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qeterqujll · 2 years

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the hunger games (part 2); you and warren have to fight against one another in the games when you are both chosen, but what if there’s a way out? (part 1) (part 2)

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.

“Then protect him,” Erik finally says, eyes holding a meaning that you can’t fully grasp, “no one else is going to do it for you.”

#wwdrabble #drabble #warren worthington x reader #warren worthington x you #warren worthington imagine #warren worthington imagines #angel x reader #angel x you #angel imagine #angel imagines #xmen x reader #xmen x you #xmen imagine #xmen imagines #hunger games #hunger games au #imagine

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qeterqujll · 2 years

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the hunger games; you and warren have to fight against one another in the games when you are both chosen, but what if there’s a way out? (wc: 2.4k)

warnings: angst, mention of death, cursing

“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.

“And may the odds be ever in your favor.”

#PLEASE this is so bad #but what can you do #part 2 coming tonight #self rb

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qeterqujll · 2 years

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Masterlist

𝒮𝐸𝑅𝐼𝐸𝒮 𝒜𝒩𝒟 𝒪𝒩𝐸-𝒮𝐻𝒪𝒯𝒮

ℜ𝔢𝔡 (Loki Laufeyson x Reader) in progress

You were a part of the Red Room project alongside Natasha Romanoff; however, you were later chosen for something much darker by HYDRA to continue their super soldier experiments. now you have to learn to reacquaint yourself with the rest of the world when you’ve lived most of your life in a lab without any memory of your past.

Masterlist

𝔄𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔩 𝔬𝔣 𝔇𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥 (Loki Laufeyson x Reader) in progress

It is said in one of the oldest prophecies known to Asgard that you will be the one to kill the queen, so your family hides you in fear of Odin killing you. but you won’t be able to hide from him forever.

Prologue

𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔩𝔶 (Loki Laufeyson x Reader) completed

Two broken people come together to try and make each other whole again (based on x)

Part 1 Part 2

𝔖𝔠𝔞𝔯𝔰 (Warren Worthington iii x Reader) completed

Soulmate AU where whatever happens to your skin happens on the other person’s, and Warren has quite a few scars. takes place during X-Men Apocalypse.

Part 1 Part 2

𝔗𝔥𝔢 ℌ𝔲𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔯 𝔊𝔞𝔪𝔢𝔰 (Warren Worthington iii x Reader) in progress

You and Warren have to fight against one another in the games when you are both chosen, but what if there’s a way out?

Part 1

𝔇𝔦𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔤𝔢𝔫𝔱 (Warren Worthington iii x Reader) in progress

You and Warren have a mutual enemy and decide to bond over that.