unbelievable!

( emma mackey. 22. she/they. demigirl. ) are you a VIGILANTE ? something tells me that pink dip-dyed hair, a well-worn comic book library, a backpack full of ammunition make you who you are, GWEN POOLE. with the powers of MEDIUM INTERACTION, you’re sure to have a spunky, reckless personality — and you definitely belong to UNAFFILIATED. were you listening to BRUTAL by OLIVIA RODRIGO on your way to the subway? it suits you. we can’t wait to see what you do next! ( claire. 23. she/her. gmt. )

nye // all he could remember was bubbly drinks and food that was no match for his microwave dinners. “i just wanna let you know that you’re my world, you’re my rock, you’re my everythin’ and i love you and–” eyes meet another’s who just happens to be nearby and whispers shouts, “it’s my lola.” ned proceeds to walk to said person as he carries on his conversation; now mostly consisting of telling his grandma that he was as sober as a priest. “i am, i’m telling you, i’m, like, so good right now. listen, listen, listen.. hey –” he holds his phone out to the other once got near enough. “tell her, please! tell her that i’m not drunk! she won’t believe meeee ..” he slurs and sighs dejectedly, a juvenile pout present on his face. // @reshieldedstart​

The dude on the phone is... what? A bit player at best? One of Spider-Man’s squad, right? There’s a whole clown car of them, depending on what year you’re looking at and who’s writing. Gwen’s pretty sure this kid’s one of the newer additions. But damn if he isn’t in love with whoever’s on the other side of that phone. She’s not up to date enough with his arc to know who “his Lola” is, but calling her “his” Lola is fucking cute. That’s true love right there, baby. They’re, like, 80% sure they could have that with Thor, if they could just find that hunk of fine Agardian ass. He had to be somewhere in this room, right? By oysters, maybe?

Gwen is, admittedly, not much less drunk than phone guy, but is also very aware that they are only as drunk as they are writing themselves to be, and are therefore maybe not drunk at all, actually, because that’s a plot hole they can run with. Right? Yeah. Makes sense. Drunk sense. With a nod, she grabs the phone and, before Lola can talk, says, “Hi, miss, your boyfriend’s fine. He’s totally sober. Stone-cold, a-okay. You’re a lucky lady--”

This was the kind of event that only occurred in comic books: every hero, villain, and henchman in the city in one space, improbably fitting in the same room, gorging themselves on canapés and expensive wine. There was still room for a crowd of extras and background characters, equally well-dressed, a little less well-rendered. They looked sketchier at the edges, but the sight of Dr. Strange in a tuxedo? The Young Avengers in fancy suits? Beyond worth it. Gwen was happily double-fisting champagne and crab cakes, trying to get an eye on the good gossip. Who was dating whom? What was being stolen--who was having a fistfight out on the terrace?

Good shit, all of it.