For 30+ Advance/Early chapters :p
atreon.com/ScoldeyJod
The walk from Auerbach Hall to the Franklin Science Center had never felt so long. To Peter, the ten-minute journey across the main campus quad transformed into a slow-motion gauntlet under a thousand invisible spotlights. The source of this newfound scrutiny was warm, firm, and wrapped around his own hand.
Holding Diana's hand in public was a statement. It was a simple, profound act that, in the closed ecosystem of a university campus, was the equivalent of taking out a full-page ad in the student newspaper. And the campus was reading it loud and clear.
Peter's heightened senses, usually a tool for detecting danger, became an instrument of social torture. He could hear the whispers from a group of girls sitting on a bench thirty feet away, their conversation cutting off abruptly as they passed. He didn't need to hear the words; the sudden silence and sharp, incredulous glances were enough. He could feel the stares from the jocks who were lounging on the steps of the library, their usual boisterous laughter dying as their eyes tracked the impossible pairing walking past them.
He was acutely aware of the dissonance they presented. He was Peter Parker: the quiet, nerdy scholarship kid from Queens who was more comfortable behind a camera or a textbook than in a crowd. He kept his head down, did his work, and tried to remain as invisible as possible—a necessity for his other life. Diana Prince, on the other hand, was incapable of being invisible. She was a phenomenon. In the few months she'd been on campus, she had become a legend. The impossibly beautiful, enigmatic transfer student who spoke five languages, aced every class without seeming to try, and possessed a serene, untouchable grace. She was a goddess walking among mortals.
And she was holding his hand.
The gossip was a low-frequency hum all around them. He could practically read the questions in the air. Is that Diana Prince? Who is that guy? Is she with HIM? No way. He's in my physics lab, he's just… some nerd. The sheer, unadulterated disbelief was a palpable force.
"Try to breathe, Peter," Diana said, her voice a low, calm murmur that cut through his internal chaos. She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, her thumb tracing a soothing circle over his knuckles. "Their opinions are like the autumn leaves. They make a great deal of noise when stirred, but they have no real substance."
He risked a glance at her. A faint, amused smile played on her lips, but her gaze was fixed forward. She wasn't just enduring the stares; she was utterly, completely unconcerned by them. It was as if she were a mountain, and the whispers were merely the wind. He tried to draw strength from her calm, to project an aura of nonchalance, but he was fairly certain he just looked like a man being walked to his own execution.
The social crucible of the university cafeteria during the lunch rush was even worse. As they walked in together, carrying their trays, a hush fell over the immediate area, a ripple of silence that spread outwards. Conversations faltered. Heads turned. Peter felt a thousand eyes on them and had the sudden, primal urge to activate his suit's camouflage mode, if only he had one.
They found a small, blessedly isolated table in a corner.
"So," Peter said, pushing some mashed potatoes around his plate with a fork. "This is fun. I feel like a science experiment. 'Observe: the common nerd in an improbable social habitat.'"
"Let them observe," Diana said, calmly cutting into her grilled chicken. "Perhaps they will learn something."
They had just started to eat when a shadow fell over their table. "Well, well, well. Parker," a familiar, condescending voice drawled.
Peter looked up. Flash Thompson stood there, a tray in his hands and a look of absolute, mocking disbelief on his face. He wasn't even looking at Peter; his eyes were fixed on Diana, his jaw practically on the floor.
"Didn't know you had it in you," Flash said, his gaze finally shifting to Peter, a smirk plastered across his face. The subtext was a neon sign: How on earth did a loser like you land a girl like her?
Before Peter could even form a response—which likely would have been a nervous, stammering mess—Diana set her fork and knife down with a soft, deliberate click. She looked up at Flash, not with anger, but with a cool, analytical curiosity, as if she were examining a particularly simple-minded insect.
"You are Peter's acquaintance?" she asked, her voice calm and level, yet carrying an authority that made Flash's smirk falter.
"Uh, yeah. We go way back," Flash stammered, clearly not expecting her to speak to him directly.
"Then you must be aware of his qualities," Diana continued, her gaze unwavering. "His intellect. His integrity. His profound capacity for kindness." She paused, letting the words hang in the air. "A man is not defined by the volume of his voice, but by the content of his character. You would be wise to recognize that."
She picked up her fork and knife again, the movement a clear, final dismissal. The conversation was over. Flash stood there for a moment, his face turning a dull red, completely outmaneuvered. He mumbled something unintelligible and quickly retreated to a table with his friends across the room.
Peter stared at Diana, his mind reeling. He had spent years on the receiving end of Flash's casual bullying. He'd dodged it, ignored it, and occasionally, in his mask, gotten his own back. But he had never seen anyone dismantle Flash so completely, so effortlessly, with just a few, well-chosen words.
"What... how did you do that?" he whispered, a mixture of awe and adoration in his voice.
"I merely stated the truth," she said simply, taking a bite of her chicken. "The truth is often the most effective weapon." She looked at him, her expression softening. "Does it bother you, Peter? What they are saying?"
He looked around the cafeteria. The stares hadn't stopped, but they seemed different now, tinged with a new respect, or at least, confusion. He looked back at Diana, at her calm, confident face, at the unwavering belief in her eyes.
"No," he said, and was surprised to find that it was the truth. "No, it doesn't."
The whispers of mortals, he was beginning to understand, were meaningless. The only voice that mattered was the one sitting across from him, who saw him not as "some nerd," but as a man of many fine qualities. And as he reached across the table and took her hand again, he felt the last of his anxiety melt away, replaced by a quiet, unshakeable confidence. Let them stare. Let them whisper. They were seeing the truth, even if they couldn't possibly comprehend it.
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