hey hey!! so i've read your fics for like ages on my personal acc and i just want to first of all say how amazing they are.
second, i was wondering if i could request a peter maximoff x male reader fic? probably like apocalypse version but idm as long as it's x-men!!
if you do write this, i dont mind at all what its about as long as its like not nsfw (i know you dont write it that often anyways) i'd just be happy to see any male reader fics with the x-men version of him.
thank you and happy new year!!!
Keep Up
Peitro 'Peter' Maximoff x Male Reader
Summary: Peitro had finally found someone who could keep up with him.
CW: Fluff - Mutant reader - Molecular Acceleration + Speedster abilities
Words: 3.4k
A/N: I love Evan Peters quick silver! I need him back as Peitro so bad, he was the best version and only version I ever really consider when he's brought up. Just something short and sweet. I'm also excited to hear you've been around for so long, and I hope your fics do well!
The basement of the Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters usually smelled like a cocktail of ozone, old comic book paper, and the lingering scent of grape soda. It was a subterranean sanctuary for the restless. But today, as Peter Maximoff skidded toward his room, his sneakers chirping against the linoleum, he caught a new scent on the air: the sharp, metallic tang of ionized salt and a strange, electric heat. It was the "scent" of someone else’s speed.
He came to a dead stop in the doorway, his silver hair a wind-swept mess from a three-second round trip to the kitchen in Westchester. He didn’t just look; he stared. Standing in the center of his messy kingdom was a boy who looked entirely too comfortable, currently rifling through a milk crate of cassette tapes with practiced ease.
Peter’s mind whirred. He vaguely recalled Professor Xavier mentioning a new arrival—someone with a "volatile molecular structure" and a "displacement issue"—but Peter hadn't stayed in the study long enough to hear a name or a face. He’d been too busy hunting for his favorite pair of goggles.
“You know, most people knock. Or at least wait for an invite before they start digging through a guy's private collection,” Peter said, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. He tried to look casual, crossing his arms over his "Pink Floyd" shirt, but his right foot was already tapping a rhythmic, high-speed beat against the floorboards—a human jackhammer.
You didn't flinch. Most people jumped when Peter appeared out of thin air, but you didn't even drop the tape you were holding. Instead, you turned slowly, a playful, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. In your hand was a worn cassette with Pink Floyd - The Wall scribbled across the plastic in fading Sharpie.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to intrude,” you said. Your voice was steady, even though your hands were a literal blur as you slid the tape back into its slot with a precision that would have been impossible for a human. You pulled out a different case—The Cure—and offered a sharp nod of approval. “You just happen to have actual taste. I couldn't help myself. Most of the guys upstairs think 'culture' is whatever Top 40 station reaches the valley.”
The air in the room didn’t just move; it shivered. One second Peter was six feet away, and the next, the oxygen shifted with a sharp, pressurized whoosh.
Suddenly, he was there, perched on the edge of the cluttered desk right beside you. His hip brushed against yours—a calculated, "accidental" touch that sent a spark of static electricity through your clothes. It was a classic Peter move: showing off his velocity while invading your personal space just to see how you’d react.
He reached out, his fingers moving so fast they seemed to vibrate as he snatched the cassette from your hand. He began flipping it between his knuckles like a silver coin, the plastic casing clacking rhythmically—click-clack, click-clack.
"The Cure, huh?" Peter cocked his head at a sharp, bird-like angle, his eyes scanning you with the frantic, restless curiosity of a cat watching a laser pointer. He processed the world ten times faster than anyone else, and right now, he was processing every inch of you. "You actually like Smith? Most of the kids here are into... I don't know, whatever the radio tells them to like. This is 'sitting in a dark room thinking about your existential dread' music."
He gave a lopsided, mischievous grin, the silver of his hair catching the neon hum of a "Stroh’s Beer" sign he’d definitely liberated from a dive bar in Poughkeepsie. "Didn't peg you for a brooder. You look more like a... Duran Duran kind of guy."
You didn't pull away from the sudden proximity. If anything, you leaned back against the desk, matching his energy. "I have my moments," you replied, sliding a jewel case out to inspect the liner notes, your fingers ghosting over the paper. "Besides, the bass lines on this album are incredible. It’s hard to find music that actually keeps up with a high heart rate. Most songs feel like they're being played underwater."
"Fair point. Most music is agonizingly slow. Like listening to a funeral march in slow motion." Peter settled back, but he wasn't relaxing. He was never truly still. His heel was drumming a machine-gun beat against the side of the desk, and his eyes stayed locked on yours, searching for a flicker of boredom or a hint that you couldn't keep up.
You kept sorting through the collection, feeling his gaze like a physical weight—a warm, buzzing pressure. It wasn't a judgmental stare; it was the look of a kid who had finally found a toy that didn't break the second he touched it.
The dusty light from the high basement window hit him just right, making his hair shimmer like liquid mercury. Up close, his eyes were startlingly bright, wide with a kinetic energy that seemed to vibrate off his skin. You could feel the heat radiating from him—the high-caloric burn of a speedster.
"What?" You let out a short, breathless laugh, gesturing to your face with a stray CD case. "Do I have something on my nose, or are you just trying to see if I’m a hallucination?"
Peter didn't blink. He popped a piece of gum into his mouth, his jaw moving at double-speed as he chewed. "Just figuring you out," he said, his voice dropping into that casual, fast-talking drawl that made everything sound like a secret. "Professor said you were 'molecularly accelerated.' Fancy talk for 'he’s fast, try not to break the windows.' But you don't act like the other runners I've met. You're... weirdly chill. It’s distracting.”
He leaned in a fraction of an inch closer, his grin turning into something a bit more daring. "So, New Guy. Since you're already in my room stealing my music... you want to see how fast this basement actually gets?”
You stood up slowly, the movement deliberate and fluid, closing the remaining few inches of space between you. The air around you both felt heavy, charged with the kind of kinetic potential that precedes a lightning strike. With a teasing smile playing on your lips, you reached out and pressed a palm flat against the center of his chest.
Through the thin fabric of his shirt, his heart wasn't just beating; it was a rhythmic vibration, a hummingbird’s frantic pulse. Peter’s breath hitched, his eyes widening as he stayed uncharacteristically still for a fraction of a second.
"Can you keep up?" you asked, your voice a low, melodic challenge.
Peter’s grin broke wide across his face, a flash of pure, adrenaline-fueled joy. A faint, dusty rose color crept up his cheeks—whether from the proximity or the prospect of a real race, it was hard to tell. He leaned into your space, his nose nearly brushing yours.
"I can keep up," he whispered, his voice vibrating with suppressed energy. "Question is... can you?"
Before the last syllable had even left his lips, the world slowed to a crawl.
To the rest of the school, there was only a single, violent crack of displaced air, like a sonic boom muffled by the basement walls. To you and Peter, the world became a frozen gallery. Dust motes hung in the air like suspended diamonds; the neon sign’s hum stretched into a low, tectonic groan.
Peter vanished in a silver streak, a blur of motion that sent his stacks of comic books spiraling into the air in his wake. He didn't just run; he played with the environment. He sprinted up the basement stairs, banking off the walls, his sneakers leaving faint scorch marks on the linoleum. He glanced back, expecting to see you struggling with the tight turn of the staircase.
Instead, you were a ghost.
While Peter had to navigate the physical world—vaulting over banisters and sliding under the cleaning carts of the confused, motionless janitors—you moved with a terrifyingly smooth trajectory. As he rounded the corner into the main hallway, he watched in disbelief as you didn't even bother with the door. You didn't turn. You didn't slow down.
You hit the solid oak door of the library and simply... didn't stop. Your body shimmered, a ripple of translucent light passing through the wood like a stone through water.
"Hey! That's cheating!" Peter yelled, his voice sounding like a record played at the wrong speed in the vacuum of your shared velocity.
He pushed himself harder, his legs a piston-like blur. He was a master of the "long way around," using his speed to compensate for the obstacles. He dashed through the kitchen, grabbing a carrot from a mid-air salad prep just to show off, then looped through the courtyard. He saw you through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of the sunroom. You were heading straight for a structural brick pillar at sixty miles per hour.
Peter’s heart leaped into his throat. "Look out—!"
He reached out to grab your jacket, his fingers inches from the fabric, but you passed through the solid brick as if it were nothing more than a localized mist. You emerged on the other side without breaking your stride, glancing back at him with a wink that felt like a physical spark.
The race was a chaotic tour of the mansion. Peter was a silver pinball, bouncing off every surface, laughing with a manic, breathless sound. He led you through the attic, over the roof tiles, and back down the laundry chute, convinced that his superior knowledge of the floor plan would give him the edge.
As they neared the basement again, Peter pushed off a doorframe with enough force to dent the metal. He navigated the final hairpin turn into his room at a breakneck lean, his hand reaching out to slap the doorframe in victory.
"Beat ya!" he exhaled, the world slamming back into real-time. The comic books finally finished falling to the floor, and the dust settled.
Peter stood in the center of the room, chest heaving, hair standing up in every direction from the static. He looked around, triumphant, expecting to see you skidding into the room behind him.
The room was quiet.
Then, a soft, amused hum came from the corner.
Peter spun around. You were already there. You weren't standing, and you weren't out of breath. You were lounging back on his unmade bed, propped up on your elbows, looking as relaxed as if you’d been there for an hour. You held the Pink Floyd tape between two fingers, tossing it casually up and down.
"Took you long enough," you said, your smile growing wider at the sheer look of shock on his face. "I thought you said you could keep up, Maximoff."
Peter stared at you, his mouth slightly open. He looked at the solid wall you’d just come through, then back at you. A slow, delighted laugh bubbled up in his chest. He didn't look annoyed that he'd lost; he looked like he’d just discovered a whole new wing of the mansion he never knew existed.
"Molecularly accelerated," he breathed, walking toward the bed with a newfound, intense focus. "You didn't say you were a 'through-the-walls' kind of fast. That's... that's a total game changer."
He dropped onto the edge of the mattress, his knee bumping against yours, his eyes bright with a mixture of competitive respect and something much warmer. "Do it again. How does it feel? Does it tickle? Or is it like... cold?”
You looked at Peter, the sound of your laughter bright and echoing against the basement walls. The look of pure, unadulterated shock on his face was a trophy in itself.
"Want to find out?" you challenged, your voice dropping into a playful lilt.
Peter’s eyes darted from your face to the solid concrete wall behind the bed and back again. "Wait, you can do that? Like—take people with you?" He sounded like a kid being offered a ride in a spaceship. "Is it like a hitchhiker thing? Do I have to hold my breath?"
You stood up from the mattress, the movement slow and steady, a stark contrast to the way Peter’s leg was still jittering at a hundred miles per hour. You held your hand out toward him, palm up. "I’ve tried it a few times with other people," you admitted, tilting your head as you recalled the messy results. "But it usually ends in vomiting. Their molecules don't really like being told they're suddenly optional."
Peter didn't even hesitate. He didn't ask about the physics or the safety risks; he just grinned, his gloved hand smacking into yours as he gripped it tight. "I’ve got a high metabolism and a stomach of steel. Bring it on, New Guy."
You didn't just hold his hand. You stepped into his space, reaching out with your other hand to grab the lapel of his silver jacket, pulling him flush against you. The height difference put you eye-to-eye, and for a second, the playfulness in the room shifted into something heavy and electric.
"Hold on tight," you whispered.
You began to back up, guiding him with you toward the cold, grey wall of his bedroom. As you moved, you began to hum—a low, resonant frequency that started in your chest and bled out into your limbs. Then, the vibration started.
It wasn't like a tremor or an earthquake; it was a high-frequency buzz that turned the world into a blur of static. Peter let out a sharp, surprised gasp as the sensation took hold of him. He could feel his own cells beginning to oscillate, matching the frantic, invisible rhythm of yours. It felt like his entire body was being turned into "pins and needles," a billion tiny sparks dancing under his skin.
His grip on your jacket tightened, his knuckles turning white as his heels hit the baseboard.
"Whoa," Peter breathed, his voice sounding metallic and distorted, as if he were speaking through a fan. "I feel like I'm... I'm dissolving."
"Don't let go," you warned, your own body starting to shimmer and lose its solid edge.
You took one final step back.
The transition was jarring. To Peter, it felt like the world had suddenly turned into cold water, then thick smoke, then nothing at all. He braced for the impact of the brick and mortar, his eyes squeezing shut instinctively, but the collision never came. Instead, there was a strange, hollow sensation in his chest—the feeling of his physical matter occupying the same space as the foundation of the school.
Inside the wall, the world was a muted, greyscale void. Peter could feel the raw density of the stone around them, a crushing pressure that was held at bay only by the grip you had on him. Your bodies were so close that he couldn't tell where his vibration ended and yours began; you were two ghosts sharing a single frequency.
Then, with a sudden, silent pop, you broke through to the other side.
The air of the hallway hit you both, crisp and solid. You stumbled back a few steps, the momentum carrying you out of the phase, and Peter crashed into you, his weight pinning you briefly against the opposite wall of the corridor.
The silence of the empty hallway felt deafening after the roar of the vibration. Peter stayed there for a long moment, his forehead resting against your shoulder, his hands still bunched in your jacket. He was breathing hard, his chest heaving against yours as his molecules fought to settle back into their proper places.
Slowly, he pulled back, blinking rapidly as he looked at his own hands, opening and closing them to make sure they were still there.
"Holy... hell," he finally wheezed, a massive, lopsided grin breaking across his face. He looked back at the solid wall you’d just exited, then back at you, his eyes shimmering with genuine awe. "The basement usually smells like ozone, but that? That tasted like... copper and purple. If that makes sense."
He stood up straight, though he kept one hand on your arm, perhaps to steady himself or perhaps just because he didn't want to break the contact yet. "We are going to have so much fun with this," he laughed, his voice returning to its usual rapid-fire pace. "Forget the elevators. We’re never using a door again.”
The adrenaline of the phase hadn’t faded; it had simply mutated into something warmer and more grounded. As Peter stood there in the dimly lit hallway, still clinging to your arm, the typical restlessness of his body seemed to anchor itself to yours. He wasn't tapping his foot. He wasn't looking for a distraction. He was just there.
"You okay?" you asked, your voice echoing slightly in the quiet corridor. "Stomach still where it's supposed to be?"
Peter let out a soft, huffed laugh, finally letting his hands drop from your jacket, though he stayed well within your personal bubble. "Yeah. Everything’s in the right spot. I think. Though I might have left my common sense back in the drywall." He looked at you, his expression softening into something uncharacteristically sincere. "Nobody’s ever been able to keep up with me like that. Usually, I'm just waiting for the rest of the world to blink so I can move on to the next thing."
The school around you was silent, the distant hum of the mansion's generator the only sound. It felt like the two of you were the only people truly awake in a world made of frozen statues.
"Come on," Peter said, tilting his head toward the far end of the hall where a spiraling staircase led up toward the roof. "Race is over, but I've got a better spot than a dusty basement for a 'molecularly accelerated' newcomer."
You didn't need to be asked twice. You didn't race this time; you walked, your shoulders occasionally brushing as you navigated the narrow stone stairs that led to the highest point of the West Wing. Peter reached the heavy iron latch of the roof trapdoor and, instead of unbolting it, he looked at you with a silent, mischievous dare.
You stepped forward, gripped his hand—fingers interlocking this time—and pulled him through the ceiling.
The night air hit you both like a physical weight, cold and smelling of pine and upcoming rain. You emerged onto the steep incline of the roof, the slate tiles slick with moonlight. Below, the sprawling grounds of the Xavier School looked like a miniature model set.
Peter sat down on the edge of the stone parapet, his legs dangling over the drop with terrifying nonchalance. He patted the space beside him. As you sat, the silver of his hair seemed to glow, catching the pale light of the moon until he looked less like a teenager in a stolen jacket and more like something celestial.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the Walkman he’d been searching for earlier. He popped the The Cure cassette into the player, then handed you one of the foam-covered earpieces. You took it, nesting the wire between you as the opening melancholic bass lines of Lullaby began to pulse.
"You know," Peter said, leaning his head back against the cold stone, his eyes fixed on the stars that seemed to move just a little bit slower for him than they did for everyone else. "The Professor talks a lot about 'finding your place.' Most of the kids here are just trying to find a way to be normal. But I think I like being weird. Especially if there’s two of us."
You looked over at him, the music thrumming in your ear, the vibration of his high-speed heart still a faint, ghostly echo in your own palm. You nudged his shoulder with yours. "Weird is definitely better. Doors are overrated anyway."
Peter laughed—a genuine, relaxed sound that didn't feel rushed. He closed his eyes, finally reaching a state of rest that only another speedster could provide. For once, the world wasn't moving too slow for Peter Maximoff; it was moving exactly at the right speed.
You sat there together, two blurs in a world of stillness, watching the clouds drift by at a pace that felt almost like standing still, while the music played on, keeping time with the restless rhythm of two hearts that finally found a beat they could both follow.
