#wwdrabble

warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, cursing, mentions of death, wc: 2.2k

a/n: it’s been a minute. i’m tentatively posting again, but it won’t be consistent. please let me know if you like this and want more parts, or just send general thought about the characters. any inspo is welcomed and appreciated. enjoy!

“Why did you do that?” 

It’s the first time you’ve gotten a moment alone with Warren since the reaping, nearly two hours after Emma ushered you off the stage and sent you into a flurry of goodbyes, meetings with potential sponsors, and half-hearted compliments about both of your physiques. Emma seemed to be trying to appease her guilty conscience by assuring both you and herself that you seemed strong enough to make it far in the games. 

“Right,” you snapped after she commented on your tenacity during the Reaping in the face of the tasks ahead of you, “I’m sure tenacity will be a big help in killing twenty-two other people.” 

Her nervous laugh grated against your ears as she scurried away, leaving all of the tension in the room behind her. 

You stand with your back to Warren for a few moments, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath in a failed attempt to calm your nerves. To his credit, Warren keeps his mouth shut, eyes wide in the unfamiliar face of your fury.

“You could have survived. You would have been fine if you had just let me go. Why the fuck couldn’t you just let me go, Warren?” your voice is low, and you find it hard to meet his eyes the longer he stares at you. “You have a family back home. They need you. Our friends need you, and now we’re both going to die. Why the fuck did you- you goddamn i-idiot-” 

You fall to your knees, head pressed between your hands as you try to get a grip on your emotions. You won’t allow anyone but Warren to see you fall apart like this, and you know that you won’t have long before someone else comes looking for you to drag you to another meeting or congratulate you on being chosen. 

You take deep, staggering breaths as panic begins to claw up your throat. Your heart is beating out of your chest, and your lungs feel too full for any air to get in. You can’t breath, Jesus, you can’t breath.

Gentle hands take hold of your wrists, guiding them away from your face. Warren replaces them with his own, wiping the tears from your cheeks.

“I’ll follow you,” he whispers, tears of his own falling to the floor between you. “Wherever you go, I’ll follow you. No one, not even the fucking Capital is taking you away from me. I was never going to let you go alone. After our first reaping, I promised myself that I would follow you anywhere. Even if it led me here.”

A sob rips from your throat and you take his face in your hands, stuck between the urge to push him away and hug him as close as you can.

“You’re so stupid,” you tell him, but it’s weaker than before. Your anger begins to fade as you take him in, holding his head between your palms and running your thumbs over his cheeks. There are still tear stains on his face from the reaping, and you can see the fear clouding them. Guiltily, you feel some relief at the fact that he’s the one here beside you as he closes the distance between you. He presses his head into your neck and takes a deep, shaky breath. You bury a hand in his curls and grasp at his shirt, shaking against the onslaught of emotion that you haven’t had time to sort through. 

“I love you,” he whispers, the words muffled. “I love you so much. I’ll never leave you in there, even if it kills me.”

“God, Warren, don’t say that,” you sob, pulling him even closer. His arms tighten around you until you’re holding him between your legs so he can get closer to you. “I love you too. Even though you’re a goddamn idiot.”

“Well, this will make for a fantastic strategy.”

You jump at the voice, staring up at an amused but tired looking Erik Lehnsherr.

“What?” you mutter dumbly, sniffing as you try to compose yourself.

“Two lovestruck teenagers from district twelve, fighting to keep each other alive,” Erik sits in a chair on the far side of the room, unfazed by the intimacy that he’d interrupted, “it’s been used countless times, but it never fails to win the sympathy card. You should capitalize on that.” 

Warren stands from your embrace, keeping one hand tucked carefully into yours as he glares at Erik. 

“We aren’t characters for people to fawn at,” he grumbles, “You’re sending us off to die. The least you could do is treat us like human beings.” 

“I’ll treat you however I want if it gives you a better chance to survive. If you need to look at yourselves as characters to put on a better show, then do it. If you survive, you’ll have all the time in the world to be real people. In the arena, your only job is to look pretty and kill as many people as possible,” he looks out the window as you pass through district eleven, staring blankly at the concrete walls surrounding the city, “but from the looks of it, it won’t be very hard to play the part.”

His eyes fall to your and Warren’s joined hands. You scowl at him but don’t move, knowing that he’s right. Combat isn’t the only thing you need to be focusing on. Every person who has won the games has done so with the help of sponsors. To get sponsors, you’ll need a good story. 

“Can we have some time alone?” Warren spits, although you can see the fight slowly draining from him, “we have weeks to strategize.” 

Erik glances between you. His eyes soften and the tension in his shoulders releases. He doesn’t seem like someone who would vocalize anything but objective fact and strategy, but you remember the way your mentor and his partner got as far as they did before his partner died. Watching the games as a child, you were entranced by the love that the two obviously felt for one another. Looking at him now, you can’t help but wonder if you or Warren will be like him after the games

“You have the rest of the night,” he sighs, “that’s all I can give you. We meet back here tomorrow morning. Don’t sleep in. We have a lot to go over.” 

Warren doesn’t understand how this happened. Everything was fine. He was going to age out this year, and next year you would be safe. All of your friends would be safe, and you could live your lives in relative peace.

He wanted to marry you. He’d found a ring from one of the vendors in the market and bought it spontaneously, realizing the moment he held it in his palm that he wanted to see you wearing it for the rest of your lives. He carried it with him almost everywhere he went, as a reminder of the future he wanted with you. But right now it feels heavy in his pocket. 

He pulls you tighter against him, closing his eyes again in a fruitless attempt to sleep. He’s kept himself up all night, paranoia plaguing him as his eyes search the empty room for a nonexistent threat, as if he’s already in the arena. 

You shift in his arms, pressing back against his chest and sighing as you bury a hand in the soft feathers of his wing. He presses his head into the back of your neck, hand spreading across your stomach to press you as close as he can. He took this closeness for granted before the Reaping, but now these moments are limited. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to hold you close enough to make up for the time that you’re going to lose after the games. 

He can’t let you die. 

It’s a thought that jolts him. Of course, the plan was always to keep you alive, but he’s still coming to terms with what that means for him. He selfishly wants to keep himself alive too, to see his family and friends again. To see your face when he gives you the ring. To see your face every day for the rest of his life. He wants to live. God, he wants to live so badly.

You shift in his arms, turning to face him with bleary eyes. 

“Why’re you still awake?” you murmur, “you need to sleep.”

It’s an impossible thing. Sleep feels farther away the longer he’s awake. His fear grips him like a vice, taking hold of his throat and squeezing any remaining life out of him. He can’t speak. He can’t breath.

“Warren,” you whisper his name, pulling him out of the haze he’d fallen into, “baby, you need to breath. You’re having a panic attack.” 

Oh. That makes more sense than his immediate assumption, which was that he was actually dying via some unknown, merciful force.

Selfish, he reminds himself, stop being selfish. 

You attempt to move away from him to give him distance, but he stops you, pulling you close again. He sighs when he feels your heart beating against his and times his breaths with each thump against his chest. You relax against him, hand moving into his hair.

“Just breathe,” you whisper into his hair. His hands tremble against your back and he clenches them, hating himself for how weak he is. You’re going to the games too, you shouldn’t be having to anchor him. But despite this knowledge, he still clings to you, pressing his lips to your neck with a shaky sigh. 

“Don’t leave me,” he whispers, closing his eyes when you hold him tighter.

“Never.” 

Tears slide down his cheeks as the panic starts to fade into sorrow.

“I love you,” he looks up at you, taking your face carefully in his palms and kissing your jaw, “more than anything.”

He wipes away a tear that slides down your cheek, pressing another kiss against your temple.

“I love you too,” your voice sounds as weak as he feels, and he wishes more than anything that this could be a dream. That he’d wake up in his own bed, tucked away in the safety of your arms. You would hold each other for hours, free from the burden of the Hunger Games.

He falls asleep wrapped around you, keeping you tucked in the safety of his wings while he drifts away in your arms. 

It doesn’t take much searching for you to find Erik’s room secluded from the rest of the train. It’s far too early to be awake, but you couldn’t wait until morning to talk to him. You tap against the door, looking around tentatively to make sure no one woke up at the sound of your quiet footsteps. You knock again, a bit louder, and sigh when you hear an annoyed groan through the door. It takes a minute, but you wait patiently until you hear Erik’s footsteps coming closer. He slides it open, tired eyes landing on you.

“What?” he grunts, walking back towards his bed as a silent invitation for you to follow. You push the door shut behind you and shuffle towards him, sitting on the chair that he points to and waiting for him to look at you. 

“I needed to talk to you before tomorrow. I know you probably have a strategy in mind, but whatever it is, you need to change it.” 

Erik looks less than impressed, waiting patiently and expectantly for you to continue.

“He has to live,” you whisper, an admission both to him and yourself. The fight between wanting to find a way for you both to live and needing Warren to get back home is one you’ve been fighting since the moment he volunteered. But you know that two people surviving the games is impossible. This is your only option. 

“Warren lives. He has to. I don’t care what I have to do.” 

Erik’s expression doesn’t change, and you realize he was probably expecting this. His only question was probably whether it would be you or Warren showing up at his door. 

“That’s not up to me,” he tells you, “any strategy we come up with will end with one person coming out of that arena alive. If you end up getting to the end of this, it’s either going to be you or him. It’s your job to decide what happens after that.”

You don’t know what else you were expecting. You feel idiotic for even coming given the little that you’re going to leave with. You feel far from reassured, but at the very least, there’s a tentative plan starting to form. Or at least some semblance of motivation. 

“If you really want it to be him that makes it out, you’re going to have to fight until the end. That means the strategy stays the same,” he leans forward, studying you for a moment. “This isn’t an out for you, if that’s what you were hoping. Your training stays the same, as does his.” 

“What?” you narrow your eyes at him, “I don’t want an out. All I want is to protect him.” 

Erik meets your eyes, looking fully alert as he stares at you. You want to back down from the intensity of his gaze, but you stand your ground. 

characters: warren worthington x reader, the x-kids

prompt: i accidentally spilled hydrochloric acid on you so you really need to use the emergency shower and omg, if i knew you looked that good shirtless and wet i would have spilled it on you much earlier in the semester (x)

warnings: second hand embarrassment? cursing

“Jesus- shit.” 

It hasn’t been fun being lab partners with Warren Worthington iii. You thought you’d be fine taking chemistry, you like science and you like experiments and Professor Xavier had been recommending Professor Hank’s class since the semester began. You were fully prepared for it to be your favorite class. 

Lab partners were assigned the second day of class, and hearing your name called immediately after Warren’s sent your heart racing. It hadn’t helped that you’d been distance-pining over him since you arrived at the school, and it really hadn’t helped that he always found an opportunity to flirt with you. Or anyone he came in contact with, really. 

So since that second day of class, you’ve dreaded having to come in and work with him. And mixing nerves with chemicals doesn’t help anyone. That’s something you’ve just proven. 

It should’ve been an easy experiment. Precautions were taken to avoid any accidents, goggles and gloves were worn and long sleeves were advised. Hydrochloric acid is easy to work with, however it’s not easy to get out of clothes and very painful if it comes into contact with skin. 

It’s lucky that the acid was placed right next to your unsuspecting elbow. You’d been turned around trying to get everything set up for the experiment and Warren had started to say something about the procedure. Looking back, whipping towards him to listen to what he had to say probably wasn’t the best idea. Especially since it ended with hydrochloric acid spilled right in the middle of his shirt

“Oh my God,” you stutter, grabbing a cloth as Jean waves Hank over. “I’m so sorry- shit, your clothes.” 

“It’s...fine,” he grumbles, arms lifted as he observes the damage done to his black t-shirt.

“Warren,” Hank comes around to stand in front of Warren with wide eyes, immediately leading him to the showers at the back of the lab, “shirt off.” 

“Are you serious?” Warren glances up at the professor, who just nods frantically, looking increasingly nervous as he urges Warren to do as he says. 

“Yes, before it gets on your skin.” 

Warren sighs, grumbling about chemistry being his least favorite class, and grips the collar of his shirt, lifting it over his head with a sharp tug. The water starts suddenly and drenches him from head to toe, and you probably would have laughed at his irritated expression had it not been for the embarrassment hitting you in waves. 

“Is this really necessary?” he asks through the water pooling in his mouth, rolling his eyes and standing disgruntled in the shower. 

You tune the conversation out as you stare at him. You ignore the way your stomach flips and instead focus on Warren. Well, more like the part of Warren you’d never seen before.

It’s hard enough to pine over someone you have to see and work with every other day. It’s worse to spill a dangerous chemical on them and cause this mess. But honestly, it’s just unfair having to see them half naked with water streaming down their chest.

You glance back at his face and almost fall back when you meet his eyes, the smirk on his face giving away that he’d seen you blatantly checking him out. You want to turn away, hide or cry or scream or do anything to get rid of the embarrassment you feel, a growing flame in your chest that only worsens the longer he stares at you. But you can’t find it in you to turn away. It’s the look in his eyes, almost daring you to make the first move. He’s still standing under the water, nodding along to what Hank is saying about safety precautions to take incase the acid came in contact with his skin, but he really doesn’t look like he’s listening. 

Instead, his eyes remain on you until the water is turned off and Hank hands him a towel, dismissing him and, after a long sigh and moment to contemplate, the rest of the class. 

Warren catches your eye again at the door, shoots you a wink, then coolly throws the towel over his shoulder (as if he hadn’t come seconds away from having serious burns on his chest) and walks out the door.

warnings: fluff, angst if you squint, fighting, cursing, violence

1: Warren Worthington

2: Y/N Y/L/N

You aren’t surprised to see the name at the top of the leaderboard, and even less so when cheers erupt in his general area, his friends gathering around him and celebrating his long lived and hard earned victory. 

What you are surprised to see is your name following his. You know you’ve been doing well, not in very much danger of getting kicked, but you expected to be a few names down. 

Your shock fades and a smile grows on your face when Ororo grabs your arm and pulls you against her, holding you tight with a gleeful laugh. 

“We did it!” she shouts as she pulls back, looking back at her name in the fourth place spot on the board. You laugh along with her, nodding as the excitement  sinks in, all of the anxiety you’d been feeling since day one washing away knowing that your place in Dauntless is secure. 

Your eyes graze over the names again, coming to stop when the last name catches your eye. 

5. John Allerdyce

John has been on your radar from day one. He’s had his eyes on first place and made sure everyone knew it, but quickly realized that he was no match for Warren physically, relaying more on his mental skills to help him through stage two. Warren did struggle more with the fear simulations and everyone noticed how off he was in the days leading up to and following his test, but John still didn’t manage to come out above him. 

It was almost amusing to see him so frustrated. You heard him ranting one night about how he couldn’t even beat out the two girls who were still in the running. 

So you’re fine with him getting kicked. Serves the asshole right. 

Warren, on the other hand, is a different story and you would never admit it to anyone, but you’re relieved to know that he’ll be staying in Dauntless too.

“Well, Y/L/N, I see you still couldn’t beat me off the boards.” 

You hadn’t noticed the winged boy coming up behind you as you thanked Erik, one of your instructors, for congratulating you on your success in Dauntless so far. You turn on your heel, rolling your eyes at the smirk that spreads across his lips. 

“I came pretty close,” you squint up at the names, “two points away isn’t too bad.” 

“Still don’t see your name above mine,” he shrugs, chuckling when you roll your eyes. He starts walking away with those words and you begin to turn, assuming that the conversation is over. That’s about how your relationship with Warren has gone. Competitive words thrown between you, but none of those words holding any deeper meaning. At first you just wanted to get a rise out of each other, but it quickly turned into playful banter. 

You’re surprised when he calls your name again, and you quickly turn to see that he is smiling slightly at you, hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck. 

“Congrats on second. You deserve it.” 

Anger does strange things to people. It can fuel them to be stronger, faster, to become a completely different person for a moment or two. High on adrenalin and fueled by their rage. 

That has to be the only explanation for this. 

John has a hungry, almost bloodthirsty look in his eyes as he stands over Warren. Warren, on the other hand, looks worse then he had the entire time you’d known him. He’d dominated all of his fights from day one, seeming to have a natural talent with his fists, but John is out for revenge after having come so close to being kicked out of his new faction.

“Had enough, Worthington?” he spits as he kicks the blond boy in the ribs. You wince when Warren groans, rolling over onto his side in an attempt to stand and keep fighting, but one more kick from John has him tumbling off the side of the ring, standing slowly as he holds his side. 

“Alright, that’s enough,” Erik says before Warren can go back towards John to continue the fight. He looks over at the instructor with furrowed brows, deflating at the thought of losing a fight to this asshole. 

“Good job, John,” Erik says, although he’s reluctant to give the self-centered boy any praise, “that’s a lot of improvement.” 

John grins at the surrounding initiates until his eyes land on Warren, the grin falling into a smirk when he sees the condition his opponent is in. 

“Next fight. Y/N and John.” 

You don’t know why you’re surprised. John just beat the initiate in first place, it makes sense to have him fight the one in second. The problem is you got your place at the top of the ranks because of the fear simulations, not your hand to hand combat skills. Those were shaky, you knew it, Warren knew it, and unfortunately, John knew it too. He’d fought you before and it hadn’t ended well for you. It was the closest you’d ever been to becoming factionless. 

You glance at Erik for a moment, waiting for him to say something else, but he only nods in the direction of John, who’s waiting smugly and patiently for you to join him in the ring. 

You’re reluctant. You really don’t want to have your ass handed to you today, but it seems like you won’t have a choice. You can see the fire in your opponents eyes as you approach him and it only makes the nervous pit in your stomach grow. 

You look in front of you and meet Warren’s eyes where he’s sitting with a pack of ice already pressed against the growing bruise on his forehead. It won’t be pretty tomorrow and you don’t think you’re ready to have a matching one. 

“Scared Y/L/N?” 

“Fuck you, John.” 

He scowls at you, your confidence obviously a hit to his own. You know he sees you as helpless and that he’s suspicious of your decision to be in Dauntless. Most of the recruits know about the growing number of Divergents in the society and John has had his suspicions about you from the beginning, but the fear simulations made them grow to the point that he confronted you about it during training. Even had the nerve to take a swing at you when you tried to ignore him.

That’s the only time you’ve gotten a good hit on him. And it didn’t do anything to help your rankings. 

“Your fight has started,” Erik’s voice rings in your ears and tears you from your thoughts just in time for you to see John advancing towards you. You’re able to duck just in time, dropping under the swing and wrapping your hand around the back of his knee, pulling it towards you sharply and watching in satisfaction as he collapses. 

You glance up at Warren and your heart jumps when you see the growing smirk on his face as he watches the fight, his elbows on his knees as he watches with furrowed brows as John gets up and rolls his shoulders back, facing you again with a scowl. 

He takes another swing, lower this time, and catches you in the stomach. You let out a gasp, the hit knocking the wind out of you, but it doesn’t take long before you recover and dodge his next swing, giving one of your own and astonishing even yourself when it connects with his chin, his head jerking backwards as he stumbles away from you. 

You take the opportunity and swing at his cheek again, glad to finally be having the upper hand over him. He falls to the ground with a groan and you lean over him, waiting for him to catch his breath before you speak. 

“I guess first place isn’t for everyone, Allerdyce. Don’t take it too personally.”

“You just keep on surprising me, Y/L/N,” a familiar voice says behind you, worn down and obviously in need of sleep. But here he is, standing next to your bed at two in the morning, his black eye a stark contrast to his blond hair coming down to cover the upper part of his bruise. 

“Jesus, Warren,” you sit up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, “what time is it?” 

“Two in the morning,” he sighs rather loudly, looking around at the other recruits, “you wanna take a walk?” 

“A walk?” 

“Yeah. What’s wrong with a walk?” 

“It’s two in the morning. We have training tomorrow.” 

“Come on, I’m first and you’re second, we’re fine,” he holds his hand out to you, waiting patiently for you to follow him out of the initiate’s sleeping area, “although, after that display earlier I think you might have beat me out of first.” 

“How hard did that hit your ego?” 

“Oh, it’s destroying me,” he grins. You laugh, taking his hand and swinging your feet over the edge of bed. You follow him to the cliff that drops into the body of water that flows underneath the Dauntless compound. It’s quiet save for the rushing water and your feet against the concrete. Warren finally stops at the edge of the cliff, sitting with his feet hanging over the edge of it as he stares down into the darkness of the water. 

“You know, from day one I told myself I was gonna talk to you,” he says after a long silence as the two of you sit staring at the water, comfortable, “but I always figured you’d hate me.” 

“Hate you? Why would I hate you?” 

He shrugs, glancing at you for a moment with furrowed brows. “I just don’t seem like your type.” 

“I don’t have a type,” you say through a laugh, “I haven’t been with enough people to have a type. Abnegation was never exactly known for the all of it’s teenage romances.” 

“Right,” he laughs with you, “so how many people have you been with?” 

“One.” 

“One?” he throws you a grin that’s just begging to be wiped off his face, “tell me.” 

You shrug, not really sure where to start. It wasn't because you wanted to be with someone...it was more as a way to protest Abnegation’s beliefs. Beliefs that you’ve never believed in.

“It was a way for me to...to tell my family that I didn’t want to live they life they were making me live. I wanted to live like...well, like you. Free, without a care in the world. I wanted to show them that I could be different. I never really liked him, but he was nice and one of the only other people in Abnegation who felt the same way I did. At least that I know of.

“And it worked. Big scandal in Abnegation. We even kissed in front of a few people and they told my parents. I wasn’t allowed to leave the house for weeks and when I did, he avoided me like the plague. Started acting like the rest of them,” you sigh, leaning back on the palms of your hands, “his parents were never kind to him. I always knew what must have happened.” 

“How was it?” 

“How was what?” 

“The kiss.” 

“Oh?” you look over at him, sitting back up to face him more fully, “I guess it was...sloppy? I don’t know, neither of us knew what we were doing. It was just because people were watching and we figured why not sell it? And it worked, they freaked the fuck out.” 

“Hm. Do you wanna try again?” 

You gape at him, unmoving in your shock from the serious expression on his face as he asked, not at all the grin you expected, or a laugh with a “just kidding” thrown in to add insult to injury. No, he just stares at you and waits for an answer, his eyes showing nothing but sincerity. 

“You’re not funny, Warren,” you scoff, looking him in the eye for any signs that he’s going to back out. “You’re serious?” 

“Dead.” 

“You’ve barely talked to me.”

“My first mistake,” he shrugs, “but I wanted to, trust me. I don’t know why I finally gathered the courage now, but you’d better say something before I get nervous and back out.” 

“Okay, then...sure, go for it.” 

He doesn't waste any time. His lips are on yours before you can even finish the sentence, a surprised squeak leaving your lips as he grabs you by the waist and pulls you closer, his other hand tangling in the hair covering your neck. He leans forward and you almost think he’s going to lay on top of you until he pulls you flush against him and tilts his head, taking one of your hands that had been limp at your side and moving it to rest on his waist. 

“You’re supposed to put your arms around me,” he murmurs, pulling back barely an inch, “how was that?”

“Better...better then my first one.”

“Well, I would hope so,” he smiles, leaning forward just enough for your nose to brush against his before he leans in again to capture your lips with his, this time pushing you back to lay on the ground so he can hover over you, moving to his elbows with a grunt and sliding his arm under you to hold you by your waist again, well aware of the fact that you’re enjoying this just as much as he is when your hand tangles in his hair. 

He pulls back for a breath of air, still hovering over you with a cheeky grin and a wink. 

warnings: angst, mention of death, cursing, wc: 2.4k

“Ladies and Gentlemen-”

It’s a good day for the Reaping. The sun is out, not a cloud in the sky, and everyone has a line of sweat on their foreheads from the heat. Yet, despite the weather, you feel strangely cold as you await the main event of the ceremony. 

That coldness, that emptiness that you’d been feeling since you woke up this morning is something you’re familiar with. It’s something you feel every year on this day, like clockwork. 

It’s funny; yesterday you had been sobbing in the woods, letting every emotion about the Hunger Games out before the day of the choosing actually came. But standing here now, dry eyed and steady on your feet, you feel nothing. Nothing but the emptiness that has been threatening to consume you since Reaping Day reared its ugly head to the districts. 

The only part of you that doesn’t feel that cold nothingness (that you think might kill you if you don’t get chosen to fight and die in the games) is your right hand, which is tucked safely in Warren’s. You can feel the sweat building between your palms as you stare at Emma, the overenthusiastic yet hard natured woman who comes to your district from the capital every year to choose the tributes. And every year, everyone seems to hate her just a little bit more for taking two more of their children, their siblings, their friends away. 

It’s not her fault. You all know that, but it’s still hard to look at her with anything other than resentment when she’s the one reaching her hand into a bowl of papers as if those little slips aren't your tickets to death. 

“Today we will select the 24 tributes, who will fight for their lives and their district to win the 74th annual Hunger Games. I’m happy to be here, and each of you should be too.”

You glance at Warren, seeing his jaw clench as he takes in the scene, eyes scanning over the crowd before flicking back up to land on Emma, her magnificent white coat falling to her feet, a garment likely worth enough to feed the entire crowd. The sight of her makes you sick.

You lean a bit closer to Warren to find more of the warmth that his hand is providing you. He finally looks down at you, eyes softening as a small, nervous smile tugs at his lips. He looks scared, but it’s hard not to feel that way when a woman who cares less about all of you than she does about her clothing is choosing which of you will live and die. 

“It’ll be okay,” he whispers, smile lingering on his lips despite the falsity of the words. Even if you and Warren are safe, the effects of the games are felt throughout all of the districts. The screams and cries of parents losing their children haunt your dreams most nights when you’re able to find sleep.

Warren looks back at the stage after a moment, but you don’t miss the squeeze he gives your hand to reassure you and the feeling of his thumb beginning to rub circles on the back of your hand. 

“Some time ago, our nation had to stand earthquakes, floods, and storms, but we were strong and our country originated from the ashes.”

Warren moves his fingers away from your palm and shifts so that he can lace them together, pressing your palms flat against one another as he takes a deep breath in, also finding comfort in the feeling of your skin pressed against his. It’s a comfort that you’re praying you’ll both have after the next ten minutes pass. 

“But then, the Capital and its 13 districts, which are surrounding it, grew and the districts rebelled. So the capital had to defeat this rebellion and district 13 was destroyed. So that anything like that will never happen again, we invented the Hunger Games. Each of the 12 districts has to offer a boy and a girl between the ages of 12 and 18.”

At this point in the speech, most people have a hard glare set on Emma, and like every year, she shifts on the stage uncomfortably, moving subtly to the first bowl where the names of all the girls in the district sit, patiently waiting to be chosen.

“I hope that one day our children can live together in peace and without violence.”

“Bullshit,” Warren mutters under his breath, and although only the few people around you hear it, it still makes you shiver and press closer to him for more warmth. That’s all you need right now. You want to go home and curl up under the few blankets you keep in your room. Or maybe go off into the woods with Warren and find comfort with him under a tree, wrap up in his wings and forget everything happening for a while. You hope you make it long enough to feel that comfort again. 

“I wish good luck to the districts and its tributes!”

Now it’s time. Time to choose who will get to stay and who will be forced to go. You think through your friends, most of whom put their name in multiple times to get more food for their family. You and Warren are included in the group.

You glance at Jean, her hand in Scott’s and her face exuding the same fear that yours probably is. She’s terrified, and you can tell that Scott is trying to be strong for her, but he’s about to crumble under the stress that the games puts all those eligible through. Alex is next to him, and you briefly make eye contact with him from across the crowd of people. He gives you a short nod and a small smile before you both return your eyes to the stage. Emma has approached the girl’s bowl with a wide smile on her face. 

“As always,” Emma says as she takes a deep breath in, letting it out with her next words, “ladies first.” 

You can feel the entire population of the twelfth district holding their breath as she reaches one hand into the bowl, pausing to run her hand over the names before she grasps onto one, pulling it out of the bowl slowly and with a flare that makes you want to throw something at her. This isn’t something dramatic, this is someone’s life. And she’s holding it in her hand, scrawled out on a three inch piece of paper. 

She opens it slowly, slow enough to make it feel like forever. You glance to Ororo on your right side and see that she has her fists clenched, eyes wide as she stares at Emma. 

Out of everyone you know, Ororo has put her name in the most. She has a few siblings who need to be fed and putting her name in seemed like the only option seeing as her siblings are too young to do so themselves. But, knowing her, she wouldn’t have let them either way. 

“And the female tribute for district twelve is,” she begins. Warren squeezes your hand tighter, lips parted slightly as he waits for those two words. There are so many people he cares about in the district. And watching any of them die, televised for the world to see, would be too much for him. He doesn’t know if he could handle seeing those closest to him unwillingly giving their lives for the Capital. 

And if you’re somehow chosen, he thinks he might be able to make you stay. He just has to hold on to you tight enough. 

“Y/N Y/L/N!” 

The name falls on deaf ears. You hear your name and you barely react, not looking at anyone as you stand with your breath held in the back of your throat, the air knocked from your lungs as the words echo across the silent field. 

Warren’s hand almost crushes your own as he holds onto it, whipping to face you with wide, teary eyes. He’s saying something as you begin pulling away from him, knowing how this has to go. You have to go on stage and put on a smile and a happy face for the Capital and you have to die for them. For this illusion of peace.

And you know that if you look at Warren, the boy you’ve known since you were five years old and loved since you were sixteen, you won't have it in you to walk on that stage.

But Warren is having none of it. He lost his sister to the games when he was too young to do anything about it and he’ll be damned if he lets them take you away too. 

“Y/N, wait,” he says as you pull away from him. You barely hear him and he has to keep himself from bursting into tears as you march forward, pushing through the thick wall that seems to appear in front of you from thin air as you force air into your lungs, “wait.” 

The peacekeepers have noticed the interruption and approach Warren as he squeezes out from the middle of the crowd, ready to follow you onto the stage. He forces his way through the rest of the people between you and him despite Ororo’s best efforts to keep him where he is so that the peacekeepers don’t punish him. 

When you turn around, finally registering what he’s doing as the peacekeepers run past you, you almost melt at the sight before you. 

“Y/N!”

Warren is fighting against the peacekeepers, the expression on his face a mix of rage, pain, and grief. There’s so much emotion and you’re ready to run back to him, say “fuck you” to the Capital and run away with him. 

But that’s not how this works.

“Y/N, hold on! Let go of me! Stop!” 

Heads turn to the scene, but Warren doesn’t seem to care as the peacekeepers struggle to hold him back. His wings are fully spread now, not surprising anyone in the crowd. His wings aren’t unknown throughout the district and only the peacekeepers seem to be wary of the sharpened talons on the end of each one. 

You turn back to the stage with less courage then you found in yourself before, when you hadn’t seen the grief-stricken look on Warren’s face. You falter for just a moment before you close the distance between Emma and yourself, standing at her side as Warren quiets, defeated at the sight of you standing on the stage. Your hands are clenched at your sides, your back straight, but he notices your eyes darting around the crowd, trying to find everyone that you care about, giving them a look that tells them you’re saying goodbye. 

“Well,” Emma sighs once the crowd has quieted, putting on a smile that seems more forced then it had been before, “on to the boys.” 

The same process is carried out with the other group and you find Warren’s eyes from the crowd. They’re are filled with tears and you see the steady stream running down his cheeks. It almost makes you burst out into tears of your own, but you don’t think you could move even if you tried. You feel frozen in this moment, the last moment you’ll be in the presence of your family, your friends, and your district. 

Warren. 

“The male tribute for district twelve is...Scott Summers!” 

There’s not a moment of hesitation as another voice erupts from the middle of the crowd, the voice coming from the same person who had been screaming and writhing in the arms of the authorities moments earlier. 

“I volunteer as tribute!”

And as if a train hits you head on, all of the emotions that you’ve pushed back slam into you at full force. 

Your eyes widen and you barely register your hand flying up to cover your mouth. You shake your head as Warren shoulders past the peacekeepers to make his way to the stage. 

“No,” you mutter to no one in particular, your feet carrying you towards Warren before a hand grips your shoulder, holding you in place. You glance back at the peacekeeper who stopped you, but you can't bring yourself to say anything. Not when Warren is walking up the stairs, willing to fight...to die because you’ll have to die too. 

You’re not worth that. 

“Well,” Emma sighs once Warren has situated himself on her other side, his eyes set on the crowd. There are still tear stains on his cheeks but the tears have stopped, his mind set on going to the games now. At least he’ll be able to help you live. At least now he’ll be able to die with you instead of watching it on a damn screen, “that was dramatic.” 

There’s a silence where Emma had hoped there would be a laugh, and it unsettles even you as the crowd stares at the three of you, a deafening silence making the ringing in your ears seem louder then ever. 

“Congratulations to our tributes.” 

You look at Warren and meet his eyes, his expression so full of pain that you think you might crumble under the weight of it. You’ve never seen him like this and you know you’ll never see it again. 

There’s a long moment where no one, not even Emma, speaks or moves at all. Then, as if on a cue, a hand raises in the middle of the crowd and three fingers are stuck proudly in the air. 

The effect is immediate, a ripple of resistance compelling everyone as hand after hand raises in support of the next two tributes of district twelve. Of the next twenty four tributes of Panem, fighting against each other as if they were enemies. 

And when the crowd stills, hands raised in the air, Emma lets out an involuntary, uncomfortable chuckle. She rushes to end the ceremony, unsure of what to do and not knowing if she’ll be in trouble with her superiors if they find out about this sign of rebellion. She skips the last parts of her speech and ends it there, wanting to get you, Warren, and herself out of the twelfth district.

But you and Warren could stand there forever, looking proudly over your district. Over the people you’ve known your whole lives. They’re doing this for you. They’re fighting against the Capital for you. Their tributes.

warnings: cursing, alcohol

The worst moment of Warren Worthington’s life was the second he let you go.

In the surprisingly long span of three years, seven months, and thirteen days Warren Worthington iii has given himself a lot of credit for being able to hold and maintain a steady relationship with someone he thinks may have been pulled out of his dreams.

But he’s made a lot of mistakes during that time, and those mistakes are what tore you apart for a short time after nearly a year of being together. He’s considered many points in his life rock bottom, but none of them ever came close to what he felt when you weren’t in his life anymore.

For Warren, rock bottom came after Apocalypse left him to die. It came after his light, feathered wings were replaced with heavy, hard metal ones. It came when he pushed you out of his life and convinced himself that he’d be better off without you. That you’d be better off without him.

“This is for the best,” he remembers telling you, even at the time knowing that it was a lie. He’ll never forget how goddamn selfish he was then, before he really understood what it meant to love someone.

It was a time when he began drinking again, even after he promised you that he would stop. A time when he felt the pain of his mistakes and tragedies every day, weighing him down until he can barely lift himself up some days.

It was the worst mistake he’s ever made. He still beats himself up for telling you that he needs space, that you should go and live with your parents while he “sorts some shit out”.

The regret for letting you go consumes him to this day, and you know that. Yet, you’re caring enough to understand, even though he knows he doesn’t deserve it. He knows he doesn’t deserve to love you and touch you, to take care of you and let you take care of him. He deserves to never know what love feels like, but you give him yours anyway.

Your love for him is something he’ll never understand.

But in those four years, he’s also felt things that he never even knew could be felt. When he got himself stuck in the cage, he had himself convinced that killing all of the other mutants took away his capacity to feel, even if he was only doing it to survive. He convinced himself that he didn't deserve to be happy because of the things he’d done, so he shut himself down and put up walls to protect himself from the pain and the guilt.

Then you found him. You practically picked him up off the streets, taking him back to your home and tending to his wounds, running your fingers through his feathers to get rid of the dirt and grime between them. You gave him a place to stay and hide from the people looking for him, for their beloved Angel who had killed more mutants than any of their other challengers.

They never found him, and the first thing he felt with you that he never dreamed he’d feel was safe. 

But he still slipped up. He couldn’t help himself, really. Weeks after you took him in and nursed him back to health, he decided that he’d been deprived of alcohol long enough, so he went looking for some good, hard liquor. He was surprised when he found what he was looking for at the top of your pantry, sitting there on the edge of the shelf almost tempting him to take it. The bottle was full, unopened, and damn was it calling his name. So he pushed back the thoughts of what you’d say and think and only focused on the pain he’d been feeling that day from the memories and the nightmares that still plagued him. He drank the bottle.

When you got back that night with groceries in hand, ready to make him a nice, home-cooked meal, you found him passed out on the couch, the bottle still in his hand. 

He woke up while you were cooking, absolutely shit-faced, and dragged himself to where you were standing. And even in the state he was in, he still remembers every detail of that night.

“Maybe you should just drink a glass of water and get some sleep,” you’d told him with a sigh as he stumbled towards you, his hand still wrapped tightly around the neck of the bottle, “we can eat this tomorrow.” 

He remembers smirking drunkenly at you, probably looking like an absolute idiot, and he remembers leaning forward enough that you were trapped between his arms with your back against the counter, a nervous chuckle escaping you and the words, “you’re drunk, Warren,” on the tip of your tongue. But you never got the chance to say them, because Warren had his lips attached to yours in a moment of complete drunken idiocy. All that came from you in that moment was a surprised squeak and a loud clang as you dropped the spoon you’d been holding on the tile of your kitchen floor. It was stupid and if he’d been thinking straight he would’ve talked to you and told you that he felt something for you. Then, maybe if you’d told him you felt the same way, it would have led to a kiss. But he’d skipped everything and gone right to the kiss like a complete idiot. 

But you kissed him back. It was only for a split second before you pushed on his chest lightly and told him to go to bed and sleep off the alcohol. It still meant everything to him. 

Two weeks later, after both of you decided that you’d ignore what had happened, he couldn’t take it anymore. He tried again, sober this time, and he swears he’s never felt happier then he did when he felt your lips against his. He’d been brave that day, wrapping one arm around your waist and pulling you into him to the point that you were practically sitting on his lap, but you just gripped his shirt and poured all the love you had into that kiss.

 And after he finally told you that he felt something for you and you told him you felt the same, after spending months helping him heal and making sure he felt loved, making sure he knew that every one of his scars were a part of him, that his wings were the most beautiful things you’d ever seen in your life, he knew what love felt like.

And he’s still learning what that means. He’s still learning that he can make mistakes, and that those mistakes don’t define him. He’s learning that all people aren’t like his parents. He’s learning that there are people who can love him for him.

Bentley would have dubbed this another normal family weekend at Hogsmeade. There was nothing that was completely eventful that he knew that would stay stuck forever in his mind as he watched people gather in front of store shops. He'd spent a fair amount of his evening in Hog's Head. A few drinks were passed between him and James as they talked about the upcoming school year plans. None of it was actually regarding what either one planned on teaching. It was just betting on which quidditch team was going to play the best or worst, which student was going to be most bothersome--but that was without spilling names, and if the new teachers and staff would work out. James had bid his farewell as he had promised to seek out Cordelia that afternoon. He'd spent one more round by himself up at the bar, pulling himself together more to face the student's families. This year he felt off when it came to meeting the student's family. It was like he had rather not. An inside voice had mocked at him that he was getting depressed or lonely. He'd follow that thought with a half grin to himself and a head shake.

After his last drink, he paid his tab to the barmaid before excusing himself from his stool. He turn to face all the newcomers, families, and some of the drunks that were always there. He didn't see what was to come. His hand's filled the pockets of his dark coat. Bentley pardoned himself through the people and wandered out onto the brisk autumn air. It was a small stroll until he had hit the main path of Hogsmeade. There was a harder breeze that passed through and in a flash things had changed. Ben immediately recognized a shout that was above any other noise in the town. A scream followed. In a moment it seemed like the demeanor of children at play and turned into more of a terrified adult. He stopped and took a glance down one end of Hogsmeade to see if anyone else had noticed what he had. With no response from that end, Bentley glanced back to where he was headed and in the blink of an eye he saw. It was hard to distinguish what was dropped down feet ahead of him. A person seemed glance back at him just as the nightmare of a boggart tried to morph into something Bentley had seen once up in the mountains. Yet it was off--it looked as though it was also attempting to form into what seemed as dementor. The creature presumed to stomp towards Bentley, as it grew claws. It hit him as he noted that the horrifying grotesque creature was having an identity crisis. Ben took a step back as he calculated what to do next. His hand had already reacted with grabbing his wand and pulling it from his coat. What tipped him off next was seeing that different types of creatures were further down at Hogsmeade.