#♱ y'all got me out of bed for these

[jk66m]

𝐀 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐀𝐋 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐒₊˚❀₊˚.

— 𝐒𝐩𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬

How the men of the Spiderverse ask you to be their date for prom. Based on this request.

paring: Hobie Brown × Fem!Reader, Spider Noir (he's 19 y'all) × Fem!Reader, Miles Morales (earth 1610) × Fem!Reader

genre: Fluffy drabbles & headcanons, SFW

notes: For this headcannon I will mainly focus on teens and younger characters as they are closer to the age range for prom.

*ೃ༄ 𝐒𝐩𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐍𝐨𝐢𝐫

Noir is old fashioned, so he will definitely be the type to pull out a bouquet of roses, a romantic letter, and maybe even a box of chocolate for his promposal. He will ask you directly as he thinks it shows his sincerity and love for you more (and he also thinks that it is not proper to ask someone indirectly for an event as grand as this).

"Ah thank you for escorting me home tonight Peter," you said sweetly as you walked the final steps of the staircase to your apartment complex.

Peter nodded, silently trailing behind you. It is midnight, a dangerous time for young high school girls such as yourself to roam around the streets (albeit you are eighteen and an official adult, he does not trust men).

"So, I will just go in now," you pointed towards the door, "I will see you next weekend."

"Wait," he suddenly stops you.

Peter pulls out from his coat pocket an envelope and from behind his back a bouquet of fresh red roses.

"Would you be my date?"

You gasp. "Why of course Peter!"

You jump into his strong arms and he swings you around.

Once you are put on the floor again, you peck him on the lips to which he responds passionately, gnawing your tender flesh and hands all over your body.

His touches are ticklish. Your sounds of laughter resonates through the building, and Peter chuckles along with you.

You suddenly stop, seemingly realizing something.

"Wait, how did I not notice you got a whole bouquet of roses right behind you?"

Peter looks away.

"Um... that does not matter."

♱‧₊˚ 𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢𝐞 𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧

Hobie would ask you out in confidence and style. He will plan a surprise for you for his promposal, and it will be extremely prepared and ready. He is not exactly the lovey-dovey type but he has a way with words and that pulls you in.

"Oh what is this?" You asked yourself as you entered your apartment.

The space is decorated strings strings of lights in the ceilings and a path of scattered rose petals leading to the kitchen — all obviously the works of your boyfriend Hobie.

"Hmm..?”

You follow the path into the room to a wall with a blue note taped to it.

"Go to the study room," you read, "Oh," You notice something.

Below the note on the desktop you see a small box wrapped in patterned paper. You quickly open it.

In it, contains a brand new copy of the ring that you had lost on your first date with Hobie. You had told him it is an important item left by your mother, you did not expect him to actually remember it.

"Oh my god."

The heartfelt present roused your interest for what would come next, and you quickly follow the clue and goes into the study room.

You arrive in front of your office table and sees a yellow note taped to it with a red box placed beside it.

You open it, and pick up a phone decorated in stylish stickers.

Examining the work more closely, you take notice of the additional buttons and pieces cleverly induced into it, probably made for applications of sorts that normal phones could not achieve.

Chest filled with happiness, you grab the note and reads out the next clue.

"Go to the bedroom."

You do so contently.

On your bed scatters a variety of bags and boxes of snacks that you love. Against the headboards sits a cardboard sign with words written in colored marker: ___ would you go to prom with me?

A large cut-out arrow below the text points towards the balcony, and you scream as you noticed who is there.

Hobie, dressed in posh couture, stood cross-legged leaning against the railings. He has a bouquet of flowers in his hand, seemingly freshly picked.

"Since when did you get in here?"

You went to hug him, and he pulls you closer for a peck on the forehead.

"Not too long ago."

"You surprised me."

"I know."

He kisses you again on the lips this time, passionately.

"So what's the answer huh?" He murmured against you, "I prepared so much for this."

"It's a yes, obviously."

“…Hmm I want to celebrate this, with something more physical."

You give him a look, and he stares at you right back mischievously.

"Come on, is your acceptance not worth celebrating?”

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬

Miles would be so adorable when asking you out, like he will be dressed up in his best shirts and kicks, and would definitely be the type to be nervously knocking on your door. He thought about asking you on text before because he knows he will probably be super nervous, but he feel like that will show that he is not sincere, so he asked you in person instead. He's awkward, but in a cute way where you just could not reject him.

Maybe he should go. Maybe he should head back, lay back onto the comfort of his bed, and just take his time to make a well-written text message to ask you out.

But he is already at the steps of your door. He has flowers and gifts. And he knows you would not be satisfied with just a text. (who would?)

He rings the bell once more.

Miles only realizes how heartdropping it is to ask someone to prom just now. His heart is thumping, his belly is flipping, and despite years of athletic building as Spider-Man, his legs felt like two wobbly sticks of clumpy jello.

The door opens. His breath stops.

"Who are you?"

A man appears in the doorway, looking at him up and down.

"Um, I am here for ___,” Miles reports.

The man nods and turns back and calls out your name.

You quickly run down the staircase and meets Miles on the steps.

"Would you like to go to prom with me?"

He hands you the flowers and the card and the chocolates.

You look at him in a daze.

"I-um of course."

You watch the edges of Miles's lips slowly grow upwards.

"Nice."

[proditorious]

✂ ( eye emoji )

Send me ‘✂’ and my muse will kill yours // accepting !

      ‘ You fool. ‘ Black winged soft and full of something Valefor cannot hope to untangle. Foreign in his palatial bones, against the dark marble it burns with a spark. You should’ve known better, he wants to add, spitefully with all the venom his body can muster. Inject it deep into his cambion body and make him understand the depths, the gravity of this situation, decomposing between them.

     ‘ You were their last best hope. ‘ humanity is lost without you, he doesn’t say, doesn’t articulate all the other souls within this world who will be lost, without this red cloaked champion. For they will be lost, like lonely lights in the winter gloam. Lingering souls caught between worlds, unable to pass between. Silence reigns for once, and Val shoulders it like atlas. Refusing to let it break against its own weight.

     Dante’s hair is a shade of pink he associates with spring roses, ones he glimpsed an age ago, when he last held curiosities towards the mortal plane. Before the road was sealed to him. He scarcely remembers them, on further reflection, but he imagines them to be like this. Dante’s lips stained red and black, a virulent mix of them both. The rest of him is no better, a war banner of two opposing factions stitched together haphazardly.

     Rebellion had kissed his chest twice, nipped his arms and legs a dozen more. Biting her vicious intent in a vivid, blackened x across his serpentine scales. His softened skin no match for dark-forged steel. Humanities steel has never been a match for his splendor, but the insidious metals of his home have always struck true. He cannot shrug them off, not like this. Bleeding black like some poetic scripture lost to the annals of time, forgotten in some insidious tome. Yet it is Dante who staggers and falls in the end, felled by one decisive swing of his reaping intent.

     Clawed hands catch Dante’s face between deceptively soft leather pads, as knees give out under the immensity of blood loss and adrenalines costly price, the demon within having faded long ago, leaving Dante’s mortal trappings to Valefor’s cruel judgement.

     It’s at odds with the cataclysmic scene before them. If the devil had given him feathers instead of scales, he may have looked like a graveyard angel. Here to escort this champion to a rest so richly deserved. Obsidian talons brush against a chiseled jawline in tender violence, whispering malice and promises of oblivion with a single flick of a gold clad wrist. Their weapons are crossed beside them, the glint of his scythe flashing against Rebellion’s queenly regalia. Piercing the earth like a warrior’s last stand, a headstone awaiting its charge.

      He supposes it is a warrior’s last stand, but there are no valkyries for Dante. There is only Valefor, who has no tears to spare. No holy funeral rites and no gilded promises. His azure eyes are cold, guarded things. Sapphire’s lost in lich forged ice. Impenetrable. 

     ‘ You absolute fool. ‘ This time it’s soft, a feather retort to the wry grin marking Dante’s face. Val could let him suffer, he considers it. It is in his nature to be unkind, unfeeling, unsympathetic. He has been the rise and ruin of his family, he’s devoured thousands for less. A kinslayer has little honor, a demonic one falls lower. Valefor could, with patience befitting the timeless oceans, watch Dante wither and fade. But he does not deserve that unkindness, something traitorous decides, with a finality made to stagger gods.

     An angel of mercy he is not, but he leans all the same, presses his cool forehead against the rosen white strands atop Dante’s and whispers his mercies into him. Enacting the burial rites of his ancient kin, to give Dante the death he deserves. Quick and painless, to save him from vultures who would come to pick at his bones and take him for talismans. He whispers until he’s naught but crumbling ash between his fingers, then he’s gone too, a dark shade on the horizon with Rebellion between his teeth.