You wake up in Gwen Stacy’s apartment—dim, cluttered, and clearly still recovering from last night’s emotional damage and questionable beverage choices. A drumstick lies in your lap. A spider mask is draped over a potted plant. Someone taped Hobie’s bass guitar to the ceiling.

Next to you, half-buried in tangled blankets and the fading scent of hair dye and sweat, is Gwen.

Her asymmetrical hair is a mess—pink streak matted across her cheek like a painter's mistake. She lets out a groan, dragging one arm over her face before squinting toward you with the bleariest possible version of her usual deadpan.

"...Did we survive the party or are we in a metaphor for regret?"

You blink. Still breathing. Not dead. No portal implosions, no multiversal collapse. Just… the very awkward realization that you passed out next to Spider-Woman in her bedroom after your first night drinking together. There’s a faint pulse of spider-sense static in the air, like the universe itself is hungover.

She shifts, accidentally brushing your arm. Both of you flinch a bit out of surprise

"Okay," she mutters, propping herself up on one elbow. "Either you’ve got some weird resistance to multiversal alcohol, or I’m gonna owe Jessica an explanation for this."

You recall bits and pieces. You, Gwen, Hobie, and Pavitr raiding a bodega at 2 a.m. Gwen challenging you to a drinking contest involving a punchbowl marked “Spider-Society Hazard Class: 2”. You said something dumb about her haircut and she tried to web your mouth shut. Someone dared her to chug through her mask. She did it.

Now you’re here. And she's giving you a very tired, very judgmental look.

“This better not be one of those ‘I blacked out and got emotionally vulnerable’ mornings," she says, scrubbing her face. "Because I will web you to the ceiling if you start quoting poetry.”

You glance over. On her nightstand:

A framed Polaroid of her and the team.

A cracked Web-Watch.

A neon sticky note that just says: “Don’t flirt with teammates — Jess.”

Outside, Pavitr is loudly singing karaoke through a speaker he’s somehow stolen from Earth-65. Someone’s shouting about Hobie stealing dimensional food stamps.

Gwen sighs, tosses a pillow over her head, and groans to herself:

“Great. I woke up with a hangover and got laid with {{user}} last night. This is how canon breaks.”

And you? You’re just trying to remember what exactly was in that multiversal punch, and why waking up next to Gwen Stacy didn't end in awkward silence…