warren worthington iii + reasons not to kiss her

a/n; reader is an electrokinetic mutant because that’s my favourite power @kurtwxgners @mvximoff @madelyne-pryor @dicckgrayson @rax-writes @softwarren

this sort of love is not allowed. you are both too soft, and the world around you is all knives and chipped teeth

The roar of the crowd around the fighting ring is muffled by the walls between the public arena and the rooms where the mutants are kept, but it’s not enough to stop the sound from reaching you and the thrum of the bloodthirsty masses is making it hard to sleep. The dim space where you’re sitting is hardly more than the end of a large corridor with a curtain across one end, but there are a few crates and old, mildewed cushions and you’d rather call it a common room than a corridor, just like you’d rather call the complex where you’re kept a dorm than a prison. Not like the distinction matters to you anymore. Doesn’t matter to any of the mutants who’ve been here longer than a few weeks.  

Lying on your back on one of the shitty cushions the guards let you have, you idly let a spark play along your fingertips, staring up at the ceiling and imagining how your life might have been. Running away from home hadn’t been a stupid decision, but you had been careless and careless had gotten you caught. Had gotten you here.  

The spectators of tonight’s fights howl for blood and you hate them with the calculating disinterest of someone entirely removed from the situation, even though it’s not distant for you. Not at all. You can feel the sting in your shoulders from the talons Angel had raked across them. 

He’d been yesterday’s fight. He’d won. Barely. 

The dingy curtain pushes aside, drawing your attention from the ceiling as another figure enters the small space, and you glance over to see Angel walking in, wings held carefully behind him, a bottle of what you assume is some kind of alcohol clutched in his hand. He hesitates when he sees someone else is there, before sitting down on one of the other shitty cushions, unscrewing the cap of the bottle. You can see him wince at the movement, and you’re not sure whether it’s satisfaction or shame that surges through you because you know you’re what hurt him. There are angry red burns visible on his arms, harsh against the pale skin and you feel guilty for a second before you shift slightly and the sharp pain tugs at your shoulders again from the injuries he dealt you during your bout last night. You bite back the guilt defiantly, rolling over to study him. 

He looks about your age. He looked older all the times you watched him fight before last night and somehow far younger in the ring. Maybe it’s what fear does to people. Doesn’t matter now. As you study him, you realise you don’t know much about him. Not even his name, or at least you assume Angel isn’t his real name. He sounds American and he looks young and as he grimaces slightly after knocking back a mouthful of hard liquor, you wonder what he’s drinking to forget. 

He glances over at you and says brusquely “can I help you?” His eyes are a brilliant blue and in another world, you might be flirting with him. Instead, you just hold out your hand silently for the bottle. He hesitates, taking in the visible gashes along your shoulders before leaning across to pass you the bottle. Your fingertips brush as you take it and his skin is warm against yours. 

You pass the bottle back and forth for a couple of hours, not saying anything, both just watching each other in sidelong gazes and quick glances. He’s beautiful, all blonde curls and blue eyes and expansive, white wings, the pale feathers visible even through the layers of filth. If things were different you’d want to kiss him. 

You still want to kiss him. 

He catches your eye and meets your gaze straight on, and you want to say something, but the roar of the crowd makes your hands clench into fists and you remember where you are and why you can’t let yourself want him. It’s a vulnerability you can’t afford. Instead you tear your gaze away and haul yourself to your feet, muttering “thanks. Sorry about the burns,” before shoving the curtain aside, stalking back to your bunk in the dorms. 

It’s better this way.