bonus stuff just in case i may have forgot to put anything

Blackfire Reverie — Bonus One-Shot

“Coldstorm Nights”

The first time the name Blazey Coldstorm echoed through a packed venue, Camilla Conley wasn’t ready for what it would become.

She stood backstage, fingers curled tight around the neck of her guitar.

The air was thick.

Sweat. Anticipation. Noise bleeding through walls.

“…You’re up.”

Camilla exhaled slowly.

“…Right.”

She stepped forward—

And the world changed.

Lights.

Sound.

A wall of energy crashing into her all at once.

For a second—

Just a second—

She almost froze.

Then she played.

The first note cut through everything.

Sharp. Clean. Alive.

The hesitation vanished.

Replaced with instinct.

With fire.

Blazey Coldstorm wasn’t careful.

She wasn’t restrained.

She didn’t ask for permission.

She took the stage.

Her movements were wild—but precise.

Her sound heavy—but controlled.

Each chord hit like it meant something.

Because it did.

And the crowd—

Felt it.

Later That Night

The venue had emptied.

The noise replaced by ringing silence.

Camilla sat on the edge of the stage, guitar resting beside her.

Her hands still trembled slightly.

“…You were good.”

She glanced up.

A man leaning against the doorway.

Messy hair. Casual clothes. A quiet kind of presence.

Alestor.

“…Just good?”

He smirked.

“…Dangerous.”

She huffed softly.

“…Better.”

He stepped closer.

“…You weren’t playing for them.”

“…No.”

“…Who were you playing for?”

Camilla looked down at her hands.

“…Myself.”

Alestor nodded.

“…Then don’t stop.”

That was the beginning.

A Few Years Later

The record sat in the display window.

Black cover. Sharp lettering.

BLAZEY COLDSTORM — “Ashes Don’t Sleep”

Inside the shop—

A woman in black paused.

Tall.

Composed.

Eyes sharp behind a calm expression.

Diana Bloodbriar.

“…You’ve stopped walking.”

A quieter voice behind her.

Beckett.

Mask in place. Gloves on. Standing at a careful distance from everything.

Diana tilted her head slightly.

“…I’m observing.”

“…You’ve been observing for three minutes.”

“…Time is irrelevant.”

Her gaze remained on the record.

“…The composition is deliberate.”

Beckett glanced at the cover.

“…You haven’t even heard it.”

“…I don’t need to.”

A pause.

Then—

“…We’re buying it.”

That Evening

The record spun slowly.

Soft crackle.

Then—

Sound.

Camilla’s guitar filled the room.

Raw.

Unapologetic.

Layered with something deeper beneath the distortion.

Beckett sat quietly.

Listening.

Processing.

Diana stood by the window.

Eyes half-lidded.

Still.

“…It’s precise,” Beckett said softly.

“…Yes.”

“…But emotional.”

“…Controlled emotion,” Diana corrected.

She turned slightly.

“…That’s rare.”

The music swelled.

A heavier track.

Dark undertones.

Something almost—

Intimate.

Diana’s gaze shifted.

To Beckett.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

“…What?” he asked quietly.

She walked toward him.

Slow.

Measured.

“…You understand it.”

“…I think I do.”

“…Explain.”

Beckett hesitated.

Then—

“…It’s not chaos.”

“…No.”

“…It sounds like chaos.”

“…Yes.”

“…But it’s… chosen.”

Diana stopped in front of him.

Close now.

“…Good.”

Her hand lifted.

Rested lightly against his chest.

Beckett stilled.

Not tense.

Just… aware.

“…You listen properly,” she murmured.

The music continued in the background.

Low.

Steady.

Her fingers curled slightly into his shirt.

“…Stay.”

It wasn’t a request.

“…Yes.”

She guided him back—just a step.

Then another.

No rush.

No uncertainty.

Only intention.

The record spun on.

Filling the room with sound that was both distant—

And present.

Diana leaned closer.

Forehead brushing his lightly.

“…You’re quiet.”

“…I prefer it.”

“…I know.”

A pause.

“…Good.”

The moment lingered.

Soft.

Close.

Then—

She pressed a gentle kiss against his lips.

Unhurried.

Deliberate.

Beckett didn’t move at first.

Then—

He responded.

Carefully.

Like everything he did.

Her hand remained steady against him.

Grounding.

Guiding.

The music reached its peak.

Guitar rising—

Then fading.

And in that quiet after—

They stayed close.

Not rushed.

Not loud.

Just… together.

Epilogue

Years later—

The record still sat on Diana’s shelf.

Well kept.

Often played.

“…You still listen to this one.”

Beckett’s voice was softer now.

Familiar.

“…Yes.”

Diana didn’t look away from the spinning vinyl.

“…It’s consistent.”

“…That’s your reason?”

A pause.

Then—

Just slightly—

“…No.”

Beckett almost smiled beneath his mask.

Across the room—

Their children worked quietly on something.

Focused.

Precise.

And the music—

Still played.

A reminder—

That even something loud and wild—

Could be controlled.

Chosen.

And deeply, quietly—

Felt.

End of Bonus One-Shot