Chapter 2: I Burn
Never underestimate her dramatic flair or her love for literal flares.
Flames danced along her fingertips. The rapid succession of beating sticks goaded the fires to rise with every strike like a volcano erupting on tap. More often than not, the searing flames would clash against her powerful fists and there's a certain burning thrill that courses through her veins each time but not a single burn singes her skin.
Instead the flames melded and glazed across the gold plating of her gauntlets, the only armor effectively protecting her against the very harm she signed herself up for. From her fingertips up to her elbows, leather and metal all fired up but never quite burning as long as the cooling mechanism prevented it. This was a pyromaniac's dream.
A stomp on the pedal and the drumset burst into even more flames.
There's a reason why she chose Ember Celica as her stage name.
Sweat trickled down her neck and anywhere with what little skin she exposed. Having her glorious mane tied up in a bun and hidden took out points on her overall looks but at least that's one less fire hazard waiting to happen. But damn wouldn't that have looked awesome along with her mask.
A dragon's skull, bony white, easily twice the length of her face from the pronounced snout to the two long protruding horns at the other end, and with eyes that glowed an eerie orange red.
The skulls motif was her sister's idea and the only complaint Yang had was that she had to hide her gorgeous face and just as amazing hair. It's only after teasing her distressed sister that she conceded to the point that was the purpose of the whole mask. It was edgy but so long as it wasn't cringey, Yang rolled with it. She's partially grateful that her mask was modified to make it easier to breathe so that's a plus.
And surprisingly enough, the mask did not take away from her outfit.
She rocked a loose orange tank top, revealing a black sports bra from the back and the sides, black skin tight pants, and thigh high boots with orange and gold accents. Sometimes she really wished she could let her hair down because hot damn wouldn't that be so hot? But since she couldn't, she just settled for hotness in a literal sense.
That's what she basically was. A dragon on fire.
Across her on the stage was Ruby. That might not be the most truthful observation. After all, Ruby was a ball of nerves who always froze with stage fright.
But this person? This person performed with all the confidence in the world and then some. This person sang as if the fire was burning inside her rather than on skin. This person strummed guitar riffs until her fingers bled just to finish an encore song. This person was no Ruby Rose.
This otherworldly person was Crescent Rose.
With her mask on, Ruby could become anyone she wanted to be, and she chose to be Crescent Rose. A Rose who bloomed for the stage. Here on this concrete and artificial stage, a wildflower has blossomed defying all expectations. Her roots were firmly planted in the music she loved to create and even more so— loved to share. The spotlight shone on her similar to how the sun's smiles were meant to nurture gardens. She longed for the thunderous roar of the crowd like how a flower needed water to survive. And after survival comes deliverance.
What better promise of beauty than a rose?
But she was more than just beautiful. Unlike a rose which could only take root on spot for the entirety of its life, this Rose uprooted herself and danced across the stage, free as anything but a rose. She'd deliver her promise after all and in the process, everyone else wouldn't even bother with the thorns so long as they'd be there when the promise was renewed time and time again. She'd charm the crowd with her words, seduce them with her chords, and ensnare them with her strings. When she's on the stage, she is the only Rose that matters.
A Rose in full bloom, ever beautiful, and all the love put into her has made her so important.
And when the song hits chorus, rose petals rain from above.
Red like roses, her cloak billowed from behind with a grand flourish, petals seemingly fall loose from it as if it were only natural. Her hood at rest in lieu of her mask. An enlarged wolf's skull, unnaturally white swallowing her whole head, the lower jaw missing which only sharpened the row of fangs.
A mockery of little red riding hood being the big bad wolf all along.
In her hands wasn't just an instrument but a weapon. She had poured her blood into her music and in a way, it had solidified into the form of her guitar. Blood red glistened from the neck down to the transparent body where it curved and sharpened along the far edge, similar to a scythe. A bewitching and decimating weapon. This was the Crescent to her Rose— her other half.
Black and red draped across her skin in the form of a corset, a flowing skirt that stopped just atop her thighs, leggings, and boots that were made for making herself heard with every stomp. The only sleeves she's ever worn here were her tattoos. Vines of roses coiled along the length of her arms, plants of ink taking root in skin, thorns pricking flesh never bleeding, and flowers bloomed where muscles tensed. Her own garden of roses, never wilting, forever in blooming.
But the greatest Rose of all is the one that sings.
Above the roar of an enchanted crowd, the wolf howls and the dragon soars.
A cacophonous battle of notes, unyielding and mesmerizing at the same time. Heartbeats thundered traitorously inside rib cages, pushing just a bit further along the edge with every BPM threshold broken.
Ember Celica drummed to her own wild beat, loud and steady but never dull, like the fun yet reliable companion that's always present in every epic journey.
Crescent Rose strummed to a siren's melody, alluring and haunting but also no escaping, as if the notes themselves begged to be listened to.
And together, the duo eclipsed not just the stage but the whole world of the crowd.
The moon may be full tonight but it's never a true Grimm Eclipse until the petals fall and fire burns.
Fire burned, flickering and then ultimately dying as they were smothered.
There were some shots were fired, said shots just so happen to be flaming tequila shots, and now there was fire burning through a table or two not counting the number of casualties.
Blake never asked for this. All she wanted was a long hard drink, preferably the bartender's choice of alcoholic beverage for the night, and she definitely wanted no collateral damage or additional stress after an already exhausting day at work. She specifically recalled never mentioning any desire for fire, which was already a low bar for a request.
Unfortunately, the new bartender had an affinity for blazing drinks and for throwing said drinks at rude customers.
It was obvious to anyone but the bartender that people on fire would not 'stop, drop, and roll' but instead 'scream, run, and set more things on fire'.
So a fire extinguisher, a few charred and questionably salvageable furniture, and all the sleazeballs kicked out, Blake finds herself exactly in the same spot she was before all the shots were fired. It's going to take a bit more than just the bystander skirmish to get her to go home without a drink. Sitting on one of the luckier seats, across the counter is the bartender who just might be a not so sneaky arsonist. And if that smug grin is anything to go by, she isn't even trying to hide the fact.
Now that the action has died down, the lamplights glow steady which makes it easier to study the finer details of her profile.
Her golden locks flow gloriously free on her back, bright and waving like the flicker of a lantern's ember. Lilac eyes betray a softer side to her despite all the hardness her body portrays. A crop top and a slick jacket with the first and last two buttons unbuttoned reveal well endowed chest, abs chiseled to perfection, and a stud piercing her navel. And while that is interesting enough, it isn't quite as distracting as the mismatch of hands at the end of her sleeves.
A metallic right hand which moves just as naturally as the still flesh left hand.
The stolen glances never last longer than what is polite but from the smirk that the bartender's giving, it just might have come across as flattering. Well at least she hasn't offended her. Maybe she'll ask about it on a different night because with god knows that Blake will need a few drinks here and there with a deadline coming up.
But Blake isn't the only one sneaking looks as she catches the bartender not quite meeting her eyes.
She almost twitches her ears in response, acutely aware of the double piercings she had on both of her ears. These are definitely not acceptable accessories for the black business suit she wears to work but her boss let it slide. She's immune to those curious gazes at this point including the bartender's less subtle approach.
"Sorry about that. Just had to take the trash out." There's a certain shimmer in her eyes that reminds Blake of the playful flicker of a flame.
In the back of her mind, she begins her assessment. It's not something the bartender should apologize for. If anything, Blake thinks she owes her thanks. This all started when a bunch of creeps were harassing her the second she sat. It's nothing she couldn't handle (and hasn't handled before) but the volunteered help was appreciated.
But then again, the helper may have had more fun than necessary with her assist. She certainly could have been more tactful about it and less bordering arson. Blake could tell from the woman's body language that a show of gratitude is just a formality at this point. What she really wanted in payback was a good conversation for starters.
So Blake indulges her.
"You do know that it's not environmentally friendly to burn trash," There's a playful lilt in her tone despite the straight face she pulls.
It's more effective than she thought. "Ha! That's a good one!" The woman barked in approval and Blake thinks she might have stoked a fire in those eyes. "I like you already. You know what, this one's on the house!"
There's a certain meticulousness to the process that reminds Blake that this woman is in fact an actual bartender.
She pulls out a martini glass and pours two different drinks in it, measured perfectly from memory. Then she places a bar opener on top. She then proceeds to stack an upside down tower of a wineglass, a snifter, and a shot glass, in that order from bottom to top. She pulls out another wineglass but keeps it separate from the precarious tower. She pours the contents of a different pair of bottles into the new glass, a dark rusty mix in contrast of the defined blueness of the tower's martini glass.
When she takes out a blowtorch, Blake isn't even surprised anymore.
"Don't forget your straw. You're gonna need that unless you have a thing for first degree burns along with your drink."
"Is there any reason for you to assume otherwise?"
"Hey, I don't judge."
With practiced ease, she tilts the separate wineglass and heats up the glass beneath the liquid. Blake absentmindedly notes that it is the woman's left hand holding the heated glass, probably to better get a feel for the temperature. When the moment is right, the bartender all too eager lights up the rusty liquid and pours it over the tower. Blue flames trailblaze down until ultimately caught in the blueness of the bottom martini glass.
"Drink up, buttercup!"
Now Blake is a sensible person. Alcohol is bad. Fire is bad. But as she drinks the very epitome of two bad ideas mixed into one questionable concoction, Blake comes to the understanding that this is warm.
It's slides down her throat, warm and smooth and sinfully good.
She narrowly swallows a satisfied moan along with more of what could be her new favorite drink. Only the rasp sound of a straw sipping on a disappointingly empty glass snaps her out of her reverie. When a sigh flits across her lips, she allows herself this much expression. The proud grin that the bartender shoots her doesn't go amiss. And quite frankly, Blake's too impressed to deny her this unspoken praise. The warm drink did wonders to relax her and soon enough she has a rare case of loose lips.
"Isn't this different from what you... served those guys earlier?"
If serving could be even considered synonymous to just plain throwing shot glasses at flammable clothes which just so happen to be currently worn on persons. Those were good aims though, she recalls with certain clarity. Blake's not drunk enough to erase the particular memory of watching flaming shot glasses thrown at crotches and the occasional ass if the guy turned at the last moment.
"Well, yeah. That's because this beauty right here is a Flaming Lamborghini," The woman announces the name like one would flaunt a well earned medal.
"Huh." Blake runs her eyes at the tower of glasses, trying and failing to piece how the other half of the name came to. She knows better than to make sense out of nonsense. "This actually isn't as bad as I'd expect from a drink that's named after a car."
"Burnt tires don't exactly sell as good taste and I honestly don't want to know what a burning luxury car actually tastes like." The woman looks both ways before she finally leans in to whisper, "Between you and me, I always assume that this is what being rich enough to burn a car tastes like." She pulls back with a conspiring smile.
"It certainly costs as much as burning through my wallet at least," Blake rectifies that assumption.
"Well that's because you aren't supposed to look at the price. Rich people are problematic like that."
"It's good to know that I won't have that problem."
They share a good laugh at this. It's a different kind of warmth compared to the burn of the alcohol that Blake just downed.
"Just out of curiosity, what's the name of the drinks you tossed from before?"
Those were prepared differently and they were nothing as complicated as stacking glasses into a tower. Everything happened so fast. She barely paid attention when the bartender had pulled out shot glass after shot glass and armed herself with a spoon as she carefully but also quickly created a colorful multi-layered drink in each glass.
And then lit each one before tossing at the customers. Rather unconventional way of serving but as long as Blake isn't the one paying then she's not complaining.
"Those cheap shots I threw?" The woman's eyes shimmer with mischief.
"They're called Flaming Assholes."
There's a joke in there somewhere.
"Huh... interesting choice."
"I know! And the best part is that I don't even have to aim at their butts because they're all asses anyways." The woman's toothy grin shows just how proud she is of all the life choices she made to lead to this phenomenal conversation.
Blake recalls those drinks and the rather inconvenient procedure it took to mix them. If this woman simply wanted to set people on fire then just picking up any bottle would do. But no.
This woman just had to be a bartender and she just had to mix the drinks first before setting them on fire even though ultimately they'll be appreciated as much as people appreciate being thrown lighters at. She now has no doubt in her mind that this woman had priorities other than kicking out the occasional jerks.
She tries not to smile at this. She won't give her the satisfaction.
"Did you meticulously mix a whole tray of needlessly complicated shots and then toss them out like molotov cocktails… just so you could get away with that joke?"
"Please, the real joke here are the sad lives that those slobs live," The bartender retorts with a scoff. In the back of Blake's mind, she notes that the woman has not denied the accusation.
"True but you are aware that the whole tray of shots including property damage will be taken out of your salary, right?"
"Worth it." The blonde punctuates this by catching her closed right fist in her left's open palm in a victorious gesture. Her smirk certainly is a winner.
"You probably won't be saying that once your boss officially deducts the losses," Blake blandly points out.
She shrugs and with toungue-in-cheek knowing wisdom she imparts, "At the end of the day, there's more to life than the numbers on your paycheck."
"Only rich people say that," Blake does not miss the opportunity to call her out.
But it only seems to goad her on. "Well I heat to disappoint you but the only thing I'm rich of is hotness and my charming personality."
The eye roll is less expected and more reflexive. Good to know that the new bartender has certain... preferences for humor.
"Charmed," Blakes says with a face that is anything but.
Unfortunately, it does little to discourage her. "Oh, you haven't even seen me fired up yet!"
She swears her internal groan is so loud that even the blonde might have heard it. But then again, even if she did, she'll probably take it as a compliment.
"Is there anything you won't set on fire?" She asks even though she probably knows the answer to that if this conversation is anything to gleam on.
"Ash me that question again when you want to confirm that." The blonde winks in a way that's hard to tell if she's declaring her pyromaniac tendencies or she's just flirting. Probably a mix of both, kind of like her earlier alcoholic drink.
A cocktail that's just as dangerous as it is delicious. Maybe just as addictive.
"Careful now, wouldn't want you to get burned," Blake warns although she thinks that maybe she's telling herself this rather than the woman.
The blonde sees an opportunity and catches it with a wink. "Aww, so you do care!"
Blake feels her face almost instantaneously combust. She just had to walk into that one.
"Don't you worry about me too much. I'm not the one who's burning. "
The bartender's not so discreet glance at Blake's ears lets her know that it isn't just her face that's warm.
A/N: I was thinking about revealing Yang's prosthetic arm (to Blake) for a later chapter but then I figured that Yang's not the type to hide things about herself. If she's handicapped then she's a proud handicapped! Oh, yeah. She just loves showing off.
Updates (5k+ words per chapter) will depend on feedback. I know this is slow burn but it will be slow updates without feedback. Oh, the chapters are already written. It's just sad when no one talks. I really do appreciate it when people review.
Although I know it looks like it'll just be alternating chapters between the two ships, I assure you that it will not always be like that. As to why, well why don't you stick around me for the next two months.