that Spock couldn’t go to a university somewhere, and Starfleet was the best option. That’s what he was trying for, at any rate. His ultimate goal was to get up into space and explore. Maybe even captain his own ship someday. It wasn’t fair that Spock couldn’t have his dreams too.

Maybe he’d figure out a way they could both be happy and keep his identity secret...

#spirk #james kirk #spock #leonard mccoy #star trek aos #kirk x spock #fanfic #fanfiction #multipart: the prince next door #my au: the hidden royal prince #commissioned fic #greenskyoverme

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ecotone99 · 4 years

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[HR] The Vegetarian

Kirk was sitting on the bed when I arrived to his cell, right leg crooked over the left and fingers interlaced in his lap. He didn’t seem imposing, and in fact did not even acknowledge me at first, just sat there staring at whatever point on the wall he’d laid his eyes upon. I wasn’t sure what to make of him. Bony face, empty and unadorned as the room itself. Pronounced clavicles. Tufts of brown hair poked out from the neck of a white tank top, which in turn had been tucked into a pair of orange trousers. Both were too large. An untouched pork roast was laid out on a platter next to him, the slab of meat girthier than his leg.

“We don’t normally do this, you know,” I said.

He turned and looked up at me, moving only his head to do so. Bushy eyebrows, flat nose, drooping earlobes, pointed chin. The corners of his lips curled up just enough to tip the scales and qualify as a smile. For a while he continued sitting there, looking more through me than at me, but then he blinked twice and met my eyes.

“I know.”

I took a step back in spite of myself, feeling like I’d opened the door to a naked stranger. Instead of covering up, though, he acknowledged me and grinned, as if saying don’t worry, this is the locker room, everybody is changing clothes here. He never moved an inch, but the tightness in my gut insisted that we were much too close. I was about to retreat another step when he reached out to pat the mattress beside him. The ring finger on his left hand was missing.

“Take a seat.”

I hesitated for a moment and then edged forward, sitting as far away from Kirk as I could. There were two feet or so between myself and the pork roast. Then him. A few feet further was the far wall of the cell. Its cement bricks were painted a peculiar green, like melted mint ice cream.

“Oh, Peter,” he said, a twinge of disappointment colouring his voice. “I don’t bite.”

I scooched closer, perhaps six inches; just enough to create a space for my left hand. The tips of Kirk’s lips dropped back down and his eyes glazed over again. It happened so quickly, as if an electric current was running through his veins and my little rejection had caused an important switch inside of him to fall out of place. Weight disappeared from the air, I was able to suck in a quick breath and, sighing, realized that the hand I’d planted next to me had been shaking. My eyes wandered to the far wall and settled upon a worn steel sink.

“I heard that you’d requested to eat with me,” I said.

The mention of food seemed to flip whatever switch I’d knocked loose. Kirk leaned over towards his pillow and then turned back to face me, a plate and some silverware in each hand. He placed one set on his side of the pork roast and the other on mine. I couldn’t help but notice the scars on his bicep when he extended his arm to do so. Jagged purple things that stood a half-centimeter tall, as if whatever caused them hadn’t quite been able to take his life and settled for a swathe of skin instead. Just then Kirk looked up, but as his smile grew, he must have misinterpreted the reason for my staring.

“I don’t suppose you like pork, do you?”

“I don’t eat pork,” the words fell out of my mouth, practically a reflex at this point.

“Really?” his eyebrows shot up. “You Muslim?”

“Huh? No. I mean, it’s not just pork. I don’t eat meat at all,” I said, more comfortable now that his focus had shifted off of me. “Back in high school I—”

Kirk interrupted me. “I used to do construction work. Carpentry, to be more specific. Anyhow, sometimes we got lunch at this barbecue joint. But one of the guys was a Muslim—Abdulrahman, I think—and he never came. So I asked him why. He said that pork was considered haram ‘cause it tastes like human flesh.”

“Uhh.. well, in my case, back in high school I dated this girl for a couple years. One day we saw a PETA advertisement on TV; cows getting tazed in a slaughterhouse. She got upset and started bawling—the cows were panicking and wailing, it was really terrible—and the next thing I knew, we were vegetarians. We broke up a few months afterwards, but fifteen years later and here I am, still a vegetarian.”

Kirk let out a whistle.

“It’s not really something I think about anymore, though,” I added. “After you haven’t eaten meat for a while, eventually it stops looking like food to you. Plus, I was already a vegetarian when I began cooking, so I never learned any recipes that needed meat. It’s just a habit, I guess.”

At the word habit, Kirk turned to look at me again. Differently, this time. I’m not sure how to describe the way he looked at me, exactly. Hesitantly, with scrutiny; the face a child makes when they’re rolling a new word around in their mouth and aren’t sure what to make of it. He lifted a hand and ran his fingers through the stubble along his jaw, back and forth from the beginning of his cheekbones to the bottom of his chin. Interested, to say the least, and searching.

“In that case,” he said, “do you want a slice?”

“Erm, no. I’m fine, thank you. ”

“Oh,” he frowned, then put a few slices of pork roast on his own plate. He stabbed one with his fork and then held it up in front of his eyes, squinting as if he were inspecting a dollar bill for signs of forgery. “Kind of boring for a last meal, huh. I heard that people order some pretty crazy stuff, but I just couldn’t think of anything I really wanted to eat,” he cocked his head a little to one side. “When I was a kid I heard about this restaurant in New York that sold gold-leaf plated ice cream sundaes. Always thought I wanted to try that just once before I died. Even just a spoonful. But when it came down to it, I asked for a pork roast. That’s the funny thing about habit, I guess.”

I didn’t respond, and he didn’t press me to. After a while he placed the entire slice of pork into his mouth—a whole slice, and a rather thick one at that—and chewed in silence. Though I’d have cut it into smaller pieces, myself, it was a wholly normal manner of eating. Lips sealed, but struggling to remain so. Cheeks puffed out. His jaw went down, his jaw came back up; slow, rhythmical, intentional. Eventually he lifted his chin a bit and swallowed. A lump formed in his throat and seemed to be stuck there for a second, then disappeared.

“Abdulrahman was wrong, by the way,” he said, bringing a fist to his mouth to suppress a burp, then turned to face me. He looked into my eyes right away this time. “About the pork, I mean.”

There wasn’t vitriol or remorse in Kirk’s words, but there was lightning. People often say they feel a chill race along their spine, or that their hairs stand on edge, but this was nothing like that. A wave of electricity dashed through my body as soon as the word pork made contact with my ears; my forearms clenched, my stomach lurched and my back straightened. All in the span of a tenth of a second. Then, finding nowhere to go, it held me transfixed. Pressure built in my throat and I wanted to breathe so badly, like a leading tone itchs to resolve to its tonic, but I found myself unable to contract my diaphragm. So I sat there, tensed and trembling, until I realized that Kirk wasn’t looking at me anymore. His gaze had returned to the wall—or to the sink, rather, judging by the tilt of his head—and he fell quiet. But the way his fingers slowly flexed and unflexed, clutching his pants so hard the fabric ruffled and then falling lifeless, I could tell that he wanted to say something. Unfortunately, the sink’s basin seemed much too shallow to find the words he was looking for.

“I wasn’t always like this,” he said, finally. “It... happened to me, really. Was just minding my job, you know? You’ve got to, in construction. My dad used to point at the saw after he’d cut a board in half. You see how slick it cut through this here two-by-four? Yeah? He’d say. Like a goddamn knife through butter. And it’ll do the same thing to your finger. Ya hear? We respect our tools, but all it takes is a second. One day a few guys had just finished loading a skip hoist and somebody told a joke. Apparently one of the others—his name was Carlos—thought it was real funny and he cracked up. Really cracked up, could hardly stand straight. Without thinking he laid a hand on the skip hoist to steady himself and so happened to grab the wire rope. It was exposed, somehow. Anyway, they’d been loading it with debris, yeah? Just then the batch they’d sent off discharged, the wire jumped and it ripped three of his fingers straight off. He’s lucky he didn’t lose his whole hand. I was standing twenty feet away, smoking a cigarette on break, and one of the fingers made it all the way to me.” Kirk sighed, long and deep.

“Just plopped there in front of me, fell right out of the sky. I was stunned for a second, but by the time I came to, I had that finger in the ziplock bag with my chips. At first I was worried somebody might see me, but they were preoccupied with Carlos. Understandably. So I wrapped the bag in a few napkins and stuck it under the ice pack in my lunch box, then ran off to help. We got him to the hospital real quick and then the foreman told us to take the rest of the day off. Everybody was shaken, to say the least.” he said. I was scrambling to put pieces together, but thankfully, Kirk didn’t seem too interested in hearing what I had to say. He just kept talking.

“I used that extra couple hours to go to the store and get stuff for a simple marinade. A bit of olive oil and soy sauce. Dijon mustard, ground black pepper and a clove of garlic. Let it sit overnight, then I roasted it with an omelette for breakfast in the morning. There’s not much meat on a finger, unfortunately.” Kirk suddenly glanced up, meeting my wide eyes for a second before looking away. His face was a mix of guilt and embarrassment, as if he was confronting someone who had earlier walked in on him masturbating. “It was nice. A bit chewy, but not in a bad way. I’m not much of a chef, but I remember thinking that it’d have gone better with something more acidic. Maybe a pineapple marinade. Anyhow, nothing like pork. Noth—” He looked up again, stopping mid-sentence upon meeting my eyes. Then he just sat there with his mouth open for a few seconds.

“And that was that for awhile. It was just… a really intense curiosity, and it was harmless, and it was done. The fingers were too fucked up to be reattached, anyway. Now I knew, you know, so that was that. It wasn’t bad, but not so special. Just a piece of meat. Not worth the trouble. That project we were working on ended and I went the next couple years without thinking about it again,” he nodded and bit his lower lip. “Then I took a project upstate. The commute was too far, so after the first day on the job I went to book a room at a nearby motel. Am I scaring you, Peter?”

I stuttered for a few seconds without saying much. His gaze hung much more heavily over me than his words did, so I looked away, to escape his eyes. “It’s unsettling, yes.” I said.

“That it is,” he said. “Anyway, it’s 9:30 at night or so and I pulled into this little motel lot. The worksite was already out of the way as it was, and the motel was in the opposite direction of the city. Real pretty though, at the foot of a mountain trail. I imagine it was for hikers, but this was mid-march and it was still too cold for that. There was nobody in the administrator’s office and, just as I was resigning to a night in the truck, I heard the scream. Not a scream like your kid had done something stupid or something on TV made you jump, either. You don’t know what desperate means till you hear someone scream like that. So I went looking. It didn’t take long, given that there was only light coming from one room and the door was cracked.”

“I stepped into the room to see two people struggling in bed. A woman old enough to be wrinkled but still with a head full of brown hair, her nightshirt half ripped off, and standing on the bed over her a large man. He had on a dirty red t-shirt, a bare ass and a pair of denim shorts around one of his ankles. When I walked in they both stopped and stared at me for a minute, all three of us frozen in place. The man moved first. ‘Get out,’ he said, but I was so shocked I couldn’t move. Then he turned towards the doorway, took a step forward and pointed a finger at me. You. He took another step forward, and when I met his eyes, I understood a bit of what I heard in that woman’s scream. They were hard steps, his penis bouncing from side to side with each one. For some reason my response was to bunch up my shoulders, hands at my side, like I was standing at attention. I couldn’t move from that spot, and maybe he saw my terror, that man started laughing as he walked towards me. Then the tips of my fingers felt the hammer, still hanging off the loop of my jeans.”

“A few steps later he reached out towards me. I don’t know if he meant to push me, or to grab me or to hit me. But when he reached out, suddenly all that desperation exploded into action. I swung out, the hammer connected with the side of his head and he dropped. Like a stone. It was over in a second, much quicker than I actually processed what happened. I stood there staring at him, motionless and bleeding on the floor, then looked up at the woman. She had pushed herself up tight against the bed frame and pulled the blankets up, scrunching them to cover her chest. We met eyes and she began whimpering—Please, don’t hurt me. Over and over again like some mantra. Eventually she lost it and started sobbing and convulsing, shaking the blankets off. Her breasts were pockmarked with cancer spots and bruises and wrinkles, but in that moment, she looked like a vulnerable little girl. Fear does that to people,” he said.

“Anyhow, I just stood there for a few minutes; it was all too surreal. Eventually it dawned on me that I’d just killed someone. The adrenaline and dizziness disappeared, like the image of an old television shrinks to a single point before blinking out into darkness, and I panicked. I hadn’t planned this. I was just doing my job. In that moment my life fell apart to the background music of this woman’s crying. There was no more noise than that, it was practically silent, and it all happened in a mundane hotel room you wouldn’t look twice at, but there was no going back from that day. That stood out to me real clear, like it was a line of text highlighted in a book. Everything had changed now. I didn’t know what to do so I dragged the man’s body outside, put him in my truck bed’s tool box and drove home. It was less of a choice and more of a resignation.”

“I ate him, of course. Started with his penis; deep fried, strewn with parsley. It was chewy, not in a particularly pleasant way, but the testicles were nice. Hard on the outside, crispy, but soft and sticky on the inside. His thighs were memorable, too—salt, pepper, a bit of nutmeg. Some sauteed brussel sprouts on the side. Eventually I finished eating him, but curiosity had only begun eating away at me. The next few years are a blur; I don’t remember how many people I killed. Ten? Fifteen? Maybe more. When I killed the man I was so worried that I’d see my face on the news; every time I heard sirens outside I tensed up, assuming they were for me. That they were coming, and the world knew what I’d done; but the world didn’t know and the police never came. I guess that woman at the motel didn’t paint a picture of me, and even if she did, I’d never ran into issues with the law before. They had no reason to look for me. I was just a normal guy out doing my job. The serial killers you see on TV, you know, I think they wanted the notoriety, like it was some sort of voyeurism. But I tried to stay out of the spotlight, and I guess it helps that I didn’t have a type. I’d get a fat old homeless guy here, a little orphan there. Lots of different ethnicities and sizes and ages. One day I picked up this methed-out prostitute. Straight up told her that I was going to kill her and eat her. That one sticks with me, out of all of them, you know. She didn’t respond, didn’t start frantically yanking on the door handle. Didn’t fight me or panic. Just sighed, closed her eyes and reclined the passenger seat a bit. It was hardly the worst thing the world had thrown her way; I suppose she’d been waiting to die for a long time already. I didn’t enjoy her.”

“I didn’t enjoy much after that, in fact. It was like the printer ran out of ink and started putting out stills that were nothing more than several shades of gray. The passion was gone, the creativity dead. Everybody looked about as appetizing as your dad’s meatloaf—” Kirk glanced at me. “No offence, Peter. I’m sure you’re great. Anyway, I stopped eating. Not just people, either. Everything. The bread in my pantry got moldy, the milk in my fridge went bad, and I started going, too. I lost a lot of weight.” Kirk’s hands reached up, seemingly inadvertently, and traced his clavicle. It stood so far out that I imagined he could wrap his fingers around the bone if he pushed a bit. “It happened real gradually. I’d always wake up early on Sunday mornings to make breakfast. Toss some bacon into the skillet, then when that’s done you use the bacon grease to make fried potatoes. You might as well have a cigarette or two because that takes awhile, fifteen or twenty minutes maybe, and otherwise you’re just standing there stirring. But they’ll be real good and crispy. Try it sometime. After that you can start the toast, then you use the same pan to scramble eggs. Once they set, toss in a bit of cheese, some salt and pepper. I liked to add a bit of paprika, myself. Anyhow, it’s simple, but it’s good.” Kirk wet his lips.

“Or, well, it was good. This prostitute, yeah? I picked her up on a Tuesday evening and we got back to my place at nine in the evening or so. Normally I’d talk to people, get to them a bit, but this woman just sat in the chair and ignored me the entire trip. When we got back I walked over to open her door, and she adjusted her skirt a bit then got out. I walked a bit behind her because I expected her to run, but she didn’t. Just walked to the house and let herself in. So I led her to the bathroom and told her to wait there; I went to the bedroom and took off my clothes, so as not to get blood on them. I took my time, and I thought she’d make an escape while I was gone. Show her colors. The door wasn’t locked, after all. But when I came back she was still there, sitting on the toilet. Didn’t even acknowledge me at first. Eventually she looked over real slowly, like she was bored. And her eyes, they—” Kirk stopped mid-sentence and scrunched up his face. “You’ ever kill anybody before, Peter?”

The question took me aback. “No,” I said. My voice was much shriller than I had expected, almost a whisper. “Never,” I glanced at my watch.

Peter nodded. “Well,” he said, “people look at you in a certain way, just before it happens. It’s an intimate thing. At first they’re shocked, and that quickly turns to fear. The adrenaline kicks in and they struggle for a bit, but before long that wears off and they accept that the ball is in your court. From there, some people start crying. Some people will beg with you, some people scream. Some people just stare at you, like a challenge. Eventually they give up. All of them. From that point on, they look at you in this special way. Like a child looks at their mother, or a pet waits for food. Expectantly, vulnerable, submissive. They’re totally dependent on you know, and they know it, and they know you know it. It’s a real intense thing, real personal; they might never have looked at anybody like that before. Hopeful and hopeless at the same time. It’s like looking right into their soul. You learn a lot about them during those few minutes. And then you kill them.”

“But this lady, she didn’t do anything like that. Just sat there, as if she was bored, like I was wasting her time. I stood there looking at her for a long time, I don’t know how long. I wasn’t sure what to do with her. You can’t dance if your partner doesn’t do their part, you know? Eventually she got up, walked over and took the knife. At this point I’d have let her wave it at me, I just wanted to see something in her. Instead she ran it through her own stomach. Deep. Then she walked over to the bathtub, laid down and died. I was still standing there, and I stood there for a long time, unsure what to make of things. But I never figured out what to do, so instead I left the bathroom and went to bed,” Kirk raised his eyebrows and shook his head slowly from side to side.

“I felt off that entire week. Sunday came, I made breakfast but found I couldn’t eat the bacon. The eggs were fine, and the potatoes, but I had no appetite for the bacon. I ate her liver, instead, but it was off, too. Next went steak and fried chicken, and within a few days, I couldn’t make myself eat any sort of meat. Somehow, after eating so many people, normal meat had just become a bit boring. That’s what I told myself, at least. Like somebody who starts drinking sparkling water instead of soda. It’s just not quite the same. Hard to get excited about. So I became, as you call it, a vegetarian,” Kirk flashed me a smile, but his lips were the only part of his face that moved. It disappeared just as quickly as it came, then he reached up and scratched the back of his head. “I don’t know what happened, really. At first it was just meat, but then other foods followed, too. Within a couple weeks I couldn’t stomach the scrambled eggs or fried potatoes, either. By the time a month had passed I’d completely stopped eating. She was still up there in the bathtub and it was starting to stink. There was a half bath on the first floor, but I hadn’t showered since.”

“Two months in I woke up to hunger pangs. Terrible ones. Oh god, the hunger; it felt like my stomach was being ripped apart. I needed to eat. Something, anything, now. But I hadn’t left the house since that night. There was nothing left. So I—well you know, right?” Kirk glanced at me. “I saw you looking at my arms. I began cutting myself, taking chunks of meat from here and there. Mostly my thighs. Not such big ones; they bled for a bit and then closed up just fine. Unfortunately, it turns out I’m not all that delicious. A few days later I did this,” he held his hand up. “Just went into the kitchen, grabbed a knife and cut it off. There wasn’t as much blood as I expected, but it didn’t stop. Once it started it just kept going, and going, and I wasn’t sure what to do about it. So I went to the hospital. The entire world stopped to look at me when I walked into the emergency room, but they hurried me to a room and patched me up just the same. Then they asked what happened, so I told them, and they sent me to inpatient care. Later that day the police found the girl. The therapists there asked me why I did that, so I told them—how this all started with Carlos’ finger, had come full circle and now it was time for me. Or something like that. I was in the hospital for a couple weeks, then was sent to prison to wait until my court case. That whole process took several months, but time wasn’t so important to me during those days. The next thing I knew my sentencing was up around the corner.”

“It hit me when I was getting dressed that morning. I didn’t dress up too much, but I figured that a guy should at least wear a tie to his own sentencing. So I put on a pair of navy blue slacks and a white Oxford; found an old belt, too, then set about doing my tie. Choosing the tie didn’t present much of a dilemma, as I only had one of them—mottled yellow, knitted—but what to do with it was more difficult. Eventually I decided on the Merovingian. It’s quite a difficult knot, so I expected to fail a few times. I fucked it up, of course, and then again. And again. Eight times. It didn’t bother me until I looked in the mirror and, seemingly for the first time, noticed my missing finger. Surely I would have succeeded if I had but one more finger; I threw the tie down and stomped. The Merovingian laughed at me.”

Kirk sighed.

“Not a lot gets by me, you know. But somehow, somewhere along the line, I lost my self. I’d have noticed if it were my dress socks or the change jar. If the stop sign down the street disappeared one day. But my self, it slipped away so quietly, and I was none the wiser. Maybe it was chased off by lust, or maybe my… hunger… consumed it, too. Maybe it went bit by bit, I don’t know. But for whatever reason it struck me that morning when I was trying to put on my damn tie. I was shocked to see that I was missing a finger, and suddenly I began coming back to myself. The fuzziness disappeared and I snapped back into it, only to find that I was missing much more than a finger. I didn’t have a self to come back to anymore. The Merovingian laughed at me.”

“There’s nothing you can do,” it said. “It’s inevitable. Even if you stop, even if you know that you’re done, you swear it won’t happen no more, that doesn’t mean it’s gone. Nothing can replace it, that taste. And you know it. Try to move on. Just try. It’s hungry, and it’s powerful, and it’s patient. And once it gets ahold of you, it’ll eat away at you until nothing is left.”

Just then two men appeared in the doorway and announced that time was up. Kirk was taken by a guard, and on his way out, without looking back at me, he announced:

“A nail is driven out by another nail, Peter. The Merovingian is coming for you, too. ”

And then he disappeared around the corner.

The warden furrowed his eyebrows and looked at me. “What the fuck was that?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I’ve never talked to the man in my life.”

The warden disappeared and Peter began to cry.

Shortly after, he took a slice of pork.

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michrob87 · 6 years

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Lefties have it right

http://blog.timesunion.com/hoffmanfiles/lefties-have-it-right/40932/

Lefties have it right.By

Rob Hoffman

on January 8, 2018 at 5:31 AM

0Let’s face it, there’s nothing in our physiological makeup that has fascinated us, or mystified us more than the functioning of the human brain. It is by far our most important organ, and yet, it remains the one that we know the least about. While we continue to try to ascertain its workings, there is still so much about this magnificent biological structure we have yet to fully comprehend. (I suppose that is why it is so hard to truly know ourselves.) I believe we are living in a time where we hunger to understand the brain, and we can all thank the president for that. After all, he himself has discussed the importance of the brain, and has told us on numerous occasions that he in fact has, “A really good brain.”

(“I have a very good brain.” They say that’s exactly what Sir Issac Newton used to say after the apple fell on his head. All smart people have really good brains, and feel the need to tell us about it all of the time…right? In fact, remember the time Albert Einstein stated that he was a really mentally stable genius? You Tube)

It is our brains that explain everything about us. Many psychologists prescribe to the notion that our behaviors, likes, and habits are predetermined, and that our brains are simply hardwired to be as they are. Sure our environment shapes us to some to degree, but let’s face it, people can tell you from now until the judgement day that you should like seafood, or appreciate art, or poetry, but if it’s not something that you would naturally gravitate towards, no amount of coaxing in the world is going to get you to a place where you are going to sit there and enjoy a “poetry slam,” when the idea of poetry literally causes you to break into hives.

I can say with great confidence that I would not have been one of these wide-eyed gadflies who sat around on college campuses listening to the “Bard of Haight-Ashbury,” Allen Ginsberg. I suppose that my brain simply isn’t wired as such that I can enjoy an art-form such as free-verse poetry. Of course, if Ginsberg were to show up sporting let’s say Yodels, I suppose I could be coerced to listen to a little good old-fashioned “Hippie Poetry.” What is it about Yodels that make the prattle of poetry just go down a little bit smoother? (Getty Images)

Considering how differently we are wired, it shouldn’t be any wonder that we are a divided people here in the United States. However, I believe the media has it wrong regarding what divides us. There’s a lot of talk about the concept of tribalism, and how we are loyal to our own “tribe” or group. While I don’t disagree with this description of how our society is broken down, I do believe that the way most so-called experts have attempted to explain the causes of our tribalism are way off the mark.

It is my estimable opinion that it is not race, nor religion, nor region, nor the football teams that we root for that divide us as much as it is the conflagration that is “left vs. right.” I don’t mean the political left vs. the political right. I mean left-handed people vs. right-handed people. Think about it. Sure there’s racism in the world. African-Americans and whites don’t see the world the same way here in the United States, this much we know to be true. However, even amongst whites or African-Americans, there is division over the concept of being right-handed vs. being left-handed. How did we get here, and can we bridge this gap, or are right-handed people simply doomed to be inferior to left-handed people? (Spoiler alert…I’m a lefty!)

This division over left-handedness vs. right-handedness lies squarely on the doorstep of the brain. It is our brains that determine whether we lean towards left-handed vs. right-handed dominance. How typical is it to be left-handed? Not very. Somewhere between 88-92% of the world’s population is right-handed. How soon in our human development do we choose a dominant hand? Apparently pretty early. According to researchers who studied hand dominance in utero, they found that hand dominance in the womb was an accurate predictor of handedness after birth. Heredity also plays a role as well. Nearly 24% of handedness is inherited. As a lefty with two right-handed parents, all I can say is, I wish I knew which hand the milk-man delivered with.

Like all things of value in our society, lefty’s are rare. We’re like leprechauns, but taller. (Hoffman Collection)

There was a time in our society that being a lefty was considered a negative. People would criticize your handwriting, or the way you held a fork, or cut your meat, or your ability to handle scissors, or your throwing. Look at baseball. Most of the positions on the field are made specifically and exclusively for right-handers. Forget Jackie Robinson, the real hero who integrated baseball was the first player to stand to the first-base side of home-plate, or throw from the mound from the first-base side of the rubber with that slinging motion, tossing another unhittable slider.

My Aunt Sylvia, who has since passed away, was not known for her cheerful, optimistic nature. In fact you could argue that she only had two moods; fed-up and surly. How did she acquire a disposition that was so chock-filled with sourness? Most likely it was because she was born a lefty, but was forced in school to write and eat with her right-hand. This is worse than making a child renounce their religion. Religion is a choice. Nobody chooses to be left-handed, and yet our education system has historically denied 12-14% of our population that most basic of rights, to favor your lefts.

The “Immortal Babe.” The “Sultan of Swat.” The “Bambino.” The “Hefty-Lefty.” (I kind of embellished on that one.) Babe Ruth was an inspiration to every chubby left-hander who has ever picked up a baseball, especially when you learn that he used to play with his glove on backwards since they didn’t even have a left-handed mitt at the orphanage where he learned the game. (Getty Images)

The sad truth is, left-handed people have been discriminated against by an uptight, and right-leaning society that has sought to crush those free-spirited “port-siders” who just want to be free….man. Historically, left-handed people were routinely accused of consorting with the devil, and during the 15th and 16th centuries, any woman who was left-handed could be branded a witch. (If you listen to The Eagles’ classic “Witchy Woman,” backwards, you can clearly hear Don Henley say, “Bitch is lefty.”) Even during the supposedly more enlightened 19th century, left-handedness was sometimes brutally suppressed. In school, students who preferred using their left-hand to write with would often find their left hand tied to the back of their chair.

Even in modern times, the lefty is forced to exist in a world where the scissors, most sports, the left-to-right style of how we write, and many attempts at manual labor are all catered towards the prissy and spoiled right-handed majority. This group of left-brained, right-siders, are an oppressive bunch that are so insecure about their dull sameness, they use the word for “correct” to describe their handedness. What’s so “right” about being right? Why are we lefties left behind? Why are we so put upon? I’ll tell you why. Left-handed people are rebels. We are non-conformists. We don’t go with the flow. We are the fly in the ointment. The proverbial turd in the punchbowl. We are the antagonists, and we won’t be denied, as long as you have those special left-handed scissors that make it so much easier for us to cut stuff up.

A rallying cry for those who refuse to conform. This is the true “rebel yell!” (The Hoffman Collection)

Even in politics, being on the left is seen as a negative. Right-wing politics is ascendant. The “Alt-right” is the hottest political movement in America as we speak. In Europe in the early part of the 20th century, people willingly supported the Fascists in Italy, and the Nazis in Germany rather than support the left-wing policies of the Socialists or Communists. (Granted, the Communists were and are pretty horrible, but the Nazis if possible were worse.) If you wanted to destroy a politician’s career in America between 1920, and, well today, all you have to do is refer to them as a “lefty.” The only way it would seem to survive as a left-wing politician in the United States, is to be at least 74 years old, look disheveled, and yell a lot about the rich in a very thick Brooklyn accent, even if you’ve lived in Vermont for over 40 years. (By the way my little left-wing millennials, it didn’t work for Bernie either, he lost, remember?)

In fact, anything that smacks of the “left,” is seen by the teeming masses as negative and undesirable. Consider the following:

A bad idea is “out of left-field.”

A guy who sucks in baseball is told to play “left-out.”

When somebody is trying to insult you, but make it sound like they are saying something nice it’s called a “left-handed compliment.”

Food that’s not finished at dinner time, and is reheated the next day in a dried-out, crusty, and luke-warm version of its former self, is known non-affectionately as a “leftover.”

When Jesus comes back, and takes all of the good-hearted people who are the true believers, while the sinners who didn’t make the cut must fend for themselves amidst the devil’s minions, it’s known as being “left-behind.”

Why couldn’t I have listened to my mother and teachers who begged me to be right-handed. If only I hadn’t been such a rebel, I could be chilling with Kirk Cameron in whatever vanilla flavored version of heaven he’s squatting in. (You Tube)

Outside of being a non-conformist, are there any advantages in going through life as “southpaw?” Well….

You usually only have to hit against righties in baseball, which is good for a lefty since getting to face a righty is easier.

Nobody really ever borrows your baseball glove since there are very few lefties.

Your serve in racquetball, tennis, and perhaps squash, (I really don’t know anything about squash other than it tends to get played by swells named “Mitt,” or “Buzz,” or “Chip,” or “Clark,” or some “tool-like” moniker given to an individual I wouldn’t be caught dead “chilling” with.) is really hard to return. I’ve won racquetball games without ever having to hit the ball a second time after I’ve served due to the fact that some people find it very frustrating to return a left-hander’s serve.

Lefties always get the end of the table since nobody wishes to buy an elbow from me or any other lefty while we’re eating with our unconventional left-hand.

Left-handed people tend to return quicker from strokes. (Either that or nobody can tell the difference.)

Supposedly, left-handed college graduates tend to earn 26% more money than right-handed graduates. (This stat may be a little bit skewed since both Bill Gates and Steve Jobs are and were both left-handed. They more than make up for my teacher’s salary.)

They have a better chance of passing their drivers test. Lefties pass 57% of the time, while righties only pass 47% of the time. One therefore could make the assumption that we left-handers must be better drivers. (Fun fact, I failed my road-test on the first try. Sorry, other lefties.)

They are faster typists. That’s why I’m able to write these blogs so quickly. Look, I’m finished…not.

They spend less time standing in line. Geez, it sure as hell doesn’t feel like it.

They are better at multi-tasking. (Or as my brother calls multi-tasking, doing a lot of things at once poorly.)

(Source: Left-handed people are great, righties suck.com)

Because we lefties have been so badly discriminated against over the centuries, we have needed to invest our time in developing cute little sayings, and putting them on coffee mugs. The best part, while we’re drinking our coffee, those insufferable right-handers have to read what’s on our mugs every time we take a sip. They can literally suck-it. (The Hoffman Collection)

Probably the greatest attribute that lefties have going for them is their creativity. How can I prove this? Take a look at this list of famous lefties and you tell me if we’re not G_d’s most gifted children.

Barack Obama – No surprise here. Is there anything this Kenyan, Muslim, Socialist isn’t to the left of?

Bill Gates – Let’s see, richest man in the world is a lefty. Check!

Oprah Winfrey – “You get a left-handed glove, and you get a left-handed glove, and you get a left-handed glove,” is what I imagine her saying when I daydream about Oprah being a lefty.

Babe Ruth – A great pitcher and perhaps the greatest hitter in baseball history, and of course he’s a lefty. You know, this is just getting boring pointing out our superiority.

Napoleon Bonaparte – Which hand was it that he stuck in his shirt for all of those portraits?

Leonardo DaVinci – Does that mean that the Ninja Turtles are left-handed as well?

Marie Curie – Lefties “radiate” greatness.

Aristotle – I think, therefore I believe I’ll be a left-hander, or something like that.

Jimi Hendrix – I hear the guy could play a little guitar. By the way, I believe he shot heroin right-handed, of course.

Edward R. Murrow – Only the best journalist in history. I believe he could smoke with either hand however.

I would also mention famous lawyer Clarence Darrow, H.G. Wells, James Baldwin, Michelangelo, Charlie Chaplain, Robert De Niro, Bill Bradley, and Ned Flanders. Guess who’s right-handed? Well, if you had guessed Tom Brady, Adolf Hitler, Bill Belichick, Joseph Stalin,and Judas, then you’d be correct…or should I say “right?” Do you really need any more proof?

I’m sorry, could somebody remind me how many right-handed artists painted the most famous portrait in world history? Oh that’s right, the man was a lefty. Thank you Leonardo. You are the Jimi Hendrix of the Renaissance. (Getty Images)

I believe I have accurately explained the greatness of being left-handed. However, what are we to make of those who are ambidextrous, the bi-sexuals of the hand-dominance world. Are they more flexible? Are they more open-minded? Do they have some sort of genetic advantage? Personally, I believe that they are descended from a tribe of magic pixies. I’m not sure I trust these people. Pick a handedness, and stick with it. We don’t need you genetic supermen making the rest of us look bad.

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akissatmidnight · 7 years

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Diana Gabaldon is a master of mixing business with pleasure when it comes to facts and fantasy. She put a dream guy in a real-life world that we can all immerse ourselves into. But Jamie’s a laird, even though he’s usually on the run. He has friends and relatives in high places that generally keeps him, and his wife Claire, fed and dressed and reasonably housed very often. But what about the common man? What of the farmers and their wives or the lads and lasses who went to the cities to make their fortune?

Today we’re going to chat a bit about about what life was like for those not blessed with a title, a killer bod, or the ability to make us swoon with the swipe of a kilt…

Highland Homes

The average Scottish family didn’t live in a manor home or castle like Jamie grew up in. Mostly, they were born, lived, and died in a small hut made of a mud and sand mixture over a wooden frame with a straw roof. There were usually no windows, as the common man couldn’t afford glass, with the only light coming from the front door, the hole in the ceiling that allowed smoke to escape from the center fire, and handmade candles. If there was money to spare, and you had some strong lads from the nearby village to help you, the home could be made of stone with a small fire place built right into the wall. Some of these houses have even withstood the tests of time and still have people living in them today! In the winters, if you couldn’t afford a barn or shed for your animals, you’d be sharing some of your living space with your livestock, as the snow in Scotland can pile up!

And maybe you’d be lucky enough to share your living space with HIM!

Farming

The average Highlander relied heavily on milk products for a large part of they diet. So they kept large numbers of cattle, sheep, and goats. Goats in particular thrived in the Highlands, as they could eat anything and still produce milk, although cattle was largely preferred. The butter, cheese, and milk would be used by the family or sold and traded for other goods they couldn’t make themselves. There was also the meat to consider. Every fall, some of the animals would be slaughtered and their meat salted to keep the farmers through the long winter months. And if winter wasn’t kind, the animals could be bled, their blood added to the morning porridge to give added nutrients.

Barley and oats were also a farming staple, proving another large portion of the Highland diet. It could be made into things like porridge, cakes, bread, and then served with a bit of honey or butter. Kale and hemp were also grown, as were turnips and cabbages before the introduction of the potato. But all these things took money and land, something that was usually controlled by landlords or lower nobles, making the farmers who usually worked the lands, tenants. These tenants would have to pay a portion of their crop to their landlords. Still, if the land was good and there were enough people to work it, a family could make it through the winter…even if it was only on stale bread.

Clothes

What we see on Outlander are perfectly disheveled Scots in gallant plaid who still look handsome when covered in blood, women with polished buns and clean hems, and the rest of the costumes we’ve all grown to love. Now, the costumes were all carefully cultivated and created to be as historically accurate as possible, save for some tartan shades and the like, but what did the rest of Scotland wear?

Women’s outfits weren’t much different than those in England, Ireland, and the surrounding areas. Mainly consisting of linen shifts and homespun dresses in various colors, married women covered their heads in kerchiefs while the unmarried lasses were allowed to wear theirs down and uncovered. Many women did often wear tartan shawls that was really an all purpose item. It was used for warmth over the shoulders, around the head like a veil, to cover babies and small children, or used as a makeshift pouch to carry things in. They were often bear-footed year round, but sometimes donned leather or deerskin shoes that were similar to the Native American Moccasins in North America.

For the most part, men lived in their kilts, wearing them while working during the way, then using them as bedding at night. But as you can imagine, it wasn’t always easy to do all the farming with a great pile of tartan wrapped around her. So some men were trews, a sort of leggings that were made of tartan or the usual homespun that made up shirts and dresses. A shorter kilt, that doesn’t have the upper portion that wraps around the shoulder, also came into style in the early part of the 1700s, an item that allowed them more freedom. When not barefoot, leather or deerskin shoes were the thing to wear over stockings. And of course, sporrans were worn, but not every day, as a small pouch of leather would be normally used. Knitted and decorative hats were also worn and were often useful and colorful.

The Average Day

Highlanders would wake up when the sun rose, getting the most of out daylight hours. The wife/mother would dress and build up the fire while the husband/father would go tend to the animals. A large pot of porridge would be made for the family, who might take it with some milk or honey and some bread. Then the work would begin. If the family was rich enough and the farm wasn’t in need of their help, the sons might be sent to a local Kirk parish school to learn English, Latin, and maybe a trade. The girls could be sent to small women’s classes to learn the finer parts of sewing, cooking, and weaving. But largely, education among the average Highlander took a back seat to tending the farm and family.

The men and boys would go tend the animals again, butcher meat, work the fields, fix roofs, hunt, fish, and other physical labor. The women and girls would make candles, sew, prepare food for winter, do laundry, and help in the fields when needed. Keeping the farm and home in running order was a task for the whole family.

Lunch might be an oatcake with salted meat and cheese. Wild berries would be added to the mix when they could be picked by the children. This meal was meant to be eaten over a short break in the fields and not savored as other meals. And after lunch, the work would resume until the sun began to go down and it was time for supper.

Dinner was made of whatever was fresh in the warmer months, like salmon from the river or some stew. Unless it was winter, they rarely ate any beef, saving it for the colder months when butchering livestock was a necessity. In the winter, their evening meal was made of whatever they managed to preserve like sausages, roasted turnips, a hearty stew, cured meat, onions and carrots, and the ever present oatcake. This was eaten around the table upon low stools, lit by handmade candles.

Then after a final look at the livestock, it was time to sleep, unless there was some form of entertainment to be had like a round of songs and something being played on the fiddle. The parents usually slept in some form of pallet with the children either joining them in the single bed, in a small trundle, or on the floor beside the heath.

Other Forms of Income

If there were too many mouths to feed on the farm, there were other ways of making a living for the middle and lower classes. Boys could be sent to work at other, larger farms, which freed up the boys family from the burden of keeping him fed, while ensuring he was being payed and received meals at his new post. Girls could be trained as maids and housekeepers, which was unattractive option for many, as they could be nearer to larger cities and a bigger pool of potential suitors. Apprenticeships can also be bought for boys who had the endurance to be a blacksmith or horse master. The military was also an attractive option, as it offered meals and pay. Women who lived closer to villages or larger towns could get work as a laundress, midwife if she had the skill, or a weaver.

I know, a lot to take in in such a condensed version and it’s only the smallest peek into the life of an average Scot! But I hope it’s given you a look into what it’d be like to live in Scotland

A Day in the Life Diana Gabaldon is a master of mixing business with pleasure when it comes to facts and fantasy.

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