#American Dry Gin

[nice-bright-colors]

Sometimes less botanicals is better, Sometimes.

[softspeirs]

Reprieve (BoB/MoTA x OC)

Summary: What if Bucky and Buck managed to escape the forced march that night in Germany? What if in a really roundabout way, they got some help from some locals and found their way to the 101st? What if! Loosely follows the events of this AU. Author's Note: No romantic pairings (a bit of Speirs/OC mentioned). Features my BoB OC, Kat Gray. This is very much a "magic of fanfiction" story - doesn't fit with canon and certainly would not have happened in real life. It's fine - we're all insane here anyway. Enjoy! Warnings: mentions of PTSD, and descriptions of war-related injuries. Words: 8k+ (I am so sorry)

“Welcome back to the land of the living Major. You look like you’ve seen better days.” The woman’s American accented-voice is clear as a bell and yet Bucky still thinks he’s hallucinating. “Can you open your eyes for me?”

Bucky tries to sit up.

"Not so fast," she says, leaning over him so he can see her.

“Where am I?” He croaks.

"You’re in an aid station with the Airborne. You've been out for two days. Take it easy." She sounds familiar.

"Have we met?” he asks, ignoring her request to sit still. His ribs ache, and his throat feels so dry he feels like he’s swallowed sand.

"Once upon a pub in England, Major Egan." The woman busies herself around him, gathering bandages and other supplies, and when he can finally force his eyes to focus his gaze, he sees her, and he can't help but let out a breathy, disbelieving chuckle as he recognizes her.

"Of all the gin joints..."

She turns around and grins. "Something like that." She holds out her hand. "Corporal Kat Gray, sir. It's good to see you."

He takes her hand gratefully, squeezing. "I'd say the same, but--" he winces as he reaches up to touch his eye. He can't see out of his left eye at all. It's eerily similar to how he arrived at Stalag Luft III, and he wants to vomit at the thought. "How--"

"You and Major Cleven have had a rough few days." She says, her tone taking on a more somber tone. "He's just fine." She adds, reading the panic on his face. "He’s being debriefed by our CO.” She leans in. “I’m going to try to clean this a bit better,” she says gently. “I’m going to adjust you for a minute, but if you can look up for me, I won’t need to touch you much.”

He feels a strange mix of shame and relief at the way she’s talking to him - telling him what she’s going to do and giving him the power to say yes or no… it’s certainly an adjustment compared to what some visits to the infirmary in Germany were like.

He looks up at her, and she nods reassuringly, reaching to adjust him so she can see him better in the dim light. “How on Earth did you end up here?”

The last few days all feel like a blur, and Bucky bites back the rising panic at the thought of what his and Buck’s escape might mean for their friends. “Buck and I have been in a POW camp since ‘43.”

Kat is quiet, meeting his gaze with large, dark eyes. “I’m very sorry to hear that. Obviously you escaped. Nearly ran right into our outpost.”

He sighs, scratches at his jaw. "They evacuated the camp. We’d been having conversations with our guys for a week or so when we knew the Germans were going to march us. We agreed that a few of us should try to get back. I remember finally finding a window to make a run for it, and--" he stops as he flashes back to a dark night, moments of complete panic, and finally, watching Buck escape over that wall. "-- got the butt of a rifle for my troubles."

"That explains the bruising." She leans in, her fingers cool against his fevered forehead. "Did you have a previous injury here?" Her gaze is narrowed in on a spot somewhere near his cheekbone.

He really doesn't want to talk about it. It was hard enough trying to tell his guys what happened to him, and he's just not sure he has the words to try to describe it to someone else. He'll have to eventually. If they ever make it back... but that's about the only time he thinks he can manage to get the words out. "Yes." He says finally. "When I went down…. They walked us through a city that had been recently bombed, and between the civilians and the guards..." He trails off, jaw tight.

Her eyes are understanding. She doesn't press him, and he's grateful. Instead, she leans back against the wall at her back, folding her arms across her chest. "So I've got good news and bad news. The good news is I don’t think you’ll have any lasting damage, even in that eye. I don't think your orbital bone is broken, but you'll be sore for a while. The bad news is that you need to speak with our S-2, on account of how you might be a spy and everything."

Bucky blinks at her.

Kat smiles. "It’s just a joke. But… procedure. You know it goes. Technically I probably shouldn’t have asked you anything about how you got here.” She shrugs, waves a hand dismissively. She stands up straight, takes a few steps back from him. "Think you can walk?"

“Would it matter if I can’t?” He grumbles, pushing himself into a sitting position.

“Of course,” she frowns. He has to remind himself where he is and who he’s with. He’s gotten so used to hiding any major or minor injury, any sign of illness, and being forced to stay on his feet for what felt like hours on end, sometimes in the middle of the night.

Kat continues, “Though, sir, if you were to… as a Major, of course… give me permission to order Captain Nixon to come to you instead, I would really really enjoy that.”

.

Outside, he shields his eyes from the bright light with his right hand. His head throbs, but he keeps walking. He glances down at the woman beside him.

Helmet in her hand, he gets a better look at her now that they're not in a room lit with barely a single bulb.

"Where are we?" Bucky asks, voice low.

"Somewhere between Belgium and Bavaria." She says. "We’ve been here for a week, pulled off the line not too long ago.”

Her voice is scratchy, whether from overuse or from illness, he can't tell. She has a fading bruise on her left cheek, a mirror of the one on his face. She looks older than the last time he saw her.

He remembers her, fresh-faced and in a clean uniform on a pub night where he and Buck and Benny were all together and intact. Not a scratch on them or dust on their uniforms. He remembers her easy smile and the way her men closed ranks around her at the first sign of his flirting.

They walk a few more feet to a requisitioned building that's practically falling apart. It's warm though, and that's really all he cares about. That, and seeing for himself that Buck is here and alive.

He hears his low voice before he sees him. Buck is standing bent over a table covered in maps. Across from him are two captains - one he vaguely remembers and one he hasn't met yet. All three straighten at his approach.

"Major Egan, this is Captain Winters and Captain Nixon."

After two hasty salutes that Bucky feels uncomfortable receiving, Nixon's hand is the first outstretched for a shake. "Egan. Good to see you on your feet."

"Thanks." He replies distractedly as he looks at his friend. "Buck? Entertaining guests already?" He asks, gesturing at the room they're in - it clearly used to be a kitchen.

Buck smirks. "Should have remembered to get down the good silverware."

"What, uh…" He wants to ask what happened after the woods, after-- he remembers finding Buck in the woods, hands trembling and alone. He had waited for him, said he knew he'd catch up eventually, and said George was gone.

They walked the entire night and next day, sticking to the woods as much as possible until they got close enough to the front to hear American voices. It's a bit hazy after that. Between the certain head trauma and the exhaustion, he doesn't remember much.

Buck shakes his head, almost imperceptible if Bucky hadn’t been searching his expression. Later, it seems to say.

Nixon gets Bucky’s attention by clearing his throat. “If you can come with me for a minute, Major.” he says, gesturing to another room off to one side.

“Nix, I really don’t think–” Kat tries to interject.

“Kat, we can’t make exceptions.” Nixon says warningly, though his tone is nowhere near harsh. He turns back to Bucky. “Look, Major, I remember you, and I know you’ve already been through this with your far less kind hosts, but I’ve got to ask you a few questions before we do anything else.”

With a look at Buck, who nods reassuringly, Bucky goes.

They go through the whole thing - name, rank, serial number, what’s the national anthem, who is the President and when was he elected… the whole thing. All things considered, Bucky actually thinks Captain Nixon goes pretty easy on him.

They join the others after a few more minutes, Bucky absently rubbing his temples which are already starting to ache.

The taller man -- Winters -- seems to want to get down to business. He turns to Kat. "Corporal Gray. Hang around for a minute?"

"Yes sir." She says, finding a place to perch on a counter behind Buck. As she hoists herself up, Bucky catches the glimpse of a dirtied bandage that takes up nearly her entire arm as her sleeve rides up.

Trying to focus on the task at hand, he and Buck go over every second of their escape until Bucky can't remember much else. His jaw clenches as Gale recounts how he half carried, half dragged Bucky to the other side of a ditch so they could get to the American side of the line.

"Gotta say, you're a couple of lucky bastards," Nixon says. "A few hours later and that town would have been either empty or back in German hands." He meets Bucky's eyes.

They go over a map for a few more minutes."We were marching in this direction,” Buck says, pointing at the map, “But it’s hard to know for sure, and there's no way to know how long they were going to make us go."

"Well, they'll meet up with the Army at some point." Nixon says firmly. "Nothing classified about it - we're making gains in all directions. It won't be long."

Bucky nods, trusting him and his intuition. At least he could sleep at night knowing he didn't resign his friends to too many more months of hell.

"Any chance you'll be the one to break them out of there?" Bucky asks.

"It's hard to say." Winters says eventually. "We're assuming our next move is into Germany, possibly farther into the Reich than Berlin. We won't know until we get our orders." He looks apologetic, and both Bucky and Buck know that despite their rank, despite the fact that they’re all officers in the Army, Winters can’t tell them much more. He probably shouldn’t have told them any of this at all.

Winters switches gears, turning to Kat. "What's the diagnosis, Kat?"

"Concussion watch for Major Egan," she meets his eyes briefly, "Two broken ribs and obviously the damage to his left eye." Her tone is pretty clinical, but Bucky doesn't take it personally. "I'd like to get some food in both of them, and Major Cleven's got a cough I don't like the sound of."

"Well, he’ll fit right in then.” Nixon says.

Kat rolls her eyes and kicks the Captain lightly with one dangling foot. "I think the interrogation will have to continue another day. I'd like Roe to check them out too." She continues quietly. At their nod, she takes charge, a hand on Buck's shoulder to guide him out the door, and a glance over her shoulder at Bucky signaling that he should follow.

Outside, he finally asks. "Why is it you don't have one of those lapel pins yet, Gray?"

She snorts. "I should think it's obvious, Major."

"Really, the rank thing is all bullshit anyway." He says.

"John..." Buck grumbles as they walk.

"It's okay--" Kat says, stopping only when they hear a loud whistle overhead. Bucky's entire body tenses. They’d been hearing artillery in the distance at the stalag for weeks, but it’s different when it’s happening right over their heads. "Over here." Kat’s voice is firm, urgently directing them into a doorway.

"Is that--" Buck stops short of asking, the earth rumbling under their feet for a moment.

"Enemy artillery. They're not that accurate. We're too close- they're just on the other side of the river."

"And yet...." He looks down at the way she’s setting her helmet firmly down on her head and raises his eyebrows at the urgency in her voice.

She sighs. "Let me find you both a place to sleep and some food, and then I'll tell you what the last few months have been like."

Kat leads them upstairs where they're given a small kit with some essentials, and a few k-rations to split between the two of them. They've even got a chocolate bar to split, and Bucky swears he's never tasted anything so good in his life.

"Don't go bragging about that," the soldier who handed it to him says. "I'll never hear the end of it."

Kat chuckles from her spot on a beat-up sofa in the center of the room. It’s some sort of supply depot - different members of the company trail in and out, hauling boxes with ammo, rations, and even mail at one point. It’s clear many of them are bunking in here too.

She tells them about the last few months in Bastogne - her eyes go a little hazy and her face clouds over in grief as she skips some of the nastier parts. “Once you hear the whistle of artillery like that, you don’t forget what comes after. That’s why I’m a little jumpy. Even though they’re missing us with mortars all day, it's just…” She shrugs. “It’s never a sure thing.”

"Tell me about that arm, Kat." Bucky says, curiosity getting the better of him. "Let me guess, I should see the other guy?" He asks.

"Not exactly." She says, smile dimming. “Like I said, German artillery went off pretty much every day, at all hours. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

"Got knocked on her ass." Another man sitting opposite her says. His eyes have been narrowed on Buck and Bucky since they arrived.

"Oh, shut up, Lieb." Kat bites back, but there's no heat in her words.

Buck and Bucky share a look, the barest hint of a smile on Gale's face. The friendly banter makes Bucky ache for a simpler time, when they’d be doing nothing but giving each other shit and playing cards all night. It feels like a thousand years ago.

“I was wounded from shrapnel here,” she gestures at her arm. “Lost quite a bit of blood. Lucky for me, I was unconscious for the aftermath.”

More whistling suddenly sounds overhead. It sounds louder, closer than before. It's strange - Bucky knows how to anticipate enemy fighters, but this is uncharted territory for him.

"Everyone up." Kat orders, the few other men in the room standing hastily and gesturing that the Majors should follow them. "Wait--" She stops, pausing to listen. The urgency in her expression feels different than it did before, outside on the street.

"We gotta go, Kat." Liebgott says harshly, eyes a little wild.

Another whistle. The entire building shakes.

"Christ," Buck bites out through grit teeth.

On instinct, Kat reaches out to steady Bucky, one hand falling tight on his wrist. They keep each other upright, and he sees Liebgott doing the same thing on Kat's other side. His hand is clasped tight around her elbow, and then the next whistle comes screeching in.

"Go!" Buck says, always the leader, even when he's out of his element.

The four of them go racing down the steps, pausing only when the building shakes so violently, Bucky is sure it's going to come down with them still inside.

"Move!" Kat urges, pushing at his back when he falters. "I didn't nurse you back to life just to watch you die here, Major Egan." They all trip over each other halfway down the stairs when another blast hits, and Bucky coughs as dust and crumbled plaster rain down on them from above.

They've all stopped on the ground floor, crouched low as if that would stop an entire building from coming down on them. Buck's arm is over Kat's shoulders, Liebgott pressed tight to her other side.

"Medic!" The shout is nearby, and frantic. Kat squirms under Gale's arm.

"Major Cleven, I need you to let me up." She says, calm.

Buck blanches like he hadn't even realized he was doing it. "Sorry."

"No time for apologies, and none needed." She says. "Lieb, take them to the CP? They’re bunking there for the night."

With a quick smile, she's gone as if she had never been there in the first place, and they're left a little dazed, watching her go.

Out on the street, they hear raised voices, but Liebgott ushers them on, his steps quick. He keeps giving Bucky a look, so finally he decides to just tackle it head on.

"You don't have to keep looking at me like I'm going to steal your girl."

To his amazement, Liebgott's eyes go wide for a fraction of a second before he laughs, loudly. A cackle, really. "Major, she's not my girl. Though if you want a shiner to match the one you’ve already got, you keep on making the moves on her. In fact, I'd pay money to see what happens when--"

"Alright, alright." Bucky says. "I get the picture. Jesus."

"You haven't met Captain Speirs yet." Liebgott says, an amused smirk still on his face, stopping in front of yet another half crumbling building. "Third floor. Good luck. Doc Roe is up there too - Kat wanted you to see him."

Buck levels Bucky with an exasperated look as soon as they get inside. "Been awake for less than two hours and already causing trouble."

"Trouble finds me, Buck."

They head upstairs and walk right into an argument. A man is in the center of the room, hands on his hips. Another medic is in front of him, looking for all the world like he'd rather be anywhere else.

"Uh-- sorry to interrupt." Gale, ever the peacemaker, speaks up.

The man turns, giving them a view of the captain's bars glinting on his garrison cap. He says nothing, turns back to the medic in front of him. "Roe, listen. I already told her she's better off in bed but just do me a favor and give her a shift tomorrow morning. She's out there doing god knows what no matter what we say anyway. Might as well do it where you can keep an eye on her."

He exhales, turns back to the two newcomers. "Majors Cleven and Egan? I’m Captain Speirs. You'll be bunking here until we can figure out what to do with you."

Bucky bites the inside of his cheek so he doesn’t smirk. This is the infamous Captain Speirs that Kat may or may not be involved with.

"We hope we'll be out of your hair soon." Buck says.

"That'll be up to Doc Roe’s evaluation, I'm afraid." He gestures at the other medic, informally introducing them. "You've seen Kat already?"

Bucky nods. "Just got debriefed and almost shelled to death. She's somewhere dealing with a casualty."

Speirs' expression doesn't change too much, but it's enough that Bucky notices the way his jaw clenches and he shifts his weight.

"Man of few words." Bucky mutters under his breath.

"Better go see what's going on. No patrol tonight, so take your time, Roe, and for God's sake, make sure Lipton actually gets some sleep?"

"Yes, sir."

As Speirs leaves, the medic turns to them with a tired smile. "Sorry for all the commotion. We don't usually have visitors."

Bucky snorts. "You don't say." He settles himself on a chair while Roe has Buck move into a better light so he can see.

"I know Kat already did a preliminary check but I'll just do my own, if you don't mind." He frowns. "Those scars are awfully symmetrical, Major."

Bucky goes tense. Doesn't like the way Roe is sizing up his friend. Doesn't want Buck to have to relive any of it if he doesn't have to.

"Any of your jumps involve you going feet first through a German farmhouse window, Doc?" Buck rasps, eyebrow arching.

Roe hums, already moving to clean up a scrape from Buck's temple. "We had some nice fellas clear out a spot for us to land on our last jump."

"You also jump out of your planes on purpose."

Roe grins. "This is true." He wipes at a small spot of crusted blood near Buck's hairline. "This healed well enough. No infection. Seems like you might be stuck with them, though they might fade eventually."

Buck doesn't say anything. No more probing questions from the Doc either, for which Bucky is grateful.

“You and Kat both have that same cough…” He says, almost to himself. “We’ve got pneumonia going around, but your breathing sounds okay. Keep that scarf on,” he says, gesturing to the olive drab scarf tucked around Gale’s neck. “Try to stay warm. If we get another supply drop I might have something else for you, but it’ll probably have to wait until you get back home.”

Home. Thorpe Abbotts… it all seems so impossible.

"You're up, Major Egan." Roe says, waiting until he's seated in front of him to dab lightly at the bruising around his eye. "You're lucky you didn't lose this eye." He says mildly. "Looks like Kat cleaned it well; I'm not going to risk irritating it further." He stands back, crossing his arms. "About those ribs..."

Bucky bites back a wince and a noise of pain as Roe applies pressure to his midsection. “It’s not the first time. No time to let them heal up and they probably didn’t heal right the first time, either.

Roe meets his eyes. “Are you short of breath? Any stabbing pain?”

Bucky shrugs. "I've had worse."

Roe must read the expression on his face, because he doesn't push. Whether he can read in between the lines or not, he gets the message, and Bucky is grateful, because he can't talk about that night again. Not the night he was captured, and not the night he and Buck finally got out. He's just-- he wants to forget it ever happened.

"You'll bunk here with the other officers tonight." Roe says. "I'd get some rest before chow time, if I were you."

Buck and Bucky have no problem taking orders, and they're both almost asleep on their cots before their heads even hit the pillow. Bucky still feels anxious about how they're going to get back to England, but he hears the laughter of men outside, and is just grateful to be alive. To be back amongst allies, even if it's only temporary.

.

Bucky wakes early. He sits up slowly, groaning. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees someone move. “Jesus Christ, Kat.”

She cackles. “I’m so sorry. I was checking to see if you were still asleep.” She says, tone full of mirth.

He huffs as she laughs for a few more seconds before taking a step closer.

“How’s your head?”

He shrugs. “Sore.”

“Ribs?”

“Feel like I was kicked by a horse.”

“Do you think you can eat?”

He nods and Kat gestures that he should follow her. In the large living area, a few of the officers he met the day before are sitting around a long table, metal bowls with what looks like the world’s worst oatmeal in hand.

“Morning.” Captain Winters greets them both. He looks down at his wrist and checks his watch. “You should still be asleep.” He says pointedly to Kat, who has been doing her best to hide a cough in her elbow, but everyone can see the shadows under her eyes.

“Sorry sir. Wanted to check on the majors.”

“Where’s Buck?” Bucky asks suddenly, feeling guilty he hadn’t even checked.

“Took a walk.” Kat says. “Roe is with him.” She gestures for Bucky to sit, leans in to speak quietly to him. “He had a rough time sleeping.”

Bucky hadn’t heard a thing. He was so out of it, the exhaustion of the last week catching up to him.

Winters is watching him carefully. Clearing his throat, he asks, “So. Explain these nicknames to me.”

It’s so unexpected that Bucky can’t help but laugh. Bucky accepts the change in subject gratefully. He tells the whole story. Leaves out some of the more colorful details Gale would have added.

“You enlisted before Pearl Harbor?” Kat asks.

“So you beat us to the war in more ways than one,” Another officer at the other end of the table says, grinning. Bucky was introduced to Harry Welsh the night before, but he was so exhausted he doesn’t think he did more than exchange pleasantries. He likes him right away - he’s got a glint in his eye that showcases his good humor.

“Say, Gray, did you know if anyone in the Air Corps gets kicked off two crews, they get sent to the infantry?” Bucky leans back in his chair, accepts a bowl of what appears to be oatmeal from Kat as she passes it along.

“That explains a lot,” Welsh says with a wry smile.

Bucky grins. “Smartest guys in your division probably came from us first.”

Kat looks between the two men, shaking her head but smiling as she gives Bucky a faux stern look. “You’re confused, Major. We’re not just infantry. We’re the Airborne.”

The other Lieutenant down at the end of the table grins. “Could have used a few more of you bomber boys to clear the way for us on D-Day.”

“Kind of a shame I missed it, but I was otherwise occupied.” Bucky says. He looks away, not wanting to think too hard on what was going on in his head when they heard the invasion had started. It hadn’t been a good stretch of days for him.

“Morning,” Buck’s voice announces himself, and he comes in looking better than Bucky has seen him for weeks. The shadows under his eyes are still there, those scars on his cheeks prominent against his pale skin, but he looks more like himself.

“Major Cleven,” Kat says with a smile. “Got a bowl with your name on it.” Her tone is pleasant, but doesn’t leave any room for refusal. “Have a seat.”

A gentle smile tilts Buck’s mouth as he takes the bowl from her hands. “Yes ma’am.”

Buck and Bucky tuck in to their food, letting the chatter of Easy Company fill in the silence. Bucky feels…. Envious. It’s a strange feeling. He watches the way the officers and Kat and the various men who drift in and out of the building interact, and besides the guys in the Stalag, the boys in The 100th haven’t always been lucky enough to get to know their comrades like this.

It’s clear to him that Easy is a group that have been together a long time.

“What’s on your mind?” Buck asks, voice low.

He shakes his head. “Nothing. Just– wish the other guys were here. That’s all.”

Buck watches him closely. “Yeah.”

Kat is called away to the aid station before long, and they’re left with Captain Winters. He’s quiet, but asks them both where they’re from and how long they’ve been in the service. It’s an easy conversation, Lieutenant Welsh chiming in here and there before they both excuse themselves for a meeting.

“Something’s going down tonight.” Bucky says.

Buck nods, tucking another spoon of oatmeal into his mouth.

Kat comes back a little while later, lips in a tight line. The Majors watch her carefully, trying to figure out if they should go back to their rooms and give her some space.

“If you need something to do you can help me over here for a minute,” she says quietly. Her voice is flat.

“Everything okay?” Buck asks, tone gentle but inquiring. He’s good at this part - trying to get someone to open up without pushing. God knows Bucky has been on the receiving end of it more than enough times.

“Fine, I– I don’t know how much I can say.” She gestures for them to join her, and she hands Buck a handful of bandages to roll. “I’m just tired of losing people.” She says quietly, almost to herself.

Buck and Bucky don’t say anything – what is there to say? They know too how people - friends - are there one minute and gone the next. They busy themselves helping her, all three of them falling into a contemplative silence.

“You know,” Bucky says, “you’re keeping these guys alive, Kat. Even an idiot with only one eye can see that.”

That gets a smile, even a small one, and Bucky starts to feel for the first time like everything is going to be okay, eventually.

.

The door downstairs flies open with a bang in the middle of the night, and Bucky is on his feet before he even realizes what he’s doing. He has a flash of a memory - a clanging cell and screaming German voices - before he remembers where he is.

Hearing Kat’s loud voice doesn’t do anything to slow his heart rate. Across the hall, Buck is also up and moving, heading down the stairs with just one look at Bucky. Raised voices fill the space and for a minute Bucky can’t tell what’s happening.

“Here. Put him here!” Kat’s voice is high pitched and urgent, and he can hear the frustration in her voice clear as a bell.

“Majors, welcome to the patrol,” another gruff voice snaps, and a man with sergeant stripes turns to them. His face is exhausted. “Make yourselves useful and help Kat.”

“I need a light!” She calls out, looking around for anyone who can help. “Now!”

“Here–” The same sergeant is shoving past Bucky, holding out a lighter.

Buck and Bucky are moving, helping to hold down the soldier on the table so Kat can see.

“You’re all right, just keep still,” her voice lowers, hand pressed to the man’s forehead. “Major, there’s a syrette in my left pocket.”

It’s unclear which one of them she’s talking to, but Gale moves first, extracting the syrette quickly. “Better if you do it, Kat.” He says.

She takes it with nimble fingers, sticking it in the man’s shoulder. “I need Captain Speirs–” She breaks off, seeing someone over Bucky’s shoulder. She snaps her fingers. “Lip, I need the captain, we need a jeep.”

“Everyone else clear out, give her some space.”

“Not you–” Kat says, hand clasping Gale’s forearm. “Need help for one more minute. Need you to hold him here,” she says, gesturing towards the wounded man’s other shoulder.

With a deep breath, Buck does as instructed, bracing the man as Kat does something to his wound that has Bucky turning the other direction, suddenly woozy as the soldier lets out a harsh cry, writhing slightly under both Kat and Buck’s bracing hold.

Bucky moves closer despite his rolling stomach, wanting to help, but Kat lifts her head, shaking it at his approach.

“I don’t think so, Bucky. Not with those ribs.” She turns her attention to Sergeant Martin, still there with the lighter. “Sarge, I need that light closer.”

“Kat.” Buck’s voice is a little strangled, and Kat looks over quickly, eyes flicking down to the man on the table who has stopped writhing, eerily still.

She pushes him aside quickly, pressing two fingers to the man’s pulse. She sighs. “He’s okay, he’s just unconscious. Probably from the pain. It’ll be harder to move him that way.” She looks back at Martin, “Sarge, we need at least one other person.”

Just then, Lipton comes back in with Speirs hot on his heels, face tight with tension.

“Kat.” Speirs says, voice firm and full of relief all at once. “What happened?”

“Sniper to the shoulder. He’s stable but he needs a surgeon.” She responds without looking up, missing the look on the captain’s face when he sees her whole and intact.

“Martin.” Speirs barks.

The man doesn’t flinch, barely even takes his eyes off the younger private on the table. “We took fire almost immediately when we crossed the river but we got three prisoners. Liebgott and Web are trying to get some info out of them with Nixon.”

“And Patterson?” He gestures to the young private.

“Sniper, as soon as we turned a corner. No one saw him until he fired. We turned tail right after that.”

Speirs runs a hand down his face. Everyone in this room looks exhausted. Bucky wonders if he’s misreading the tension - they look how he’s felt for the last six months. “Get him in a jeep.”

Kat, Lipton, and Martin work quickly, leaving Buck and Bucky momentarily to stand there, trying to comprehend what just happened.

“Buck.”

His friend looks up, eyes refocusing, but he seems a million miles away.

“All right?”

“Fine. Just— he couldn’t have been eighteen.”

“He just turned nineteen two days ago.” Kat says roughly, reentering the room and shoving past them. “We had a party.” Her voice is a bitter, angry thing. “We keep doing these prisoner snatches, and we lost a man during the first one. It just feels so… pointless.” She looks up at them, schooling her expression. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be–”

The doors open again and Kat is back to being all business. Martin and Lipton come back inside a minute later, and the night stills, like nothing happened in the first place. Martin and Lipton lean against the now-empty table, arms crossed over their chests, and Kat all but collapses in a chair, hands trembling slightly.

“Appreciate your help, Majors.” Lipton says with an exhausted smile.

“Any time.” Bucky says. “Though I wasn’t much help.” He’s got that tone again, he knows he does, where he’s feeling like he’s not doing enough, that he’s not enough, and it earns him a sharp look from Buck.

“You two should go back to bed,” Kat says quietly. “We’re going to try to get you out of here tomorrow and it’ll be a long journey back to England.”

There’s a weird feeling brewing in Bucky’s gut where he almost doesn’t want to leave. It’s the venture into the unknown - every time they’ve been in a situation where it was going back home, back to England, or having something bad happen as the alternative, things have gone wrong.

Despite being on the front, this feels like the safest they’ve been in months, and he’s reluctant to give up this camaraderie.

Kat must read something on his face, because her shoulders straighten. “Major Egan, you’re going to go home. That’s– the rest of us don’t have that choice.”

Properly chagrined, Bucky nods. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

Her expression is gentle, so he knows there was no bite behind her words, he just yet again is coming to terms with the fact that she’s been through hell and isn’t the same person he met all those years ago at the pub.

“Respectfully, sirs, off to bed with you both. Right now.”

Buck puts his hands up in surrender and heads up the stairs. Bucky trails behind him, Kat on his heels. Martin and Lipton bring up the rear, both looking like they could fall asleep standing up if need be.

After a whispered conversation in the hallway, Kat taps on Bucky’s door before entering. “I didn’t mean to be harsh, before.”

“You weren’t. You’re right.”

“Still, I know it’s not easy to feel… grateful, or relieved about your situation. Especially not after what you’ve been through.”

“It doesn’t need to be the ‘who has it worse’ Olympics, Gray.” He shrugs. “Two weeks ago it was probably me, but today and tonight it’s you.” He smiles at her. “Look, you’re going through this shit day in and day out and still putting on a brave face for everyone else.” He turns to face her fully. “Ever considered a transfer to the Air Corps?” He winks to let her know he’s kidding.

“Not in a million years, Major.” She nudges him with her elbow. “Get some rest, Bucky, and we’ll reexamine those ribs in the morning.”

“Thanks, Kat.”

.

The morning comes too soon for Bucky’s liking, and when he heads downstairs, there are only the remnants of the night’s watch group milling around. No sign of Kat anywhere, which makes Bucky a little anxious, but he heads inside the other room anyway, conversation dying as soon as he enters.

A lieutenant whose uniform looks so clean, it almost hurts to look at him snaps to attention.

“No, no, no.” Bucky says, tone wary. “Uh, at ease. No need for that.”

“Sir.” He says anyway, and there are a few snickers from the other men.

“Any chance for a coffee?” Bucky asks, sending a relieved smile at a man he hasn’t met yet who hands him a cup.

“It’s not hot yet but give me a minute.”

“Thanks, uh–” He squints at the stripes, “Sergeant–”

“Malarkey.”

A few more bodies filter into the room, and finally Kat appears, spending a second frowning and fussing over Bucky. She prods gently at the bruising around his eye and he winces, trying to cover up his reaction. She sees it anyway, lines between her brows getting deeper.

“Hurts worse than yesterday?”

“Not really. The same.” He replies. He’s extremely aware of all the eyes in the room being on him and Kat, and it makes him shift his weight, suddenly uncomfortable. “Why don’t you get a cup of coffee before it’s gone, huh?” He says. “Friends are waiting for you.”

Kat looks over her shoulder. “Yeah. Okay. But don’t think you’re getting away with pretending you’re fine, Bucky.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Kat gives him one last stern look before making a beeline for Liebgott in the corner who is holding an extra cup. He hands it over when she gets close, and Bucky watches the way the man eyes her carefully, like he’s trying to make sure she’s not going to fall apart any second.

It makes Bucky wonder about his guys, about the rest of the 100th and how they’re faring. He wonders how long the guilt will eat at him – probably until he sees for himself that they’re alive and well.

The mood in the room is tense, and Bucky wonders what happened before he came down, and notices one man’s bleary eyes on him. Bucky knows that look. The man’s attention quickly diverts to another fresh-faced private who enters the room quietly.

“Whatcha lookin’ at, Webster?”

The room falls quiet.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, college boy.”

Bucky frowns and makes quick eye contact with Kat from across the room. Her expression is concerned.

“Are you drunk, trooper?” The lieutenant who had saluted Bucky asks, voice sharp.

“Leave me alone.”

Bucky has seen this before. Hell he’s been this before, though at least he had enough sense to not directly mouth off to Colonels Huglin or Harding… not in earshot anyway.

“Answer the question.”

“Yes, sir, I am drunk, sir. Drunk. Sick and tired of fucking patrols… taking orders.”

Sergeant Martin shifts on his seat. “Hey, Cobb. Shut up. It’s boring, okay?”

“Taking his side, Johnny?”

“Both of you–” Kat tries to interrupt.

“Shut up, Kat.”

A pin could drop three floors above them and everyone would hear it. Bucky’s jaw clenches tight, and he registers Buck entering the room behind him, footsteps quiet, clearly having overheard the entire thing.

Kat doesn’t look angry. She looks… sad? It makes Bucky wonder what happened to Cobb before he got to this point. Bucky knows the toll watching your friends die and feeling hopeless can take. He knows it doesn’t take much to reach a point you can’t come back from.

“Watch your mouth.” Liebgott fires back, taking half a step forward before Kat puts a hand on his arm to stop him.

“Sarge, they’re on their way in.” A voice from the doorway says, and Buck and Bucky move out of the way as Captain Winters and Speirs enter the room. They step out, not wanting to intrude more than they already have, but not before Malarkey hands them the promised cups of coffee that have been percolating for the last few minutes.

Bucky nods his thanks, and settles in a ripped up armchair across from Buck.

“Was hoping to get an update, but sounds like they might be in for another bad night.” Bucky says, taking a sip of the hot liquid. It’s not real coffee, but it’s warm, and he feels better almost instantly.

“What was all that about?”

Bucky shakes his head. “They’re– everyone’s tired.”

“He went after Kat.” Gale quirks a brow. “Doesn’t seem like that happens too often.”

“She held her own just fine.” Bucky says, smirking. “Besides, how many times have you had to stop me mouthing off like that? After all this shit… surprised it hasn’t happened sooner.”

They both stop for a second, savoring their coffee and trying to pretend they’re not eavesdropping.

“... I want you all to get a full night’s sleep tonight.” Captain Winters says, and the following silence is loud. Bucky’s eyebrows raise. “In the morning, you will report to me that you made it across the river into German lines, but were unable to secure any live prisoners. Understand?”

“I’ll be damned.” Buck whispers.

Everyone streams out, fresh smiles on their faces. It’s contagious, and Bucky stands when Winters greets him, leans in to shake his hand.

“Not a word, Major.”

“Of course.”

Speirs stops in front of them, and even he has upturned lips on his normally stoic face. Kat trails a few steps behind. Bucky can see it now, the way it seems like they’re extremely aware of the other one’s presence, like two magnets being drawn together, but trying to keep it quiet.

“Majors.” He says quietly. “Got an ETA on the transport to get you out of here. Tomorrow morning we’ll get you on a jeep to the hospital, and a ticket back to Thorpe Abbotts.”

Tomorrow.

It feels impossible. Buck’s hands are on his hips as he looks at the ground, a small smile growing on his face. Bucky imagines he looks the same way.

“Christ.” Bucky grins, throwing his arm around his friend’s shoulders. “Home.”

“Then we do whatever we can to bring our boys home with us.” Buck says firmly, eyes on his friend.

“They won’t let us fly–”

“I’m getting back behind that stick, John.”

Bucky nods. There’s no talking Gale out of something once he makes up his mind. And the scariest part is that Bucky knows he’ll be right there in the seat next to him if it comes down to it.

“Major Cleven,” Kat says, and she looks hesitant to interrupt. “I appreciate your ambition, but please take the time you need to fully recover.” She looks between them. “Both of you. Please.”

“Only if you do the same,” Buck says with a raised eyebrow, though his smile is assuring. “Heard you coughing all night.”

Bucky has forgotten that Speirs is still there leaning against a table in the corner, but sees him straighten out of the corner of his eye. He bites back a smile.

“Who is the medic here?” Kat asks archly.

Gale holds up his hands in surrender. “Just making sure you take your own advice.”

“You’re not the only one,” Speirs says quietly, but he too has an easy smile on his face, and with the way Kat double takes, it seems she’s just as surprised as the rest of them. “It should be a quiet night. We’ll get some chow and then get you both ready to go. Kat?”

“With you in a second,” she says, and watches as he leaves. She turns back to Buck and Bucky. “You heard Captain Winters, boys. A full night’s sleep is in order.” She crosses her arms over her chest, sending them a wry smile. “Is it weird that I’ll miss you both a little bit?”

“Don’t let tall, dark, and brooding over there hear you say that.” Bucky says quietly, an amused grin quirking the corners of his mouth.

Kat’s eyes widen. “Bucky! You can’t—”

“Jesus Christ.” Buck whispers, but he laughs too.

“I’m just teasing you. But seriously, Kat– you might not notice the way he looks at you, but I’ve only been here for two days and I can see it. Hell, every guy in there cares about you.” He gestures towards the nearly-empty room behind them. “You should hang on to that.” His voice is suddenly serious, and it makes Kat frown.

There’s so much she doesn’t know about what he’s been through in the last few months. There’s so much he doesn’t know about her. But they both know the toll war can take. They both know how easy it is to lose themselves in the horror of it.

“Can we do anything today to help?” Buck asks, trying to break the suddenly pensive mood, and Kat nods.

“If you’re up for it. We can find something.”

Hours later, they come back from helping Kat at the aid station feeling… dare Bucky say, fulfilled? He talked to so many guys, helped the ones who weren’t able write letters home to their parents and girls, and it gave him that bit of himself back, the piece he’s been trying to rediscover since he went down.

Mealtime is more subdued, but in a contented way that he hasn’t experienced in months. He’s still getting used to having halfway decent food to eat. Buck seems to be soaking it all in too - his quiet conversation with Welsh producing a few laughs and the sight of a smile on his best friend’s face gives him a little bit of hope that maybe they’re both going to be okay at the end of all of this.

.

The next morning they’re awoken by the sound of artillery in the distance. It’s not close enough to be alarmed, but Bucky was hoping for a quiet morning so they could make their getaway in peace.

He’s not really worried about anything else happening at this point, but they’re so close to enemy lines. That nagging thought in the back of his brain won’t fully go away, and probably won’t until he’s back on British soil again.

A knock on the door brings him out of his thoughts, and he straightens fully, finishing buttoning his shirt.

“Morning.” Kat says, looking tired, but happy. “We’re moving out soon. Time to go.”

Bucky nods. “Be down in a minute.”

They have nothing with them, he or Buck, so it doesn’t take them long to get ready. Downstairs in the CP, they’re greeted by the full cadre of officers.

“Good morning, majors.” Captain Winters says, saluting them as they enter. “We’ve got a transport for you back to the field hospital. You’ll link up there with the Red Cross, and then it’s an evacuation flight back to England.”

They say their goodbyes, and Bucky feels the melancholy mood settling in, even though he’s relieved to be on his way. He and Buck head outside with Kat and Doc Roe meets them at the truck.

“They’ll probably want to evaluate you again when you get to the hospital, but it should be quick.” He shakes both their hands, and then excuses himself, leaving them alone with Kat.

“I guess this is it,” Kat says, and Bucky and Buck share a look. She has no idea she’s echoing a conversation they had with each other years ago, but it makes them both smile, memories of an easier time when they had no idea what was coming next washing over them.

“Thank you, Kat.” Buck says, voice quiet and contemplative.

“You don’t need to thank me,” Kat says quietly. “I’m just happy you’re both okay and going home.”

Bucky shuffles his feet, unsure how to properly put into words what these few days with Easy Company have done for him and Buck both. Obviously the alternative could have been the end for both of them, but the universe putting them back in Kat Gray’s orbit still seems too good to be true.

“You take care of yourself.” Bucky says roughly, pointing at her.

“That’s my line.” Kat says, before closing the distance to reach for his hand, squeezing tight.

He returns the contact, unexpectedly feeling his throat getting thick. “You’ve got a good thing going here, Gray. Don’t do anything stupid, understand?”

“The same goes for you, Bucky.” She frowns. “I don’t like the idea of either of you flying again.”

Bucky shakes his head. “It’s a rule - downed pilots don’t get back in the seat. Buck just does best when he can lead. He’ll be itching to do something.”

“And you?”

Bucky smiles ruefully. “I really don’t know what the hell I want, Kat.” For this damned war to be over, he thinks.

“Kat, time to go.” A voice off to the side calls, and both she and Bucky turn to make eye contact with Captain Nixon.

“Coming.”

“Go on,” Bucky says. “Be safe.”

“You too, sir.”

Kat salutes him, which he still finds incredibly uncomfortable, but he returns it dutifully, smiling softly at her. He watches her walk over to Nixon, who hands her a pack that’s been sitting by his feet, and he can see the moment her posture changes and she prepares herself for whatever’s coming next.

“Train’s leaving the station, John.” Buck drawls.

Bucky turns to his friend and takes his offered hand as Buck hauls him into the back of the transport truck. The engine starts, and Bucky takes a minute to say a quiet prayer for Easy Company as they grow smaller in the distance, hoping that better things on the horizon are coming for all of them.

[jjkeremika]

AoT men Vices

description: sex, drugs, cigarettes, and, well, you.

pairing: eren, armin, zeke, levi, reiner, jean (x fem!reader)

disclaimer/warning(s)?: stoner eren; oral(fem receiving); drinker zeke; groping; slutty levi; penetration; smoker reiner; rope play; gambler armin; fingering; jealous jean; choking; nsfwwwww

eren

• always high on weed/dabs/carts/edibles (doesn’t matter)

• his pale skin and green irises only accentuated the faint red tinge in the whites of his eyes, like a light blood splatter on american money

• hes tormented!! cut him a little slack. its not his fault his dad gave him the worst type ii bipolar disorder and narcissistic personality disorder a clinician’s ever seen

• gets horrendously horny when he’s high around you, starts touching and holding and kissing and biting you to get and keep your attention

• chews on his fingernails, jitters his legs, and licks and bites his lips as he stares at you, as he feels himself getting harder and harder at the thought of you getting wetter and wetter

• whines about how his throat is dry and he needs to taste you, to drink the liquid sliding out of you, until his tongue and jaw were cramping and his mouth was sore

• will pull you into his lap, gnaw on your shoulder and the lobe of your ear as his hands creep down your abdomen towards the source of the wet stain forming on his lap

• his voice lowers an octave as he begs to touch and taste you, as he asks if his hands and lips inching closer to your crotch is allowed and okay because he so desperately craves your approval

• “oh, baby, please, baby, only you can fix my dry mouth with your wet, pretty fucking pussy, god, baby, please, i’m so thirsty”

• moans so fucking loud when you finally give in and let him lick your clit, his fingers eagerly digging into your thighs as he pulls you so, so much closer, until there’s no air between his mouth and your skin

• devolves into demanding that you ride his face, hop and slide on his mouth with your shiny thick thighs with absolutely no hesitation, no regard for his lungs

zeke

• sad king who drinks most nights

• a gin and tonic or scotch on the rocks kind of man. likes the burn at the back of his throat on the way down

• confessed a similar reason to why he swims; liking the burning ache in his lungs when he holds his breath under the water. reminds him he’s alive

• has a poor relationship with his parents and half-brother. wants and sometimes tries to reconcile but he’s not really a people-person and he struggles to forgive

• divulges to you about his neglected dreams and pile of regrets, over analyzes situations until it all feels hopeless and meaningless

• holds you closer and tighter, at first because he’s fighting tears but then because he’s overcome with pure devotion because you’re here, with him, comforting him, every time

• and he’s certain you have so many other places you could be and more interesting people you can be with and yet you’re holding him too

• tells you that you mean the world to him, that he’s hopeless without you, that you give him something to smile and dream about, that he’d be nothing without you

• he’ll hold your wrists behind your back with one large hand and hold your neck with the other, prying your lips apart and re-introducing your tongues to each other, like he does every other night

• his hands roam as you kiss, his fingernails lightly tracing the goosebumps on your skin to the tail of your spine, the other hand following the curves of your ribcage to where your breast naturally interrupted

• “oh, i love your body, i live to please you, i live for you,” he’ll murmur for the thousandth time against your tongue as his long fingers clasp around your fleshy boob, squeezing with a fearful hold that you’ll pull away and leave him like everyone else

levi

• sex. with you. a lot.

• he doesn’t talk about his feelings or explain his emotions. there are no conversations about his past and his future. they all start one sided, and end in sex

• it’s a cop out. he knows it, you know it, but it’s so fucking good you don’t really care

• every time you try to ask about his family, his friends, his career, or even if he thinks there’s a future between you two, he’s avoiding the question and shoving his tongue down your throat

• he keeps his hand around your neck as he kisses you insistently, as he tries to kiss you until you’re dizzy and you forgot that he was trying to distract you in the first place

• gets needy and wanting, turning you around, stripping you, and bending you over before you could say a word

• impatient and selfish. he drops some lube into his palm and slicks his own cock up, shoving two or three fingers in you for short, to-be-desired thrusts before he’s gasping over you and inching the tip to your exposed muscles

• he chortles airily at the hearty moan you release once he presses inside, the euphoria encompassing his dick and shipping through his bloodstream

• he practically bends you in half, arranging you so he’s pounding into your pussy with your ass presented to his face and your own face shoved into a pillow, mascara and eyeshadow staining into the sheets at the growing desirable ache in your abdomen

• smacks your ass until his handprint is visible as he relentlessly shoves himself inside you, as he gives you every inch of muscle control and strength he has

reiner

• chronic cigarette smoker

• built balcony and patio attachments to your house so he could easily step outside

• you watched him build them shirtless and sweaty, a lighter tucked loosely in his low cut pant pockets and a cigarette lightly held behind his ear

• tries his best to cover the sour tobacco smell with rustic vanilla or mahogany colognes. up for debate when it worked, but the mix of scents really could be oddly pleasant sometimes

• he’s haunted by regrets he won’t even tell you about. doesn’t want to burden you, or rather burden himself with the knowledge that then you’d know too, and there really would be no running away

• you could see them as shadows behind his glassy eyes, always lingering when the lights were on and engulfing him in the dark

• you took it upon yourself to lift his moods, to break him free from the thought patterns that kept him chained to his lot in life

• brought the metaphor to life and bought handcuffs and rope, tied and locked his ankles and wrists to the bedposts, his vulnerability on full display

• his whole body was blushed pink as you gingerly caressed him, crawled up and down his rigid muscular body and ran your sharp fingernails and tongue down his center

• you reminded him he was chained down when he abruptly reached up and out for you, his wrists aggressively slapping back against the mattress or his legs threatening to break the post with fast squirms

• like a wolf chasing after a rabbit, reiner huffed and drooled over you and the sexy shapes you made with your hips as you wiggled all over him, grinded against him and relished in the whines and begs to be released from his holds and touch you

armin

• first got into gambling when eren convinced him to go to a casino for his 21st birthday

• and while the huge crowds and loud noises and overstimulating lights originally raised his anxiety, the adrenaline and excitement of playing and winning won out

• tried to quit a few times but always found his way back to gambling and betting

• card game aficionado. loves the tactile nature of it, always plays with the corners of the cards with his fingertips. sometimes you catch him shuffling and playing cards in his free time at home

• poker is easily his favorite, especially because he can read people like a book. you could never lie to or hide from him

• refuses to say it’s an addiction. it’s more of an intricate hobby, or a challenge he has to bet his way out of

• the worst part is he’s actually pretty good at it and wins more than seventy percent of the time. but when he loses, he loses and he obsesses over it for days

• during good streaks he buys you expensive knickknacks and trinkets and blankets and jewelry, takes you out to dinner more frequently

• feels extra confident when he’s on a hot winning streak, buying you lingerie and telling you to wear it, to turn it into a show for him in the bedroom with him sat on the bed and the lights on

• his hot hands and cold metal rings needily grasp at your sides, his wet tongue caressing the lacy line where the lingerie met your cleavage

• he’ll get impatient, too turned on with your dance to contain himself so he’ll pull you onto his hard erection and bite the nape of your neck to hold you in place

• he’ll stand up and turn you over, hover over you as the mattress shapes to your curves and armin’s hands follow

• loves fingering you with three to four fingers, his eyes doubling in size as he watches your muscles stretch and encompass the appendages. has to clutch the base of his dick like a cock ring to prevent himself from cumming at the site and at the warm, blankety feeling

• sometimes likes to be a bit cheeky and not take his rings off, letting the rings escape inside your opening and feeling it slide toughly against his skin in contrast to your so soft, so sensitive, so inviting body

• the cool metal of his rings was always enticing, and you always gasped heartily and physically thrived at the hard cold material inside

• “oh, shit, baby, i think my ring came off inside you,” he tells you calmly with a wide premeditated smirk, his fingers going limp inside you, “let me just get it out real quick”

• he’ll poke and prod and fold his fingers against your tissue as the ring moves loosely inside you, as you feel yourself building to an inescapable high with armin’s cheeky smirk between your legs as the ring just so happens to keep slipping from his grasp

jean

• jealous jeanyyyyyy

• glares at other men as they talk to you, even if it’s something as innocent as asking for directions or for a petition signature

• usually steps between you and the offending man, escalates the situation beyond necessity by antagonizing the man and firmly demanding an apology for wasting your time

• his blood just boils like hot water in a kettle when he sees you with someone else, someone that’s not him but it should be

• has issues sharing, so there was no way in hell you were slipping out of his attention, and he’s arrogantly insecure, to the excess point that you should only see and talk to him. he’s all you should need right?

• when he saw you calmly talking to eren he flipped his lid, said fuck it to the world and interrupted the conversation

• brings you to the nearest private (i.e., empty and lockable) room and pushes you against the wall or door, his hand firmly locking around your neck

• his hands were so large your whole neck was covered. his fingers were so long the tips touched at the back. his grip was present and firm, and maybe a bit threatening

• “do i speak another language to you? am i on another fucking planet so far you can’t even hear me?”

• he’ll slap the wall next to your ear with his open palm, smirk as you jump from surprise at the sudden outburst

• he leans closer to your ear, the pressure of his hand against your windpipe slightly increasing, his wet hot tongue flicking against your sensitive exposed ear

• “do i need to teach you another lesson?” another light squeeze. “on how to behave?”

[sgiandubh]

What happened with Barbour ?

Dear Barbour Anon,

My favorite kind of Anon, even if I know the question has recently been asked again and not in this corner. Never mind, I think it's time to talk about it, too.

I bought my first Barbour (entry-level, so olive) Bedale wax jacket 25 years ago, from their (long gone, now) shop on Boulevard Raspail, in Paris. It was a mandatory clothing item to own if you wanted to properly mingle with the law school crowd (it still is) and it ended up being one of my most prized possessions, possibly a part of me. I still have it somewhere, back home. Two more followed, along with a fetishist array of shirts, scarves, beanies and even one of those sturdy crossbody bags you can fit half a house in. So you can imagine my absolute thrill when I found out, very very late, that S had had a rather substantial collaboration with them, from 2016 and until 2019.

I am very bad with timelines, as you probably know and possibly even cackle about, but still: S was appointed as the company's first ever Global Brand Ambassador on July 16, 2016. His mission statement was very precisely defined by the brand and for some reason we'll analyze a bit later, this is important:

(Source, heh: https://www.astonbourne.co.uk/is-barbour-a-luxury-brand-unraveling-the-mystique-of-classic-outerwear/).

A shirt and vest signature collection followed in 2017 and 2018, with the contract being renewed. Advertisement was absolutely gorgeous and designed to shape a very positive image, both for S and the brand. Last autumn's SS Gin promo retained some of that irresistible aesthetic DNA and I discussed it at length.

See for yourself, Anon. The fandom endlessly discussed the first long clip (with the chocolate labrador), but I have no idea if these two have been seen, let alone debated. If they did, let that be my nostalgic mistake.

Spring/Summer 2018:

Fall 2018:

And then disaster stroke, with S's trip to Ha-wa-wee 1.0, in the spring of 2019. A short reel, featuring a rather agglomerated boat trip, was posted on socials. Unfortunately for S, it also featured an allegedly horrifying scene involving the 'traditional' bludgeoning to death of a tuna fish. Emotions ensued and as it often happens here, they spun out of control. Many people, including some of the most vocal S haters, tagged Barbour in their diatribes, filled with environmentalist indignation. They suggested this guy (who did not participate to the savagery and I would be even unsure he realized what was going on) was, by no reasonable means, a proper 'embodiment of the brand's identity, values and aspirations' (remember that mission statement?).

Tone deaf as ever in the midst of a serious PR crisis, S put friendship above anything else, and publicly praised the boat's owner, calling him 'the heart and soul of the island', if I remember well. I still would like to think he has no idea what the hell exactly happened. And then, when somebody finally (August 2019) asked Barbour on Insta about their collaboration with S, they got this politely dry, but clear answer:

"We don't have any plans for a collaboration with SH in the near future" means, in my book and to my understanding, "we are never going to work with this guy again". Truly, some people in here who dare to give morality lessons to others, should be proud of themselves: they did it knowingly and in a very organized way, using multiple sock accounts, to give the impression of a collective retching reflex. To cut the story short, the dread of any ad campaign on this planet.

The effort was genuine. The result of that collaboration was very good. Take, for example, this somewhat heartbreaking customer review by an American guy who has no idea who SRH is and who bought one of those jackets from a Barbour factory warehouse, in 2021, with a hefty rebate (70% off). Clearly something Barbour wanted to get rid of at all costs - what a pity and really what a SHAME on all those hypocrites who will never admit to a public assassination by the book:

This time, I am absolutely not sorry for the length, Anon. This is something that still makes me boil. Unfairness and cheap nastiness simply disgust me.

(Thank you, sweetheart, for the screenshot, always. You know who you are 😘😘😘).

[shoshiwrites]

Can I request Jo and Bucky + 39. a lit candle and a snowstorm, please? 💕

Please forgive me for really only using this prompt as a jumping-off point for fall vibes instead of winter. I was also going to keep this short and OOPS. Biggest hugs to @floydmtalbert for helping me brainstorm this and for answering all my questions, Harvest Festival-related and otherwise ♡ Bucky Egan x War correspondent OC.

sky full of song

She wished Kay were here, to take photographs of everything.

Kay had left Jo with a Kodak Brownie that she insisted she could spare — Jo hadn’t summoned the nerve yet to test it out, fearing she’d break it. The same skittishness she reserved for plants and watering cans and, she hoped, not a lot else. Kay had narrowed her eyes with only a little judgement. “I’d hand over the Rolleiflex too if I had another one to spare,” she said, while Jo made a noise of dismissal. “You’re very much to be trusted, Jo, I hope you know that by now.”

The Kodak, a couple of rolls of film to get her started. That didn’t count the fresh bars of soap packed at the top of Jo’s suitcase, the gin and fernet under the sink, or the tiny bottle of perfume she’d slipped into the pocket of Jo’s coat in the front closet. Jo didn’t remember the label — French, of course, and floral, like the beautiful dresses and suits packed away in Kay’s trunk from home. 

She’d dabbed a tiny bit on tonight, her wrists and behind her ears. She didn’t often wear a scent, or if she did it was something someone might call cheap. Orange blossom, usually, which she loved. But today she’d been out in the fields, observing the Land Army girls and the farmers around the village and the base. Talking about the harvest and about the relatives fighting, as carefully as they could. It loomed above them, behind them, below, the Norwich Blitz of the year before, the war still ahead, the news out of Italy they’d all been following on the radio. 

She was still dressed for the day outside, amongst the dry grass and the cow patties, having been too caught up in edits and wiring to change out of her trousers and light peasant blouse. She’d adjusted the blouse in the mirror in her room, tucked it in more carefully, and tried to do something with her hair — it still wisped out around her ears, the back of her neck. And, of course, she’d changed her shoes. 

It had even been sunny, and what you might call warm — it accounted for the tiniest hint of copper in her brown hair, and something almost like a tan, or as much as you could get in late September. She feels warm here, inside the village hall, the day’s sun and the stuffiness of the building, despite the beautiful decorations, the food and drink, the music. 

Kay would appreciate the decorations, too — flowers Jo carefully notes for no other reason than to let her friend know — heleniums and coneflowers, deep chocolate-brown dahlias and frilly white yarrow and coppertips, delicate cosmos and chrysanthemums besides. Kay could write a book, she thinks, of flower samples and photos and vignettes. Jo’s article doesn’t need such specificity — it’s about the American fliers joining the harvest festival, the cases of Coca-Cola brought over from the base to join the ale and cider and lemonade, the folk dances, the corn dollies pinned to olive drab by the children of Thorpe Abbotts. They’ve been shepherded home, the children, and now left are the grownups, the fliers, some of the village teenagers not far in age if not the same.

She’s not sure if she craves a ginger beer or something stronger. She knows she needs a cigarette. Cold air, too, maybe even more than the smoke.

There’s still plenty of people — part of why it’s so warm inside, too, she notes – and she slips out to the front steps with hand already in her pocket for her lighter. The stars look even brighter tonight, in the crisp fall air. She lights up carefully, shielding her hand. Her arms are covered in goosebumps, but she doesn’t care. It’s hardly the first time, here or back home. This time, at least, nobody’s locking her out. She sits, takes a drag. Tries not to think about how crowded it felt in there, how for a moment she felt as though she were suffocating.

“Oh good-” she hears behind her. “You’re still here.” She turns to see him behind her, above her, pressed uniform and the stray curl on his forehead. “Thought we spotted you leaving.” In the moonlight, his cheeks still look pink. “You heading out?” 

She hadn’t decided until this moment. “I think so,” she says. 

“Hot enough for you in there?” 

“A bit.”

He takes a second, adjusts to the outside. The chill in the air. Watches her, sitting on the step in her blouse and her bare arms and the hair she’s unpinned now that she’s alone. “Can I walk you home?”

She’d refuse the offer, except the house she’s staying in is at least a ten minute walk, on the edge of the village. A little more, even, ambling along in the dark. She’d refuse the offer, except she doesn’t want to. He holds out a hand to take her cigarette, the other to help her to her feet. 

“You can have it,” she says, before she can stop herself, but he’s handed it back to her already as he starts to unbutton his jacket. She watches the cherry glow, imprinted on the darkness, before she remembers to cup it with her hand. 

“Oh no- I’m alright-”

“Wasn’t a question,” he says, and drapes it over her shoulders before she can protest further. “What would Kay say if I let you catch something?”

She almost snorts. It smells like him, of course, settles the unease in her body before she can worry that someone else will leave the party and see the two of them standing there. It’s also entirely too big. Comical, even. It’s practically a coat on her.

“Pneumonia’s no joke, Josephine.”

“Oh, I know.”

Before she knows it, they’re on their way back to the house, gravel crunching quietly under their feet. It’s enough to walk beside him, here, take the moment to breathe.

The house is quiet too, blackout curtains drawn. Muriel’s gone upstairs for the evening, and it’s with a gentle yank of his hand that Jo leads them around to the back gate, the one that’s never locked. It creaks open, the sound magnified in the dark.

They don’t bother with chairs, or more accurately she doesn’t want to make the noise, open the shed door and drag them out onto the flagstone. They sit, on the ground, in the garden. It smells like earth and cold and she can partly make him out in the starlight, the slope of his noise and his ears and his mouth, eyelashes, the insignias on his shirt collar. He doesn’t let her take off his jacket, even like this.

“Yankees won the pennant,” he says. “On Saturday.”

“I saw. Heard,” she corrects. Her knuckles brush against his on the stone. “I’m glad.” She almost laughs — Lena would be shocked to hear her say so. “Don’t tell my friends I said that.”

She hears him huff a little laugh. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

She looks over at the dark outline of the house, her eyes drawn to what looks like the tiniest glimmer of light upstairs. A candle, she realizes, in Muriel’s window. Jo hopes she hasn’t left it burning while she’s asleep. 

“Can I get you a drink?” she asks. “Kay left a couple of things in the kitchen, some of the hard-to-find stuff. I’m sure we could rustle up some glasses-” She stops, stills, when she notices he’s reached into his pocket for his flask. His pocket, of the jacket she’s wearing, the one that’s trailing on the ground. “Sorry,” she says. 

“What’re you apologizing for?”

For rambling, she wants to say. For not knowing. For taking your jacket. For sending you up there day after day with nothing but a lousy stack of clippings to show for it. She doesn’t believe that, not really, except for when she does.

“Nothing, I guess,” she says.

“Good.”

She goes and gets herself a drink as quietly as she can, carefully making her way back to the spot in the middle of the garden. 

“Are you cold?” 

He shakes his head, tips back the flask. “Used to it.”

She sips at the gin, the sharp, piney flavor of juniper floods her mouth, makes her pull her lips over her teeth. Not enough tonic water, but she’s not about to head back in again in the dark. 

“It’ll be snowing already in Wisconsin,”  he says. She squints at him in the dark, at the warmth she feels beside her. “Or almost,” he corrects. 

“It’s only September.”

“We got snow in late September last year,” he says. “Up north.”

“Not in Manitowoc.” She tries not to stumble over the name, but it halts in her mouth.

He makes a noise that’s almost like a laugh, almost like surprise. “Not in Manitowoc,” he repeats. He hands her his flask; she can feel his arm bump her own. “C’mon, have some of the strong stuff.”

“Gin isn’t the strong stuff?” She takes the flask anyway, tips it back against her lips. She hasn’t had any in a while, certainly not like this. It’s hot in her throat, smoky and burning. The barest hint of honey. Despite herself, she coughs. 

She doesn’t hand it back to him yet, only proffers her own drink. “Only fair,” she says. She can’t see his face too well in the dark, but hears him take a sip. 

“Kay could make a killing here in England,” he says. “The booze.”

“She could.”

Upstairs, Jo notices the candle’s gone out. The warmth of the whiskey and the gin blooms in her chest. 

“When you do think they get snow in England?” he asks. 

There’d been a dusting on the ground in London when she and William had arrived in February. But not much. “I don’t know,” she says plainly. “Why?”

“Figured you’d know these things,” he says, and she can hear a smile shade his voice. “Being a reporter and all.”

She does laugh at that.

“There was a little, when I got here. A dusting. Like icing sugar.” It sounds silly as she says it. Like it hadn’t been pissing rain and cold and she’d had to bundle up in bed like she’d had to when she was a girl, curled up and waiting for William to come up from the hotel bar and whatever story he’d claimed to be chasing. She could think these things now, call it for what it was. That the “stories” usually had blonde hair and long legs, or red hair and short legs, or were anyone but Jo.

“Sounds picturesque.” He sounds like he’s sounding out the word.

“Almost.”

“Merry old England not living up to expectations?”

She takes a deep breath. “No- I just-”

“Just what?”

She can call it for what it was now, but she can’t think about what couldn’t have been. John instead of William, there beside her. During the air raids, the ones she’d almost always had to soldier on through without him. “I don’t know,” she says again. Maybe she should thank god it’s dark outside, so that he can’t see her face.

He takes another drink from the flask, but this time it’s slower. She can’t help it, the way she places her glass down and pulls her knees up, not quite to her chest. She can’t tell if she’s cold or not, between the jacket and the whiskey and the fact that he’s here, quiet and not, breathing, sitting on the ground here beside her. That there had been no questions about it. That she’d sat, and he’d sat. That he’s closer to her now than he was when they started. 

His hand, next to hers, and pressing against it now, and hooking his fingers around hers in silence. She thinks of the names she knows that he doesn’t, she ones she carries in her pockets, the names he stores away in his jacket lining, the barracks, buried out in the field. The runway. The air.

Maybe it’s alright, in this moment, to let them all leave her mind. To hold his hand.

Out beyond the garden wall, something rustles in the trees. A small animal, probably. A pair of birds. They both sit up just a little at the interruption. 

“I don’t know what time it is,” he says. “Must be late.” She motions for his wrist, and he holds steady as she shields her lighter with her hand, reads the face illuminated against his skin. 

“11:17.”

“A good year,” he says. She huffs a laugh. “I don’t know.”

“Me neither.”

It’s getting colder out, as the hour darkens. All that wind coming down off the North Sea. The thought of him walking back all by himself kicks at her heart. 

She wishes they could just go inside together. Go up to bed. She can’t say it out loud, she knows. A secret she can’t let him keep. Not now. Maybe he already knows.

“I can’t keep you out so late,” she says. 

“Protecting my honor, Josephine?” She can hear the laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes.

She stands with his help, her hands clasped around his. They walk to the gate, like holding a breath before they fumble a kiss goodnight in the dark. Slow, and unseeing, only feeling him, his lips on hers. His hand finds the small of her back, slides down to her hip. She leans into him, tasting the whiskey, the smell of him, his jacket still around her. His breath on her cheek. One hand on his chest, and then the other. She reaches, touches his jaw with the backs of her fingers. He hums against her, low and wanting. 

“I’ll go,” he says, like he’s convincing himself too.

“I’ll be back at the base in the morning,” she says, shrugging out of his jacket. Immediately, she’s cold. “You’re not flying tomorrow.”

He takes it, but he doesn’t put it back on. If he’s surprised that she knows that, she can’t see it. “Right.”

The moon is higher now, the stars scattered above. He kisses her again, the gentlest tug at her bottom lip, the brush of his mustache against her. He’s everything, here, where she can barely see him. She can’t help herself from the exhale, the kind that sounds like she’s trying to hold it all in.

“You smell nice,” he says. His voice is the quietest she’s heard. Like a little boy. He touches his forehead against hers, just for a moment. Her hand cups his cheek, thumb tracing. And then he’s gone. 

She turns back to the house, looming in the dark. The wind whistles in the trees, the only light the moon reflected in the closed windows. She wraps her arms around herself, and heads inside. 

[didnt-hear-cold-as-you-live]

what are some of your favorite drinks to make/some beginner drinks that are not too hard to make but are still delicious? i'm at the point where i want to learn to make actual nice drinks for myself and for friends but i honestly dont know where to start

Okay so I have two levels of answers to this question! Also I’m answering in ml because American measurements are dumb af for measuring cocktails, if you’re in the US just know 30ml = 1 standard shot so pour according to that

Level 1: I do not know any classic cocktails at all other than my own bar order (which is fine, I didn’t either really before I started in Melbourne so no judgement!

Classic Daiquiri - the most basic classic cocktail there is, really, but SO good if it’s made with a nicer / non-well dark rum (my favorite is Plantation’s Fiji Blend). Called a bartenders handshake because it’s so simple. 15ml lime juice, 15ml simple syrup, 60ml rum.

Margarita - if you don’t know how to properly make one, now you do! 15ml lime juice, 15ml triple sec (aka orange liqueur, I like Dry Curaçao!), 45ml tequila. Add 2 dashes of hot sauce for a spicy marg

Cosmopolitan - slay version of a vodka cran. 15ml lime juice, 15ml triple sec, 30ml cranberry juice, 45ml vodka.

Tom Collins - a great tall drink if you want something fizzy! 15ml simple syrup, 30ml lemon juice, 45ml gin, top with soda water.

Level 2: I’m familiar with the Hard Basics and was asking for a level above that!

Espresso Martini (this is my recipe and it’s bangin) - 5ml real maple syrup, tiniest ever splash of vanilla extract, 40ml chilled coffee, 30ml coffee liqueur, 45ml vodka

Passionfruit Daiquiri (again, my recipe) - super easy level-up to the classic daiquiri. 15ml lime juice, 20ml passionfruit liqueur (I recommend Chinola if you want a nice one!), 45ml dark or light rum. Dark rum will give it a deeper & more robust flavor profile, which I like. If you want to taste the passionfruit more, go light!

French Martini - this is a great one if you like a fruity drink! You can increase the pineapple juice depending on your fruity preference. 20ml pineapple juice, 20ml raspberry liqueur, 45ml vodka. If you’re looking to up your Vodka game I recommend Reyka - it’s an Icelandic small batch vodka made w melted glacier water, and it’s so incredibly smooth you can almost sip it. Literally nicer than Grey Goose and it’s a very entry level price point avail at most liquor stores. Goes great in this!

Aperol Spritz - you can make an ANYTHING spritz using this recipe and swapping the liqueur. The passionfruit is great for something sweeter! 60ml Aperol, 30ml soda water, 90ml sparkling wine

Hope this helps bestie! You can go a LONG way with adding sugar, lemon juice, lime juice, and one liqueur to your liquor cabinet. A general archetype a lot of classic cocktails follow is 15ml of something sweet, 15ml of a citrus, 45ml of alcohol if the sweet thing was alcoholic, 60ml if it wasn’t.

I also love the free app coupe for discovering classic cocktails!

[eraserisms]

Shota + 🍙 Food Preferences

Let's talk about what Shota likes & doesn't like! Shota isn't particularly picky and eats whatever he can get his hands on. As far as Aizawa is concerned, a cooked meal is a cooked meal, even if it isn't something he favors.

Sweets

Shota is fond of sweet things. Some sweet things that he likes in particular are his jelly pouches (mostly the apple ones), strawberry & matcha cake, and mochi. He loves iced lattes, shaved ice and ice cream during the summer months. Matcha flavored things is his default preference. Shota does like chocolate here and there but there is a kind of richness to it that sometimes Shota can find to be too much. He does enjoy it in small doses though. Shota doesn't particularly care for floral flavors. Shota doesn't like the taste of lavender, jasmine or sakura.

Sour

Shota is a fan of sour things. He enjoys things like sour/green apples and citrus fruits. He loves yuzu lemon, oranges, grapefruit and limes in that order. He enjoys cherries when they are sweet, but he also loves when they have a tartness to them. He is a huge fan of pickled and fermented vegetables. Some of his favorite things to eat are kimchi, pickles of all kind of varieties; cucumbers, carrots, garlic, onions. Umeboshi is another sour food that he likes. He enjoys them cooked with rice and also loves them as a stuffing for onigiri. While Shota does enjoy sour things, he doesn't really like things that are more on the artificial side of things. Things covered with citric acid are usually a no-go such as Sour Patch Kids or Warheads.

Cuisines

Western cuisine really isn't his thing, but that isn't to say he hates it. Shota's favorite Western fare is Italian, but he also enjoys haute cuisine and Spanish dishes as well. American food isn't his favorite, but there are some things that he does really enjoy; burgers, fries and ribs. American foods that he isn't really fond of are turkey and mac & cheese. Some other victual that Shota has a distaste for is Indian and while Shota isn't all that familiar with African, Latin or South American food, those too wouldn't fall under one of his favorites. But that isn't to say that Shota would be incapable of finding a dish or two from those places that he would enjoy. The reason why Shota would dislike these continental cuisines comes down to Shota's spice preferences. Shota isn't a huge fan of herbs and spices such as cumin, nutmeg, allspice coriander, cloves and cilantro (it tastes like soap to him). This is also why he doesn't care for pumpkin spice flavored things. Some other foods that Shota doesn't like are avocado and eggplant due to their texture. He does like the flavor of okra, but it has to be prepared in a way that the texture isn't slimy. On the flipside, Shota loves Korean, Chinese and Thai food.

Favorite Dishes

Japanese: Yakimeshi, Tonkatsu, Ramen, Tempura, Onigiri, Korean: Kimchi-jjigae, Japchae, Jjajangmyeon, Dubu-jorim Italian: Carbonara, Spaghetti alla puttanesca, Pizza, Tiramisu Other: Ban Mi, (Vietnamese) Mapo Tofu, Congee, Peking Duck (Chinese) Tom Sum, Pad Thai, Pad see ew(Thai)

Alcohol

Shota's favorite liquor is whiskey, but Soju follows as a close second for him. Given Shota's close relationship with his maternal grandmother, Shota finds it nostalgic. He used to drink it with her, especially when he spent his summers in Korea. They usually would do either shots of it or make somaek (Soju bombs). Shota also enjoys having a beer or two after work or on the weekends when he has the time. He usually ends up going out onto the porch to drink and have a cigarette with it. If he is going out with co-workers, beer is his his liquor of choice. Shota isn't a fan of tequila or gin. He straight up just doesn't like tequila, and doesn't like the floral taste of gin. Shota dislikes seltzers such as White Claw because they are too dry for him and don't have enough sweetness.

Spice Tolerance

Having spent so much of his childhood in Korea, Shota has a decent tolerance for spice. Sometimes his tolerance can vary though, if Shota hasn't had spicy food for a while, that obviously plays a factor in how much he can handle.

Temperature

If food is supposed to be served warm, and isn't boiling lava hot, Shota probably isn't going to want it.

[maxverstappensflatbrim]

Show Me Yours | Matty Healy [13]

chapter thirteen, act two: anobrain

masterlist

November 1st 2013

Tommie has always felt like out of all the places in America, New York would be scariest. It's big and that's where all the big American crime drama shows she watches are set, with things like the mafia or random serial killers.

But no, LA, is by far, the scariest place she has visited.

With people screaming as you pass by, strangers trying to sell you CDs and monks handing out bracelets. The dress up characters (something she used to be afraid of as a child), getting handsy as you walk through the touristy parts creeped her out, and if one more person tried to hand her a flower she was going to scream.

Not even Times Square was this bad.

Her anxiety was getting the better of her and the deeper they got into the walk of fame the more she clung onto Matty’s arm.

He’d sensed her anxiety a while back and had kept closer as the other three oblivious men (of course men, what anxieties do they need to have while walking down a street in the night) walked on ahead.

“Do you want to turn back?”

She shakes her head, “I’d rather not go back through all of them.”

He grins as they get closer to the loud music of this pub a friend had recommended, “Almost there anyway, we’ll get a taxi back from right outside when we’re done, yeah?”

She nods quickly, “Okay.”

His hand lifts to play with some strands of her hair, she’d had a shower before they left and hadn’t had time to dry it, so it was a curly wavy mess.

“I like your hair like this.”

“Really?”

He nods, pulling on it and watching the curl bounce back into place, “It’s messy but put together at the same time, like you. It suits you.”

Tommie stuck by him all night, they both shared a drink, they only did one shot, a couple ciders, and had two G&T’s.

About an hour after Tommie had finished sipping on her orange gin and tonic she and Matty had ordered an uber from right outside and gone back to the hotel, leaving the other three in the bar, all of them too far gone with John running around after them.

In the lift Tommie sighs, leaning back against the wall as she kicks off the heels that George’s date for the night had let her borrow.

She leans down to rub at her left foot while struggling to undo the strap of the right one at the same time.

Matty gives a lopsided smile and kneels down to help her, he taps his knee and she holds her weight on the railing so her aching foot doesn’t take all the weight.

It’s a little hard in her tipsy head but she manages to hold herself upright.

He carefully undoes the strap, slides off the heel, and then delicately places her foot back down, his hand following his movements up her bare leg slowly as he stands.

Her shoes now in his free hand until she stands upright and shoves it into the pocket of his skinny jeans.

“God,” She groans and grimaces, “Did you see that one couple?”

He nods, “The ones that were practically having sex on the table?”

She nods trying to rid the image of the girl lying flat on her back with the guy on top of her, “What ever happened to hello?” She wonders.

“Boys and girls in America have such a sad time together; sophistication demands that they submit to sex immediately without proper preliminary talk. Not courting talk — real straight talk about souls, for life is holy and every moment is precious.”

She rolls her eyes, “Stop quoting that book all the time, you twat.”

“Can’t help it,” He shrugs, “Read it so much it's engraved in my brain. Like you with fantastic mr fox. Guarantee you could quote that film word for word.”

“I can’t.”

He nudges her hip with his, “Don’t lie, you definitely can.”

She shrugs her shoulders, “Maybe a few scenes.”

She looks him up and down, “Are you not hot?”

“I’ve been told I am.” He says cheekily leaning to her.

She rolls her eyes, shoving him out the lift when it stops on their floor, “I meant warm, physically, it’s bloody boiling out here.”

“You just think that ‘cause you’re ginger.”

“No, I think that ‘cause I’ve sweat through three t-shirts today.”

She groans as she tries digging around in her pocket, “What?”

“I’m sharing with Ross, he has my key card.”

He pulls his from the back pocket, “I was supposed to be sharing with George until he ditched me for that bird he met a couple days ago, so I have a free bed.”

She smiles, following him inside, “Life saver, you.”

She faceplants the first bed she comes across but he tugs at the foot that hangs off the bed, “Uh uh, my bed’s always the one closest to the door.”

“Why? You gonna fight off any attackers with that pigeon chest?” 

He laughs sarcastically, “I was thinking more if anything goes wrong I can run out the fastest.”

“My knight in shining armour, you are.”

He says nothing, just aggressively throws her a pair of shorts an old the cure t-shirt, she’s halfway through pulling it, looking at her tired face in the bathroom mirror that she realises it's her own shirt she lost about four months ago on the tour.

“Hey!”

She rips open the bathroom door and he looks up, “What?”

“I’ve been looking for this top.”

“It’s mine.”

She shakes her head, “No, Adam bought me this when you guys went to that concert a couple years ago. It was my christmas present, my mam spilt wine on it and it stained, look!”

She shoves the stain into his face and he leans back, pushing his glasses up on top of his head.

“Well, it looks better on me anyway.” He says, holding back the smirk.

She grins and pushes him so he falls back on the bed, “Ow, not funny, think I landed on the remote.”

He winces and she feels slightly bad, slightly.

“Pull me up so I can get dressed.”

“Get up yourself.”

“Think it’s only fair after the attempted assault I just endured.”

Rolling her eyes she holds her hands out and he grips them both, he starts pulling himself up but he uses all his body weight to fall back and pull her down with him.

She laughs, bending his arm awkwardly to hold him down, “Tap out.”

“No.”

He tries to twist around but only ends up with her overpowering him even more, “Tap out. I’ll break your arm, Roddy, not even joking.”

He flips her off and they play fight for a while giggles and tickles being passed around until eventually she pinning his arms above his head and panting heavily.

She grins down at him but there’s no humour on his face, his eyes are lidded, head slightly tilted back to stare up at her.

“I won.”

“Mhmm.”

He bites down on his lip and she watches as he has some internal battle behind his eyes as they flicker around her face.

She leans back a little, grip loosening, “Matt-”

He moves forward quickly, sitting up, one hand holding him up on the bed, the other circling around to her back to hold her there as his lips land on hers.

It’s a quick and harsh peck, his bottom lip between hers, their noses pressed into each other's cheeks creating indentations of each other.

He pulls back, doesn’t say a thing as he looks at her, assessing her.

He knows her.

He knows that the softness of her eyes means she at least didn’t hate it. Knows that the crinkle on her one eye means she’s thinking it over.

And he knows that that smile… he knows that that smile will be the death of him.

She moves forward, both her hands in his hair as she brings him closer, leaning backwards until she’s lying flat on her back and he’s on top of her.

His hands are everywhere all at once.

She’s addicting, her taste, her sound, everything about her, he can’t get enough.

One moment his hands are threading through her hair, the next they’re on her face, thumbs rubbing across her round cheeks, then they’re travelling down her arms, down her rib cage, her waist, he wants to touch parts of her no one's even thought of touching before.

He wants to know everything. 

He opens his eyes, moving back so he can look, like really look, not like his usual fleeting glances where he’s afraid he’ll get caught.

She lifts herself up on her elbows, trying to chase his lips but he stops her, “Wait, I want to see you.”

She giggles, “I’m right here, Matty.”

“No, I want to see you.” He moves to kiss her cheek, “Explore you,” A kiss on her jaw, “See the way you work, the way you move, hear the way you sound when you cry my name.”

She slaps his chest, but then curls her hand around his white t-shirt to bring his lips back to hers, he mumbles into her lips, “You’re so addicting.”

“That’s just the oxytocin, darling.”

He groans into her ear, biting down on her bottom lip and pulling back, “Call me that again.”

“What? Darling?”

He nods, leaning back to pull his t-shirt off and toss it across the room, “Come here, darling.”

He smiles into the kiss as he pushes her back, their teeth clashing together as he pushes her top upwards.

She doesn’t have a bra on, and he feels himself grow harder when his hands meet her breast.

She arches her back, pushing her hips into his own, “Matty, I’ve-”

He moves his kisses to her neck, “I know. We can stop.”

She shakes her head quickly, hands gripping his shoulders, encouraging his arms to go higher, “No, no,” She shakes her head, the words leaving her lungs in one breath, “Please.”

He moves his kisses to her collar bone, tugging down on the neck of the t-shirt but still telling her, “One word, one word and we’ll stop, Tommie.”

“Just go slow,” She says, chest pushing into his, her hands squeezing his upper arms, “Be gentle.”

“Always with you.”

When Tommie thought of losing her virginity she didn’t think it would be in a hotel room in LA with her cousin’s best mate.

She thought it would be a drunken one night stand with a complete stranger to get it over and done with.

She’s glad it’s Matty.

She trusts Matty.

He finally peels the t-shirt off in a painstakingly slow manner, letting out a low guttural groan at the sigh of her bare chest in front of him, “God.”

 His hands move to her shorts, tugging them down and throwing them to the pile, “One word, Tommie.” He says again, moving further down the bed to pull her underwear off too.

She doesn’t say anything, lets herself get lost in the  feel of his hands and the fabric pooling at her ankles.

She doesn’t say a single thing until his hands are on her again, “Please.”

He nods, “Gonna go slow, baby,” He kisses her between her thighs, “Nice and slow.”

It was slow, and gentle, but fast and rough at the right times.

It was a mix of his moans and her loud screams of his name as they both allowed themselves to come undone around one another.

It was a mix of hands and mouths roaming each other’s bodies, exploring across freckles like stars on a constellation map.

At one point, when Matty had flipped her over, a pillow beneath her stomach, his hands pushing her shoulder blades down he’d leaned forward and quietly whispered (while still inside her). ‘You have a group of freckles shaped like a moon.’

He’d slowly traced his finger around the crescent shape on her shoulder and then leaned forward to place a kiss there.

“I know.”

Then his lips had moved to the tattoo on the other shoulder, her own words from her poem and coincidentally their song lay there.

He kissed the tattoo, lips slightly open and pushing into her skin before he dragged his bottom lip up towards the nape of her neck.

Only glancing back at the words once more before he pushed himself deeper into her.

‘I love you, don’t you mind?’

But now they lie silently beneath the covers of the bed closest to the door, he pushes the hair from her face, kissing her temple as she allows herself to nuzzle deeper into him.

“Matty?”

She yawns and he carries on playing with her hair, “Yeah, baby?”

“You know what I was saying like oxytocin and serotonin and stuff?”

He hums, “It’s not the chemicals.” She mutters quietly, “Just you.”

He smiles to himself, listening to her breath even out as she finally falls asleep, he pulls back to look down at her, head tilted as he gives her forehead one last kiss. “Good night, beautiful girl.”

Then, shifting further down the bed so he can comfortably rest his head on her chest just above her heart, he allows the sound of her to consume him until he falls asleep.

taglist

@thereisaplaceintheheart

@indierockgirrl

@sofaritsalrightt

@julezs-bl0g

@eaglestar31

@sophinthealpss

@if-my-heart-bleeds

-let me know if you want to be added :)

[ladamedusoif]

Share your martini recipe please love 🍸

Apollo 11 asks, martini asks, and That Man looking like a goddamned snack? This evening is coming up Rose, it seems...

Okay. At the risk of being a bit too into this: I love martinis. Love them. I generally like a dirty martini, either vodka or gin, with a 4:1 proportion of base spirit to vermouth, with about a tablespoon of brine and three olives (so you get a little snack with your drink).

I generally pop a few cubes of ice in the glass (I use an old-school small martini glass) while I mix, and use a little jug for the actual mixing. A few cubes of ice there, add the liquor and brine, and stir for about 45 seconds or so. James Bond is a wuss; a shaken martini is watered down - stirred is preferable but you do need a bit of the ice to break down and dilute the spirits.

Then I strain into the chilled glass, pop in the olives, and there we go.

For vodka, I prefer Stolichnaya; for gin, Bombay Sapphire; and for vermouth, the one and only for me is Noilly-Prat. I like Dolin, too, but NP is the business.

Sometimes I do a 'perfect' martini, a 1:1 ratio of spirit and vermouth. But I prefer them dry, in general - but not bone dry. Some people go 15:1 which is insanity to me 😁

Finally, because I'm thinking about them now, some of the best martinis I've ever had:

Harry's New York Bar, Paris. Icy cold, crisp AF, served by delightful bartenders in white jackets in a tiny bar once frequented by Hemingway, Gershwin and basically every American expat ever. My favourite bar in Paris.

Bemelman's Bar, The Carlyle, NYC. This was one of my must-do things in NYC and it didn't disappoint. Yes, it's expensive but you basically get two martinis for the price (they serve one in the glass and give you a little iced jug with another) and the atmosphere is gorgeous. Plus: the snacks are amazing.

Ognisko/The Polish Club, London. The martinis are amazing value for London and they have a menu, so you can build yours based on your preference of spirit. Being a Polish club they have a focus on vodka but you can try out different styles (the potato one I had last time was really interesting!). And the staff are lovely, too. If you really want to knock your socks off the Polish Martini they serve packs a heck of a punch.

Thank you lovely! And cheers!!

[theworldtome]

how much a dollar really cost?

the question is detrimental, paralyzin my thoughts

parasites in my stomach keep me with a gut feeling, y'all

gotta see how i’m chillin once i park this luxury car

hopping out feeling big as Mutombo

twenty on pump six, dirty Marcellus called me Dumbo

twenty years ago, can't forget

now i can lend him a ear or two, how to stack these residuals

tenfold, the liberal concept of what men'll do

twenty on six, he didn't hear me

indigenous African only spoke Zulu

my American tongue was leery

walked out the gas station

a homeless man with a semi-tan complexion

asked me for ten rand

stressin about dry land

deep water, powder blue skies that crack open

a piece of crack that he wanted, i knew he was smokin

he begged and pleaded

asked me to feed him twice, i didn't believe it, told him, “beat it”

contributin money just for his pipe, i couldn't see it

he said, “my son, temptation is one thing that i’ve defeated,

“listen to me, i want a single bill from you,

“nothin less, nothin more”

i told him i ain't have it and closed my door

tell me how much a dollar cost

he’s starin' at me in disbelief

my temper is buildin, he's starin at me, i grab my key

he’s starin at me, i started the car then i tried to leave

and somethin told me to keep it in park until i could see

a reason why he was mad at a stranger like i was supposed to save him

like i’m the reason he's homeless and askin me for a favor

he’s starin at me, his eyes followed me with no laser

he’s starin at me, i notice that his stare is contagious

cause now i’m starin back at him, feelin some type of disrespect

if i could throw a bat at him, it'd be aimin at his neck

i never understood someone beggin for goods

askin for handouts, takin it if they could

and this particular person just had it down pat

starin at me for the longest until he finally asked,

“have you ever opened up Exodus 14?

“a humble man is all that we ever need”

tell me how much a dollar cost

guilt trippin and feelin resentment

i never met a transient that demanded attention

they got me frustrated, indecisive and power trippin

sour emotions got me lookin at the universe different

i should distance myself, i should keep it relentless

my selfishness is what got me here, who the fuck i’m kiddin?

so imma tell you like i told the last bum, crumbs and pennies

i need all of mines, and i recognize this type of panhandlin all the time

i got better judgement, i know when n****s hustlin

keep in mind, when i was strugglin, i did compromise

now i comprehend, i smell grandpa's old medicine

reekin from your skin, moonshine and gin

n***a your babblin, your words ain't flatterin, i’m imaginin

Denzel but lookin' at O'Neal, Kazaam is sad

thrills, your gimmick is mediocre, the jig is up

i seen you from a mile away losin focus

and i’m insensitive, and i lack empathy

he looked at me and said, "your potential is bittersweet"

i looked at him and said, "every nickel is mines to keep"

he looked at me and said, "know the truth, it'll set you free,

“you’re lookin at the Messiah, the son of Jehova, the higher power,

“the choir that spoke the word, the Holy Spirit, the nerve,

“of Nazareth, and i’ll tell you just how much a dollar cost,

“the price of having a spot in heaven, embrace your loss, i am God”

i washed my hands, i said my grace, what more do you want from me?

tears of a clown, guess i’m not all what is meant to be

shades of grey will never change if i condone

turn this page, help me change, to right my wrongs

[high-school-lit-tournament]

High School Lit Tournament Round 3

The Great Gatsby: The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald's third book, stands as the supreme achievement of his career. This exemplary novel of the Jazz Age has been acclaimed by generations of readers. The story of the fabulously wealthy Jay Gatsby and his love for the beautiful Daisy Buchanan, of lavish parties on Long Island at a time when The New York Times noted "gin was the national drink and sex the national obsession," it is an exquisitely crafted tale of America in the 1920s.

A Raisin in the Sun: Lorraine Hansberry's award-winning drama about the hopes and aspirations of a struggling, working-class family living on the South Side of Chicago connected profoundly with the psyche of Black America—and changed American theater forever. The play's title comes from a line in Langston Hughes's poem "Harlem," which warns that a dream deferred might "dry up/like a raisin in the sun."

[freifraufischer]

The historian in me keeps wincing every time I hear well meaning Harry Potter podcasters critiquing the House Elf storyline and suggesting ways that she could have written in an end to slavery.

So far I've heard the gradual emancipation suggestion (i.e. everyone born after a certain date is free/everyone is free on a certain date) and the "fight in a war to gain freedom" suggestions.

Guys... both those things happened and neither worked out well for the slaves!

In the case of the last one it's two British women so I don't entirely blame them for not knowing this but for Americans I blame it on the fact that no one teaches northern slavery to students. The north are the good guys and therefore the abolishment of slavery in the north was an objective good.

Cliffnotes example: Slavery in New Jersey was done in the way described above, everyone born after a certain date is free and then all slaves were free after a later date. This was a model used for abolition in many northern states. In theory the law said that it was also illegal to export slaves out of state after the passage of the law. Except there was no enforcement mechanism for that and it happened right as the cotton gin was coming into wide spread use in the deep south. Because the trans Atlantis slave trade had ended there was a massive market increase in the need for slaves in the cotton states and there was a push and pull. Your slaves in New Jersey were essentially worthless in this period because they would be free soon and you could make a lot of money selling them in Georgia and Louisiana. As a consequence only a tiny fraction of slaves living in New Jersey when the abolition law was passed were ever freed and some of their children who were born free as a matter of law were shipped south with their parents to be enslaved when they landed in a slave state. The fact that this had the effect of not leaving a large free black population in the state was not an accident of this legislation. If the law makers had wanted to stop the export they would have written an enforcement mechanism in the 5 years that this took place. Now there were good men who tried to stop the export... but at least one of them was murdered on a boat on the Delaware river trying to stop it.

Fighting in a war for your freedom similarly went quite badly as British forces offered freedom to American slaves who fought against the revolutionary army. It was an effort to undermine the agricultural production of the American colonies and the slave owning class who were in general supporting the revolution. When the war ended many of those people were left high and dry by the British.

[rabbitcruiser]

National Aperitif Day

National Aperitif Day is celebrated annually on the third Thursday in May. This year, it takes place on May 18. The day appreciates aperitifs — drinks taken before meals, such as fizz, dry vermouth, and white wine.

Although aperitifs originated in France, they are consumed by people all over the globe. They are flavorful and serve as the standout ingredient in many cocktail recipes.

History of National Aperitif Day

An aperitif is a refreshing alcoholic drink served before a meal to stimulate the appetite. It is a liquid appetizer. Aperitifs are usually served to guests during a dinner party, with or without food. Of course, there’s no rule that you can’t unwind with aperitif after a long day. From Campari and Aperol to cocktails like the martini, aperitifs are available in many brands and forms. The spirit offers a delightful and flavorful drinking experience.

The word ‘aperitif’ is French. However, in Italian, it is known as ‘aperitivo.’ Both words have their roots in the Latin word ‘aperire,’ meaning ‘to open, or uncover.’ These drinks were designed to heighten the appetite and prepare the palate for food. Most people serve aperitifs with complex or fatty meals. The word ‘aperitif’ may be used to describe a class of alcoholic beverages and cocktails in which they’re found. These cocktails and alcoholic drinks usually contain herbs or other ingredients that whet the drinker’s appetite.

Aperitifs are very common in Europe, especially in France and Italy. They’re often served as parlor drinks before and after dinner for a heightened dining experience. Instead of an aperitif, some prefer to drink a digestif — a drink that aids in digestion —  at the end of their meal. Similar to the American happy hour, bars in Europe serve aperitifs with light snacks for their patrons to enjoy.

National Aperitif Day timeline

5th Century The Earliest Mention of Aperitifs

Diadochos of Photiki mentions aperitifs in his works.

18th Century Italy Becomes the Aperitif Center

Entrepreneurs in Turin, Italy, begin producing large quantities of aperitifs.

1860 The Rise of the Campari Group

Gaspare Campari creates the iconic aperitif brand: Campari.

1900s Aperitifs Arrive in the U.S.

The aperitif travels to the U.S. from Europe.

National Aperitif Day FAQs

What is an example of an aperitif?

Classic aperitifs include dry vermouth, white wine, fizz, and bitter drinks like Campari.

What is the most popular aperitif?

The most famous one-name aperitif is Campari. Its recipe has been a secret since 1860, when its creator, Gaspare Campari, first began bottling his product.

How is an aperitif served?

It’s typically paired with a slice of fruit — for looks and a pre-dining nibble.

National Aperitif Day Activities

Host a dinner party

Make your own cocktails

Visit a bar

Celebrate National Aperitif Day by hosting a dinner party. However, this cannot be just any other party. Remember to begin the meal with aperitifs and end it in style with another variety of aperitifs or digestifs.

Show off your bartending skills on National Aperitif Day. Whip up your favorite aperitif-based cocktails or experiment with new recipes and call your friends over for a little taste test — how fun does that sound?

Does your favorite bar serve the best aperitif cocktails? Celebrate National Aperitif Day with your favorite aperitif cocktails at your favorite bar. Invite your friends to join the fun too!

5 Interesting Facts About Aperitifs

The Queen has a favorite aperitif

There’s a reason why aperitifs are bitter

Campari got its red color from beetles

Digestifs are the opposite of aperitifs

James Bond loved aperitifs

The Queen’s favorite aperitif is a gin and Dubonnet garnished with lemon.

Bitter drinks help us become more alert and ready for the meal we’re about to consume.

When it was first produced, Campari got its bright red color from cochineal beetles.

Unlike aperitifs, digestifs are served after food to aid your digestion.

The Negroni cocktail — Bond’s favorite — is traditionally made using gin, Campari, vermouth, and orange peel.

Why We Love National Aperitif Day

It appreciates aperitifs

It’s a day to relax

It encourages experimentation

We love National Aperitif Day because it appreciates delicious and culturally-rich aperitifs! It recognizes that aperitifs don’t just taste great but also get our appetites ready for a flavorful meal.

National Aperitif Day is celebrated by drinking aperitifs and aperitif-based cocktails. It is a holiday to get together with friends, visit your favorite bar, and let your hair down.

National Aperitif Day urges us to be creative and daring in our culinary experiments. So, throw in a dash of this and that to create the cocktail you’ve been dying to try.

Source

[maximumwobblerbanditdonut]

It seems The Gin Cooperative is SH’s new spokesperson for his Scottish Gin. The Scottish Gin will be launched on the 15th of June in America, not in the UK 🤔 This is interesting… his American fans drinking more?🤷

SH has a lot of competition in the UK and of course, more affordable prices for a London Dry, the most familiar and common gin style. Nowadays around 70% of UK London Dry gin is produced in Scotland. However, the legacy of the London distillers remains.

[nwbeerguide]

Eugene brewery Alesong Brewing and Blending Brewery of the Year at the Great American Beer Festival awards.

https://bit.ly/4ebOqet image courtesy Alesong Brewing and Blending Press Release EUGENE, OR: Alesong Brewing & Blending was awarded two medals at the 2024 Great American Beer Festival (GABF) competition and named Brewery of the Year in its size category, the top honor at the nation’s largest beer competition. This year marks the ninth year in a row Alesong has received at least one medal at GABF, coinciding with each year they have released beer since their establishment in 2015. The nine-year medal streak is now the third longest such active streak in the United States, a remarkable feat and nod to the consistency with which Alesong releases world class beers year after year.  In the 2024 competition, beers and ciders spanning 107 categories were judged blind by 285 judges, awarding 326 medals to the most exceptional beers from over 9,000 entries. Brewery of the year honors were given to the most awarded producers out of nearly 1,900 breweries and cideries who entered the competition from every state in the nation. Alesong was awarded a gold medal in the barrel-aged sour style category for French 75, a tart farmhouse ale aged in gin barrels with lemon zest and a bronze medal in the brett beer style category for Touch of Brett, a dry-hopped farmhouse ale, and now five-time GABF medal winning beer! Both beers are currently available for on-site consumption and in bottles to go at Alesong’s country brewery, tasting room, and restaurant (80848 Territorial Hwy, Thursday-Sunday 1-7pm). “It’s incredible to win Brewery of the Year at GABF,” says Brian Coombs, Alesong co-founder and Director of Brewing Operations. “We’ve had a good string of success at this competition, but you never really expect to win one of the major awards given just how competitive it is. GABF is the big stage in U.S. craft beer and in particular means a lot to us because the judges are professional brewers whose positive feedback validates the care and hard work that goes into crafting the unique beers that we make.” ABOUT ALESONG BREWING AND BLENDING: Alesong Brewing and Blending is an award-winning artisan brewery, winery, and cidery, and restaurant based in the heart of Southern Willamette Valley wine country outside Eugene, Oregon. With 100% of its beverages spending time in oak, Alesong crafts unique and small-batch blends, producing styles that span the flavor spectrum. As the beer, wine, or cider in barrels matures, the team samples and selects each barrel individually to create a final blend. Paying homage to old-world Lambic blenders and artisan winemakers, Alesong strives to achieve complex and balanced final blends that are much more interesting and complete than the sum of their parts or any individual barrel by itself. For more information, visit www.alesongbrewing.com.   ABOUT GREAT AMERICAN BEER FESTIVAL:  Presented by the Brewers Association®, the best beers and ciders in 107 categories covering 175 different beer styles (including all subcategories) were awarded gold, silver, and bronze medals at a ceremony at the Bellco Theatre in Denver, Colorado, on Saturday morning. The 2024 GABF competition winners were selected by an international panel of 285 expert judges from 9,216 entries received from 1,869 U.S. breweries and cideries in all 50 states and Puerto Rico. For more information on the GABF competition, including a complete 2024 winners list and photos, visit GreatAmericanBeerFestival.com. from Northwest Beer Guide - News - The Northwest Beer Guide https://bit.ly/40cWlVj

[varchasspirit]

Global Gin Trends: How Different Regions Are Shaping the Future of Gin

The global gin market is experiencing a renaissance, with diverse regions playing a vital role in shaping its future. From Europe to Asia, and the Americas to Australia, each region brings its unique production methods, flavor profiles, and consumer preferences to the table. As this spirit continues to evolve, it is crucial to understand how these regional differences influence the gin industry on a global scale. Interestingly, the rise of premium spirits such as Dasara Gin has paralleled the growing interest in artisanal and craft gin from various regions. Moreover, Whiskey Distillers in the USA are also making waves in the gin space, blending traditional practices with innovative approaches to produce high-quality spirits.

Europe: The Traditional Powerhouse

Europe, particularly the United Kingdom, remains the gin capital of the world. London Dry Gin, a benchmark for quality, sets the standard with its juniper-forward flavor and crisp, dry finish. However, European gin producers have diversified their offerings. Spanish gin, for instance, is known for its bold use of botanicals like citrus, rosemary, and lavender, resulting in fresh and fragrant gins. Additionally, Mediterranean countries are embracing a more experimental approach, infusing gins with local ingredients such as olives and herbs. These variations in style have contributed to the rising popularity of gin in Europe and beyond.

Asia: Innovation Meets Tradition

Asia's contribution to the global gin market is growing rapidly. Japan, in particular, has garnered attention for its delicate and intricate gin, often featuring yuzu, green tea, and sakura (cherry blossoms) as key botanicals. Japanese gin’s minimalist yet precise approach is reflective of the country's culture and reverence for craftsmanship. On the other hand, India is emerging as a player in the gin industry, with a focus on native botanicals like cardamom, turmeric, and coriander. Gin brands like Dasara Gin from Shankar Distillers - Premium Whiskey Distillers, represent this trend, blending Indian spices with a smooth, refined base to cater to both domestic and global markets. The growing demand for locally-inspired gins in Asia underscores the importance of cultural identity in shaping flavor profiles.

The Americas: Craftsmanship and Creativity

In the Americas, the craft gin movement is flourishing. While the United States is known for its whiskey production, it has also embraced the gin revolution, with distilleries offering small-batch, artisan gins that emphasize quality and creativity. American gin distillers experiment with an array of botanicals, from traditional juniper to more unconventional ingredients like hibiscus, pine, and anise. Latin America, too, is beginning to make its mark, with countries like Brazil infusing gin with native ingredients such as açaí, yerba maté, and passion fruit. These regional twists on gin production showcase the diversity and innovation that is driving the growth of gin across the Americas.

Australia: Sustainability and Botanical Diversity

Australia has become a key player in the global gin scene, thanks to its rich botanical landscape and commitment to sustainability. Australian gins often incorporate native ingredients like finger lime, lemon myrtle, and Tasmanian pepperberry, creating a distinctive flavor profile that sets them apart from their European and American counterparts. Additionally, Australian distilleries are leading the charge in sustainable practices, focusing on eco-friendly production methods and reducing their environmental impact. This dedication to sustainability aligns with the global trend of conscious consumerism, where buyers increasingly seek brands that prioritize both quality and the environment.

Africa: A Growing Gin Scene

Africa is an emerging market for gin, with South Africa leading the charge. South African gins often feature indigenous botanicals such as rooibos, honeybush, and baobab, offering consumers a unique taste of the continent. The rise of gin in Africa is part of a broader trend towards premium spirits, as consumers seek out higher-quality options that reflect local culture and flavors. The African gin market is expected to continue growing, driven by a combination of innovation, tourism, and a burgeoning middle class.

Conclusion

The global gin industry is more dynamic than ever, with each region contributing its unique twist to this versatile spirit. From Europe's traditional styles to Asia’s botanically innovative gins, the diversity in production methods and flavors highlights how regional trends are shaping the future of gin. As the demand for premium spirits continues to rise, brands like Dasara Gin from Shankar Distillers - Premium Whiskey Distillers are playing a key role in expanding the market by embracing regional flavors while maintaining high-quality standards. Whether through sustainability in Australia or bold experimentation in the Americas, the future of gin is being molded by global influences, making it one of the most exciting spirits on the market today.

Useful Links

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