So there’s this club, right? Everyone knows it’s the place to see, the place to be seen, anyone who’s anyone in this wretched town wants to spend their nights dancing and drinking and taking in the sights at FAKE’S. No matter what time, what day, there’s always an endless line down the road, always a hoard of people turned away at the door, the club more than popular enough to be selective about their clientele. Not that this means upstanding, oh no. FAKE’S is a guaranteed good time for sure but part and parcel of its appeal is the ever present undercurrent of something dangerous, the hint of shady business in the background, the aggressively attractive edge of something quietly sinister in every employee, the promise that no matter what happens the night is bound to be exciting.

There’s a stunning woman at the door, red hair or blonde hair or sometimes pink but always smiling, open and amicable and not at all what one would expect in a bouncer. At least she is right up until someone acts up, thinks to try their luck, disregard the authority of the gatekeeper just because she’s sweet. A mistake no one makes more than once; Lindsay’s ability to near instantly level an arrogant gym-rat jock rivals any stereotypical thug of a bouncer, with the bonus humiliation of her unfazed laughter ringing in their ears as they slink away. Some nights she’s joined by another young woman, as meticulously dressed and presented as the girls hoping to enter but with all the confident command of a drill sergeant, Mica sashays up and down the line picking out favourites and shooing off undesirables before they even make it to the door.

For those who pass muster the interior of FAKE’S is no less intimidating; packed dance-floor rolling with the music below an elevated DJ platform, semi-private booths lining the walls, long curving bar rolling out everything from standard spirits and beers to impressively flaming cocktails, and a large cordoned off VIP lounge tucked around the back. Clean, with a great vibe and decent layout, but what really makes the venue and draws in the crowds are the people who run the club. There are plenty of background workers of course, both literally behind the scenes and those who are simply showing up and doing their jobs, casual employees without any deeper connection than a steady paycheque, but it’s the characters who intrigue the clientele. The staff who rule the joint, as tied to FAKE’S as the boss himself, like the oldest of friends who have always been here, tightknit as family with enough authority to conduct themselves and their work just about however they see fit.  

It’s pretty uncommon to see the big boss down on the floor, normally tucked away behind tinted windows in the office overlooking his kingdom, but Ramsey does make the odd appearance; coming and going, entertaining VIP’s and talking with his employees. Slick and suited he cuts an imposing figure, emanating confidence and near constant amusement though the few times he has lost his temper in public have been notable enough that all know to be wary of his sharp eyes and easy grin.

They say the club is only one of Ramsey’s business ventures, though it is surely the most profitable; the man seems to be on friendly terms with near every big name in crime in this city, has even the chief of police eating out of his palm, and it’s a damn near open secret that FAKE’S is not exactly a clean-handed establishment. Not that anyone seems to care, not that it harms their business in any way, Ramsey is sitting pretty on an empire, calling every shot as he sees fit, and he knows it. He’s got no time for fools and all the time in the world for his own people; there is no the customer is always right at FAKE’S – Ramsey’s always on his employee’s side and he’s not shy about making that known.

His business partner, Jack, is his right hand and financial manager and she spends nearly as much time tucked away in the office as he does. When she is on the floor Jack strides to and from where she’s going with purpose, smile polite but wasting no time on pleasantries or idle chitchat with anyone who doesn’t work at FAKE’S. The employees have perhaps too much of her attention, told off for skipping breaks and hustled along when she wants them off the floor, clearly affectionate even as they grumble; it seems none are immune to Jack’s disappointed glares. The one exception to her general disinterest in interacting with the clientele is the occasional instance of overhearing anybody refusing to take no for an answer, in which case Jack charitably provides them with a brief, terrifying summary of harassment and the importance of consent as she shows them the exit.

Beyond the ladies on the door there are two notable members of security within the club with more authority than the handful of nameless guards wandering around at any given time; Jones and Haywood. They should stand out, forgoing the apparent security dress code of all black suits in favour of jeans and leather jackets, but both are alarmingly talented at sinking into shadows and materialising out of thin air at the first sign of trouble. Jones is always around somewhere; directing the other guards, doing rounds, constantly keeping a keen eye on the floor so long as he isn’t dealing with a problem or being dragged off to entertain the blond haired man behind the bar. He’s not the biggest guy around but everyone has witnessed the infamous fury of his temper and even men twice his size hit the floor when they refuse to abide by his law. Haywood is a bit more sporadic; he’s around most nights, a sardonic looming presence that spikes fear into the hearts of even the rowdiest drunkards, but if Ramsey is absent so is he. It stands to reason that he’s playing guard dog somewhere else, personal security on whatever business the bossman is off to conduct, the gossip mill whirling into overdrive anytime he returns with a visible bruise or bloodied knuckles.

There’s a third who slips seamlessly into line with Jones and Haywood when a night grows too unruly, or guards the VIP lounge when Ramsey’s entertaining, but for the most part Lil J plays the role of in-house DJ. Jeremy is generally friendlier with the patrons than the rest of security but when something’s going down he can have a shorter fuse than even Jones, fierce and scrappy in a fight though there’s no denying that he’s clearly far happier to be up in the DJ booth. He’s good at what he does, part of what makes the club so popular, and the days he’s off or playing muscle are often met with hearty complaints from the regulars no matter how competent his replacement is. The one exception to the rule is Axialmatt, who normally works out the back but occasionally takes over the booth; he interacts and plays around with the audience far less than Lil J but has a way with the music that quickly wins over everyone on the dance floor. 

Ramsey’s got a pet, a ward, the apple of his eye if you believe the hype; lord knows the kid must have some favour to get away with playing the way he does. A crowd-pleaser who is all too aware of his own appeal, all painted-on jeans and fickle affections as he dances with the patrons and teases the staff, distracting security and even shimmying his way up the platform to rile up the dancers and badger the DJ. When they can get him to behave himself Gavin tends bar, and on those nights there is a constant sea of people clamouring to hand over their hard-earned money, outrageous flirting netting Gavin not only an absurd profit in tips but also a wealth of rumours and secrets and all kinds of interesting titbits. Not that the full-time bartender (part-time babysitter) doesn’t do well enough on his own, Trevor’s wry humour and friendly chatter easily deflects most from the undercurrent of steely self-assurance he carries. It only really slips out in moments of alarmingly confident threats when someone’s overstepping the boundaries of what he deems acceptable, cold eyes even with his teeth still bared in a parody of a smile, tone polite and laced with promise; Take your hands off him or I’ll take them off you.

It’s a theme with FAKE’S employee’s really; cocky, amused, deeply concerned with one another’s welfare and seemingly far more dangerous than anyone expects. It’s a bad idea to test security at any decent club but FAKE’S muscle seems to miss nothing, formidable and no-nonsense they pull no punches; anyone who acts up or causes a scene is quickly ejected, and anyone caught harassing the staff will be escorted to the alley out back. On the rare occasion Jones or Haywood miss something, busy or distracted or already engaged, the rest of Ramsey’s people are all capable enough to at least hold their own, even the flighty little bartender has something sharp and dangerous tucked behind his teeth, flickering beneath the sneering snarl saved for those who think to take what isn’t theirs, but it’s Jack you really have to watch out for. Jack who will appear in a heartbeat, who will cut through the bullshit and run down even the slipperiest, most self-important asshole like a bloodhound, delivering them to security with a demand that they be dealt with or, worse, having them dragged up to see Ramsey himself. Those troublemakers never again darken their doors; forget cover charges, this is the price you pay for dancing with the devil, this is the risk in playing with the FAKE’S.

For most, though, the night is just a party, just on the right side of thrilling, and by the time dawn approaches FAKE’S is shutting down and the last die-hard revellers are being herded out into the street. For those very few who manage to stick around a little longer, to duck out of sight for an extra moment as the security team does their best to kick out the last desperate stragglers, the tail end of the night is a completely different experience.

The inhabitants of the club are as soft and tired and human as they’ll ever be, cleaning up and resetting for the next night’s work; lights on, music off, and slowly losing their shield of sharp smirking shine. Trevor will be trying to tidy up around Gavin, who’s usually sitting on the bar by now, draped around whichever co-worker has come up to growl and chase off the last of his lingering fans, Jones, Haywood and Lil J all congregating to debrief on the night’s events, Lindsay and Mica slotting in as the rostered guards take over to lock up out front. As the last of the casual staff trickle out a young woman will emerge from out back to flit about taking stock, rolling her eyes at the various voices calling out to her from the head of every area, all ‘Steffie we need more-‘ ‘Steffie we’re almost out of-‘ ‘Hey Steffie did we get the-’ ignoring sweet-talk and puppy-dog eyes but dutifully noting it all down anyway. Finally, Ramsey will descend from on high with Jack at his side, the two seamlessly slipping into the huddle of their most loved and loyal, folded into conversation without a hint of deference from their people. The pair will listen to the latest barrage of complaints and amusing stories, will hand out praise and suggestion and, with tired eyes still bright with something wicked, will share the highlights of the day’s less savoury business conducted behind closed doors.

But before then, of course, even the wiliest of stowaway partiers will have been uncovered, hustled out with perhaps slightly more force than strictly necessary, left out on the street as the sun starts to rise and the green neon glow of FAKE’S sign flickers out, nocturnal beast of a building settling down to sleep until its doors are thrown open once more.


Jeremiah Thomas and The Blue Blazer,

Born in 1830, Jeremiah P. Thomas is now better known as the “father of modern mixology”.  Originally learning the art of bartending in New Haven, Connecticut, Thomas honed and refined his skills serving miners during the California gold rush in 1849.  By 1851 he had earned enough money to buy his own saloon in New York City.  While the saloon was located in a great business area, below Barnum’s America Museum, it was his skill as a mixologist that would bring him fame and fortune.  While running his saloon Thomas developed new methods for mixing drinks that would become the foundation for mixology today.  As well as a bartender, he was an entertainer and a showman.  He often wore flashy clothing and used jewel studded mixing tools made of silver.  He also developed elaborate techniques for mixing drinks, often juggling bottles, cups, and mixers. At a time when most customers preferred a beer and a shot, the showmanship and genius of Thomas was vital in popularizing the cocktail among American palates.

By the 1860’s Thomas owned four saloons and had become a worldwide celebrity.  He toured the US and Europe, acting as head bartender for dozens of the most high class joints on the planet.  

Perhaps his greatest contribution to mixology was The Bar-Tenders Guide, which was published in 1862.  A book containing recipes for popular cocktails of the day, as well as a number of his own creations, The Bar-Tenders Guide was the first drink book ever published in the United States.  Before Thomas the techniques and recipes of bartenders were passed down through oral tradition.  Thomas was the first to codify those methods and principles he discovered worked best, many of which are still commonly used today.  

Jeremiah Thomas’ most popular drink was “The Blue Blazer”, which was a drink of his own creation as well as his signature drink .  Possibly the first flaming cocktail, it was listed as No. 195 in The Bar-Tenders Guide,

(warning: use extreme caution as mixing of this drink can be dangerous)

Use two large silver-plated mugs, with handles.

1 wine-glass of Scotch whiskey

1 dry ounce (28.35 grams) of boiling water

1 teaspoon of pulverized white suger

1 lemon slice peel

Put the whiskey and the boiling water in one mug, ignite the liquid with fire, and while blazing mix both ingredients by pouring them four or five times from one mug to the other, as represented in the cut. If well done this will have the appearance of a continued stream of liquid fire.

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Sweeten with one teaspoonful of pulverized white sugar, and serve in a small bar tumbler, with a piece of lemon peel.

The “blue blazer” does not have a very euphonious or classic name, but it tastes better to the palate than it sounds to the ear. A beholder gazing for the first time upon an experienced artist, compounding this beverage, would naturally come to the conclusion that it was a nectar for Pluto rather than Bacchus. The novice in mixing this beverage should be careful not to scald himself. To become proficient in throwing the liquid from one mug to the other, it will be necessary to practise for some time with cold water.

ninjaprocrastinator10  asked:

Love your work! How about.......17 😏sasusaku if you can! Thank you!

Title: Set the New Year on Fire

Rating: Teen

Pairing: SasuSaku

Notes: Okay, I’m not gonna lie. I had a hell of a time with this one, and I had to rewrite it entirely. But I really want to thank you @ninjaprocrastinator10 because I ended up really liking the final product, and it’s not something I would have thought to do without this prompt. That said, I somehow ended up writing a canonverse fic, which is not AU at all?? Sorry about that. >.> I really hope you enjoy this piece anyway!

Kiba’s sister taught him how to make a few fancy drinks, and now he thinks he’s a bartender. Half of the rookies are drunk on some flaming cocktail with a ridiculous name, and Sasuke has had one too many to muster an appropriate level of disdain.

Besides, he’s a little distracted, because Sakura keeps stealing glances at him. Sasuke can feel her looking, but every time he tries to catch her at it, she’s already turned away.

Next Sunday, he’s setting out to do some good in the world, to seek absolution he probably doesn’t deserve.

Sasuke is leaving the village in a week, and Sakura hasn’t spoken to him since he shared this news. She wants him to stay, but she’s too selfless to say as much. So now they’re dancing around one another, not-talking their way through their last days together.

He nudges Naruto with his elbow. “Is Sakura mad at me?”

Naruto laughs so loudly that Ino turns around to look at him, as if he just heard the most hilarious joke. Sasuke is certain that he didn’t say anything funny.

“How many of those did you drink?” Sasuke asks. He can feel a frown pulling at his mouth, but he doesn’t mind. Naruto deserves judgement for getting so plastered (not that he’ll feel it in the morning, with his jinchuuriki constitution).

“No more than you!” Naruto says. “And of course she’s not mad. Sakura-chan gets it, yanno? She understands that this is something you’ve gotta do, but—”

“But what?” Sasuke asks.

Naruto shrugs, like the answer is the most obvious thing in the world. “She just doesn’t want to be left behind again.”

Everyone is wasted, too loud and too tactile, so Sasuke hides in Kiba’s room, nursing his third awful cocktail. Maybe if he drinks enough, he won’t notice all the boisterous people around him.

The floor of Kiba’s room smells exactly like Sasuke expected it to: wet dog and unwashed clothes. Not exactly pleasant, but it’s better than braving the living room full of strangers who should’ve been his friends.

He covers his face with his (only) hand and tries not to think of Itachi’s kaleidoscope eyes. The impossible red of his mother’s blood on a katana blade. Shadows that follow and envelop and smother Sasuke, until he’s drowning in darkness—

“You okay?”

It’s Sakura. She stands in the doorway, light from the hall spilling around her, soft and golden.

“Yeah,” Sasuke says. “M’fine.”

Sasuke hasn’t been fine for so long that he isn’t sure he remembers what it feels like, but the answer to that question has become too routine to change.

Sakura doesn’t push for an honest answer. Instead, she walks into Kiba’s room–taking careful, deliberate steps, as if it’s demanding all of her focus not to stumble.

“Are you drunk?” he asks.

She settles next to him on the floor, close enough that he can feel the warmth of her body. “We’re all drunk,” she mumbles.

Sasuke isn’t. At least, not drunk enough to forget that Sakura still wants him, still loves him. She said as much the day that he and Naruto battled, and he was such a coward that he met her truth with lies.

Sasuke doesn’t feel so cowardly now. “This won’t be like last time,” he says.

He hopes that she knows what he means.

Sakura must understand, because she whispers, “It just hurts, Sasuke-kun. After all this time, I thought I finally had you back. And now you’re leaving all over again.”

She makes a quiet, choked sound, and Sasuke wishes he hadn’t said anything. He hates making her cry, and he’s done it so many times. “I’m sorry—”

Sakura grabs at his loose left sleeve—a bit too roughly, and the fabric pulls at the tender skin of his stump. She shakes her head, the movement so vehement and exaggerated that Sasuke almost smiles.

“Don’t say you’re sorry. Not for this. You should go if that’s… if you need to leave, you should go,” Sakura says. She’s rambling, her clear voice muddled by drink, tripping over her words. “I’ll be all right. Last time, when you left me—left us—it felt like I was falling apart. Like you took a piece of me with you, something I really needed, and without it, I couldn’t…”

Sakura trails off. Maybe she lost the rest of her thought; or maybe she just doesn’t want to share it with him.

“But I was okay,” Sakura finally says. “And I’ll be okay when you leave again.”

I love you, Sasuke thinks.

He isn’t able to say it, though, and that’s exactly why he needs to go. Because he isn’t the man Itachi wanted him to be; he isn’t the man that Sakura deserves. Not yet.

Sasuke has to help heal the world that he damaged with all his wrong choices. And maybe, if he works hard enough, he can start to heal too.

He pulls Sakura closer, kisses the top of her head, and breathes in the sweet scent of her hair. Sasuke loves her, and when he’s ready to come home, he’ll tell her so.

[[ been listening to this and since i’ve heard talks about grillblue and violetby dying, i’ll play along :) ]]

Slight!Reader x Underfell!Grillby (Violetby) 

Warning: angst, death, and blood

Grillby leaned his back against the wall, his sword falling to the ground as he held a hand over the large gash inflicted on his chest. Small clusters of dust laid where the bodies of fallen monsters had been. A bright liquid was oozing from the wound, hissing as it hit the cool ground. It was odd. He thought he was more careful than this. 

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So I finished my Bad Blood/Pokemon AU. Honestly, even though the line art is a mess and there’s little to no shading I kind of like how these turned out. Even if it is a mess. Maybe it’s because I got to draw some of my favourite characters as badass assassins.

More about characters under the cut, sort of graphic, I mean they are evil killers after all.

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