#Net Coaching in Chemistry

[acharyaeducare6]

Best CUET UG Coaching Institute in Delhi | Best CSIR NET Coaching in Delhi

Acharya Educare, located in Delhi, is the top choice for CUET UG and CSIR NET coaching. We offer expert guidance, comprehensive study material, and personalized attention to ensure your success.

best cuet coaching in delhi, cuet best coaching in delhi, best coaching for cuet in delhi, cuet coaching in mukherjee nagar, best csir net coaching in delhi, best csir net life science coaching in delhi, best coaching for csir net chemistry in delhi, best coaching for csir net life science in delhi, best coaching for csir net mathematics in delhi, best coaching for csir net physical science in delhi, best coaching for csir net physics in delhi, best coaching for net mathematics in delhi, best coaching for net physics in delhi, best coaching institute for csir net physics in delhi

[dynamicchemistrypoint]

Unlocking Your Potential: Coaching for Chemical Sciences and NET JRF Coaching in Delhi https://www.blogtarget.com/education/unlocking-your-potential-coaching-for-chemical-sciences-and-net-jrf-coaching-in-delhi/ Chemical Sciences is a fascinating and dynamic field that forms the backbone of countless scientific and industrial advancements.

[jaeyunluvbot]

ilysm (i love you spider-man)

genre/tags 𝟅𝟈 mark lee x fem!reader, spidermark, friends to lovers, high school au, spiderman!mark

word count 𝟅𝟈 11.2k

NOT PROOFREAD

🕸️🕷✮⋆˙

High school wasn’t glamorous. It was 6:00 a.m. alarms, piles of homework, and gym class—a.k.a. your least favorite subject. So, when Coach called for volleyball that day, you sighed and shuffled towards the court like a prisoner headed for trial.

The gym smelled faintly of sweat and old rubber soles, the harsh lights making it hard to focus. You stood by the bleachers, tying your sneakers when Mark stumbled in, late as usual. His hair stuck up in odd places like he’d rolled out of bed and made a mad dash here. Classic.

“Lee!” Coach barked, tossing him a red jersey. “You’re on Team B. Let’s go!”

Mark jogged over, muttering apologies as he passed you. “Hey,” he said with a sheepish grin, his voice slightly breathless.

“Hey,” you replied, amused. “Rough morning?”

“You have no idea,” he mumbled, pulling the jersey over his head.

Mark was… Mark. Sweet, funny, always a little awkward. You’d known him since middle school, and while he wasn’t exactly the athletic type, you’d never really cared. You’d bonded over you bonded over your mutual interests, anyways, and volleyball was not on the list.

The game started, and you hung back like always, hoping to avoid the ball as much as possible. Mark, however, was front and center.

When the ball came his way, you winced, expecting it to bounce off his face or fly past him entirely. But instead, Mark jumped—higher than seemed possible—and spiked the ball with enough force to make it slam into the court.

Your jaw dropped.

“Whoa!” someone yelled.

Even Coach looked impressed. “Nice hit, Lee! Where’d you learn that?”

Mark shrugged, his face slightly flushed. “Lucky shot.”

As the game went on, Mark’s “luck” didn’t run out. He dove to the floor to save a ball, slid across the court with the grace of a pro, and even managed to block a spike that seemed way out of reach.

By the time the game ended, the entire class was buzzing.

“Did Mark join a secret volleyball league or something?”

You couldn’t help but grin, though your curiosity was starting to bubble over. Since when could he do any of this?

During a break, you found him leaning against the wall, gulping down water like he’d just run a marathon.

“Since when did you play volleyball like that?” you asked, crossing your arms and raising an eyebrow.

He nearly choked, coughing and spluttering as his face turned red. “I—uh, I’ve been practicing?”

“Practicing?” you echoed, unimpressed. “Mark, the last time we played volleyball, you tripped over the net and nearly took me down with you.”

He let out a nervous laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah, well… things change?”

You squinted at him, unconvinced. There was something different about him lately—something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

Before you could press him further, Coach’s whistle blew, calling everyone back to the court. Mark shot you a quick smile before jogging off, leaving you standing there, your curiosity growing by the second.

🕸️🕷✮⋆˙

As the day went on, you started noticing more little things about him. In English class, he caught a pen mid-air without even looking, like he had eyes in the back of his head.

“Nice reflexes, Spidey,” you joked, nudging him.

Mark laughed nervously, shoving the pen into his bag. “Just got lucky,” he said quickly, avoiding your gaze.

Then, in chemistry, he managed to grab a beaker you almost knocked off the table before it shattered on the floor. His hand shot out so fast you barely saw it.

“Whoa,” you said, staring at him. “How’d you do that?”

Mark shrugged, his cheeks turning red. “I dunno, instincts?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, but before you could say anything, the teacher called for everyone’s attention.

By lunchtime, you were keeping a closer eye on him, trying to figure out what was going on. He seemed more jittery than usual, like he was trying to avoid drawing attention to himself but failing miserably.

When someone dropped their tray in the cafeteria, sending food flying, Mark’s head snapped toward the commotion before anyone else had even noticed. He looked like he was about to jump out of his seat before he caught himself and forced a laugh.

“You good?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, totally,” he said, shoving a fry into his mouth. “Just… startled, that’s all.”

You didn’t believe him for a second, but you let it slide. For now.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of classes, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was different about Mark. He’d clearly changed somehow, but you couldn’t put your finger on what exactly was different.

And as much as you wanted to ignore it, you couldn’t help but wonder: what was he hiding?

🕸️🕷✮⋆˙

Your parents had been asleep for hours by the time Mark came over that night. It was one of those quiet, lazy Friday nights where the two of you didn’t need to talk much. Just snacks, a couple of blankets, and a well-worn stack of DVDs.

You weren’t supposed to have people over this late—especially not boys—but it was Mark. If your parents knew it was him, they’d probably be fine with it. Still, sneaking him in through your fire escape gave the night a little thrill.

The two of you were huddled on your bed, knees bumping each other as the movie played on the TV. It was some action flick Mark had picked out, but your attention was divided between the screen and him. He looked more relaxed now than he had at school, though every now and then, you caught him glancing toward the door, like he was expecting someone to barge in.

“You good?” you asked softly, nudging him with your elbow.

“Huh? Yeah, totally,” he said, flashing you a sheepish grin. “Just… didn’t expect him to survive that fall.”

You laughed quietly, shaking your head. “It’s a superhero movie, Mark. No one ever dies unless it’s to make the hero angsty.”

He chuckled at that, leaning back into the couch. “Fair point.”

As the movie went on, the two of you started whispering back and forth, your voices barely louder than the hum of the TV.

“Okay, that was so fake,” you said, gesturing at the screen as the hero miraculously dodged a bullet.

Mark smirked. “You’re telling me this is where you draw the line?”

“I have standards!”

He shook his head, stifling a laugh, when suddenly his posture stiffened. His head tilted slightly, and his hand reached out, brushing your arm.

“Hey,” he whispered, his tone urgent. “Be quiet for a second.”

You blinked at him, confused. “What?”

“Shh,” he insisted, sitting up straighter. His eyes darted toward the hallway, and he moved to hide on the ground next to the bed, out of view of your doorway.

“What’s your problem?” you asked, a little too loudly.

Before he could answer, the door creaked open, and your mom peeked in, her expression equal parts annoyed and groggy.

“Y/N,” she said, crossing her arms. “It’s almost midnight. Keep it down, okay?”

Your eyes went wide. “Oh! Sorry, Mom. I’ll quiet down.”

She lingered for a moment, her gaze sweeping the room. You held your breath, praying she wouldn’t notice the second pair of sneakers tucked gently away next to your your bedside table. Thankfully, she just nodded and shuffled back down the hallway.

The second the coast was clear, you turned to Mark, your heart still racing.

“How the hell did you know she was coming?” you hissed, keeping your voice low this time.

Mark scratched the back of his neck, avoiding your eyes. “I, uh… I just… I don’t know, I guess I heard her footsteps?”

“Footsteps?” you repeated, narrowing your eyes at him. “Mark, I didn’t hear anything. How did you hear her through a closed door? And while we were talking, no less?”

He let out a nervous laugh, shrugging a little too casually. “Maybe I’ve just got good ears?”

“Good ears my ass,” you muttered, crossing your arms. “You’ve been weird all day. First in gym, then in class, and now this. What’s going on with you?”

Mark froze for a second, his expression flickering between panic and guilt. “Nothing! I swear, it’s—nothing. You’re imagining things.”

You raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Yeah, okay” you said sarcastically, not realizing how close you were to the truth.

Mark’s laugh came out a little too forced this time. “Anyways, we should probably finish the movie, it’s getting late.”

You didn’t push the issue—for now. But as the movie played on, you couldn’t help but glance at him, your curiosity growing stronger with every passing minute.

🕸️🕷✮⋆˙

After your slightly strange movie night, everything feels... normal. You’re at school with Mark again, cracking jokes about your teachers and helping each other survive the monotony of class. 

After school, you walk home together as usual. Mark’s quiet, more so than usual, and you figure he’s just tired. He always seems tired these days.

"Are you okay?" you ask, nudging his arm.

He flinches slightly, then forces a smile. "Yeah, I’m good. Just didn’t sleep well last night."

You nod, though his answer doesn’t quite satisfy you.

Later that evening, you decide to take a quick walk to clear your head. The streets are quiet, the orange glow of the streetlights casting long shadows. You’re only a few blocks from your apartment when you hear shouting—a man yelling for help. Your heart pounds as you turn the corner and see a masked figure—Spider-Man—swinging into action.

It’s like watching a movie come to life. He moves with incredible speed and grace, disarming the attacker in seconds. The victim stumbles to safety, and Spider-Man barely pauses before disappearing into the night.

You stand frozen, your mind racing. Spider-Man isn’t supposed to be real—not in your world, not in your life. And yet, here he is, saving people in your neighborhood.

When you finally make it home, Mark texts you almost immediately:

Hey, you okay?

The timing feels weirdly coincidental.

Yeah... just saw something crazy on my walk. Spider-Man.

There’s a pause before he replies.

Mark: Whoa, no way. He’s around here?

You: Guess so. It was... surreal.

Mark: Sounds scary. You’re sure you’re okay?

Something about the way he asks makes you hesitate. He sounds so concerned, almost like he’s talking to himself.

You: Yeah. Are YOU okay?

Mark: Me? Of course. Just checking on you. I saw your location said you were outside.

You chastise yourself for not remembering he had your location. You’d have probably done the same thing if his location said he was outside in the middle of the night. Though, you’d never had the habit of checking his.

🕸️🕷✮⋆˙

Saturday nights are sacred.

Since middle school, you and Mark have had this unspoken rule: no matter what, Saturday nights are yours. Whether it’s binging your favorite show, building Legos, or debating which movie series is superior, it’s the highlight of your week.

You’ve been looking forward to tonight all day. After tossing a blanket over the couch and setting out snacks—chips for you, candy for him—you settle in, phone in hand, waiting for Mark’s familiar knock.

He’s usually punctual, arriving right when he says he will. But tonight, the minutes stretch into an hour, and he’s still not there.

You glance at your phone. No texts, no missed calls.

You: Where are you? I’m starting to think you forgot about me.

No response.

You frown but try not to overthink it. Maybe he got caught up with something. You wait another fifteen minutes, then send another text.

You: Mark?? You better not be ditching me for one of your dumb guy friends.

Still nothing. Anxiety begins to creep in, though you try to push it aside. He’s probably just running late.

An hour later, you’ve run out of chips and excuses for his absence.

You: I’m officially mad at you.

By the time midnight rolls around, you’ve all but given up. You leave one last text before tossing your phone onto the coffee table.

You: Hope you’re okay. Call me when you see this.

Sleep doesn’t come easily that night. Your mind races with possibilities—some silly, some serious. Is he okay? Did something happen? You brush them off as anxious thoughts running wild and try to fall asleep.

🕸️🕷✮⋆˙

The next morning, your phone buzzes with a message from Mark.

Mark: I’m so sorry, Y/N. I got sick out of nowhere last night. Took some medicine and completely passed out. I didn’t even see your texts until now.

You exhale, relieved but annoyed.

You: SICK? You ditched me because you were sick? I’m so offended.

Mark: I’m sorryyyyy. �� I’ll make it up to you, I swear.

You: You better be glad I didn’t watch our show without you.

Mark: You wouldn’t dare.

You: Guess you’ll never know. 

His usual playfulness makes you smile, but the knot in your chest hasn’t completely loosened. You know it’s dumb, but a small part of you wonders if there’s more to the story. Mark never misses your hangouts. You’re always the first to know if something’s wrong. And as much as you want to believe his excuse, the insecurity that’s been gnawing at you for years whispers otherwise.

He’s your only real friend, and deep down, you’re terrified of losing him. You’re terrified that one day he’ll outgrow you, that he’ll find someone cooler, funnier, or just... better.

You shake your head, trying to push the thoughts away. Mark said he was sick, and you believe him. There’s no reason to think otherwise. But as you put your phone down and get ready for the day, you can’t help but feel like something isn’t adding up.

You stare at your phone, willing it to buzz with a new message from Mark, but it stays silent. You’ve already texted him a few times this afternoon, and while he usually responds by now, today it’s been almost two hours since your last message. Your thumb hovers over your screen, ready to send something, but you stop yourself. Maybe he’s busy. It’s fine. It’s not like you need him to text you back right away, right?

But you can’t shake the growing discomfort in your chest.

🕸️🕷✮⋆˙

Ever since his message about getting sick a few weeks ago, he’s been a little off. Sure, he’d apologized for missing your hangout, but now, it’s like nothing has changed. During the day, he’s the same—always goofy, friendly, and acting normal when you see him at school. But by the time night falls, he’s almost always gone—his responses slow, often one-word answers, and sometimes, he doesn’t respond at all. And this has gone on for almost a month now.

The more time passes, the more you can’t help but feel like he’s distancing himself from you, like you’ve somehow become a burden on him. You try to tell yourself you’re overthinking it. He’s probably just busy, right? But deep down, there’s a voice whispering that maybe he’s just getting tired of you. You wish you could ignore it, but the insecurity festers, eating away at your confidence with every minute he doesn’t reply.

By the time midnight rolls around, you’ve already sent him two more texts, no response. You try to sleep, but your mind is spinning. Is he with someone else? You hate that thought, but it keeps creeping in. Maybe he’s found new people to hang out with. Maybe he doesn’t want to talk to you anymore.

You throw your phone aside, frustrated with yourself, with him, and with the situation. Why do I care so much? You’ve never been the type to need constant validation from someone else, but with Mark? It’s different. You’ve always been there for each other, always shared your time. You didn’t need anything more from him, but now… it feels like you’re losing him.

Then, you get a message.

It's from Mark. Your heart jumps into your throat as you open it. “Hey, sorry. I got totally wrapped up in homework, we still on for tomorrow?”

You read it over and over, but something feels off. It’s a good excuse—too good, maybe. You want to believe him, but part of you wonders if he’s just avoiding you now. He was so there for you, always texting and hanging out after school. But now? It feels like he’s just gone, like a ghost. You don’t know what to believe.

“Can’t, sorry. I have plans with Giselle.”

There’s a pause before his reply comes through. You can almost hear the indifference in his words, even though you know you’re probably reading into it too much.

“Ah, alright. Have fun.”

The message feels too short, too casual. You frown at your phone, biting your lip. The nagging feeling in your chest grows stronger. Has he really just become that indifferent?

You text him back quickly, trying to keep things light, trying to ignore the hurt that lingers in your words. “Yeah sorry, we’ll definitely hang out later this week though, haha.”

But even as you send the message, a part of you wonders if this week is going to be just like the last—another week of him acting normal at school, you trying to text him all night, waiting for responses that don’t come, waiting for a friendship that doesn’t feel the same anymore.

You let out a sigh, toss your phone aside, and climb into bed, your angsty playlist drifting through your ears as you struggle to sleep.

🕸️🕷✮⋆˙

The bass from the music thumps through your chest as you step into the crowded living room. The lights are dim, the room filled with a haze of colored neon and swirling bodies moving to the rhythm. It’s your first real party in a long time, and the unfamiliar atmosphere is slightly overwhelming. You spot Giselle across the room, her blonde hair shining under the strobe lights as she waves you over.

You smile, grateful for her invitation. The group of people she’s hanging with seems friendly enough, laughing and chatting as they pass drinks around. Giselle introduces you to a few of her friends, and you slip into the crowd easily enough, trying to shake off the tension that’s been building in you ever since Mark stopped replying to your texts.

You’ve been pushing it down all night, focusing on the fun of the party, but it’s hard to ignore the nagging feeling in the back of your mind. Is he really busy with homework? Or is he avoiding me? You try not to dwell on it. After all, he’s always been a little unpredictable—he’s probably just caught up with his own stuff.

As the night wears on, you find yourself getting along with Giselle’s friends. You chat with a girl named Ningning who shares a class with you, and you laugh at her sarcastic humor. It’s nice. It feels good to be out and talking with people who aren’t just classmates or distant acquaintances. But still, in the back of your mind, you’re aware of the emptiness Mark’s absence has left. Every few minutes, you glance at your phone, hoping to see a message from him, but there’s nothing.

You tell yourself it’s fine—he’s just busy. But every time you check, you feel a little more disappointed. 

The music pulses louder, and you take a deep breath, shaking off the thoughts of your best friend. Giselle is pulling you toward the makeshift dance floor, laughing as she drags you into the crowd. You let yourself get swept up in the fun for a while, your body moving to the beat, the drinks in your system giving you a comfortable, carefree buzz.

You laugh, enjoy yourself, and even manage to pull out a few impressive dance moves—at least according to Giselle, who’s cheering you on. The night seems to go by in a blur of music and people, the few drinks you’d had adding to the fuzziness of the night’s events.

But as the night winds down, you find yourself standing near the door, chatting with Ningning again. You glance down at your phone for what feels like the hundredth time, a little embarrassed that you’re still hoping for a text from him.

You frown when you see the time: it’s late, and you still haven’t heard from him. You were starting to wonder if you should text him, maybe check in, when Giselle appears beside you. “Hey, you okay?” she asks, her eyes narrowing with a knowing look. You smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just... thinking about stuff,” you say vaguely, slipping your phone back into your pocket.

She nods. “You know, it’s okay to have fun without him. Sometimes you gotta do your own thing, right?”

You nod along, but her words hit deeper than she probably intended. Why does it feel like I can’t? you think, but you don’t say it out loud. Instead, you force another smile. “Yeah, you’re right.”

Giselle offers to drive you home, but you shake your head. “I think I’ll walk. Get some fresh air. Plus, I’ve got pepper spray, just in case,” you joke, trying to ease the mood.

She laughs, but her eyes linger on you for a moment. “Alright, take care of yourself, okay?”

You wave her off as she heads toward the car with her friends. You linger by the door for a moment, a small hesitation gnawing at you, but then you push it aside. Walking will help clear your head.

As you step out into the cool night air, the city streets are alive with the usual hum of late-night activity. There’s a slight chill to the breeze, but you don’t mind it. You wrap your jacket tighter around your shoulders, feeling the effects of the alcohol beginning to wear off as the cold air helps sober you up. The walk is quiet, and for the first time tonight, you feel like you can breathe a little easier.

But even though the night is peaceful, your mind still drifts back to Mark. His silence feels like an anchor in your chest, something heavy and uncertain, and as you walk, you can’t stop wondering what’s going on. You’ve spent every Saturday night together for as long as you can remember. And now... now he’s just disappearing.

You try to shake off the feeling, telling yourself it's nothing. Maybe you’re just overthinking. Again. But the more you walk, the more your thoughts spiral, until you hear the footsteps behind you.

Before you can even react, a hand grabs your wrist, spinning you around so quickly that your heart jumps into your throat. Your breath catches in your chest, and for a split second, you can’t even process what’s happening. The streetlights cast long shadows on the sidewalk, and for a brief, terrifying moment, you can’t make out the guy’s face. All you feel is the cold, tight grip on your wrist.

Your heart starts pounding in your chest, panic surging through you. You try to pull away, but his hand tightens, and a sickening, familiar feeling spreads through you.

"Hey! Let go of me!" you shout, your voice shaking.

“Quiet, bitch,” the man growls, his breath hot against your neck. You struggle, but his grip tightens, and your pulse quickens.

Just as the fear begins to settle over you, you hear a soft whoosh, followed by a thud that’s too heavy to be anything but a person.

Without warning, the man’s grip on you loosens, and before you can even react, you're yanked off the ground and pulled up a nearby fire escape ladder, higher and higher until you’re standing on a rooftop. Your heart pounds in your chest as you try to steady your breath. You glance around, completely disoriented, when the voice of the masker figure breaks the silence. 

You let out a breath, in awe of the Spiderman being right in front of you.

But before you can say anything, he speaks.

“Stay here,” he orders, his tone sharp as he drops you onto a crate by the edge of the roof. “I’ll handle it. Don’t move.”

You don’t even have time to ask him what’s going on before he’s gone, leaving you sitting there alone in the dark, your mind spinning. What the hell just happened? Is this... real? You glance around, still trying to process the fact that Spiderman—the very same guy you’d heard about in the news, the one everyone in the city seems to talk about—just saved you from some creep.

Your thoughts are interrupted when you hear the sound of struggle below, muffled voices, and a distant thud as Spiderman confronts the man you were just seconds away from being attacked by. It’s all over within moments, and before you can fully grasp the situation, Spiderman returns, landing effortlessly on the roof beside you.

He glances at you, his mask giving nothing away, but you notice the way his chest rises and falls a little too fast for someone who should be used to fighting.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice softer now. You nod quickly, trying to push the terror away.

“Yeah,” you reply, swallowing hard. “Thanks for saving me.”

A long silence stretches between you before you, almost hesitantly, ask, “Did... did you... kill him?”

The question comes out before you can think better of it, but the moment you say it, his head whips toward you in complete shock.

“What?!” he exclaims, his voice full of disbelief. “No! I—no, I didn’t kill him! I just... I knocked him out. I’m not... I don’t... that’s not what I do.”

You blink, surprised at how horrified he sounds. Maybe you’ve underestimated him.

“Oh,” you murmur, feeling sheepish. “Sorry, I... I don’t know how these things work.”

Spiderman’s shoulders visibly relax, and he rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “It’s fine. Just... just stay safe, okay? I’ll get you home.”

You nod, your heart still beating erratically in your chest. Part of you is still processing everything, but another part of you is grateful. Grateful for Spiderman being here tonight, for protecting you when no one else would have been able to.

“Um, thank you again,” you say, your voice softer this time.

His eyes behind the mask seem to soften, but you’re not sure. “I can take you home,” he offers, voice low, almost too gentle, slightly familiar but you’re unable to place exactly where you’d heard it before.

You blink up at him, still in shock, and then remember where you are. “I’m almost home… I can walk the rest of the way.”

But the more you think about it, the more you realize you really don’t want to walk. Not after what just happened. Plus, his presence feels safe in a way you can’t explain.

Spiderman seems to notice the hesitation in your expression, and before you can change your mind, he’s already swooping down, his webbing attaching to a nearby building. “Hold on tight.”

Your breath catches in your throat as you barely process his words. Before you can question how he knows where you live, he shoots another web, pulling you along with him. Your feet leave the ground, and you’re soaring through the city. The wind rushes against your face, and everything is a blur of lights and rooftops.

The whole trip is a disorienting whirl, but it’s somehow comforting in its chaos. Spiderman moves like he’s done this a thousand times, his grip tight around your waist as he swings from one building to the next. The world below you is a distant hum, but your thoughts are still clouded with questions.

And then, as quickly as it began, you find yourself standing on the fire escape of your apartment building. Your legs are a little shaky, but it doesn’t matter. You’re safe.

“Here we are,” he says, glancing up at your window.

You stare at him, still slightly tipsy from the night’s events, but not questioning how he knows where you live. After all, it’s just one of those things that doesn’t make sense, and you don’t really care. All that matters is that you’re safe now.

“Thanks,” you say quietly, feeling oddly vulnerable under his watchful gaze.

He nods again, his hand slipping back to his side as he stands a little straighter. “Take care of yourself, okay? Don’t walk alone at night again. It’s... not safe. Especially for pretty girls like you.”

You nod, still too stunned to respond properly. You watch as he shoots a web up to the fire escape and swings back into the darkness. You stand there for a moment, your thoughts racing, wondering if the whole thing really just happened. It’s only when you step inside your apartment and hear the quiet of the night that it hits you. Spiderman just saved me, not only that but he’d called you pretty too.

🕸️🕷✮⋆˙

The next Monday morning at school, everything feels a little surreal. You’re walking through the hallways, mind still reeling from that night’s events. You still haven’t told anyone, and you feel like you’re about to burst. How in the world had Spiderman been so close to you? And you were actually talking to him, like... you know, a real conversation.

As you sit down next to Mark in homeroom, you can’t help but grin. You need to tell someone about the whole thing, and who better than your best friend? You tap his shoulder and lean in close, trying to act casual but failing miserably.

“Oh my God, Mark, you won’t believe what happened last night,” you blurt out, eyes wide with excitement.

He raises an eyebrow, a slight chuckle escaping him as he looks over at you. “What happened? You go to a party or something?”

You shake your head, not able to contain the grin that stretches across your face. “Worse. I got mugged.” You pause for dramatic effect, watching his eyes widen with concern. “But wait—before you freak out, I was saved. By Spiderman.”

Mark freezes for a second, blinking at you in disbelief. “Spiderman? You’re serious? Like, the Spiderman?”

You nod, leaning back in your chair, arms crossed as you recount the entire wild encounter, from the guy grabbing you to being yanked onto the roof and saved by Spiderman. You try to make it sound as casual as possible, but you can’t help but feel the thrill of telling someone about your personal brush with New York’s most famous hero.

“That’s insane,” Mark mutters, clearly processing the details. “Wait, so... what happened next?”

“Well, he saved me,” you say, leaning in like you’re sharing a secret. “But... I’m not gonna lie, Mark, he was lowkey hot.” 

Mark splutters, his face twisting with confusion. “What? You don’t even know what he looks like.”

You shrug dramatically, twirling your pen between your fingers. “Doesn’t matter. It’s not about looks. It’s how he was so protective, you know? The way he grabbed me and made sure I was okay... it was hot.”

You watch Mark's face turn a shade of red as his expression shifts from surprise to something else entirely—discomfort, maybe? You can practically see the wheels turning in his head as he tries to hold it together.

“No way. You’re a freak, bro,” Mark says, shaking his head and trying to laugh it off. “Like, seriously? You’re crushing on a guy you don’t even know?”

You roll your eyes, letting out a short laugh. “I don’t judge your crushes, so don’t judge mine. It’s called appreciating someone for more than just their looks.”

Mark scowls, but there’s a nervous twitch in his eyes. “I’m not judging. But... I don’t know, it’s just a little weird. You’ve got a crush on Spiderman?”

You smile, feeling a little awkward. “I guess. He’s mysterious, heroic... and I mean, he was pretty hot for someone wearing a mask.” You nudge him playfully, watching the way he looks more and more flustered.

Mark shrugs, but you can see the slight hesitation in his eyes. “Whatever, man. You’re weird. But... I guess if he saved you... that’s... kinda cool.”

It’s hard to ignore the little spark of something else in his voice, even if he’s trying to mask it with humor. You grin to yourself, filing the moment away. You’re not sure why, but it feels like there’s a shift between you two—something you can’t quite put your finger on.

You press the issue no further, but the day goes on, and you can't stop thinking about Mark’s weird reaction. Sure, he’s your best friend, but the way he acted just now... it made you wonder. Could he possibly feel something more for you?

You find yourself entertaining the idea of Mark having a crush on you, before shaking your head and brushing the thought away. There’s no way Mark liked you, if he did, he would have told you.

🕸️🕷✮⋆˙

As the week drags on, you can't shake the thought of Spiderman. Sure, you were trying to move on, but it’s hard when you keep running into him every time you step out of the apartment at night. You’ll be walking home from the store, or maybe grabbing dinner with Giselle and Ninging, and bam—there he is, swinging between buildings or dropping down from some rooftop. It’s like he’s everywhere.

At first, you try to brush it off, telling yourself it’s just a coincidence. But then, it starts feeling a little too suspicious, almost like he’s... following you? Or looking out for you?

One night, you’re walking back from your favorite coffee shop, the crisp air of early fall making you hug your jacket tighter. You’ve been texting Mark, as usual, but his replies are slow—too slow. You roll your eyes at the screen, sighing. You swear, it’s like he’s avoiding you or something.

As you round the corner toward your apartment building, you feel that familiar shift in the air, that sensation of something just slightly off. You glance up and sure enough, you spot him—Spiderman—perched on a rooftop above you, his figure silhouetted against the dim streetlights.

You pause in your tracks, raising a brow. “Really? Again?”

Spiderman tilts his head, as if amused by your reaction. He crouches down and lands lightly in front of you, his movements fluid and graceful.

“You’re following me, huh?” you tease, crossing your arms over your chest. “I mean, I appreciate the protection and all, but you don’t have to babysit me.”

Spiderman straightens, a soft chuckle escaping from behind the mask. “I’m not babysitting,” he says with a playful edge. “Just making sure you don’t run into any... unsavory people.”

You roll your eyes, but there's a slight smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah, well, I’m fine. Been walking these streets for years now.”

There’s a pause, as if he’s considering your words. “I’m still here. Just in case.” His voice is a little warmer than usual, though it’s hard to tell beneath the mask.

You feel a mix of amusement and frustration bubbling up. “You’re a real hero, huh?” you quip. “Just swinging in, saving the day. But honestly? I’m starting to get tired of it. I mean, you’re cute and all, but this whole ‘mysterious stranger’ act? It’s getting old.”

The words leave your mouth before you can stop them, and as soon as they do, you realize—you’ve just said that to Spiderman.

You quickly recover, trying to act casual. “It’s fine, I guess. I’m just getting a little tired of feeling like I’m in some weird superhero movie, you know?”

Spiderman doesn’t say anything at first. Instead, he steps a little closer, his posture still relaxed but with a certain intensity in his eyes—well, you imagine that’s what’s behind the mask.

“Maybe I should back off for a while then,” he says after a beat, his tone more thoughtful. “You’ve got it all under control, right?”

You scoff, crossing your arms in an attempt to cover up how your heart is suddenly beating a little faster. “Yeah, I’ve got it under control, obviously.”

“Really?” Spiderman says, his voice a little too calm for your liking. Before you can even process what’s happening, he webs your phone right out of your hand, and you gasp, stumbling back in surprise as it hovers in midair for a second before landing gently in his palm.

You blink up at him in disbelief, your mouth hanging open. “What the hell? Give that back!”

He shrugs, unfazed. “What if someone mugs you again? No offense, but your reflexes suck.”

Your jaw clenches at the jab, but you can’t help but laugh bitterly. “Thanks, I feel so much safer now. I wasn’t even worried about it.”

You reach for your phone, and he hands it back to you, but there’s a look in his eyes—concern, maybe? Or just frustration. “You might not worry, but I do. You seem like you’ve got your act together, but... I don’t know. Maybe I’m just looking out for you.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real heat in the gesture. "Fine," you say, a little too quickly. "I guess I can let you walk with me then. But just so you know, you’re not my personal bodyguard, alright?”

Spiderman grins behind his mask, a little triumphant, but he falls in step behind you. You try to ignore the way his presence feels different—more constant now, like it’s a part of the night itself. You walk for a few minutes, the quiet of the city streets pressing in on you. You try to focus on the rhythmic sound of your footsteps, but the weight of the past few days catches up with you, and you find your shoulders slumping a little more with each step.

Spiderman notices, of course. You can feel his eyes on your back, studying you, but he doesn’t say anything for a while.

Finally, he speaks up, his voice softer than usual. “You wanna talk about it? I mean, you’ve been acting a little... off tonight.”

You look over your shoulder at him, surprised that he even noticed. But you don’t hesitate. Maybe it’s the anonymity of the mask. Maybe it’s the strange comfort of having a stranger to vent to. But suddenly, you just want to unload.

“Yeah,” you sigh, running a hand through your hair, “I mean, I’ve been dealing with some... stuff lately.”

You kick a rock along the sidewalk as you walk, the soft scrape of it filling the silence. “I’ve got this friend, Mark, right? We’ve been close for years—like, best friends. We have this thing where every Saturday, no exceptions, we hang out. Watch movies, talk... whatever. We’re just... us. But lately? He’s been acting weird. Like, really weird.”

Spiderman doesn’t interrupt. He just walks beside you, giving you the space to talk.

“It’s like he’s avoiding me,” you continue, your words gaining momentum. “I get that people get busy, but he’s never like this. He’s slow to reply, sometimes doesn’t even respond at all, and when he does, it’s like he doesn’t care anymore. I don’t even know what happened. It’s just... really frustrating. And I don’t even know if I should ask him about it, because I don’t want to come off as desperate or clingy.”

You kick another rock, your frustration spilling over, and for a second, you feel a little ridiculous. Here you are, talking about Mark to a guy you don’t even know, someone who wears a mask and swings from rooftops. But the words come tumbling out anyway, all of your insecurities and confusion finding a strange kind of release in the cool air of the city.

Spiderman stays quiet for a moment, processing. When he finally speaks, his voice is calm, like he’s trying to make sense of your ramblings. “Sounds like he’s pulling away for some reason,” he says thoughtfully. “But I’m sure there’s a reason. Maybe he’s just going through something, you know?”

You shrug, feeling the weight of the uncertainty settle in your chest. “I don’t know. I just... I want things Spiderman listens quietly, his footsteps matching yours as you walk. You don’t notice the way his posture shifts, or the way his mask seems to obscure any hint of emotion—though somehow, you feel like he’s really paying attention.

After a few beats of silence, he finally speaks again, his voice thoughtful and a little gentler than before. “You know, I think you should just talk to him. Mark, I mean.”

You stop in your tracks, looking over at him in surprise. “What?”

Spiderman shrugs, his tone almost casual, but his words don’t match the nonchalance. “I get it. You’re frustrated, and you don’t want to be the one to chase him down. But sometimes, people just need a nudge. If you really want things to go back to the way they were... maybe you should just be honest with him. Ask him what’s up.”

You frown, crossing your arms tightly over your chest, suddenly feeling a little vulnerable. “But what if I look desperate? Or, I don’t know... what if he doesn’t care?”

Spiderman stops walking too, his voice quiet but steady when he answers. “He cares. I’m sure of it.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, surprised by how certain he sounds. “How could you possibly know that? You don’t even know him.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “I don’t need to. I can tell from the way you talk about him. The way you light up when you mention him. You’re not the kind of person who just forgets someone you care about. And trust me, it’s obvious he doesn’t want to lose that either. Whatever’s going on, I’m sure it’s nothing personal.”

You let out a long sigh, leaning against the nearest streetlamp. His words stir something inside you—something you’ve been avoiding all week. The idea that Mark really does care makes your heart feel a little lighter, but the fear is still there. “But what if he doesn’t? What if I make things worse by trying to talk to him?”

Spiderman leans against the wall next to you, his posture relaxed. “Look, I’m not saying it’s going to be easy. But you know him. I’m sure you’ve been through rough patches before and you worked through them. You just need to give him the chance to explain himself. I think that’s all he needs—someone to really talk to. And if you don’t do it, you’ll always be wondering what could’ve happened.”

You chew on your lip, his words hanging in the air between you. There’s a weight to them, something that feels... true. Something that makes you want to listen to him, to take his advice. But still, there’s a stubborn part of you that wants to push it all aside. “I just... don’t want to get hurt. Again.”

Spiderman straightens up, his tone surprisingly gentle. “You won’t. Not if you’re honest. Trust me.”

You glance up at him, your gaze softening as you look into the mysterious eyes behind his mask. He sounds so sure of himself.

“Thanks,” you mumble, more to yourself than to him. “I’ll think about it.”

He nods once, giving you an almost encouraging smile beneath the mask. “I know you will.”

You both fall silent as you continue walking, but the weight in your chest doesn’t feel quite as heavy anymore. Maybe, just maybe, Spiderman is right. Maybe you do need to talk to Mark.

Maybe it won’t be as scary as you think.

🕸️🕷✮⋆˙

A few days after your conversation with Spiderman, things between you and Mark seem to settle down a bit. He’s still a little distant at times, but when he’s around, you notice he’s more present, his smiles more genuine, his conversations less distracted. It’s not the same as before—things can’t just magically go back to normal—but there’s something warmer there, something more honest.

One afternoon, as you’re sitting at your favorite spot in the courtyard, you catch him coming toward you, looking a little tired but still smiling like he’s actually glad to see you. You can’t help but feel a pang of relief. It’s been a while since you’ve had one of these simple, casual hangouts, and you’ve missed it more than you care to admit.

He sits beside you, just like old times, and you both start talking like you haven’t missed a beat. But the conversation isn’t just surface-level anymore. He seems more open, more real.

After a while, you can’t hold back anymore. The thought has been gnawing at the back of your mind for days, and it’s finally time to ask.

You clear your throat, trying to sound casual, though your heart is thumping in your chest. "Hey, Mark. Can I ask you something?"

He glances at you, his brow furrowing slightly, but he’s still listening. “Of course. What’s up?”

You take a deep breath, trying not to come off too confrontational. "Why did you ghost me before? I mean, I know you were busy, but... you weren’t even texting me back. I didn’t want to push, but it felt like you were avoiding me."

His expression hardens for just a moment, like he's bracing himself. He looks away for a second, running a hand through his hair. "I was... going through something. Something personal."

You wait, your heart rate picking up. The words hang between you two, waiting for him to elaborate. But he doesn’t.

You want to press him, ask for more details, but you don’t. There’s something about the way he said it—quiet, almost hesitant—that makes you feel like he’s not ready to share. You nod, leaning back against the bench. “Okay... But you know, you can always talk to me, right?”

Mark hesitates, eyes flicking back to you, a mix of gratitude and something else passing through his gaze. "I know," he says, his voice soft but firm. "But right now, I really can’t. I wish I could, but..." He lets out a sigh, his shoulders dropping. "It’s complicated, and I don’t want to drag you into it."

You feel the weight of his words, something about them striking you deeper than you expected. There’s an intensity there, a desperation almost, that you weren’t prepared for. You stare at him for a moment, your gaze softening as you consider his words.

"I trust you, Mark," you say quietly. "And I know you’re not lying to me. So... if you can’t tell me yet, it’s okay. Just know that I’m here, whenever you’re ready."

There’s a long pause as he looks at you, like he’s trying to read the sincerity in your eyes. Finally, he looks away, nodding slowly.

"Thanks. That... means a lot to me." His voice cracks a little, and you can tell how much he appreciates your understanding. "I really am sorry for pulling away, though. I never wanted to hurt you."

You smile softly, feeling the tension between you two finally start to ease. "I know you didn’t. But I’m here, okay? Just like you said—whenever you’re ready, I’m not going anywhere."

He gives a small, grateful smile, his eyes warmer than they’ve been in a while. "Thanks... I really mean it."

From that moment on, things slowly start to return to a sense of normalcy. Mark isn’t completely open with you yet—whatever is going on with him still seems like something he’s not ready to share—but there’s a shift. There’s no more distance. He’s trying, and you’re trying, and that’s enough for now.

And as you walk to class together the next day, you feel a little lighter. Maybe things aren’t perfect, and maybe they never will be, but you’re still here for each other. And somehow, that’s all you need for now.

🕸️🕷✮⋆˙

Things have started to settle into a new rhythm, one that’s almost comfortable. You and Mark are hanging out again, like before, laughing and joking and just enjoying each other’s company. But now, there's something different in the air—something lighter, maybe even flirtatious. It’s subtle, but it’s there. He'll tease you, throw out little compliments that make your heart race, and you’ve noticed the way he looks at you when you’re talking, his eyes softer than usual.

You can’t deny it—you’re starting to feel the spark again, that chemistry you thought you had maybe lost when things got weird. But you're also talking to Spiderman regularly now, and every time you do, you feel like you’re walking this tightrope between two worlds—one where everything feels so right with Mark, and one where he is a complete mystery. You don’t even realize it yet, but you're starting to fall for both of them in very different ways.

You hadn’t expected to run into him tonight, but here he is, perched on the fire escape across the street, casually leaning against the rail. It’s become a weird sort of routine lately—your nightly walks where you’d end up talking to Spiderman. It’s comforting in its own way, even if you still don’t know who’s behind the mask.

You slow your pace and look up at him, raising an eyebrow. “You’re stalking me now?”

Spiderman chuckles, the sound muffled by the mask but still warm enough to make your chest flutter. “If I’m stalking you, then you’re stalking me, too,” he teases, swinging down lightly to land in front of you. “What’s up tonight?”

You shrug, adjusting the straps of your bag over your shoulder. “Not much. Just out to clear my head.”

The city feels quieter at night. The hum of the busy streets seems far away, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you standing there in the stillness. You’ve gotten used to his company in the past couple of weeks, and there’s a sense of comfort in the anonymity between you. A part of you almost wishes you could talk to him more. After everything with Mark, it’s nice to have someone to listen, someone who isn’t involved in the mess.

He notices the shift in your demeanor, and you can tell by the tilt of his head that he’s waiting for you to speak.

You let out a deep breath, gathering your courage. You hadn’t planned on telling him this, but somehow it just comes out. “I think I’m in love with Mark,” you say, voice quieter than usual, almost scared to even say it out loud.

His posture stiffens for a second, though you can’t see his expression under the mask. “Mark?” he repeats, sounding genuinely surprised. “Like, your best friend Mark?”

You nod, biting your lip. “Yeah. I mean... I don’t know. It’s confusing. We’ve been friends forever, and now it’s like I can’t get him out of my head. Lately, he’s been like flirting, I think?”

“Flirting?” he asks, his tone curious, almost teasing. “What do you mean?”

“Yeah,” you say, laughing nervously. “I don’t know, he’s just been way nicer lately? Texting me more, teasing me... It’s like he’s trying to get closer to me or something.”

You glance around, unsure of how to continue, suddenly feeling a little silly talking about your boy problems to Spiderman. You rub the back of your neck and look away, trying to gather your thoughts. “But I don’t know if I’m imagining it. Maybe I’m just reading into things. I mean, we’ve been friends for so long. He’s always been nice to me, but now it’s... different. It’s making me crazy. I don’t know what to think.”

Spiderman watches you quietly, his posture still, though there’s something in the way he holds himself that makes you feel like he’s really paying attention. “You deserve an answer,” he says after a pause, his voice low but certain. “You deserve to know how he feels, one way or the other.”

You look up at him, surprised by his words. “You think so?”

He gives a slight nod. “Yeah. You can’t keep guessing forever. I mean, I’m not saying it’s easy to talk about feelings, but it’s the only way to know for sure.”

You bite your lip, nodding slowly. You want to believe him, you want to believe that talking to Mark is the right thing to do, but the idea of being rejected still stings. “Yeah... I guess you're right. I’ve been avoiding talking to him about it. I’m scared of what might happen if I do.”

Spiderman steps closer, his voice soft and reassuring. “If he’s your friend, he’ll understand. And if he doesn’t... then at least you’ll know where you stand.”

You sigh deeply, feeling the weight of his words. He’s right, of course. You’ve been avoiding the conversation with Mark because you’re afraid of what might happen, but maybe it’s time to face it.

“Thanks,” you say, feeling a little lighter. “I’m not sure I’d have the courage to do it if you hadn’t said something.”

“No problem,” he replies, a teasing note in his voice. “I mean, I’m just a friendly neighborhood Spiderman. Helping people is kind of my thing.”

You laugh a little, but it’s a mix of relief and gratitude. “You’re way too nice to be a superhero.”

He shrugs, though you can’t see it through the mask. “I do what I can. But seriously, take my advice. Talk to him. He’s probably just as confused as you are.”

You smile, feeling a little more confident now. “I will. I promise.”

Spiderman gives you a nod of approval before his posture shifts, signaling that it’s time to go. “Alright. Go get some sleep. You’ve got this.”

You watch as he swings up to the rooftops, disappearing into the night, and for the first time in a while, you feel like maybe—just maybe—you can start figuring things out with Mark.

🕸️🕷✮⋆˙

You don’t even see it coming.

One moment, you’re walking back from the corner store with a bag of snacks, minding your own business. The next, someone grabs you, and your heart leaps into your throat. A rough voice snarls in your ear, “Where’s your friend Spiderman?”

Panic overtakes you, and all you can manage is a confused stammer. You’re shoved into the back of a van, heart racing as you piece together what’s happening. Someone must’ve seen you with him that night, or maybe they’ve been watching for longer than you realized.

Your captors don’t wait long to make their demands clear. “You tell him to show up, or things get messy,” one says, holding up your phone. They want you to call him. The problem is, you have no idea how.

You stutter, trying to explain that you literally don’t have his phone number.

“Don’t play dumb,” the second man snaps, holding up your phone. “We’ve seen him with you. Call him.”

“I can’t—”

Your words are cut off as the van jerks to a halt. The two men exchange alarmed glances, and then you hear it: a thud on the roof.

“What the hell was that?” one mutters, pulling out a weapon.

The next sound is unmistakable—the sharp thwip of a web. The van rocks violently as the door is ripped clean off, light flooding the cramped space.

And there he is.

Spiderman is a blur of red and blue, launching himself into the van with an acrobatic flip. He webs the first man’s weapon before the guy can react, yanking it away and tossing it aside. The second man lunges at him with a crowbar, but Spiderman ducks, the crowbar smashing into the wall behind him with a deafening clang.

“Stay down,” Spiderman warns, his voice firm but calm.

The first guy doesn’t listen. He charges at Spiderman, only to get a web shot to the face. Spiderman kicks him backward, sending him sprawling onto the van’s floor.

“Are you okay?” Spiderman asks, glancing at you briefly.

You nod, too stunned to speak.

The second guy doesn’t go down as easily. He’s bigger, meaner, and surprisingly agile. He swings the crowbar again, catching Spiderman in the side. The sickening sound of metal against his ribs makes your stomach turn.

Spiderman grunts in pain, stumbling but recovering quickly. He blocks the next swing with his forearm, webbing the crowbar and yanking it from the man’s grasp. “You really don’t learn, do you?” he quips, his voice strained.

Before he can finish, the first guy is back on his feet, armed with a knife. He slashes at Spiderman, who dodges narrowly but takes a glancing cut to his arm.

“Two against one,” Spiderman mutters, “that’s not very fair.”

He shoots a web at the knife, disarming the man, then uses a second web to yank him forward. Spiderman spins, using the man’s momentum against him, and sends him crashing into the wall of the van.

The second guy charges, tackling Spiderman to the ground. They grapple, fists flying, and you can see Spiderman slowing down, his movements less precise. Blood stains his suit where the knife grazed him, and he’s holding his side—likely from the earlier hit.

Your breath catches as the second guy pins him, but Spiderman surprises you, using his legs to flip the man over his head. He’s back on his feet in an instant, delivering a punch that knocks the guy out cold.

Spiderman turns to you, his breathing heavy, his posture slouched. “You’re safe now,” he says, but his voice wavers.

“Safe? You’re bleeding!” you exclaim, rushing to his side.

“It’s fine,” he says, trying to wave you off, but his movements are sluggish, and he’s gripping his ribs tightly.

“It’s not fine,” you argue, your voice rising. “You’re hurt. You need help. Come on, let’s go to my place.”

He hesitates, but when he stumbles slightly, he lets you guide him out of the van.

🕸️🕷✮⋆˙

You practically drag Spiderman up the fire escape to your bedroom. He’s limping, trying to downplay the extent of his injuries, but you can see the pain etched into his body language—even through the mask.

“Sit,” you order the moment you’re inside, gesturing to your bed. He hesitates, scanning the windows and doors like he’s expecting someone to burst in.

“Relax,” you add. “Nobody followed us.”

With a reluctant nod, he sinks into the couch, groaning softly. You rush to grab your first-aid kit, returning to find him still gripping his side, his masked head tilted back against the cushions.

“Alright,” you say, kneeling beside him. “I need to check your injuries. You’re gonna have to take off the mask.”

He tenses immediately, shaking his head. “I can’t do that.”

“Spiderman,” you say firmly, “you can’t breathe properly. I need to check if you’re okay. I swear, I won’t tell anyone.”

“No,” he says again, his voice edged with frustration. “I can’t. It’s... complicated.”

You sit back on your heels, crossing your arms. “Complicated? You just saved my life, and now I’m trying to save yours. What’s complicated about that?”

He looks at you for a long moment, the lenses of his mask narrowing slightly. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I’ll be fine. I’ve been through worse.”

You huff, annoyed. “Fine. At least let me patch up what I can see.”

He allows you to clean the cut on his arm, wincing slightly as you dab antiseptic on it. You notice how quiet he’s gotten, his usual witty banter replaced by a tense silence.

“You don’t have to do this alone, you know,” you say softly, glancing up at him.

“I do,” he replies immediately, his tone clipped.

The words hit harder than you expect. You lean back, giving him space, and he stands, wobbling slightly.

“Thanks for the help,” he says, moving toward the window.

“Wait—”

“I’ll be fine,” he cuts you off, stepping onto the ledge. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

And then he’s gone, leaving you staring at the empty space where he’d been, your chest tight with frustration and worry.

🕸️🕷✮⋆˙

It’s been days since you last saw Spiderman. Days of walking home late at night and feeling the eerie absence of the one person who always made you feel safe. You tell yourself it’s fine. That he’s busy saving the city or maybe just giving you space. But deep down, you feel the sting of being shut out.

Mark’s been acting strange too. Not like before, when he outright ignored you, but there’s something guarded about him again—like he’s keeping secrets. You don’t know how much more of this you can take.

One evening, as you’re walking home, the silence feels unbearable. The air feels colder, heavier, without the usual sense of someone watching your back. By the time you reach your apartment, your chest feels tight with frustration. You pull out your phone, scrolling through your recent conversations.

Nothing from Spiderman.

Mark’s last text was a brief, “Can’t hang tonight, sorry.”

You shove your phone in your pocket and head straight to Mark’s apartment

When Mark opens the door, he looks surprised—and maybe a little nervous—to see you.

“Hey, what’s up?” he asks, trying for casual, but there’s a stiffness in his tone.

“Are you avoiding me again?” you blurt out, crossing your arms.

He blinks, clearly caught off guard. “What? No. Why would I—”

“Don’t lie to me, Mark,” you cut him off. “You’ve been weird. You’re barely texting back, and when you do, it’s like you’re walking on eggshells. What’s going on with you?”

He runs a hand through his hair, avoiding your gaze. “I’m just... dealing with stuff, okay? It’s nothing to do with you.”

You step closer, lowering your voice. “You told me to trust you. To believe that you care about me. And I do, Mark. But it feels like you’re shutting me out again, and I can’t take that.”

He lets out a long sigh, leaning against the doorframe. “It’s not that simple.”

“Then make it simple!” you exclaim. “You’re my best friend, Mark. You don’t have to do everything alone.”

For a moment, he looks like he’s about to say something—something big. But then he stops himself, his jaw tightening.

“I can’t,” he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

You stare at him, heart sinking. “Why not?”

“Because if you knew...” He pauses, swallowing hard. “It would change everything. And I can’t risk that.”

Your mind races, frustration boiling over. “Do you even realize how hard it is for me to feel like I can’t talk to anyone? To feel like I’m losing you and—” You stop yourself, clenching your fists. “You know what? Forget it. I’ll stop asking.”

“Y/N...”

“No,” you say firmly, stepping back. “When you’re ready to actually be honest with me, let me know.”

Before he can respond, you turn and walk away, leaving him standing in the doorway, his expression conflicted.

🕸️🕷✮⋆˙

Mark can’t stop replaying the look on your face as you walked away. The hurt in your voice, the weight of your words—it gnaws at him. For the first time in his life, he’s truly afraid he might lose you.

He paces his room, running a hand through his hair. Every excuse he’s made to keep his identity a secret feels hollow now. You deserve the truth. And if it costs him everything? At least you’ll know how much you mean to him.

Grabbing a small bouquet of flowers—ones he spotted on the way home earlier—he suits up and swings toward your apartment. The city rushes by beneath him, but for once, he doesn’t revel in the thrill of it. His heart pounds in his chest as he lands on your fire escape, crouching just outside your bedroom window.

With a deep breath, he knocks.

You look up, confused at first, but then your heart skips a beat when you see the familiar figure crouched on the fire escape. Spiderman.

You hesitate for a moment, unsure if you should even let him in after how things ended the last time. But then you sigh, walking over and unlocking the window.

“What are you doing here?” you ask flatly, crossing your arms as he steps inside.

He straightens, holding out the small bouquet of slightly squished flowers. “I, uh... I messed up,” he says, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “And I needed to make it right.”

You glance at the flowers, then back at him, skeptical. “You think flowers are gonna fix everything?”

“No,” he admits quickly, shaking his head. “Not at all. But I’m here because... I need to tell you the truth. The whole truth.”

You raise an eyebrow, not entirely convinced. “You’re finally ready to take off the mask?”

“Yes,” he says firmly, stepping closer. “But only if you promise not to freak out.”

“Why would I freak out?” you mutter, but your curiosity is piqued.

“Just—close your eyes,” he says, a nervous edge to his voice.

You hesitate for a second but do as he asks. You hear the faint rustle of fabric, the sound of him taking off his mask. Then, gently, he takes your hands in his and places them on his face. His skin is warm under your fingertips, and you can feel the slight tremor of his nerves.

“Okay,” he says softly. “Open your eyes.”

You do—and your breath catches in your throat.

“Mark?”

He winces, giving you a sheepish smile. “Surprise?”

Your hands fall from his face as you take a step back, staring at him in utter disbelief. “What the actual hell?! Mark, you’re Spiderman?!”

“Yeah...” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wanted to tell you, I really did. But I couldn’t. Not until now.”

You blink at him, processing. Suddenly, all the weird behavior, the ditching, the injuries—it all makes sense. “You’ve been lying to me this whole time,” you say, your voice shaking slightly.

“I wasn’t lying,” he says quickly. “I was just... protecting you. I didn’t want you to get hurt because of me.”

You open your mouth to argue, but then you stop, taking a deep breath. “Why now, then? Why tell me now?”

“Because I couldn’t lose you,” he says, his voice raw with sincerity. “I know I’ve messed up a lot, and I’ve hurt you, and I hate myself for that. But you’re the most important person in my life, and if being honest is the only way to fix this, then... here I am. No more secrets.”

Your heart aches at the vulnerability in his words. You take a step closer, searching his face. “You’re an idiot,” you say quietly.

He nods, a small, hopeful smile tugging at his lips. “I know.”

“But I guess... I can forgive you,” you add, your voice softening. “Eventually.”

The tension in his shoulders eases, and he lets out a breath of relief. “Thank you.”

There’s a pause, the air between you heavy with unspoken feelings.

“So...” you say, tilting your head. “What now?”

“Well,” he says, his smile growing, “I was kinda hoping we could start over. But, like, as more than friends this time.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling now too. “I guess saving me from a mugger earns you some points.”

“Good,” he says, stepping closer. “Because I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you, Y/N.”

Your heart skips a beat, and you meet his gaze, the truth in his eyes making your knees feel weak.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I think I’m in love with you too.”

Before either of you can overthink it, you close the distance between you, pulling him into a kiss that feels like it’s been years in the making. His arms wrap around you, holding you close, and for once, everything feels right.

Maybe for once Spiderman can have a happy ending.

🕸️🕷✮⋆˙

author's note 𝟅𝟈 this was a bitch to finish i'm ngl but i think i'm pretty happy with how it turned out so yay! i love spiderman sm so yk i love spidermark too. anyways leave suggestions for fics in the comments or my inbox pls.

masterlist.

[mayasaurusss]

haii I can request modern lottie headcanos ?

Shy: modern jock Lottie

Warnings: Jock (but also nerdy?) Lottie, Lottie is a loser-virgin, use of every single cliche in the book, for the sake of the story let's pretend they have this instant chemistry moment, fluff fic, humorous writing, not proof read, the author regrets begin born.

A/N: hey anon, remeber when I said I had an idea and wanted to make this a oneshot instead of a headcanon? Well, I completley forgot my idea and this brewed in my head last minute, so I tried to put this thing thogeter. This story isn't very good but I hope you will like it!

Lottie is one of the most popular girls in school. She is on the soccer team, she is rich and she is beautiful, men and women alike fall to their feets for her attention. She simply has to get to the top of everything, whether it is school or soccer, making the ones around her jealous of her or to be her. Lottie is tough, both in body and spirit: during practice she manages to get going for hours, even when her teammates are tired. During exams, she remembers almost everything she studied and only a few times she has failed, due to laziness and too much faith in her abilities. She has told herself to never slack off ever again and so she continues practicing after school in her backyard, no matter if it's freezing or raining or just a bad day, she pushes her body to the limit almost every day. She studies hours on hours on hours, just after her endless practice, till midnight; sometimes she consumes her dinner while studying for her next exam. Lottie has virtually no time for herself anymore, but she knows it's her fault. She knows that she does this to appease her father's wishes for her life and that she will never make him proud. She tells herself that she's ok, that she can continue doing this without repercussions.

She is on fire today, she has just passed one of the most difficult tests of the year without breaking a sweat attracting to herself the envy of various people -and Natalie's-, had successfully exposed a presentation in class -"How cults can change people psyche", by Lottie Matthews-, and now is practicing, having just scored a goal after being chased by Taissa and making her repeatedly taking her to the ground. Lottie is triumphant, sweat coating her skin and a smile gracing her lips, the same smile that made people develop crushes for her. "Ok team, I want you to try and score a goal, Lottie, Taissa and Van, you guys try to stop them, ok?" Coach Ben says.

Lottie moves to her place near Taissa, ignoring the looks the girl gives her, Van behind the, waiting for the ball. When the coach blows the whistle, the teams move: Shauna passes the ball to Mari, in a fake attempted attack from right, trying to get past Taissa, the ball is passed to Laura Lee who has already run across the field enough to not be worried about Taissa. The only obstacles left between her and the goal are Lottie and Van. The latter won't be a problem, when Laura will kick the ball from the underside angle, sending it to the far corner of the net; the real problem is Lottie. The girl is tall and strong enough to turn the situation to her favor and virtually leave Laura's and the rest of the team empty handed. And, to top it all off, she's on fire today. So, Laura Lee devises a plan: as soon as Lottie will corner her, she will fall back and kick the ball as high as she can, attempting to send it through the net. Lottie will not budge, she thinks, -"She is too smart to fall for this..."- but she will at least attempt to try.

Lottie has stayed still until now, determined to be the one to stop her teammates. Her muscles tighten, ready to strike, until her attention is on someone else, someone on the seats.

There are quite a few people here besides you and your friends. They had invited you to watch the Yellowjackets practice, more in particular to watch the Yellowjackets practice. You have sat in the nearest line to the field, wanting to crawl out of your seat whenever one of your friends made a loud remark about one of the girls. "Like, oh my God look at Natalie '' Hayley sighs dreamily, "I want to make sexy pottery with her '' Jessica scoffs at her "Say what you want about Natalie. Have you looked at coach Ben? He is so hot!" she says while twirling a strand of her hair. "I think he's gay Jessica..." she gasps "How would you know? The other day I saw him handing to Travis a bunch of condoms, he must like girls!", "That's not how it works Jessica..." you argue with her "Shut up," she scoffs at you. You turn your head away from her to avoid her anger, looking towards the field as you see number seven -Lottie, that must be her name- moving in position to defend the net. "...and how would you know? Your life is so boring, you never even had a relationship yet!"eyes scanning her face up and down, you look at Jessica ``I haven't but at least I don't drool for every human beginning in school" you remark at her, earning a glare that could kill.

"Shut up! Stupid asshole..." your eyes return to the soccer field, now focused back on the players: you see Lottie staring at you, her eyes never leaving yours even for a split second, you and your friends must've been loud for her attention to be on anything else other than practice. Neither you or her break eye contact, both in an almost hypnotic state, so, neither you or her notice Laura Lee screaming out for her teammate.

The second Lottie refocuses back on the game, the ball hits her face at full speed; Lottie stumbles back holding her nose, blood flowing freely from it, she loses her footing and falls on the ground. "Fuuuck!'' The team rushes to their friend, Laura Lee is profusely apologizing while trying to hold her best friend who isn't in the right mood to be manhandled. Coach Ben kneels next to Lottie and inspects her face: on the bridge of the nose, right where the ball has hit her, Lottie has a small red bump and her nose seems to be slightly pushed to the left side. "We need to take the infirmary..." he states and helps Lottie up, before Misty can get her hands on her classmate's face and cause more damage. She walks back with Ben with shame, and when she looks back to see you worried over her, she can't bring herself to look at you.

At the infirmary, she gets a pack of cold ice and after one hour, the nurse, a middle aged old woman who looks like she's done with life, walks over to her and takes away the ice pack. Her hands move and test around Lottie's nose, manhandling her -she looks like a small scared child-. "Take a deep breath with your mouth...", she's confused as hell but does so, feeling the nurse's hands move again on her nose, "...and don't panic". -What?- the nurse's fingers block her nose and push strongly to the right side, readjusting the bone. Lottie lets out a banshee-like scream "Fuck me!" and she hold her face, muffling her scream in her hands, "Don't move too much or you could crook it again". Her fingers move across the nose skin, it definitely hurts but now she can breathe again: the nose still has a small red bump at the middle of its length. "Yeah, that's not going away", the nurse says while arranging some things in a box, "What?".

Her father had wanted to sue both the nurse and Laura Lee's family as soon as he saw how his daughter's nose looked, but with some convincing, Lottie had managed to make his anger drop. Today, some time after the whole fiasco, Shauna has come to pick her up for school, usually she would use her father's limo but today she felt like beginning with a friend -and exploiting her a bit- than with the old decrepit driver her father hired. As soon as she enter Shauna's car, the other girl lets out a small pained hiss at Lottie's nose. "...Is it that noticeable...?", Shauna let's out a small hum and moves uncomfortably under Lottie's dark gaze. "I mean... I see it because I was there, but it's not tha-" Shauna is interrupted by Lottie's frustrated sigh and cries. "God! This is just what I needed..." she mutters into her hand, Shauna drops her hand on her friend's shoulder "Come on...It's not that bad, no one will notice". Lottie moves to look at Shauna, her eyes are tearful, "That's literally the first thing you noticed about me today". A gulp travels down Shauna's throat "Uhm..." the taller girl looks her dead in the eyes "This is the part where you, as a friend, would comfort me". The car engine starts, Shauna lets out a embarassed cough while she starts to move the car "...Let's go".

"Ouch..." Taissa says to her while munching her sandwich, the whole soccer team is in the cafeteria for lunch, Lottie had been the last one to join the team 'cause her classes ended later, of course that would involve her not-so-glorious entrance in the room, where everyone had looked at her weird or with pity. "Laura Lee hasn't come today...She's feeling pretty guilty for what she's done. I think this will stay inside her little fanatic brain for a while" Taissa laughs while exchanging a kiss with Van, "And she's right. If I were you, Lottie, I would have punched her in the face ages ago" Natalie barges in the conversation. "Changing topic, tonight there's a party. At Randy's' ' the blonde girl mutters while focused on rolling something that Lottie is pretty sure isn't a normal cig, "I don't know if I'll be there... I don't feel really good". Natalie lets out a scoff, momentarily messing up her rolling before continuing again, "Come on Lottie, It's only a party. Besides, your 'little incident' is not that visible ''. Taissa stares at Natalie with a look that says 'Really?' , "Geez, how about some fucking decency Natalie?" she spats out receiving a roll of eyes from the other girl "The point is, going to a party won't be that big of a deal". Everyone seems to turn to Lottie, waiting for her response, "...Ok".

Night has come, and with it, Lottie's uneasiness. The party had proved to be a lot more crowded than she imagined, it was packed with people who were beginning to drink by the time the Yellowjackets had come. Jackie had placed her hand on Lottie's shoulder, stroking it reassuringly "Don't worry Lottie, we won't go anywhere" and for a split second, Lottie had believed her and smiled reproaching the smile, before she had looked away -for one fucking second-, and all of her team had left to so their things: Taissa and Van had two red cups in their hands and were flirting to one angle of the room, Jackie had blindedly followed Jeff somewhere with Shauna trailing behind her and Natalie was gone to God knows where, probably doing drugs with those toxics of her friends. So, as she had been sure all this time, Lottie was alone. A sigh escaped her lips, her brows furrowing in annoyance and creating a small wrinkle between them, and worry showing in her eyes. She makes a bee line to the kitchen, finding it almost empty except for a drunk couple in one of the dark corners; on the table amidst all the discarded red cups and leftover foods, sits a clear glass bowl of red-blood punch with some ice and a slice of orange floating in. Lottie takes one of the clean cups and fills it to the brim with alcohol. She drinks her worries away feeling the liquid heat her from within, before she knows she has gulped down half of it. Her hands search for her cigarettes in her jeans pocket, finding only a few left: taking one she holds it between her lips but realizes she has forgotten her lighter at home, "As if this night couldn't be any worse...".

When you walk into the kitchen, you see the same girl who yesterday almost got half of her face blown off -Lottie, you remind yourself-.

She's dressed in high waisted dark gray jeans, a long sleeved black shirt and a pair of glasses which made her look far more nerdy than she might have intended. "Oh, hi!" she turns around so quickly that some of the liquid spills out of the cup and pours on her fingers, but she doesn't seem to care all that much, all her attention is on you. "H-Hi...!". Walking over to her, you smile "You are Lottie right? You got pretty hurt some time ago, huh?", gulping down dryly her eyes focused on your lips resting on the cup ridge "Uhhhh, uh, ehm, yes yeas, yeah that's me...". Eyes hazy and unfocused, she doesn't hear you calling out for her "...ttie. Lottie? Earth calls to Lottie, are you there?" she jolts up a second, straighten her spine and avoids to look you in the eye. "Uh, yeah I'm here, just a little distracted" her throat clears and she lets out a small laugh. You look at her, you notice the way she seems to be around you: gone is the confident jock from the soccer team, all that's left of her is a girl who's too shy to talk without stuttering every few seconds. "Say, would you like to get to know each other?" her throat clears before she nods her head slightly with a little smile. "So, what do you like to do, you know, besides soccer?" you lean on the table while sipping on the punch, "Well, I like partying, usually, and -you know- soccer is all my life. I play the guitar sometimes..." your gasp interrupts her, "You'll have to let me hear something one day!". Lottie tells you more about her life: she tells you about her father and mother, about how she's always alone in that big cold house of hers, about how she likes the soccer team a lot -except Jackie sometimes- and of her love for teen dramas, especially Dawson's Creek.

The alcohol starts to make your body heat, she looks so good under dimmed lights; you sip down the last drops of the alcohol and throw the empty cup on the table, slightly scaring Lottie. "Would you like to dance?" her eyes move to yours and shakes her head in approval "Of course!" you take her cup and set it on the table, placing your hand on hers and leading her to the living room.

The room is lit by red light, the music is so loud it makes her heart jump in her chest, but Lottie can barely hear it over the loud beating of her heart in her ears. You get close to her body and feel its heat, how her skin shivers when you touch her a little too long and how she can't even place her shaky hands on you. Everything is slow, heated, the red lights paint Lottie in a way you haven't seen before; you lock eyes with her and for a moment, you feel the need to kiss her, even if you have known her only for a few hours. You get closer to her, so much so that you can feel the raspiness of her breath when you eye her lips. It isn't surprising then when, in the euphoria you're both experiencing, you don't hear the heavy steps of someone getting closer to you.

You get yanked from Lottie's grip, someone spins you around until you've met with his face again. "What the fuck are you doing?!" he snaps at you, his brows are furrowed and he looks even more of a rabid dog than when you left him. "Hello Brandon..." he grips your arms tighter, bruising your skin underneath; his breath is on your face,reeking of alcohol. "Hello'? What the fuck are you doing with this bitch?!" he starts to tug you around, all the while continuing to spit in your face insults.

As soon as he lets go of you Lottie reaches out and manhandles you behind her; a stern look appears on her face. "Hey, what's your problem?" she looks him up and down, studying him "My problem is you, and people like you" he spats out. "Like me?" she can feel her blood pressure rising, his implication not missed by Lottie.

Brandon's friends are near him, some giggle but others are trying to hold him down from exploding further. "Yeah, people like you and this bitch over here" he gestures at you with a nod, he seems to get even more red than he was before, almost looking rabid, "What the fuck are you talking about?".

Brandon seems to have been pushed over the edge, a wild look in his eyes, he sweats and screams on Lottie's face "You fucking faggots! You gross shit! Scum like you shouldn't even exist!" people are gathering now near, the music seems to almost have gone silent, flashes and giggles surround you. Lottie grips your hand tight, so tight that it hurts, "Lottie..." she turns around, her other hand placed on your hip and starts to lead you out of the party.

"Let's go" her voice wavering: for a split second, she saw her father spilling insults at her after she had told what she really was. "Yeah you better go! We don't want disgusting shits like you around here" Brandon is held back by his friends when he attempts to chase after you.

Through her clouded mind, Lottie doesn't miss Brandon's next words "You aren't even that good at soccer, I bet your father is really proud of his shitty disgusting lizzie daughter". Lottie feels her knuckles crush bone beneath them, and regains her consciousness, realizing she had punched Brandon right on the nose, in the exact same way she was hit the day's priors. He falls on his ass in the middle of his friend group, spurting insults and imprecations at you and Lottie. Before you can look at him, you're tugged out of the party. You run with Lottie, both with the fear that he might get out of his friend's grapes and follow you; you run across the small patch of woods just outside of Randy's house.

The night is lit by countless stars in the sky, wind blows through the trees and inside of your heart an euphoric feeling blooms. When you end up at the other side of the trees, in a clearance, you start to laugh at your heart's content; your laugh is so contagious that it starts to affect Lottie too -who previously was looking at you like you were mad- making her let out chuckles of her own.

You hold on to her, much like you did when you were at the party, she hides her face into your neck while still giggling: you start to notice the position you're in, her breath hitches when she notices how close you are and -more importantly- where her face is. Dark eyes reflect the night sky, she looks at you with something akin to adoration for a second, before she composes herself and let go of you, clearing her throat. "So ummm... who was that guy?" you rethink about the events of the night and -trying not to think- about how good Lottie looks right now. "He was my ex-boyfriend. He has been going a bit crazy since I broke up with him. I told him I... liked girls and he has been bothering me ever since I left him" Lottie let's out a small 'oh' of approval, taking in all that you said. "So... you like girls" she hums in thought; you inadvertently let out a laugh "Of course! I thought it was pretty obvious from how I was looking at you". Her face becomes beet red -'Shit, I looked so stupid! Why did I asked that?!'-, she scratches the back of her head while averting your gaze. Her hand is held by yours, she follows your movement and when she turns around, she's met with your lips on hers. She can't move the lips back, too stunned by your action to reciprocate the kiss but just when you thought of pulling away -'maybe she doesn't like me'- you feel her hands cupping your cheeks and deepening the kiss. -'Whoa... sparks...'- she thinks while deepening the kiss even more, it feels like millions of little light sparks shine on you and her. She's so close you can barely breathe, the air itself feels intoxicating, this is just too good to be true. When you pull away, both of you are blushing and messy, she looks amazing under the moonlight: hair messy, glasses slightly sliding to the side, skin so red and eyes watery. "Wow... this feels very... romantic..." she sighs into your neck, holding your chest to hers "We should do this more often..." you kiss her again, giddy, holding onto her neck "We definitely should!".

Something moves in the bushes rapidly, making both of you jolt up in fear that your ex might've catched up, Lottie is already ready to throw another punch, just when from the darkness between the trees, the Yellowjackets appear, all of them. "G-God!" an echo of 'oooh's' rise up from the group, Van begins the lead of them "Oh so that's what you were doing Lottie! We feared you got into a fight!". Van gets closer to you two, throwing her arm around Lottie's shoulders "Are you gonna introduce your 'friend' to us?", the taller girl puffs out a breath in annoyance "Oh fuck off!".

[nartml]

Should Oikawa have gone to Shiratorizawa?

It's a well known fact that Oikawa, soon after graduation, left off to join the Argentinian Volleyball League.

Now, Oikawa was never able to beat Ushijima, which probably played a bigger role in his decision to immigrate to the other side of the world than you might think.

He was never able to go to Nationals and leave Miyagi, therefore never made his brilliance as a player known, and consequently was overshadowed by the other two 'genius' setters, Kageyama and Atsumu.

Something that would've been a huge hindrance to his career if he were to stay in Japan.

His reputation, or lack thereof, might have actually held him down for years, especially when there were two other setters who were arguably even better than him and already established their presence in the big leagues.

Ushijima knew this, and was certain that Seijoh was dragging Oikawa down, which is why he was so confident that Oikawa shot himself in the foot when he refused to go to Shiratorizawa.

Had he chosen otherwise, he would've gone to Nationals, where he'd also have his debut in the big leagues.

Scouts would undoubtedly take notice of this other brilliant setter who played everyone on both sides of the net like a fiddle—

Wait. What?

Would they have taken notice? Would there be something to take notice of?

Since when did Shiratorizawa rely on gimmicks, tricky strategies, and versatile attacks? Since when was there room for mind games?

Since when did coach Washijo allow anyone other than Ushijima to take the lead?

Didn't Semi get benched because he didn't prioritize Ushijima? Didn't he take the boot for not sucking up to him?

Oikawa shines, but that's only when he's actually allowed to do his thing.

His playing style is the exact opposite of what Shiratorizawa wants.

It was kind of stated by coach Ukai too.

"If Aoba Johsai is the most complete team in the prefecture, then Shiratorizawa is the most incomplete."

Shiratorizawa's playing style centers around individual strengths, raw power, and Ushijima.

Oikawa prefers a united front, plays connecting with one another, making room for proper adjustments and adaptation. He's down for the occasional mind game too.

But most of all, he prefers to take the damn lead.

Yes, cohesion is imperative for his playing style, but that's also the case for many of the strong teams we see in the show.

The difference is, Oikawa is clearly the one in the driving seat. We see it most of all in their team huddles.

Oikawa flawlessly communicates with his team, knows where, who, when, and how much to push, and while everyone participates in the discussions, he's clearly the leader.

He does the thinking, the planning, the strategizing. He keeps track of everyone on both teams.

He reminds me a bit of Kenma in that regard.

But apart from being the brain, he also has the athletic prowess, the technical skills, the passion, the people skills, and it's safe to assume, countless more hours of practice too.

Seijoh's coaches know that, and have let him cultivate all those skills through the years.

By contrast, we see coach Washijo usually butt in during the time-outs, and insist that his players just hold proper form to put in even more power, to be more dynamic on account of their physical stature.

Imagine how little of a say Oikawa would have, especially if he attended Shiratorizawa from the get-go.

The only first year we actually know is Goshiki. The rest are near entirely unknown.

I highly doubt he'd be half as devious a player as he is, had he had Washijo for a coach.

The chances that old guy would let him do even a fraction of his thing are next to zero.

At the end of the day, Oikawa is tricky, and Shiratorizawa just isn't.

So then, did Seijoh hold him back? I'm not sure.

We're not gonna talk about year-long friendships, bonds, and good chemistry, which were undoubtedly huge factors, both in his decision to attend Seijoh, and in everyone trusting him to do his stuff.

Let's just take a quick look at their capabilities as a bunch.

Objectively, they're strong. Skilled. But not strong enough, and not skilled enough either.

I mean, look at that first practice match. They didn't have Oikawa, and Karasuno, which kinda sucked at the time, beat them in straight sets.

Yes, it was a practice match. Yes, they got stronger later on.

But that loss highlighted, more than anything, just how much of an effect Oikawa had as the leader, and how much he elevated his teammates.

Without him, they would've been a lot weaker.

And that might just be exactly why Oikawa shone the way he did.

His judgement was trusted, and he learned how to take advantage of everyone's abilities and maximize them.

No, I'm not sure if Seijoh actually held him back, or if he partially owes his polished brilliance to them. Could be a bit of both.

I am sure, however, that Shiratorizawa would've actually done a hell of a lot more damage than Seijoh ever did.

[alchemistc]

goon | bucktommy | chapter four

check out the hockey glossary here (updated through chapter four)

Prologue | Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three

credit to weatherwaxed for the truly horrendous and accurate hockey nickname for Tommy

read Chapter Four on ao3

Tommy’s ears are still ringing.

Kane’s been sent off for a game misconduct, and Diaz’s nose doesn’t seem to be too much worse for the wear, although he’s going to have a nasty shiner on both eyes by the time this game is through. Hen’s done what she can to patch them both up, while Nash talks them through how the hell they’re going to come back from a four goal deficit in twenty minutes, in Edmonton, with McDavid on a hot streak and Hyman one goal away from a hatty.

Tommy’s already done his part — with the Oilers up by three Kane had taken a run at Diaz, elbow angled just right to get him right beneath the bucket, square between his eyes, and Tommy had almost jumped the gun trying to get on the ice before anyone could skate off to give him the opportunity. No call, of course, just the jeers of eighteen thousand or so fans while McKinley screamed at the refs, but the whistle had given Nash the opportunity to throw Tommy out on the ice, and Knoblauch had left Kane out to take his lumps, no doubt certain a fight would just keep the momentum rolling.

Kane had gotten his licks. It’d been a fairly evenly matched fight, right up until Tommy had squirmed his way out from the sweater Kane had been attempting to trap him in and gone full tilt with just shoulder pads for his opponent to try to get leverage with.

His knuckles are split. He can still taste the blood in his mouth. He’s running hot, even now, knee jumping up and down with no conscious effort as he listens to coach try to rally them, but Edmonton had scored almost immediately after Kane had been sent off for chirping a ref after serving his five, and they’re short on momentum, at the moment. It’s been a span of rough days — losing at home to the two-seed in their division, ending the home winning streak. Two new guys slotted into the lineup post-trade deadline who haven’t had the time to build up the chemistry they need. Two back-to-backs with travel time in a week and a half.

They’re tired. They’re annoyed with each other. They keep fumbling the puck in the neutral zone and giving Edmonton the chance to skate it in without challenge. Tommy’d won the fight and it hadn’t rallied shit, and honestly? Tommy’s a little annoyed about that. Kane’s not an easy down, and Tommy’d had him on the ice taking a fist to the gut before stripes had managed to separate them.

This is the point in the game where Tommy cedes his ice time to the skill players — the speedsters, the play-makers, who are all staring at Nash right now like they’re thinking about the mini-bars in their hotel rooms.

Tommy is annoyed.

Nash ends his spiel with five minutes left to go in the intermission and disappears out into the hallway. That’s not abnormal — for all his quiet confidence he’s rarely a hype-man. The problem is right now no one is a fucking hype man.

Tommy shifts his weight, eyes on Diaz as Panikkar mumbles to himself next to him. The ice he’s had on his hand is already too warm to be doing much, and he’s halfway to standing up and spending the next four minutes trying to convince Hen that frozen packs of peas are actually miles better than her gel-packs when he notices one of the new guys shooting him a shifty look.

“Skinner’s taking chances behind the net because he thinks we won’t take advantage of them,” Tommy says, just loud enough to lower the volume of the sporadic chatter. “Hyman’s been nursing his left side all game from the stinger in the first, and they’re leaving gaps in coverage all over the ice. We’ve played this game before. We’ve won this game before.” Two weeks ago, on home ice, with the ability to make the last change and a team fully refreshed after the All-Star break, but Tommy doesn’t feel like that part is necessary to point out. “We’re passing too much, and we’re spinning our wheels for the perfect shot when we should be shooting everything at the net. We’re not gonna get a lucky fucking bounce if we’re all doing geometry on the move trying to find a lane.”

“Great points,” Ravi says, the bratty little tone of his voice betraying him, and Tommy presses his weight down on the bench in an effort not to pick a fight. “Or maybe they’re on three days of rest and a heater.”

Tommy rolls his tongue over his teeth, darts a glance around the room. Three minutes to puck drop, and the room is ready to pack it in. “Anyone else gonna tell me why I wasted a fight on this?” Across the room, Diaz smirks at him, and a few of them shift in their seats. “Or do we wanna put on our big boy pants and play out the next twenty minutes like they mean something?”

As far as rousing speeches go, it’s no St. Crispin’s. But McKinley’s admonished look shifts into that blank-faced zen stare he gets sometimes, right before he runs it up, and the new guys seem to have a bit more energy.

The time ticks down, and they head down the tunnel, and Tommy takes a seat on the bench, fully prepared for his little pep talk to fall on deaf ears.

Buckley shifts closer to Tommy as they all scoot down the bench, three shifts into the third. "McDavid's injured," he says unprompted, and Tommy shoots him a look from behind his visor. "Listen, I know it sounds crazy but he's weak on his left wing right now, and I have a plan."

"You tell Nash this plan?"

"Next time you're out with us, just get to the net."

"Buckley, if I'm out for more than thirty seconds we've already lost this game."

"Just get to the net, Kinard."

Tommy can't help the snotty little salute he sends Buck's way, but three minutes later he's chasing down Ravi, for once grateful that his speed is shit because it means he's never in danger of an offsides call when Panikkar skates the puck in past the blue line. Diaz and Buckley aren't far behind him, so Tommy shoulders his way past two Oilers and plants himself in front of the net.

And then they're passing.

This shits not gonna work. He can feel Skinner behind him, trying to pick out the puck between the bodies blocking his view, and Tommy takes a moment to watch Diaz circling, and Buckley quarterbacking from the top of the zone, Ravi searching out a lane while Buck tosses it back to Landstrom, who returns it to Buck. Near the top of the circles McDavid is skating into the passes and nursing his left side.

Shit.

Buck's right.

Tommy shifts to the other side of the crease. He's got Hyman unknowingly screening the left side of the net, and if Buck can get some separation between Nurse and McDavid --

The puck comes screaming in on Hyman's right, and Tommy shifts his stick, angles it and —

He doesn't even fucking care if it hits Hyman or his stick before it tips into the net over Skinner's shoulder. The crowd noise drops off, and Diaz and Buckley are speeding towards him.

The three of them go slamming into the boards, Diaz and Buckley shouting incomprehensibly, and then Ravi and Landstrom are there too. One of them has a hand on his bucket, shaking his head indiscriminately back and forth, and another one is yelling, and over on the bench, in the sudden deadening of the crowd noise, he can hear Donato and McKinley both celebrating, sticks smacking against the boards.

Tommy’s already halfway to the bench when Diaz and Buckley both have to circle back and send him to the front of their line for glove taps, and as he clambers back over the boards to greet a full barrage of back slaps and bucket-smacks, the refs actually have to come over and warn them to cool it with the celebration.

Buckley settles onto the bench next to him with a bright grin as Nash sends out their second line. “Told you,” he says, the sparkle in his eyes almost cartoonish against the harsh glare of the ice, and before Tommy can think of anything clever to say, he’s turning back to Diaz and the iPad.

---

Tie game, with three minutes left, and the Bobby Blender has somehow worked well enough to give them a chance to win this game. Tommy’s been out for maybe a minute and a half of the last fifteen. He’s feeling pretty fucking good about both the fight, and the dubiously moralizing speech he’d made, when McDavid intercepts a sloppy pass and suddenly has open ice between the blue line and the net.

There’s a certain noise, that happens in an arena, when a particular player has possession of the the puck and speed on his side. A sudden hush, the air being sucked out of the room, before a wild roar taken up by thousands upon thousands of voices, and as Buckley and Diaz chase him down Tommy’s waiting for the inevitable sound of the goal buzzer.

Chim pulls off a stunner of a poke check half a foot outside his crease and while McDavid spins into the turn behind the net, looking about ready to break his stick on the boards, Buckley and Diaz have caught Edmonton in a change — it’s a dumb change, Tommy has no idea why they’d chosen a breakaway as the moment to swap out players, but Diaz has a sheet of free ice to pass it off to McKinley, who is screaming down the ice.

Tommy checks the clock. A minute forty, and McKinley makes a clean break between two Oilers down the stretch, and then he’s free as a fucking bird, ten feet between him and the crease — five, and Skinner miscalculates exactly how many dekes McKinley has in him; the puck slides in five hole and Buckley and Diaz circle up while the entire bench explodes around Tommy.

---

Across the table, Buckley keeps shooting him looks. He’s grown familiar with some of Evan Buckley’s looks, over the past month or so, but he can’t quite parse this one. Before he can raise a brow, tilt his head, try to figure out exactly what the look had all been about, Buck shifts his gaze to Nash, up the table, telling a story about one of his fights when he’d played for the Stingrays.

Next to him, Eddie taps at his shoulder again, phone out to show him yet another comment thread about Tommy’s fight. This one seems to be slightly less horny than the last one, but he’s still not entirely sure he understands why Diaz hops on there so often.

Eddie chuckles when Tommy gets three comments down and rolls his eyes before returning to his food, and across the table, Buck turns to look at them both again. When he catches Tommy looking back, his eyes swivel away.

“No, hold on, listen to this one: Nards could drop me like he dropped Kane tonight and I’d still beg him to —.”

“—Okay,” Tommy interrupts, and Eddie cackles, fingers darting across his phones keyboard like he’s about to do something Josh Russo will absolutely take umbrage with.

“Telling you not to send that reply is just an exercise in futility, isn’t it?”

Eddie raises a brow, lips pursed while he continues to type. He hums. “Josh is gonna be pissed I’m not using my burner account right now. Muy inapropiado.”

Tommy’s not great with Spanish, but it’s not really a stretch to decipher that one. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Buckley leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, a look of consternation on his face, gaze focused intently on whatever story O’Connor is telling now.

“Don’t show it to me. I want to have the ability to claim ignorance.”

“Fine, but I’m tagging you in it.”

“The last thing I posted on there was three years ago.”

“Well, the fan who’s clinging to ‘Nards’ as your nickname is still gonna assume you saw it.” Eddie darts his gaze up with a grin. “Can I call you Cojones?”

“No,” Tommy tells him, but he can feel the lines around his mouth stretching almost to his ears as he shakes his head. “My nonna would rise from her grave to slap my wrist and yell stugotsa before she returned to her slumber.”

Buckley picks at his salad across the table, frown still prominent, and Tommy tries his hardest not to find the pout of his lower lip appealing. He’s not — they’re not — but he’s barely gone a night in his own bed without a phone call from Buck, who’d taken Tommy’s one call to him in the early morning hours before a meaningless exhibition game as blanket permission to spend an hour before sleeping every night talking Tommy’s ear off.

Tommy doesn’t hate it.

(Tommy is very aware that he’s treading a tight rope with too much slack, and can’t get a read on the end-game for the life of him.)

He’s intriguing , is the problem. Beyond the curls in his hair that always appear after twenty minutes tucked under his helmet, beyond the wine-dark splash of his birthmark, beyond the sea-glass gleam of his gaze and the gentle slope of his cheekbones, the frankly ridiculous cut of his Adonis belt and the ass that fills out his dress pants on game days, he is miles more interesting than any man Tommy’s met in years, and he knows plenty of interesting men. He knows more useless trivia than Tommy could fill a book with, and hires chefs to teach him how to make his chickpea pasta, has terrible opinions on Star Wars (according to Christopher Diaz), a codependent relationship with his partner. He’s absolutely obsessed with hockey lore, and on top of that he’s sweet, and kind, and so fucking generous with his time.

Tommy’d watched him spend forty-five minutes with fans in the parking lot outside their practice facility, signing pucks and sweaters and posters, talking to each individual kid like he’d known them for years, taking selfies and talking to parents.

He’d spent that evening under the hood of Diaz’ Chevelle and watching Eddie struggle to make any sense of his son’s homework while slyly derailing the conversation by mentioning Buck, and that night listening to Buck walk him through the history of invasive plants, with twenty minutes reserved for kudzu alone.

Tommy is, in all frankness, a little fucked. He’s well aware, at this point, how heterosexual all of Evan Buckley’s previous romantic entanglements have been, with the help of Christopher, and the fly-by from Eddie to bitch about the latest girl who’d apparently found his brush with death to be the most intriguing thing about him. (He still has the silvery wisp of the scar on his neck from where Kucherov’s blade had nicked him — half an inch to the left, a few millimeters deeper, and Buck would have bled out on the ice in front of eighteen-thousand horrified fans.)

Which isn’t even taking into account how insane Tommy would have to be to throw out twenty years of carefully curated lies about himself to even think about this in anything more than the abstract.

(And Buck is still young — Tommy’s almost out but Buck’s got years ahead of him, in a league so behind the times that Travis Dermott shooting a big fat fuck you to the commissioner by playing with colorful tape on his stick had been seen as an act of ballsy rebellion.)

It doesn’t stop him from thinking about the lingering glances, the flirty head tilts, the tone of Evan Buckley’s voice when he’s teasing.

“...hear her purr, now,” Eddie says beside him, with a smack to the meat of Tommy’s shoulder, and he glances up from his plate to find Buck staring at them both.

“Cool,” Buck says, a moment before he stands, dropping his napkin onto the table. “I’m gonna head to bed.”

Eddie, apparently not catching the tone of his voice, just grins at his friend. “Yeah, you need all the beauty sleep you can get.”

Coming from the man with deep purpling bruises blooming under both eyes, it doesn’t seem to hold much weight, but Buck scowls anyway, a moment before he turns to leave.

---

Tommy tosses and turns for an hour, unable to get comfortable, rolling over their next few opponents in his mind; thinking through the way Buck had looked at him in the moments before he’d walked out of the hotel restaurant; pondering the last thing his therapist had said to him, two weeks ago, when he’d been stuck on something he’d said to his father five years earlier; wincing every time he flexed his hand and was reminded of how sturdy Kane’s jaw was.

He’s contemplating popping one of the pain pills Hen had given him when he finally admits to himself exactly why he’s having trouble sleeping.

His phone has been dark since he passed Eddie’s door on the way to his own.

It’s not abnormal that he doesn’t talk to Buck, after a game on the road. It makes sense, in the context of the last few weeks — they’ve all been a little wired, with so little time between games, so much travel in between. They don’t have another game for three days and all of them should be resting, recuperating. Buckley’s played over twenty-five minutes the last two nights in a row, and less than twenty-four hours before that he’d played almost twenty-eight.

But the gentle hum of Buckley’s voice as it grew tired has become something of a white noise machine to Tommy, and... he’s missing it.

He rambles around his room for ten minutes, tosses a twenty on the desk when he finds the frozen peas he’d asked the concierge for chilling in the freezer of the mini-fridge, fluffs his pillows, contemplates trying to find a shitty rom com on his Netflix account.

When the peas sweat through the hand towel he’d wrapped them in, he tosses them back in the fridge and leaves a note for housekeeping and an extra twenty.

Tommy stares at the ceiling for another ten minutes before he picks up his phone and sends the most cliché text imaginable. You up?

The message glares back at him, mocking him, and Tommy contemplates unsending it while it sits unread for thirty seconds, a minute.

He’s hovering his finger over the message when he gets a read receipt.

A bubble pops up. Disappears.

Three minutes pass, and they appear again, and just as quickly disappear.

He’s just about to plug his phone back into his charger and call it a wash when the text comes through.

Sorry, talking to my sister. Get some sleep, man.

Buck follows it up with a gif of Stanley Hudson passed out in front of his desk, and Tommy takes it for the dismissal it is.

[3416]

Why the Leafs should give Matthews and Marner a chance to play together

by Jonas Siegel | November 19, 2017 | The Athletic

MONTREAL — Auston Matthews and Mitch Marner werewaiting a while for this opportunity.

You could feel it in the excitement of the two youngest Leafs after they not only got to play together for the first time all season on Saturday in Montreal but connect on a couple goals in their team’s sixth straight win.

“Obviously me and Mitchy have a pretty good relationship off the ice – Marty as well,” Matthews said of himself, Marner, and Matt Martin, the third member of a trio Mike Babcock concocted in the second period of a 6-0 win. “Kind of gives you a nice spark when you play with a couple of your buddies that you don’t really get to play with a lot.”

Babcock threw cold water on their excitement pretty quickly. He said he planned to revert back to the line combinations he started with against the Canadiens when the Leafs hosted Matthews’ hometown Coyotes on Monday night.

But maybe the Leafs coach should give it a chance.

Matthews and Marner, for one, seem eager to pursue the connection. Both said they were curious about what it would be like to play with the other having barely done it so far in their young NHL careers. The two were on the ice together for just under 71  5-on-5 minutes last year and just over 11 minutes this year before Saturday night.

Both have also played consistently on separate power-play units.

“Yeah, of course,” Matthews said, when asked if he was intrigued to play with Marner. “We got a little bit of time together last year and never really – we made some plays and had a lot of fun, but I don’t think we ever really scored a goal so it’s nice to get out there with him and obviously create some offence and put some in the net.”

The pair are close. The kind of pals who drove to the rink together all of last season (though not this season with Matthews moving places). The kind who play video games and wear matching throwback suits — complete with fedoras. The kind who famously sang along to Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ On A Prayer” on the bench at about this time last year. The kind who finish pre-game warmups by passing pucks back and forth to one another before exiting the ice in near-unison.

“We’re very close with each other,” Marner said. “It’s exciting when you get out there and get to play with those guys.”

The connection might just work, too.

Marner hadn’t registered a single assist on Matthews’ first 50 goals in the NHL before setting up two (No. 51 and 52) against the Habs. He delivered a bullet backhand pass to set up the first one and added another when the American ripped his 12th of the season past backup Antti Niemi.

“I think when we first got together the chemistry wasn’t really all there,” said Marner, born four months before Matthews in 1997. “But I think in the third period we kind of turned it around and got back to what we wanted to do and got the puck towards the net.”

Though they’ve ripped off their longest win streak since Dec. 2014, it’s not as if the Leafs have been beating down the doors of the opposition, especially when it comes to the offence. They weren’t quite struggling with 15 goals in the previous five games (three on the power play), but they weren’t really electrifying either — especially without Matthews, who was playing his first game since Nov. 6 on Saturday.

“I think what our guys are finding is last year a lot of our games were way looser than this year. The opposition plays way tighter against us; there’s less room and so it’s harder for you,” Babcock said of the offensive grind prior to the game against the Habs.

What also had become evident before Matthews sat out four straight with a mysterious upper-body issue was a diminished connection between himself and William Nylander. Babcock actually broke up the duo in a Nov. 4 loss to St. Louis only to reunite them again two nights later.

Nylander had zero goals and only three assists in his previous eight games with Matthews (Oct. 23 – Nov. 6) and while the 20-year-old, who’s up to 21 points in 17 games, was still producing, he did so almost in spite of Nylander, who finally broke an 11-game goal drought on Thursday.

It’s also worthwhile for the Leafs to see what kind of chemistry exists between Matthews and Marner if only to answer lineup questions — both now and later.

(Photo by Mark Blinch via Getty)

Marner has only ever played with one centre consistently in Toronto and that’s Tyler Bozak, who might well be gone after this season. Since it’s unlikely that the Leafs other 20-year-old teams up with Nazem Kadri in a matchup role, Babcock might as well see what’s there with him and Matthews. The Leafs coach leaves himself only one centre otherwise (Bozak) for Marner to play with.

Then there’s the potential future in which Nylander slides over to centre and plays without Matthews — something that gets easier in theory if another winger finds chemistry with the team’s No. 1 centre.

Constructing a lineup with Matthews and Marner together is a little dicey, but if Babcock is willing to separate Leo Komarov from Kadri (a pairing he’s used almost without exception in recent years for defensive purposes) then something like this might work:

Zach Hyman – Auston Matthews – Mitch Marner

Patrick Marleau – Nazem Kadri – William Nylander

James van Riemsdyk – Tyler Bozak – Connor Brown

Matt Martin – Dominic Moore – Leo Komarov

Both Matthews and Marner are hoping their coach gives it a shot.

“Obviously it’d be nice to stay with him,” Marner said. “We’ll see what happens though.”

*Advanced stats courtesy of Natural Stat Trick

(Feature photo by Minas Panagiotakis/Getty Images)

[acharyaeducare6]

https://www.acharyaeducare.com/enroll-in-cuet-ug-csir-net

[dynamicchemistrypoint]

Excelling in CSIR NET JRF and CUET Chemistry: Best Coaching Centers for Success https://nexxtbillion.com/best-coaching-centres-for-csir-net-jrf/ Coaching centers play a pivotal role in the preparation for competitive exams like CSIR NET JRF and CUET chemistry. They offer structured guidance.

[the-physicality]

.......

this was never going to end well

kori does not have the lines figured out and tbh she should have changed the forward lines prior to this game. [ i think this will solve a lot of things. I'm being correctly pessimistic in this post though]

by the time she bumped grant mentis up, it was too late. because while MGM has chemistry with poulin and stacey, LL probably hasn't played with anyone else. The idea was that they were going to be a triple threat. but see my next point

imo all of the europeans need some adjustment time [this is clear on both sides of the puck. [none of them had more than 13 minutes]

and the scoring issues have not resolved themselves

as you know, one montreal digs itselt into a hole it is very hard to get out, especially with corinne schroeder on the net

new york came out with stronger principles and better top line chemistry

if i had a nickel every time we were on a power play and ard was out of the net in one way or another i'd have a dollar i swear

eng kori strikes again... really could not have thought of a worse move to make, considering how we were playing on the power play earlier this game

not to mention all the penalties we took.....

i think the strategy behind crowding the net for the long shot needs to be reconsidered....obviously you want to block the view of the goal tender but at some point you have to consider that you are also blocking the path of the shot

murphy not in this game was not good.. and we do not know why... kori saying that was a question for danielle is worse

obviously we were flat footed today but new york was also very anticipatory and took far better care of the puck...

we have to think about better tactics for scoring plays.. because the long shots do not have a high enough rate of return

we're taking bad shots... so many bad shots... luckily we're not passing into no-shots as much as last game

and i know that save % in the 90s are good, but this league is too small and too talented for them to be where they are, especially when i Know we allowed 35 shots but our defenders blocks A Lot more of them.

We got 29 shots on them. they got 35 shots on us. you see how that is Bad, from both ends, right?

if you take out the horrendous decision to empty the net on the power play i think there was one shot that was an oopise "she's going to want that one back" but it's still not enough

I Think The Problem Is that Sometime during the playoffs, there were new strategies implemented surrounding shot taking that have permeated to this day. and they are bad strategies. new york got a better coach and now they are a much better team. but maybe this is just like their first game last year- an anomaly. though i don't know that it is. and this is without shelton.

cayla barnes only bright spot of the game thank you cayla

abby murphy you are a montreal victoire

[softeninglooks]

kuroo tetsuro | it's time to dream of serious things

to start off 2025, here’s a love letter to kuroo <3 thank you so much for reading this, may 2025 treat you well and bring you health, joy, and peace 🫶🏻 also on ao3

“it's august, stars are falling from the sky it's time to dream of serious things”

For the longest time, Kuroo never thought about what lay ahead for him. His daily habits, he would carry from month to month, year to year, and the high-set sun froze over the golden riverside and houses, ever shining from summer to winter. As unquestioned as the pathway from his house to Nekoma High, with all of its homes and yards he knew like the back of his hand; as the white spotted cat that brushed against his legs and leapt from fences to cajole neighbors into feeding him crumbs of food. Permanent like his Tokyo underground line, whose map he remembered without a second thought, or the moment when Lev or Tora would jump from their seats and scurry across the carriage, into the wailing doors, because they almost missed their stop.

Of course, sometimes, time was running out along with the rattling of chains underneath his feet, the necessary weight put onto the pedals to ensure that the bike would stay on course, the wind beating between his ears, and the red tie flapping against his unbuttoned collar, on days when morning tiredness muffled the wake-up calls of his alarm. At other times, a new video game so bewitched Kenma that volleyball was tossed aside and forgotten, but Kuroo knew better than to plead and whine. He waited, until a few hours later, all the words that he was denied gushed out of Kenma and the verdict fell: the ending came too soon, or the storyline had been too predictable, but the gameplay had been challenging enough, and the graphics beautiful.

If Kenma had any energy left in him, they would go out and play volleyball until their stomachs growled and their forearms flushed from the impact of tricolor leather on skin. On most days, Kuroo found the door opening on Kenma’s stifled yawn in the morning, the squeaking floor of the volleyball gym in the late afternoon, and walks back home that dragged on into feeding the spotted cat and watching the sun set. The only things on his mind then would be the chemistry exam coming up in two weeks, and most importantly the next practice match they would play against a rival school, how he wanted to reproduce such and such technique he had studied from a taped professional game. He would imagine their team rising up the ranks in tournaments, facing off against Japan’s most revered junior players in the biggest stadium they ever set foot in, and daydream about rebuilding Nekoma’s reputation.

But before looking up at the high, luminous ceiling of the Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium, with the best opponents they could ever wish for fighting back tooth and nail, those fields and lanes in suburban Tokyo were Kuroo’s first contact with volleyball. There, on this long strip of grass by the motorway running overhead, he dragged Kenma to play with him for the first time, a little shyly at first, then open-heartedly, as he gushed about volleyball and pointed out the players he admired to Kenma. The timid Kuroo slowly but surely outgrew his carapace, and lured Kenma into trading his joysticks for a different kind of magic—and becoming a friend. There, many kind hands not only lowered the net for Kuroo, but sent him flying over it.

Kenma and coach Nekomata were the first stepping stones, and then, before he knew it, Kuroo’s wings were pried open by a team that covered his back and broke his falls, and which he watched over in turn as if it were his most prized trophy. They bickered to no end, supported each other through every difficult play and predicament, quizzed each other on formulas in the locker room, laughed until all air was sucked out of their lungs, and dried each other’s acid tears.

Finding matters to disagree over with Yaku came as easily as breathing to Kuroo, but always Nekoma’s libero had his back, his whole body arching forward to save the ball before Kuroo could even move. Kai kept their trio balanced, with his goodhearted ability to speak his mind and reliability on and off court. Tora and Lev’s bottomless ambition and competitiveness—Kuroo expected no less from their hotheaded second-year ace and his tall first-year rival—motivated their teammates to never stay behind, to never rest satisfied with their achievements. Inuoka’s rock-solid enthusiasm and perseverance even during the most challenging of games boosted everyone’s morale, while Yuki’s quiet clear-headedness brought sometimes much-needed discipline to the team. One of Fukunaga’s witty comments and mid-game quips were enough to turn the fanged beasts opposing them into toothless kittens, and have the team take a step back, catching their breaths and smiling. Teshiro’s growing tenacity, a brewing desire to stand on the court with his teammates, play the same volleyball as them, ensured that Nekoma’s blood would be renewed.

And then, Kenma. Kuroo knew Kenma’s workings like the back of his hand. How Kenma preferred watching volleyball to playing it, but how the gears rotated in his brain with impressive speed as soon as an opponent piqued his interest. Kuroo found the right buttons to push Kenma to his best.

Thank you for teaching me volleyball.

Kenma had thanked Kuroo for teaching him volleyball, but it was now Kuroo’s turn to thank him. For Nekoma, the budding petals of their spring were bitten off by a returning winter frost as Karasuno earned the victory that sent them onward to the next step. But for Kuroo, it also brought something that he never thought was possible, a springtime promise. That day, Kenma gave Kuroo a new dream.

He had suspected that Kenma had grown to liking volleyball at least a little bit, but he had never imagined a day when he would see him defying earth and sky to stay up on his feet just a second longer, to beg his muscles to move just a little faster and jump just a little higher, even if all the oxygens had to be sucked out of his lungs and his knees buckle. Kenma’s legs had given in the minute that the whistle blew and the ball hit the floor for the last time, at least the last time for Kuroo.

Then Kenma had looked up at him, and even if they had lost, the weak smile that made its way through sweat and exhaustion on his face told Kuroo that nothing had to end there. For Kenma, it was only a new beginning. And for Kuroo, it was a prize without a medal. Then, he could smile through the tears as Kai and him lifted up a sobbing Yaku and walked off the court toward coach Nekomata. Even if their backs were turned to the net, he was convinced that maybe it would not be the last time after all. If there was one thing Kuroo was sure of, it was that he could never part ways with volleyball.

When he had hit this first successful spike, it did not matter that the net was not at the right height or that his landing threw him off his balance, there were no stakes involved. What Kuroo remembered above all was the exhilarating tingling in the palm of his hand and the loud crash of the ball on the opposite side of the court. It was as if there was no net at all. It got him every time, this renewed sense of purpose, a passion that needed no rationale beyond the instinctual thought that he wanted to hit the ball one more time, just one more time.

From the stands of Tokyo Metropolitan Stadium, Kuroo watched Fukurodani win against Mujinazaka, then Karasuno lose to Kamomedai. Nekoma’s spring was over.

*

“Kenma,” Kuroo blinked at the door opening on Kenma’s observant face. But then, his ever calculating, perceptive eyes made the reason behind his visit plain to Kuroo. “Did you come to check up on me?” He could not retain a chuckle, confident to have put his finger on the root of the matter.

“No, I just…” Kenma’s pupils dilated slightly. “I just have this new game I wanted to check out…” he trailed off, alluding to the box Kuroo could glimpse peeking from the pocket of Kenma’s coat. “It’s multiplayer.”

“What’s that for, then?” Kenma glanced at the volleyball caught between his arm and hip as if he were seeing it for the first time. Kuroo remembered Kenma taking his tablet to Hinata in the midst of the Kamomedai match. “Fine.”

He stopped the playful cross-examination, smiling to himself. It might not be such a bad idea to drag himself out of the lethargic state that the Spring Tournament had left him in, somewhere between catching up on sleep, letting his muscles take all the rest they needed, and dwelling on their performance a hundred times over. That infinite rally against Karasuno pursued Kuroo in his dreams, and he would wake up with sore arms, as if the night had turned into yet another volleyball game and he was just gathering speed to throw himself up in the air, to soar over the net.

He stretched out his arms with a deep inhale. “Let’s play the game.”

They ended up playing volleyball. After beating the video game that Kenma had brought in three hours, post-game side quests included, old habits took them outside, like they would since they were kids, to their spot by the motorway. Soon enough, the ball was flying between them in a mechanical back-and-forth, a soothing rhythm that, surprisingly, took Kuroo’s mind off the game against Karasuno as soon as the leather stung his forearms. At the end of the day, he loved playing volleyball more than anything.

Even if there were only a few weeks left until graduation for the third years, and with it the end to Kuroo’s treasured role as Nekoma’s captain, a deep gut feeling took hold of him while playing with Kenma again. That confidence in the future might be misguided, still he wanted to trust it, to rise on his tiptoes and lower the net for himself. He had understood how to do it now.

“What?” Kuroo caught sight of Kenma’s piercing gaze, looking at him even as the ball bounced back off his arms. “Why are you smiling?”

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“I just thought you’d be more depressed than that.” Another brief smile, the kind which only his teammates from Nekoma would be able to read.

“Of course not!” Kuroo spiked the ball gently, so that the precise shot would reach Kenma again. “We made it quite far into Nationals, haven’t we? We even made it to Nationals in the first place. That’s something to be proud of.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I know.” Kuroo surrendered to Kenma’s imperturbable stare. “I think… I know what I’m gonna do next. Or what I really want to do next. I’m not gonna quit volleyball. I’ll keep playing at university. If I can’t go pro, then I’ll find another way to do volleyball. Someone has to take care of all the rest too, right? There’s more to volleyball than that.”

“I can see you do that.” Kenma nodded, thoughtful. “You can manipulate people into a lot of things.”

“Hey—Is that even supposed to be a compliment…”

“Well, it also works for the better, sometimes,” Kenma laughed as if he himself were surprised. “I wonder how Karasuno will grow.”

“In lots of predictable ways, as usual for those damn crows,” Kuroo barked out with amused eyes. His overhead pass to Kenma flew faster. “I’m looking forward to that game. You better give ‘em hell, after what you did last time. I wonder how you will grow.”

“No, just thinking about it is exhausting.” Kenma had to jump to knock Kuroo’s pass back to him and he landed on his feet with a guttural mutter of protest. “I’m already tired.”

“C’mon!” Kenma’s complaint was drowned out by Kuroo’s booming laughter. “How can we take down Karasuno next year otherwise?”

“…Let’s go home already.”

Kuroo sent another vigorous pass, and, with each hit, another piece of the load that kept him caged since the Spring Tournament tumbled off his shoulders. His feet broke free of the heavy currents that had kept him prisoner, his body shot up of its own accord, straining to reach the ball that came his way. The stone cold grip of the water thawed away into the warmth of a sun up above. Instead of looking down, looking back, Kuroo’s eyes locked on the ball, what was yet to come, instead of the moment already passed. He would always ask for more, anyway.

*

Playful peace sign and teasing smile, Kuroo snuck into the gymnasium as if it were a second home. This year, once more, the Tokyo summer training camp opened its doors to the promising high schools teams of Kanto, with the addition of their guests from the Miyagi prefecture. From the familiar—even nostalgic, for Kuroo—ambient smell of rubber, drumming of squealing shoes, pounding of volleyballs, and shouting from all directions, there was no question that the training camp was in full swing, even late into the afternoon.

Kuroo knew from experience that when you took your first step inside, when the blazing heat and tireless songs of cicadas became all that remained of the outside world, the vibrating walls of the gymnasium and running laps under a blinding blue sky would be your only horizon for the next days. In the space of seconds, Kuroo was transported back onto this court, with the soles of Yaku’s shoes beating a soft, persistent tempo onto the floor, behind his back, and Kenma in the corner of his eye.

Kuroo caught sight of them right next to the door frame, Hinata crouching, always with a volleyball in his hands, while an exhausted Yamaguchi clutched his bottle of water and took relieved deep breaths. Tsukishima, ever unbothered, readjusted his glasses with taped fingers, while Kenma was showing Kageyama the screen of his phone.

“How are my underlings doing?”

“Kuroo-san!” Hinata greeted Kuroo with a surprised grin.

“I came to make sure you’re working hard. Kenma, you’re gonna take us to Nationals this year again, aren’t you? There’s some setter activity over there.”

“Kuroo-san,” Kageyama nodded politely in his direction.

“We’ll play against each other again, this year too!” Hinata followed up resolutely, while Kenma met his friend’s enthusiasm with a part-sigh, part-smile.

“I see you haven’t changed at all, Shrimpy.” Kuroo laughed approvingly. “What about my student?” His attention shifted to Tsukishima, whose impassive air did not change.

“Who are you again?”

Hinata and Kenma burst out laughing, and Yamaguchi choked on air, barely able to contain laughter.

“Tsukki! Is that how you treat your senior? The one who taught you everything?”

“Isn’t that a bit of a stretch, Kuroo-san?”

“I knew you couldn’t forget me, Tsukki.” Kuroo sniggered and discarded his university backpack. “How’s the training camp going?”

“Some diving drills here and there…” Hinata muttered in a much lower voice, triggering another fit of laughter from Kuroo and Kenma.

“Good ol’ Karasuno and their diving drills.”

“What about you, Kuroo-san? What are you doing now? Do you still play volleyball?”

“Of course! We have a university team. And you all better stay in good shape, because someday I’m gonna organize the greatest volleyball game of all time. I got into a sports journalism program, so that’s not the last you’ll be hearing from me.”

“That’s awesome, Kuroo-san!” Hinata’s face brightened up at the news.

“You’re all the same kind…” Tsukishima put his glasses back on, incredulous.

“Ah, don’t you talk, Tsukki. We all know you got quite hooked on volleyball too, didn’t you?” Kuroo cooed mischievously, as he would always do to poke fun at this junior and provoke him into trying harder.

“Don’t compare me to your kind. That would be rude.”

Kenma simply smiled and resumed his conversation with Kageyama. He had the confirmation now that Kuroo would be okay.

He had already suspected it on that day he had dragged him out to play after their defeat against Karasuno, and had seen the same revived spark in Kuroo’s eyes, the same childlike, purposeless, love for all things volleyball. That passion flowed through Kuroo’s veins, from brain to muscles, thick as blood. Much like Kuroo held Nekoma together, in the first place, it was this inexplicable love that held Kuroo together. As long as he had it, Kenma knew that he did not have to worry too much.

*

Some years later, Kuroo would be flying from Japan to Poland, from Argentina to Brazil, in search of the leading players of world-class volleyball. As astounding as it sounded to his colleagues in the Japanese Volleyball Association, most of them he already knew, be they fated rivals turned into real friends, training camp regulars, faces he had glimpsed at the Spring Tournament, and so many other players whose paths he had crossed in the heyday of his high-school career. As much as their already impressive abilities had flourished over the years, as much experience as they had all gained at home and abroad, scattered all over the globe, most of them really had not changed. The same passion-driven faces smiled back at him and overworked hands shook his, it only took a few well-chosen words to convince each of them. When it came to volleyball, Kuroo knew which buttons to push—because they all worked on him, too.

In the scorching Brazilian sun, Kenma’s exhausted, but entertained, smile had encouraged his online audience to watch the game on August 14th, and Hinata had thanked Kuroo for inviting him with that radiant grin, unchanged over the years. He still felt the same exhilaration about being given an opportunity to play volleyball, that much would always stay the same, Kuroo found out. Even as a key player in the Brazilian volleyball league, a part of Hinata still thought of himself as a first year at Karasuno, eager to play, eager to learn, to seize the entire world in the palm of his hand. Kuroo clasped Hinata’s hand, thinking back to the battle at the garbage dump, and could not help but laugh.

Standing in the stands of the Ōta-City Gymnasium, Kuroo felt as Hinata had that day, in Rio. He watched his creation, the All Star match, come to life before his eyes, with all the players he had convinced to come and the waves of excitement that rocked the audience as the ball flew back and forth between the bounds of the 8x19 rectangle of the court. If he had been asked what he wanted to do some years later, he would have replied that he wanted to keep playing volleyball without missing a beat. But as it had already happened to him so many times before, on that same volleyball court he knew from line to line and corner to corner, each play was just a millimeter away from an unpredictable turn.

That unpredictable turn had taken Kuroo in another direction. There he was, watching Japan’s best players face each other at the center of a tide of jersey numbers and last names worn by overjoyed fans, brought together from across seas and continents by that same shared thrill, the sight of a ball that would or would not hit the floor. Something about blood and connecting, Kuroo supposed.

It was his turn to lower the net for others, now.

[ratatatastic]

what does paul have against a-bo???

LITERALLY WHAT IM SAYING???? the problem with paul and something hes been critised for his whole coaching career is that he will always prefer to put in a vet over a young kid, especially vets hes worked with previously because he knows them better and newer kids have to go through trials and tribulations before he decides to start them regularly

it drives me mad because we're in need of a righty d so we can stop playing nate and kuli on their offsides. this isnt to say nate and kuli are bad on their offside theyve been holding down the mantle quite well it just its absolutely baffling that while ekky was out boqy shouldve stepped in (again) and at least run pp1, hes offensive, hes a puck mover and was just starting to gain chemistry with matthew and instead he was sat and put in like 1 back to back game and then tobi got called up.

im not mad at that decision i think tobi deserves to have more time to prove himself up with us but also youre best righthanded defenceman is out.. you decide to call up a lefty??? when boqy is right there??? and you have time to let him play out games and get used to the team (again)??? and you dont do that??? so now quite literally every pair has a lefty???? and you dont give him time to play and now ekkys back so now tobis down again and boqys back to being in jail???

the ideal here is that boqy slides up with mikksy because i think mikksy benefits from someone whos more offensively minded than he is (like monty was) while he hangs back at the blueline but i cant deny that his playstyle this season has really evolved where hes the dman whos jumping up more often in plays and joining rushes and the way he crowds the net is so very helpful and this due in large part to him adapating his play with kuli because last fucking season it was so notable how much the mikksy-kuli pair seemed to be too defensive and we're dragging each other down, and i was glad when monty came back because mikksy does benefit from a player like that. now it seems because of that its actually mikksy filling in the role of the more offensive dman with kuli because they have that chemistry now (not so much nate now because if i took a shot for the amount of times theyve taken each other out in plays because they havent had the time to properly establish their areas i think id be blackout drunk ofc the more time they play w eo the less of a problem that will be but when youre down ekky it looked not as good)

so now we have the conodrum of well the original plan of putting boqy up with mikksy kinda goes out the window because we realise how much the team benefits as a whole when mikksy gets on his horse and becomes a sometimes 5'10 winger, and you cant have two dman that are gonna be doing that... which is why when paul slotted in boqy he always put him with nathan. but that means uvis is out and you really dont want him out because he has great physicality and is also a puckmover so then youd be switching kuli nathan and uvis out which- 2 are vets, 2 have played for paul and-

you see whats happening here

[phanfictioncatalogue]

Sporty Fic Titles Masterlist

Balling in Love (ao3) - ticklishpickle

Summary: Dan and Phil are captains of rival soccer teams, and have hated each other for as long as Dan can remember. However, it starts to seem as if Phil is out to win more than just the game…

Cheerleader (wattpad) - spaceyloser

Summary: Dan is a cheerleader and Phil is a football player. Romance blossoms. As it does.

Fell In Love (With The Roller Derby King) (ao3) - blackorchids

Summary: Dan’s always reluctant to go to these events, but once he gets there, he’s reminded that he’s actually friends with these people. He and Caspar have something in common, even: secretly dating older guys.

Hitting Home Runs - doomedhowell

Summary: Dan’s a baseball player for his school’s team, and Phil is his boyfriend who knows nothing about sports but goes to support him.

Holy Roller (Roll Over Me) (ao3) - cosmogeny

Summary: the 2017 Creator Summit rollerblading extravaganza feat. social anxiety and a real strong desire to skate tandem with your boyfriend.

How To Football (You Tell Me) - phanetixs

Summary: Dan is a football manager and Phil is his bumbling assistant who helps him out in more ways than one.

Kick Off (ao3) - AgingPhangirl (Madophelia)

Summary: Dan used to play football but now he’s stuck coaching a second league team thats in danger of relegation. He’s fallen out of love with the game, his team hates him, and Phil Lester, the coach of their biggest rivals, is the most annoying person he’s ever met.

Luckily life is a game of two halves and things are about to take a turn for the better.

Kings of the Course - phanfictionvevo

Summary: The one where Dan happens to be a famous pro golfer and Phil is his boyfriend.

Rivals and Jeers (ao3) - thesquirrelqueer

Summary: Dan is a cheerleader and Phil is a football player at rival schools. They meet and fall in love, but are ripped apart by their schools’ intense rivalry.

Running Is Fun - jilliancares

Summary: Dan’s on the cross country team and he can’t find out why one of the fastest players keeps running behind him.

Soccer Dads (ao3) - phantropolis

Summary: Dan accompanies Phil to their son’s soccer practice for the first time, only to discover that the soccer mums flirt with a very oblivious Phil in very obvious ways. Featuring jealous!Dan and their son, Jack, who is a surprisingly talented player.

Swimmer Boy - lovebuglester

Summary: A fic about swimming.

The Hockey Game (ao3) - Jinny12912

Summary: Dan and Phil go see a hockey game while touring through Canada. Dan has too much to drink during the game and needs some help from Phil to make it back home before wetting himself.

Varsity Jacket - chocolatesaucelester

Summary: Dan has always been Phil’s close best friend, and that was not going to change now that Phil is the star of the basketball team and one of the most popular and most wanted guys in school.

Volleyball Is for the Boys (ao3) - brookwrites

Summary: Dan’s always felt like a male in a female sport. But when he steps out onto the volleyball court and finds another guy across the net, everything changes just a little bit.

Water Boy - elliesfics

Summary: (tw) Dan’s high school football season is coming to a close. The only thing worse than having his archenemy Phil Lester on the same team is the fact that he can’t even play this season. But that’s just the surface problem… the secret Dan is keeping behind closed doors is only getting harder to deal with and he worries he can’t take very much more.

We Make A Pretty Good Team - phanimist

Summary: after moving to a new city, dan meets phil one day during an excursion to the local soccer field he hopes will calm his nerves. phil urges dan to join the city team, and their chemistry on and off of the field is something that nobody around them can pretend they don’t see.

You’re Stealing My Heart (And Third Base) (ao3) - roryonice

Summary: Phil is on his University’s baseball team, and when his coach tells him he needs to play on his three year anniversary with Dan, he has to get a little bit creative.

[sunskate]

You hit on something that I’ve been thinking about as well - which is that F/G seem to have much more impact with crowds in the building, but it’s not really translating over TV or social media. Being able to get crowds in the arena excited is no small thing and they do have a real skill for it, but a television broadcast flattens that energy and you’re looking much more closely at the skaters themselves. The net result is it kinda cheesy-fies it. This is not an abnormal phenomenon, and I’ve seen it sometimes happen when big broadway shows are broadcast on tv. What works in the theatre doesn’t always look great on a screen. But the consequence is that the judges and audiences think this kind of skating is going viral and being embraced, when it’s just not. I get fed tons of skating content on tiktok. The stuff that goes viral are jumps, teams with blow-you-away chemistry, women free styling to beautiful pop songs, and some stuff from the Euros exhibition (which was FG-style, but frankly much more authentic and fun). I have literally never seen a FG clip go viral beyond the “disco brits” era. It’s just a baffling decision to stake your sport’s direction on a team that hasn’t made a blip in culture and who’s coach goes mega viral every year, years later for a romantic and technically difficult program.

⬆️ i don't see evidence that more Rocky and Gaga type programs will bring in the audiences skating is looking for - so i keep wondering what other factors are behind their rise

i saw FG live twice in their Gaga season, and at the time, Lewis was helping Lilah through turns, they had that push/pull and inconsistent flow that comes when one partner is more the engine than the other. the choreo was very clever but in the RD in particular Lewis had flashy moves to draw attention away from Lilah doing less. you get one sense of their energy watching their upper bodies and a different, slower picture if you watch their feet. the crowd loved the Gaga program, but it left me mostly cold

again, this is all fine, it’s where they were at. i'd feel supportive if their marks reflected their strengths and weaknesses. give them a higher presentation PCS but put their GOE for steps and PCS for skating skills and composition scores where they belong -- those marks are supposed to reflect pattern, ice coverage, glide, blade control, and power, and they generally don't

[jessread-s]

Thanks to Get Red PR and the publisher for providing me with an ARC in exchange for an honest review*

✩🏒🦋Review:

I could not be more grateful to Kennedy for revisiting the Briar Universe with her Campus Diaries series!

“The Graham Effect” follows Gigi Graham, the daughter of the legendary hockey player Garrett Graham, as she tries to make a name for herself by qualifying for the women’s national hockey team. In order to improve her game behind the net, she makes a deal with Luke Ryder, Briar’s new hockey co-captain. In exchange for a few practice sections, Gigi agrees to put in a good word for him with her dad so that he can get the summer coaching spot he so desperately wants. The only snag? The chemistry between them that is impossible to ignore.

If I’m being honest, I don’t normally reach for “next generation” stories. I find that they don’t live up to the stories that paved the way for them and they lack a certain something. All this being said, “The Graham Effect” is THE exception. I found myself loving this book just as much as I loved the Off-Campus series and it’s all thanks to the addictive quality I’ve come to associate with Kennedy’s writing. 

Gigi and Luke are my new favorite couple. Alternating between their perspectives deepened their romantic tension and mutual pining, making my heart race. Most of all, I loved that they could be vulnerable with and push each to be better.

I would be remiss if I did not touch on the cameos made by the characters that started it all! I thoroughly enjoyed catching up with Garrett, Hannah, Logan, Dean, and Jake. Their brief appearances are memorable without taking away from Gigi and Luke’s love story. 

I cannot wait to see which child of this new generation will be the protagonist of book 2!

Cross-posted to: Instagram | Amazon | Goodreads | StoryGraph

[acharyaeducare6]

CSIR NET Coaching in delhi | CSIR Net Coaching in delhi | Acharya Educare

Acharya Educate, Csir net coaching Institute is providing Offline and regular training for ugc net as well as net jrf Coaching in Delhi. Now crack the Csir net entrance with India’s best Csir net coaching institute in delhi