angry bartender

When Winter agrees to go out with Qrow:
  • Winter: (glancing around the rowdy club he took them to) Well, this is... Something.
  • Qrow: Yep- it's one of my favorite pubs in all of Vale. (Flinches as a glass flies past his head, shattering on the wall)
  • Winter: (Looking toward the angry female bartender flipping him off) Uh... Care to explain that?
  • Qrow: (giving her a smirk and shrug) I never said that I was one of their favorite customers.
Tequila Shot

Request: After I read Indulge Me, I was thinking will you write one where the reader is the bartender and Derek her customer? I would love to read that! :D

Word count: 2159

Author’s note: I enjoyed writing this so much! I hope all of you my dearest Cinnamon Rolls will like the storyline I came up with for this imagine c: As always, thank you for the request, Anon! Also, let me wish you all you beautiful girls out there a happy Women’s Day with this fic! ❤

Warnings: language


I go to the bar with Cora. She invited me because she’s too scared to come alone, albeit she looks confident on the outside. She is now finally in college, studying what she has always wanted to, and it makes me proud as her elder brother. Not long after we enter the place, Cora spots her friends from campus, and walks over to them, leaving me all alone.

Swallowing back my frustration at having come here unnecessarily, I approach the bar. There are people playing either darts or billiard, but I’m not in the mood to join in to them. I opt to drown my frustration in alcohol, although I know it will have little to no effect on me.

I slide on one of the tall stools, surveying the drinks that are put neatly on display on shelves on the opposite brick wall. The lights above me sprinkle an orangey colour, casting everything in a warm shade – it partially settles my inner world, too.

I’m busy contemplating what to order when a soft voice asks, “What can I get you?”

When I look over to the source, I notice a girl, fixing me with a sweet smile. She’s wearing a raspberry-red button-up shirt with a black bottom apron, a white towel in her hand.

“Whiskey and coke,” I decide in the end. She grabs a glass from under the bar, puts it on the surface and pours out the drinks for me. She drops two ice cubes in it, too.

“Three or more will take away its power, or so they say,” she comments as she reflexively wipes the bar clean with a cloth despite there weren’t any patches. She shoots a smile over at me, this time a sharper one, less sweet and more foxy. Dammit if she doesn’t look positively gorgeous. “And you seem like you don’t fancy being here.”

“I’d rather not talk about it,” I reply, taking a sip from my drink. I nurse it between my fingers, turning the glass a couple times, my eyes trained on it instead of her. From my peripheral vision, I can see her propping her hands on the counter they have behind the bar, her head lolling to the side like a kitten’s.

“Hey, it’s okay,” she says, whisking. “Everyone tells their issues eventually. I’m practically a psychologist, I just don’t have a degree.”

Her comment makes me snort under my breath. I glance up at her from under my lashes, making her smile widen on her attractive features.

“I’m not your typical patient, I’m afraid,” I reply, choosing to play along with her.

“Oh? We’ll see about that,” she winks. “I have an arsenal of drinks, and you only have one brain and one liver to resist me.”

“I don’t think you want to bet me on that one,” I shoot back. I realize with a start that my voice has dropped a tad lower; it’s flirtatious now, without me even realizing it. Am I really going to flirt with this bartender?

She walks away when she’s waved over to the opposite side of the bar by a man. He looks like he’s been here for quite a while, and he’s at least tipsy by now, if the rosy nose and cheeks and dazed eyes are any indication.

“Hello,” comes from next to me suddenly. Tearing my eyes away from the bartender, I whip my head around to find another girl sitting next to me on a stool. The smile she’s sending my way is tentative, afraid. I realize it’s one of the girls Cora ditched me for. “You here alone?”

I briefly consider lying to her before answering, “Yes.”

“You see, your sister has already said a lot about you,” she continues. Apparently my response gave her confidence, like a reassurance that I’m open to possibilities for tonight. Mentally, I curse Cora – why the Hell is she talking about me to her friends? She knows I’m not the type to accept any push when it comes to finding a parter for myself. Besides, I could find someone if I wanted to.

On their own accord, my eyes flick at the bartender.

I shake my head. “Yeah? And what’d she say?” I ask, downing my drink. When the bartender approaches to refill it and my heart flutters, I realize that unconsciously I wanted to bring her closer to me by doing that. What the Hell is wrong with me?

“Can I get you something, too?” the bartender asks. Her smile isn’t as genuine as it was when I was still alone, and I can smell the uneasiness pouring off of her, mingling with the scent of Cora’s friend, which is full of hope, excitement and slight arousal, all of these directed at me. The only problem is that I have no intentions of reciprocating any of them.

“Vodka and orange,” she replies, but she hardly looks at the other girl, who just nods, acknowledging the order and proceeding to prepare it for her. “So, as for Cora, she said she had an elder brother who was smokin’ hot, and I have to say, she wasn’t overestimating,” she compliments. I force a smile on my face.

“Thanks,” I say, before adding a tad lower with the rim of the glass at my lips, “I guess.”

“She said you used to play basketball at high school,” she continues. I shrug, acting indifferent to her interest. “Did you get a scholarship to university?”

“Yes,” I answer simply. I hope my one-word replies will make her realize I’m not in the mood for some chit-chat at the moment. Her scent changes now; it’s alarmed and borders on desperate. She chews on her lower lip.

“Don’t you want to join us? We’re going to play billiard, and we are an odd number.”

I glance over at them, Cora waving for me furiously to accept the invitation, but I can’t find it in me to stand up from the bar. I turn back to the girl.

“Sorry, I’m actually a bit tired now,” I say, gulping down the rest of my drink. “Besides, I’m kinda dared for a bet,” I add, looking over at the bartender, who perks up at my statement. She grins as she turns and approaches me. Cora’s friend gives her a judging look – she smells of slight jealousy and disdain as she sips on her drink. I grin at the bartender with a wide, seductive smile, sliding my glass over to her on the bar. “Will you refill this for me?”

“Sure,” she agrees easily. “But I’m not mixing it for you – you seem to be doing just fine, too fine in fact, and if I’m not wary enough, you will drink me out of my paycheck.”

I chuckle at her snarky comment, allowing myself to get lost in watching her preparing my new serving. As she puts it on the bar, she glances up at me playfully from under her eyelashes. I down the pure whiskey in one go, making her shiver.

“Ugh, I practically felt that,” she says, face contorted into one of disgust. “You must have killed all your nerves in your gullet or something, or you must be a hardcore drinker, because it’s not everyday that I see someone do that with such ease.”

“Oh, I can do this all night,” I shoot back teasingly, lifting the glass and holding it over to her. As she takes it from me, her fingertips brush against my skin, sending a wave of electricity through my body. It throws me for a loop and makes me question the whys of it.

“I should have known better when you so confidently said I didn’t want to bet you on this, I assume?” she asks, putting the refilled glass back in front of me.

“Apparently you’re starting to get to know me,” I wiggle my eyebrows suggestively, moving the glass to my mouth, never letting go of her gaze.

“I wonder how well you’d handle a salt-lime-tequila shot,” she teases.

“Oh, bring it on,” I accept without a second thought. Ice cubes jingle as she drops them in the glass. As she’s shaking the drink, I add, “Although I prefer it with a little twist, to be honest.”

“A twist?” She pours the tequila on the ice. The rim of the glass is covered in a ring of salt, for she has dipped it in the flavouring. “What kind?” she asks, dropping a slice of lime in it for me before sliding it in front of me. She props herself on the counter again, tilting her head like she did when I arrived. I lick my lip at the mental image and try to hide my cocky half smile behind the glass, apparently with not much success, because she says, “Seems to me it must be a good one.”

I’m about to say it is, but she’s called over by that man again. She leaves, and I’m left with Cora’s friend again.

“How do you like to do the tequila shot?” she asks. I almost reply with a “You’re too young” comment, but I perk up when I overhear the man talking to the bartender. I look there to see what’s happening.

“Come on, have a drink with me! It’s my treat,” the guy offers. I frown at him – he must be at least forty, what the Hell does he want from her?

“No,” she refuses. “But thank you.”

“Don’t be like that,” he pushes. “Have a drink with me.”

“I still have a shift,” she points out sharply, about to leave but the man catches her wrist.

“Yeah well, and when will you finish?” he asks, leaning closer to her.

“Hey, douchebag,” I find myself calling out. All of them look at me, including Cora’s friend. “She doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you,” says he, acting puffed up and overly self-absorbed. It infuriates me. I stand, deliberately putting on a menacing stance. As I approach him, I repeat my words. “I said, she doesn’t want to talk to you, you sweaty, fat dick,” I spit out, giving him a despising look. “Now leave her alone,” I finish, now standing directly face to face with him.

“You seriously wanna do this?” he asks as though he had the upper hand here.

“You know,” I growl, eyes nearly flashing scarlet for a second. “I really think I do.”

I hardly finish my sentence before he drives his fist towards me, attempting to punch me in the face, but I catch his fist and squeeze it just this side of too tight. I can hear his bones cracking a bit – the only reason I’m not crushing them to little bits is because I don’t want to engage myself in an explanation later for my excessive inhuman strength.

The guy cries out, and when I release him, he chickens out of the place after leaving the charge on the bar for the girl. She’s fixing me with a stunned look.

“You okay?” I ask, to which she only nods. I sit on a stool again, keeping my distance from Cora’s friend. “Does this happen often?”

“You could say,” she shrugs, trying her best to act nonchalant, but her scent is a give-away for me of the opposite; she’s very worked up. I find myself wanting to soothe her to reset her normal heart rate. As she takes the guy’s leftover drink away, she accidentally spills it over my shirt – her hand is shaking that much. “Holy crap, I’m so sorry!” she apologizes, scrambling to wet a towel and reach over the bar to wipe it off.

“Hey, it’s okay,” I say genuinely, taking her hand gently. “It’s not the end of the world, just my shirt.” She looks at me with a worried expression.

“How can I make it up to you?” I don’t have to consider my answer for too long.

“Serve me the tequila shot with that twist.”

“Will that be enough?” she asks, not understanding why it would satisfy me just fine. I send an attractive half smile over to her, making her cheeks heat up a little.

“Trust me, it will,” I nod. “But I’ll need you to do that when you’re off-shift. When will you finish?” I can sense she’s starting to get the idea by the sharp peak in her scent. She glances at her watch before saying, “A bit more than two hours.”

“I’ll wait for you, then,” I say, leaving no room for budge. “This way I can also scare off all the creeps who try to hit on you.”

“Oh? There is one actually, he’s just promised to wait for me until my shift ends,” she says, teasing me again with her quirky sense of humour. “Such a stalker, isn’t he?”

“The worst,” I agree, grinning. “But he’s the best when it comes to taking tequila shots.”

6

I’m becoming so fed up with White people.

Learn something new everyday. Apparently White servers refer to their Black customers as Canadians, presumably so that they can talk shit about them out loud without having to use some other widely known derogatory slang.

What the fuck is it with some White people constantly trying to find different slang terms to talk about/define Black people?
Of all words, why are we Canadians??

I’m getting really sick of the underlying racism in shit.

Yes, Josh is a dream but Greg’s right here in flesh and blood and self-hate.

I died when the tune of What’ll It Be (Hey West Covina) started playing when Greg sabotaged his chances with Rebecca at the wedding.

This song tells us everything about Greg. His hopes, his dreams. He knows what he wants, and he knows he can get it but he deliberately removes himself from the race. Because he’s afraid of failure. He’s afraid of jumping into the abyss of uncertainty and rejection.

So it’s easy for him to think that it’s West Covina that’s holding him back. That he can never compare to Josh. He’s always been the angry, sarcastic, alcoholic bartender. At least that’s what everyone keeps telling him. It’s so easy to slide back into that rut. To settle.

This is why I think Greg is the most human of the characters. And that he deserves more, even though he thinks he doesn’t. I’m so glad we have another season because I can’t wait to see how they develop his character. 

“Look, I am absolutely not afraid to punch you in the fucking face. Touch me one more time and see what happens.”

Closed Starter

“Give me scotch,” The man grumbled to the bartender, an angry tone to his voice. As the man moved to pour it, the grumpy guy at the bar shook his head and waved his hand. “A double. Best stuff you’ve got. I don’t care about the cost." 

He leaned back in the bar stool, the sour expression on his face not leaving as the drink was placed in front of him. Without hesitation, he grabbed at it and took a sip. Shaking his head, he turned, glancing past the person on his left to look at the television.

The way he held his head as he watched made his messy brown hair cover his eyes. Right hand on his chin, he stroked at his beard.

"Bloody sports.”