#a scene

The kind of evening that felt dangerous in the softest way possible.

We had finally decided to meet — our official first meeting after weeks of calls, late-night conversations, teasing, and learning each other through screens instead of touch.

And I was losing my mind.

Not because of him. Never because of him.

But because of me.

My social anxiety had convinced me at least twenty times that I would embarrass myself somehow. That I would look different in real life. That he would finally notice every insecurity I had carefully hidden behind blurry selfies and confident texts.

Externally I was just a girl standing in front of her mirror wondering what people even wear when they’re about to meet someone who already knows their soul.

Internally I had already changed outfits seven times, overthought every strand of hair on my head, and convinced myself he would take one look at me and realize I was far less composed in real life.

I stayed in the shower longer than necessary, letting hot water run over me while rehearsing fake confidence.

You’re normal. You know how to talk. You’ve literally spoken to this man every day.

None of it helped.

By the time I got out, my room looked catastrophic. Clothes thrown everywhere. Lip balm uncapped. Perfume bottles scattered around like evidence.

And then my phone rang.

“I’m outside,” he said.

My stomach dropped instantly.

“You’re WHAT?” panicking while looking at myself in the mirror for the hundredth time.

He laughed softly. “Outside. Waiting for you.”

“You weren’t supposed to be early.”

“And you weren’t supposed to take an hour to get ready.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

God, the confidence in his voice.

I stared at myself one last time before grabbing a small piece of paper from my desk. I wrote him a rushed little letter — messy handwriting, half nervousness, half affection — then pressed lipstick kisses against the corner of it like some hopelessly romantic idiot.

I folded it carefully and slipped it into my pocket.

Then I finally picked a simple outfit, locked my room, and walked outside while staring very intensely at my phone screen because I physically could not look up yet.

Until I did.

And there he was.

Leaning casually nearby in an entirely black outfit.

And the moment I looked at him, he caught me staring.

A slow grin spread across his face immediately.

“What?” he asked innocently.

I narrowed my eyes. “You did this on purpose.”

“Did what?”

“The all black.”

His smirk widened. “You noticed.”

“Because you literally look—”

I stopped myself.

“Look what?” he teased, pushing off the vehicle slowly.

“Annoying.”

“Mhm.” He stepped closer. “That’s not what your face said.”

I hated how easily he could fluster me.

Months ago, during some random late-night conversation, I had mentioned once — exactly once — that men in all black were unfairly attractive.

And apparently this man had archived that information like it was sacred.

“You remembered,” I muttered quietly.

“Of course I did.”

He looked down dramatically before looking back at me with the most annoying little grin. “Maybe I wanted to impress you.”

it was hours past the schools curfew and yet teona was still roaming through the castle. specifically the library. and roaming wasn't the right either, rather she was being led with graceful steps and unnecessary twirls. maxims parents would have his head for much he was showing her off.

"you're a lot more graceful than you give yourself credit for teo." maxim said into the space between them.

"just because i remember the steps to a waltz? i wouldn't call that graceful, rather basic knigge."

"we have been flowing through the library for what, an hour at least and no matter when i throw in a twirl, you take it and come back like it didn't happen."

"yeah, because you know what you're doing."

"teona-", he sighed stopping himself, "babe, can you take a compliment for once?"

teona shrugged, the blush spreading on her cheeks betrayed her.

they had slowly come to a halt in their dancing, the music from the record player slowly getting quieter as the record came to it's end. hands still joined the couple stood in the middle of the room, their foreheads rested against each other's.

"you know", maxim wispered, "i really don't want to go to that fucking wedding. my family is relentless. and i know you can take it, but that doesn't mean i want you to subject you to that."

like at least three songs from this mix im gatekeeping you.. This mf blazed the trail. This is what scene music IS in the early 2020s

(11 days late)

"What does that mean?" the warlock cries, his hands clutching tight to the unconscious King in his arms, "What do you mean, forever?"

The creature looks down the long, narrow beak at him, kneeling on the moss, and Merlin would swear it almost seemed saddened.

"Forever means forever, young warlock. Without the cure, he will not return to you."

"But he lives! I can feel his heart beating!"

The creature leans to one side, one long taloned foot brushing against the heel of the other.

"Thirteen days, it will beat. And on the fourteenth morn, will it stop."

"What's the cure? At least tell me that!"

One large yellow eye blinks slowly.

"You alone possess that knowledge."

And with nothing further, not even a glance as Merlin makes a wounded noise, it takes flight and rises out of sight.

Nyla Harper in The Rookie 5x02 “Labor Day”

Assessing the situation cost a precious fraction of a moment; Metal prioritized the mask and line. Ripping off the former and snapping the latter, it managed a single slash of its claws at Knuckles' restraints before a living weight latched onto its back. Metal rolled to one side, lashing out a kick as it spun around to face the enemies flooding into the chamber. Calculations raced through its CPU; all the while, one of its arms was occupied trying to dislodge its malicious passenger.

Its Overdrive function would allow it to break through, but at the cost of significant power reserves. The risk of falling to capture or worse in the thick of enemy territory far outweighed the benefit of momentary respite.

Metal gauged Knuckles' state; at peak, or even slightly sub-optimal performance, the echidna could drastically improve their odds of escape. But he wasn't coming around to consciousness fast enough. Not for the first time, Metal cursed its lack of a voice box.

As the space to maneuver and resist shrank, the body on its back still clinging, Metal's CPU skipped passed several intermediate steps of thought and calculation to a potential solution.

Knuckles, though organic, possessed certain core characteristics akin to the hardwired notions Metal itself held. Chief among the echidna's was his role as a guardian.

A protector.

As Metal crashed to the floor, warnings of damage blaring through its motherboard, it trained its optics on Knuckles again and produced the sole verbalization it was capable of at its loudest volume.

A distress ping.

The aliens, startled by the sudden, shrieking note, paused.

For half a beat, silence. Then, an almost audible

SNAP.

Violet eyes opened.

Knuckles lurched forward.

His fetters held.

CRACK.

The wall. . . did not.