I Look Forward To Your New Piece!! Will It Be A Peter Maximoff One?

out of interest if peter maximoff had full control of what he named his son, what do you think he'd pick

reblog this if you’re a fanfic writer & your motivation to write actually increases when readers actually show interest & give you feedback. even just a reblog or a little comment here and there

I really hope I’m not overwhelming you but I think it’s got a cute opportunity. “Can I do your hair?” with Peter?

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: peter maximoff x reader 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓: “can i do your hair?” 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 940 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: 18+, fluff, peter and reader are early to mid twenties, british reader 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: y/n is known by the mutant name “scribe” and is charles xavier’s niece.

Sometimes, you think it’d be easier if you were bald. Like Charles.

Your hair is a great source of irritation when it doesn’t go the way you plan. Truthfully, you know very little about hair: you know how to make sleeping in rollers somewhat bearable and you know how to Dutch braid it, but that’s about it. You thought it would be fun to try something new today, something glamorous like the models in the magazines, but it’s not going well at all. Is it the hairdryer? Is it the brush you’re using? Is it the way you’re twisting your hand? You don’t know, and it’s driving you insane.

“Bloody hell,” you grumble, one hand wrapped around the handle of the round brush while you position the hairdryer at the right spot again. “How hard is it to make a curl?”

Peter, laid back on your bed in his leathers and band tee, asks, “Why don’t you—”

The hairdryer whirrs to life again, a loud, obnoxious sound that’s getting on your nerves by now. You can’t hear him over the noise of it. “Huh?”

You squint at him across the room; all that lies between your full length mirror and your bed, pressed against the wall, is the trunk you brought with you to school. Peter has been watching you try to do this for a while now, your frustrations rising, and you’ve only got fifteen minutes left until you’re due to hang out with Jean, Scott, Kurt and Jubilee.

The speedster shakes his head dismissively. He turns to the side and watches you twist the brush in your hand, leave the hairdryer to heat it up, and then when you pull it away—

Limp. It’s flat and downright awful, and your face is going red at the sight of it.

Your fingers clench in irritation as you set the brush down. Peter’s laugh rings out across the room to you. It’s a sound that usually sparks amusement, but right now it sparks vexation.

“It’s not funny!” You fire back at him, frustration evident in your tone.

Peter, however, thinks otherwise. “It’s pretty funny. You’ll laugh about it in a few days’ time.”

You growl in frustration. “Not if I can’t do this bloody hairstyle,” you respond. You throw your hands in the air and bring one to tug at your hair, as if to prove your point. “I might say to hell with it and get a perm.”

Peter’s laugh is filled with amusement, louder than before, as he stands from the bed. “Wanda did that and she came out looking like a grandma. Wouldn’t recommend it.”

You jut your chin upwards defensively. “It’s in fashion right now. It’s the 80’s.”

“It definitely didn’t look in fashion on my sister. I teased her about it for weeks.”

You shake your head. You turn to look back at yourself in the mirror, sighing. “What would you recommend, huh? Hair Stylist Maximoff?”

Peter’s brows rise as he takes a few slow steps across the room towards you. “Can I do your hair?”

You frown at him. Your mother used to try to help you when you got like this, except she’d never be able to do it either and you’d just both end up frustrated. You turn back to him, suddenly feeling a little defeated, and sigh at your reflection in the mirror. “What do you know about hair?”

Peter appears behind you at superspeed and places his hands on your shoulders. “You think I go to the little old lady salon and walk in and ask for silver hair? Please. I do this crap myself.”

Peter reaches up to run his fingers through your hair, and you close your eyes at the feeling. His touch is comforting. Teasingly, you ask, “Do you curl it too?”

You open your eyes to see Peter shrug. “Nah,” he answers softly. His gaze follows his fingers as they rake gently through your hair. “But Wanda asks me to get the back for her sometimes.”

You raise your brows. “Really?”

Peter nods. “Dinner on me if I screw it up?”

Your lips quirk up in a small smile. “Deal.”

Peter grins at you, and then in a flash, he’s speeding around the room. You can’t see what he grabs, but you know the rough location of everything he might be grabbing—hairspray, the brush, the hairdryer…

And when he’s done, you’re choking from the amount of hairspray lingering around you. Genuinely choking. Your throat feels like it might give up from the fumes, but when you’ve finally stopped, when your eyes stop watering enough to see—

“Oh my god.”

You look good. Exactly like the models in the magazines. Your curls are voluminous, bouncy, and it compliments the natural makeup on your face almost as if you woke up looking like this. You can’t help but gape at the sight of yourself in the mirror, and you catch the sight of Peter’s grinning mouth as he watches the recognition flash in your eyes.

“Peter,” you breathe, “never mind the X-Men. You need to get a job in a salon.”

Peter laughs. “Personal stylist for the X-Men? I’ve got some good ideas for what I’d like to do to Scott.”

You let out a laugh, your fingers twisting through the ends of your hair. Oh, it’s perfect. “Personal stylist for me, at the very least.”

Peter grins, leaning forward to press a kiss to your cheek. “Glad you like it, Y/N.”

“Like it? I love it.”

“Good. Now can we please get going?” Peter begs, giving your shoulders a squeeze. “If I don’t get food soon I think I’ll combust.”

Scott: how long are we going to stand here and let him do that??

Jean: just give him a minute

Peter: *pushing a door that clearly says pull*

Are you going to write anything other then the scribe reader? IS it a series

do you mean reader x other characters or peter x reader that isn't scribe? scribe will always feature in my peter x reader fics as that's the oc i've built up. i have a non ship related thing in the drafts including scott summers though. if you send in reader x other character requests i may do those if i have the inspo!

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍: peter maximoff ( x-men ) 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: peter maximoff x reader

peter maximoff is the sober friend at parties.

he doesn't like to drink because it slows him down too much. scribe is introverted so she'll hardly drink without a reason to, but when it comes to social gatherings, she won't hesitate to have a few glasses of wine. she loses all sense of self doubt and becomes exceptionally confident, which means that she won't hesitate to fight anyone who tests her or her friends—and this is, of course, something which peter doesn't particularly want her to do.

in fact, most of a night in which scribe and the x-men are drinking would likely consist of peter being the 'sober friend', i.e. making sure his friends don't get hurt; that they don't make dumb decisions; that scribe doesn't either embarrass herself or injure herself or try to fight a dog that's looking at her weirdly, of all things; that scott doesn't impulsively take his glasses of with the promise of no, guys, look, i can control it, see look, and then he can't control it and he sears another tree in half.

peter doesn't mind being the sober friend, either. he gets to see kurt, beaming and purple-cheeked, as he teaches all their friends german words and phrases (albeit while slurring his words); he gets to see jean actually let loose; he gets to see jubilee come out of her shell; he gets to spend time with his friends; take care of his girl; make sure no creeps are picking on her at the bar...

oh, and seeing scott summers drunk? remembering scott summer drunk? being able to use that as blackmail and tease him about it the next day—or, realistically, for the rest of the week?

worth it. worth it every time.

X-Men: Apocalypse

I know you think you’ve lost everything. But you haven’t. You have me. You have Charles. You have more family than you know. You never had the chance to save your family before. But you do now. That’s what I’ve come here to tell you. And you?

𝐓𝐈𝐀'𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

peter maximoff x reader oneshots

peter maximoff headcanons

peter x reader oneshots in reading order tba below (once i write more)

about scribe (y/n)

peter x reader ask prompts

scribe ask prompts

peter x reader headcanons

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: peter maximoff x reader 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: you can’t sleep and neither can peter, but at least you both know exactly how to comfort one another. 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 2.4k 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: 18+, fluff, peter and reader are early to mid twenties, british reader 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: y/n is known by the mutant name “scribe” and is charles xavier’s niece.

It’s eleven-thirty, and you can’t sleep.

Your thoughts shift to your lessons in the morning; to how tired you’re going to be; to that iced coffee you’d had while getting your assignment done after class; about how that drink was definitely a bad idea considering how you’re lying awake now. It had tasted good then, and it had given you the energy you needed to fire out five thousand words in the span of a few hours… but now you regret it.

Sighing, you roll over. Your eyes glaze over the objects on the nightstand beside your bed. Your alarm clock, rectangular in size and wooden in material, glares at you. Eleven thirty six. Eleven thirty seven. The time seems to spiral, and you realise that you might as well do something with yourself if you’re awake.

You eye the books stacked on top of the alarm clock; you’d been reading one before and it had bored you half to death, so you can’t bring yourself to pick up any again. What else? What else?

Your gaze settles upon the picture frame on the dresser next to your nightstand, and you let out a sigh as you settle upon the silver-haired speedster within it. You’re next to him, a mere blur since he’d sneakily taken the camera from your hand and taken a picture with an expression that radiates cheekiness, but you’d liked the picture enough to keep it.

You’ve got a few more picture frames scattered around your room—photos of you with Scott, Jean, Jubilee and Kurt. Even some of Charles. You might not be close, but he is your uncle, after all. He’s still family.

And yet it’s Peter you keep your eyes on. It’s Peter's mischievous aura which calls to you across the room.

What would he be doing right now? He’s probably playing video games or practicing on one of his guitars. You’d been surprised to see him play well; you’d been surprised to see that he actually had the attention span it takes to successfully learn an instrument. You would know: your mother used to nag you about practicing the piano to perfection. Practice makes perfect, she’d always said, and yet she’d always left out how much energy it took to practice in the first place.

Is it too late to reach out to him? The two of you have a specific way of speaking to one another across distances by now, although even the thought of doing such a thing due to the time seems rude. Your mother had always told you that it was your duty to be polite, and your father had by example. You think you picked it up from him rather than her, but—

Don’t think of him right now. Don’t think of what happened. Don’t.

As if in an effort to push the memory of that night from your head, you move. You pull the drawer attached to your nightstand open to reveal a mess of junk inside, but what you need—and what you spy—is a pen and paper. You pull it from the drawer and slam the nightstand drawer shut quietly, and after, you get to work writing:

Are you up? Can I come over?

Your fingers buzz with azure energy as you feel your mutation working in your favour. A tiny portal of blue opens before you, one you could make larger if you wished but one which you keep small for now. It’s no larger than a letterbox would be, and the faint sound of music from the other side tells you that Peter is very much awake.

You slip the note through the portal, and then you leave it open as you wait.

When you receive no response for a solid fifteen seconds but can hear movement on the other side, you wonder if this was a mistake after all. It’s too late, you scold yourself, mentally preparing for rejection. Oh, god, this is going to be awkward. What if he—

An empty Twinkie box falls at your feet.

You blink at it, momentarily confused, and then you pick it up. You glance about the dessert’s display as you begin to turn the box over in your hands. Nothing on the front, but on the back—

Scrawled in pink glitter pen—probably his sister’s—, the box reads on the back: Yeah. Come through.

You grin lazily as you set the box down on your bed and extend the portal with your fingers like you’re prying open a heavy door. The orange light from Peter’s basement slips through and becomes one with the light of your dorm, which is yellow and warm with your room’s wooden accented walls and flooring. And as you slip through the portal and your bare feet touch the soft tartan carpet of his room, you let the portal shut with a soft shum behind you—

But Peter Maximoff does not look his best. In fact, he looks downright miserable.

His eyes are red as if he’s been crying, his hair is messy—messier than usual, at least—and he’s wearing a band tee and some tartan pajama bottoms that look intended for comfort rather than style. You were about to say hey, but you stop in your tracks. You tilt your head as you look at him.

Peter is still. It’s strange, especially since he’s usually so eccentric. He blurts out, “What?”

You frown, momentarily stuck for what to say. “Nothing,” you respond, but it doesn’t seem right.

Peter stares at you. You stare at him. You’re both quite similar, so it strikes you then that you both know that you’re each not telling each other something.

“You okay?” You ask, suspicion clear in your tone.

Peter shrugs nonchalantly. It’s a rigid movement. “Yeah,” he says, far too confidently to be true. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

You narrow your eyes on him. His tone of voice has all but solidified your suspicions. “Okay, first of all,” you say, crossing the small space of the room between you and the sofa, “you use a very distinctive tone when you lie.” You settle down on the sofa as you cross your legs under you. “Second, your eyes are really red. Have you been—?”

“No.”

Crying, you were about to ask, but he cut you off. You narrow your eyes again.

Peter sighs and averts his gaze, running a hand through his hair. “Tonight’s just… not a good night.”

You press your lips together as sympathy wells in your eyes. “Why not?”

“Can’t sleep.”

“That makes two of us."

Peter inhales deeply, and before you know it, he’s sitting on the sofa next to you. You’re used to how fast he moves by now. Something warms your heart in the way he sits with his body angled towards you. Like he’s opening himself up to you.

“Wanna stay here tonight?” He asks.

You glance at the other end of the sofa and then back to him. You’re reminded of how he took the sofa to sleep on that night after you guys got caught in the rain. “Here?”

Peter’s brows rise. “Is my basement not fancy enough for you?”

You know he’s joking even despite the lack of humour in his tone, and you let out a small huff of laughter as you flash him a lazy smile. You sit back on the sofa, reaching out your hand to intertwine it with his. Things between you are still blooming after your first date, but you both feel comfortable enough to do this. Peter’s fingers wrap around yours as he starts drawing patterns on the back of your hand with his free one.

“I just mean,” you murmur, just loud enough to be heard over the backdrop of quiet music, “won’t your mom mind?”

“She didn’t mind when you stayed over last time.”

Your lips quirk upwards in gentle amusement. “That time you slept on the couch. This time I was thinking, I mean, if you want to, then maybe—”

“Oh,” Peter murmurs. His head lifts upwards in a sort of understanding motion. “Yeah, I mean… ah, I can deal with whatever safe sex talk she wants to give me in the morning.”

Your cheeks flush red. “I didn’t mean that. I just meant maybe we could…” Oh, god, embarrassment— “cuddle.”

Peter grins. “Cuddle, huh?” He pauses, until— “Okay,” he murmurs, reaching an arm around the back of the couch to wrap around you. “I guess I could be down for cuddling.”

You snicker softly as you lean into his touch, your head resting against his shoulder. “Do you want to tell me why you looked so upset when I arrived?”

Peter tenses. “It wasn’t because of you, if that’s what you were thinking.”

“Mm,” you murmur, “I think I’m confident enough in our relationship to know that your reaction when seeing me is generally excitement rather than the dread that accompanies sad under eyes and red markings around them.”

He pauses for a few seconds before he lets out a long breath of defeat. “That obvious, huh?”

“Mm,” you murmur, looking up at him. “A little.”

His lips twist to the side as he lowers his gaze. “I was thinking about my dad.”

It’s your turn to pause now, looking up at him in a way you didn’t before. You assess every detail of his body again: the way his shoulders slump, the way his head hangs low, the way his hair falls in the way of his view and his eyes are heavy with something you haven’t seen in him before. He’s usually so full of life.

Is this what he’s hiding deep down?

“Tell me about it,” you say softly.

Peter grimaces. “It’s a long story, and the stupid thing is it’s mostly my fault.”

Frowning, you sit up and face him. “I don’t believe that.”

Peter lets out a humourless laugh that might be bitter if he showed a hint of anger, but he doesn’t. “It’s true. The only time I’ve ever been too slow and it’s in finding the most…”

He trails off, pulling his arm away from around you so that they both now rest in his lap. He continues, “It’s a mess.”

“Start from the beginning."

So he explains, if not vaguely: about trying to find his father, about finding a house empty and police arriving on the scene. Peter had fled at the sight of them, and—

“His name’s Magneto,” he admits. “Erik Lehnsherr. You’ve probably… seen him on TV or something."

Suddenly, it all adds up. You weren’t at school to see what happened with Apocalypse, but you’ve heard about it from your friend group. Peter doesn’t talk about it very much, and now you know why; had he been part of that whole adventure because of his father? He hadn’t been involved with Xavier’s School before, that much you know.

You suck in a breath. Okay, Y/N, push the fact that his dad’s a known terrorist aside— “Does he know?”

Peter shakes his head. “Nah. I had the chance to tell him and I didn’t. I screwed it up. And now I’m right back where I was before all of it, because I have no clue where he is and no way of telling him the truth. I couldn’t even do it for Wanda.”

“Hey,” you murmur, your fingers moving to cup his cheeks. “Fight or flight, right? It’s normal. To see him right in front of you—to have to muster up the courage to tell him? Knowing what a change that would be for you? Peter, that’s normal.”

Peter’s eyes well with softness as he listens to you, gazes upon you, and you think you’ve never seen him look so vulnerable as he lowers his head to your shoulder. He takes in a shaky breath; wraps his arms around you; pulls you into his lap—

“Thanks,” he murmurs into your shirt. It’s not his shirt this time; you’re wearing a pyjama set that consists of blue silk shorts and a top. “Not sure I believe you, but thanks, Y/N.”

“Is there anything I can do to make you believe me?”

Peter takes a deep breath. “Aside from mind control? Not sure.”

You press your lips together and begin to stroke his hair. “To be honest,” you murmur, “I’m not sure I’d believe you if you tried to tell me something similar about my father, either.”

Peter lets out a choked laugh. “Maybe that’s why we work together.”

Your lips curve upwards, still stroking his hair. His face is still buried in your shoulder. “Maybe,” you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to his head.

Peter shifts so that he’s leaning against the back of the sofa and you’re in his lap again. You turn so that you’re straddling his waist, but your fingers find his jaw to cup the skin there. Your thumb brushes soothingly against his skin.

“You mean a lot to me,” Peter murmurs, staring up at you. It’s almost as if the music in the room has stopped; it’s almost as if the two of you are the only souls left in existence. His brows are slightly raised and there is awe in his voice as he says, “I don’t really believe you’re real half the time.”

You let out a soft laugh. “Definitely real, Peter. Definitely here.”

“Yeah,” he says, his tone riddled with amusement, “and here of all places. You could be anywhere. You’re like, perfect and—”

“Ssh,” you murmur, pressing a finger to his lips. “I don’t want to be anywhere but here with you.”

Peter tilts his head up towards you, a silent request for consent, and you kiss him in answer.

He wraps his arms around your waist as he deepens the kiss, your tongue slipping out to meet his own. He makes a low, guttural noise between pleasure and content at the feeling of it, and your free hand clutches at his shirt as your other hand remains at his jaw.

You spend the rest of the evening like that, whether it's on the sofa or in his bed, but in those moments together there’s nothing carnal about it. Your touches are soft and comforting rather than lustful and yearning, and as much as you’ve thought about him that way before, you know that now’s not the time.

Tonight, you both need this. Tonight, your sole purpose is to be there for one another.

“And for the record,” Peter murmurs between kisses, his words random and uncalculated, “I think your tragic backstory’s way worse than mine.”

Drabble Challenge!

Repost this. Followers/Readers send numbers to your Ask. You write a fic/drabble using that line in your piece. Have fun! Expect a ton of requests!! 

“That’s starting to get annoying”

“Hey, hey, calm down. They can’t hurt you anymore.”

“You can’t just sit there all day.”

“I’m too sober for this.”

“I’m not here to make friends.”

“I need a place to stay.”

“Well, that’s tragic.”

“You’re seriously like a man-child.”

“You can’t banish me! This is my bed too!”

“The ladies love a guy who’s good with kids.”

“Dear Diary, …”

“She’s hiding behind the sofa.”

“I lost our baby.”

“They’re so cute when they’re asleep.”

“I’d kill for a coffee…literally.”

“You’re getting crumbs all over my bed.”

“Good thing I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

“What’s the matter, sweetie?”

“You’re Satan.”

“I don’t want to hear your excuse. You can’t just give me wet-willies.”

“I’m bulletproof…but please, don’t shoot me.”

“Did you just hiss at me?”

“Do you really need all that candy?”

“It’s six o’clock in the morning, you’re not having vodka.”

“I swear, I’m not crazy!!!”

“The diamond in your engagement ring is fake.”

“No. Regrets.”

“How drunk was I?”

“How is my wife more badass than me?”

“Be you. No one else can.”

“I haven’t slept in ages.”

“I locked the keys in the car.”

“Are you sure that’s the decision you want to make?”

“You work for me. You are my slave.”

“Take your medicine.”

“They’re monsters.”

“Welcome to fatherhood.”

“Why can’t you appreciate my sense of humor?”

“It’s your turn to make dinner.”

“The kids, they ambushed me.”

“Sorry isn’t going to help when I kick your ass!!!”

“Stop being so cute.”

“I feel like I can’t breathe.”

“You need to see a doctor.”

“You’re getting a vasectomy. That’s final.”

“I was a joke, baby. I swear.”

“Dogs don’t wear clothes!”

“I didn’t think you could get any less romantic…”

“Safety first. What are you? FIVE?”

“This is girl talk, so leave.”

“Where am I going? Crazy. Wanna come?”

“There’s a herd of them!”

“Do you think I’m scared of a woman?”

“They’re not your kids, back the f*ck off.”

“You’re a nerd.”

“I’m late.”

“Just get home as soon as possible, okay?!”

“You smell like a wet dog.”

“I could punch you right now.”

“Are you going to talk to me?”

“Welcome back. Now fucking help me.”

“If you can’t sleep…we could have sex?”

“Flea markets don’t carry fleas, you know?”

“Here, take my blanket.”

“I don’t want you to stop.”

“How could I ever forget about you?”

“You’re bleeding all over my carpet.”

“Run for it!”

“We need to talk.”

“Not everyone is out to get you. Stop thinking that. It’s annoying.”

“I want a pet.”

“Just smile, I really need to see you smile right now.”

“I’m not wearing a dress.”

“I’m not wearing a tie.”

“Quit beating me up!”

“Please put your penis away.”

“It’s a Texas thing.”

“Don’t argue. Just do it.”

“I hope I’m never stuck with you on a deserted island.”

“Does he know about the baby?”

“Hold still.”

“I just ironed these pants!”

“Enough with the sass!”

“Show me what’s behind your back.”

“I’m not going to be sympathetic until you go to a doctor.”

“Fine, don’t say anything and make me worry.”

“Stay awake.”

“STOP INTERRUPTING ME!”

“You’re not interested, are you?”

“I’m not buying ikea furniture again.”

“Tell me you need me.”

“Oh honey, I’d never be jealous of you.”

“I’m telling you. I’m haunted.”

“I had a bad dream again.”

“Have I mentioned, I fucking hate Halloween.”

“It’s Christmas, don’t be mad at me.”

“You’re not going to starve yourself on Thanksgiving.”

“The store ran out of Easter eggs.”

“How could you forget your son’s birthday?”

“You can only suffer through my whining for so long until you get up and make me a sandwich.”

Visit @prompt-bank for more prompts!!