Reblog This If You’re A Fanfic Writer & Your Motivation To Write Actually Increases When Readers Actually

my best friend said peter maximoff probably thinks the height of porn is the pizza man ones where the girl has no money to pay the pizza delivery guy and i hate that she's right

Hate to be this person but! REBLOG, COMMENT, AND LIKE YOUR FAVORITE FICS! IT MAKES WRITERS WANT TO WRITE MORE FICS!!

16 with Scott Summers?

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒: scott summers, reader 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓: “I’ll kick his ass if you want me to.” 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 646 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: 18+, peter x reader implied 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: y/n is known by the mutant name “scribe” and is charles xavier’s niece.

Scott says this to you across the kitchen counter, and you roll your eyes.

"Is your reaction to everything, Scott,” you murmur, whisking together a bowl of brownie mix, “‘I'll kick their arse'?"

Scott retorts, "I don't say that about everything."

"You threatened to kick a pigeon's arse the other day."

Scott looks to the side as if recalling the memory. “Mm. Yeah. I see your point.”

You grin at him. "I don't think you could kick Peter's arse either way.”

Scott’s mouth falls slack, and it’s as if you’ve said the worst thing imaginable to him. You don’t pretend to understand Scott and Peter’s rivalry; they’re so different and yet Scott loves to rile him up. You don’t even think Scott dislikes Peter, instead seeing him as merely an easy target. He’s the same with Kurt, only he does it less often. Probably because he feels bad for targeting somebody so naive.

You, on the other hand… well. The fact that you’re in the kitchen, baking brownies at three am, says it all. Somehow, despite Scott’s tendency to pick on everybody apart from Jean, you’ve managed to bond.

Scott retorts, “You don't think I could beat Peter in a fight? Peter, of all people?"

“Scott, he literally has super-speed.”

“Without the speedy part, I mean. Like, fists.”

You raise your brows. “Have you thrown a punch? Like, ever? In your entire life?”

Scott opens his mouth to protest, but he stammers. You already know the answer. “I’ve definitely thrown a punch.”

You laugh as you begin to transfer the brownie mix from the bowl to the pan. “Okay, Summers.”

Scott groans as he takes a seat on the stools facing the counter. “I just…” he shakes his head, “I don’t get why you like him so much.”

You let out a laugh, cheeks flushing red. “Jealous, Scott?”

Scott blinks at you. “What? Me? Of Maximoff?” He scoffs. “No.”

You flash a look that reveals that you don’t entirely believe him, your attention averting to the brownie mix below you. “I don’t think you dislike him as much as you pretend to.”

Scott is silent for a minute, which you don’t expect, until— “I don’t dislike him.”

“Then what?”

“He’s just so…”

“So?”

“Carefree.”

Scott’s hands splay to look at his open palms as he continues, “I’ve never been like that. I don’t know how he does it.”

As you look across at him, you think that you get it now. Scott doesn’t exactly bully Peter, but what he does do is bug him because he’s jealous. Is it the confidence he has? You get the sneaking suspicion that while beneath Peter’s cool exterior there’s a lot of pain and longing, under Scott’s cocky exterior, there’s…

Anxiety. And insecurity. And a whole lot left to unravel.

Softly, after a gentle sort of silence has lingered between you for a while, you ask, “You know people here love you, right?”

Scott frowns up at you, his shoulders shifting uncomfortably. “Don’t say that.”

You raise your brows slightly as you look away, beginning to scrape the remaining contents of the bowl into the pan with a spoon. “Alright.”

Silence lingers once more—it’s comfortable but heavy, like a barrier hasn’t been breached but some unspoken words are hanging within it. Scott waits until the brownies are in the oven and the bowl has been put in the sink before he speaks again, the two of you watching the mix slowly begin to transform under the heat within.

“Thanks, Scribe,” he murmurs, stood quietly next to you.

You flash him a soft smile as your arm brushes against his, and you think you’re quite lucky to be able to see this side of Scott—this part of himself that he hides from everybody else.

Scott summers trusts you, and you know you’d never do anything to breach it.

Bestie! I love your quicksilver fics! You have filled my heart with joy with each one!! ❤️❤️

aaah thank you so much!! that’s so sweet!! ❤️

Request for what it would be like watching the Olympics with Peter Maximoff?

It's so funny you mention this....

OKAY SO!

I think Peter is annoyed by the Olympics, since mutants are banned from competing. You put on the Olympics and he is basically vibrating on the couch next to you.

"The least they could do is give us our own category or something."

When any Olympic champion is referred to as the "fastest man/woman/person alive" he gets very grumpy and starts pointing to himself.

"Babe, it's not that important."

"I am literally faster than the speed of sound! I AM THE FASTEST MAN ALIVE!"

When you are watching events that don't involve running, it's slightly better. Then Peter can actually appreciate the talent and dedication.

He would get deeply invested in the sport, even if he knew nothing about it before watching the event.

"Oh my God! Babe! I think he's going to try for the quad axel. BABE ARE YOU SEEING THIS!?"

He would always root for the underdog. Always.

By the time the medals ceremony happens you are too wrapped up to pay any attention to him

When the winner of the 100 meter dash is about to receive the gold medal, all hell breaks lose.

"Oh! It seems the gold medal is gonem Folks we have no idea what just happened. You are watching this live with me. The gold medal just disappeared in thin air. I have no explanation for this."

"Oh my God, Pete-" you look over next to you and see your boyfriend sitting there nonchalantly with a gold medal around his neck.

Peter looks at you and says with a deadpan face: "I don't know what you expected from me."

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*

I hope you don’t mind me asking, but what exactly are Scribe’s powers? How did you come up with her name?

i absolutely don't mind! i love questions like this, and it's a valid one since her powers haven't been fully fleshed out yet. i hope you guys don't mind that the reader in my fics has a fleshed out backstory, personality and powers either.

a scribe is defined as follows:

a writer or journalist.

a public clerk or secretary, especially in ancient times.

a professional copyist of manuscripts and documents.

in verb form:

to write or inscribe.

to mark with a scriber.

scribe's name comes from her ability to change her body and abilities through writing. i'll list all her powers below:

atomic manipulation: scribe can change herself in any way she wants i.e give herself another mutant’s powers, but she has done this through writing for so long that she struggles to do it with a mere thought. if she does this for extended periods of time she won’t be able to use her energy powers. little spoiler for the future: when she becomes one of the x-men, hank will make her something to help with this in the same way that he made scott summers his glasses.

energy manipulation: she can lift things with her energy and can fire energy blasts. while you might think this is similar to wanda's powers, they're less ball-shaped and more raw in shape and form. her mind always knows how much force to use and how powerful to make these blasts. they scorch the skin on impact.

portals: she can open portals to other dimensions. all she needs to do is think of what and where she wants and she can summon a portal to it. smaller ones are easier; larger ones drain her power very quickly.

shielding: this power stems from charles xavier & her father since they're twins (i took this from the og movies where he magically has a brain-dead twin brother haha). nobody can hear her thoughts. she can extend this shield to a person or group of people i.e. the x-men she's fighting with, but doing this for other people drains her energy. if she truly focused then she could access telepathy, but that's not something she wants to do.

i hope that answered your question and if you have any more then please do ask and i'll be happy to answer!

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.”

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?

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.