#warrenworthington

[margueritesauvage]

From Marvel Age 1000out since last Wed - I loved so much working on this story! words @RainbowRowell edited by @TomBrevoort

[aliceleclert]

What does it say about me that I'm obsessed with a guy dressed as the Devil, and bored out of my mind about * this * guy ? (no offence if you like him))))

[x-childish-x]

Could you write a fluffy Warren Worthington III x nb!reader piece where some mutual pining is going on between them and they end up getting caught under the mistletoe together during Christmas time. They both pretend its fine because they're friends and it's tradition, but yeah, things get a little more intimate than expected. Maybe someone that's outside the relationship makes a joke or smth, idk.

Christmas Spirit

Pairing: Warren Worthington III x nb!reader

Fandom: X-Men

Warnings: mutual pining, flirting, crushes, fluff, teasing, steamy makeout

Word Count: 1,002

A/N: Hello lovely! Thank you so much for this request! It's the first Christmas one! I hope this is what you wanted and that you enjoy it! I appreciate you all so much! I really enjoyed writing this. Happy Holidays everyone! Thank you for all the support and love! Feedback is always welcome and encouraged! Also, yay to our first Warren Worthington fic!

Summary: After spending hours decorating the X-Mansion with your best friends, you find yourself under the mistletoe with none other than Warren.

(gif not mine!)

Christmas time was one of, if not your favorite time of year. You, Peter, Ororo, Jean, and Kurt had been decorating the mansion the entire day. To absolutely no one's surprise, both Scott and Warren seemed to be absolute Grinches. But despite their apparent despising of the holiday, they followed the five of you around the mansion, watching you all excitedly decorate the place.

Christmas music played throughout the entire mansion, causing you and Ororo to stop decorating and break out into song more often than not. As much as you had tried, you couldn't contain the excitement that you felt. How much better could it be? You were decorating your home with your best friends as your favorite songs rang throughout the halls... you couldn't possibly think of anything that could make this any better.

Well, except for one thing. Your gaze fell onto Warren, who seemed to already be watching you. The knowledge that Warren had been watching you caused your cheeks to flush as you looked back down at the garland you were currently wrapping and hanging around one of the many banisters in the mansion. Warren and you... that was a long, complicated story.

Ever since he returned with Ororo after the battle against Apocalypse, you'd were both utterly and obviously in love with one another, even though you'd both always deny it. And let's not even get started on the endless flirting you two would attempt. Despite both Jean and Ororo constantly trying to get you to tell Warren, you knew you never could.

He was a tease. He was too playful for his own good, and you knew that meant he didn't genuinely like you. You hear Warren and Scott laugh lightly at the sight of Peter running up the walls to hang mistletoe on the roof. You smiled widely. This was not only your home, but it was your family, and you were beyond happy you were getting to decorate with them.

A few hours and many decorations later, you all stood in the last hallway, finishing the decorations once and for all. You smiled as you watched Jean direct Kurt and Peter around as you stood off to the side. You'd been put on garland/light duty with Ororo, and of course, you two have finished quickly.

"Hey," Warren spoke softly, nudging you as he stood beside you, "You did a really nice job."

"You think so?" You asked, sparing a glance at him.

Warren nodded, "You can tell that you're putting genuine thought and care into your decorating."

"Thank you."

You could feel your insides swelling with happiness at Warren's comment as you looked around. The mansion truly looked beautiful. Garland, lights, ornaments, and various other decorations scattered the entire home in a beautiful fashion that made you swell and warm up with pure Christmas joy.

A gust of wind blew past your back, and you spun around, looking to see what Peter had been up to when suddenly his voice appeared behind you, "Oooh!! Warren, (Y/n)!! You're under the mistletoe!"

At the same time, Warren and you looked up, and sure enough, there was mistletoe hanging right above where the two of you stood. A glare formed on your face as you turned to look at Peter, who was smiling widely at you. Which, as you looked around at the rest of your friends, you noticed matched many others' expressions as well. How long had they planned this out for?

"I mean..." Warren cleared his throat awkwardly, "I'm down if you are."

"What?" You gasped, turning to look at Warren. He shrugged with a small smile, "You are?!"

Warren nodded, "It's tradition."

"Well..." You mumbled, looking at Ororo and Jean, who gave you a thumbs-up behind Warren's back, "You better get on it then."

Warren laughed softly at your teasing, sassy attitude and immediately pulled you into him by your waist. The feeling of his hands encasing your waist set fire to your body, nerves like you'd never felt before. However, you did your best to shove your nerves down as you locked eyes with Warren and prepared yourself for the kiss.

The moment your lips touched, you knew it was so much more than just a simple little kiss. It felt like your soul was finally uniting with your other half, and you were quickly losing yourself in the kiss. Your hands slid up his chest to wrap around his neck as you deepened the kiss. Warren seemed to be feeling the same as you were. One of his hands moved to caress your face while the other pulled you flush against him.

Right as his tongue swiped along your bottom lip, Scott had to be Scott and ruin the moment, "Geez! The tradition is to kiss, not make babies!"

Warren and you quickly separated from one another, your cheeks blazing as you refused to fully let go of one another. You could hear Ororo and Jean squealing, surely about your kiss, while Scott, Kurt, and Peter groaned about the two 'lovebirds'. You smiled, shaking your head at the outcome of decorating.

"We should probably go talk about this," You whispered to Warren, smiling widely.

He nodded quickly, "Definitely. Let's go talk."

"Talk, my ass," Peter scoffed, squinting at the both of you, "More like talk into each other's mouths."

"Hey, Peter," You smiled, allowing Warren to pull you into his chest, "That one didn't land."

"Yea, yea," Peter nodded, his face reddening as he admitted defeat, "Sounded good in my head... then it was just word vomit."

Warren chuckled as he kissed the side of your head, "It's the thought that counts, buddy."

"How is it that you two just made out in front of all of us, and I'm the one being teased?" Peter pouted.

"Because," Jean laughed softly, as she walked towards Scott, "We've all been waiting for this for months."

Kurt smiled as he pats Peter's shoulder, smiling over at you and Warren, "It was the Christmas spirit!"

General taglist: @nowthisisdark @techssexythighs

X-Men taglist: @madison05x

[mutantoftheday]

The Mutant Of The Day Is Warren Kenneth Worthington III (AKA, Angel, Archangel, Death)

Mutant Power: Flight Via Angel Wings, Hollow Bones, Enhances Senses, Agility, Speed, Durability, Strength, Dexterity And Flexibility. Regenerative Wings.

Archangel Form: Techno-Organic Wings, Wing Blades, Wing Shielding, Poisonous Plumage, Energy Halo.

Warren Was One Of The Original Five X-Men, And Is A Wealthy Businessman & Entrepreneur. He Is Currently CXO of X-Corp, Krakoa’s Business & Mutant Relations And Protection Foundation.

[oscarherreroart]

#osktober2022 Día 04 - Warren Kenneth Worthington III. Angel, de los X-Men. Los originales están a la venta (tamaño A4, 300gr). Si te interesa, mándame un privado. . Day 04 - Warren Kenneth Worthington III. Angel, from the X-Men. Original art for sale (A4, 300gr). If you’re interested, send me a DM. . . . . . #inktober #inking #art #comicart #artist #ink #drawing #lineart #inkdrawing #artistsoninstagram #drawingprompts #promptlist #illustrator #comic #warrenworthington #warrenworthingtoniii #angel #angelcosplay #mutants #xmen #inktober2020 #oscarherrerogalan #inktober2021 (en Madrid, Spain) https://www.instagram.com/p/CjR9-fgK5Lq/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[phenomenal410]

The Original 5. #scottsummers, #jeangrey, #hankmccoy, #bobbydrake, #warrenworthington,#cyclops, #marvelgirl, #phoenix, #beast, #iceman, #angel, #archangel, #xmen, #xfactor, https://www.instagram.com/p/Cgpg33jJtpI/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[jeniidrawsshit]

A little #wip for @masters_of_anatomy #drawmoa challenge! I still have shading to do…and maybe some effects? 👀 Battle of the blue boys. . . . . . #drawthisinyourstyle #nightcrawler #archangel #xmen #mutants #kurtwagner #warrenworthington (at Rogers Park, Chicago) https://www.instagram.com/p/CV6l9oOsHGf/?utm_medium=tumblr

[literallyjustanerd]

4:51am - 80s AU (Warren Worthington III/Kurt Wagner)

Part of a series of oneshots I’ve been writing about my favourite boys in various historical settings. This is only part one of this chapter, more soon to come! Please let me know what you think, and feel free to check out the rest of my (mostly gay) writing here

This chapter: the 80s, in which Warren wears leather, gets drunk, and pours a gas can of angst over his head while thinking about various parts of his life.

           11:42pm, September 1986

           “Double rum and coke.” The bartender’s brow furrows, leaning across the bar with her ear tilted towards Warren. “Rum and coke. Double,” Warren says again, voice raised louder against the pounding music. She nods her understanding and pulls out a fresh glass, as Warren slumps on his elbows against the bartop, tugging at the back of his leather jacket until it once again sits comfortably against the bases of his wings. Alone and six drinks passed the point of sober, he is eager to fill himself with as much liquid distraction as possible. The goal is to stuff his mind to the brim with alcohol and nicotine and neon lights and electronic music, leaving no room for any of the many anxieties and frustrations that nag at the edge of his thoughts. No room for him, no room for them, or for that. Just drinking and dancing and forgetting. And this place, this hole in the wall set deep in lower Manhattan, is the perfect place for forgetting. The kind of place where you catch glimpses of people you know; friends, colleagues, old high school classmates; only for both of you to immediately avert your gaze and pretend neither saw a thing. The kind of place that the ostensibly-closeted mutant son of an affluent businessman should by no means be spending his Tuesday night.

           The drink is poured, and Warren downs it all at once, the plastic glass skittering across the counter as he discards it. Gathering his strength, he pushes off from the harbour of the bar to venture into the ocean before him. A thundering beat penetrates his ears, bright strobing lights whirl in and out of his vision, and he dissolves into the crowd, allowing its push and pull to swallow him whole like a relentless tide. The crowd, faceless and amorphous, is eager to welcome him home. An arm collides with his shoulder, a back presses persistently into the feathers of his wing, the pressure both comforting and exhilarating. The pounding of the drums is all-consuming, and Warren is not moving so much as he is being moved by it, hanging off its every ebb and flow and gladly submitting himself to its power. Its thrall is so compelling that Warren’s very heartbeat has become entwined with it, so that when the tune finally fades out, the brief transition between songs stops his heart altogether, until a different rhythm kicks up and the ritual begins again.

           2:09am            Years pass in seconds, and as though being pulled from a dream, Warren is ushered out of the club along with the crowd that had become his home, thrust unwilling into the cold night air of the real world. Staggering on his feet, he drags himself to the curb, shaking his wings out in the newfound space. The people who surround him laugh, and the sound seems to echo in Warren’s ears as they pass him, sparing no glance for the drunken mutant they had just been so intimately acquainted with. The stench of cigarette smoke is somehow just as strong on the sidewalk as it had been inside and Warren breathes it deeply before sticking out a hand to try and hail the cabs circling, like vultures waiting to pick off the faded partygoers. Out here, there is more room to think, and though he tries to fight them off, Warren’s thoughts begin to trickle back in, muddled and barely coherent in his stupor.

           Months had passed since that day, yet Warren still feels the rush of meeting him as though it had been that very morning. He’d only just settled into the house that Xavier built, barely begun to let down his guard to the other mutants there, the ones that called themselves the X-Men. He’d been told to expect new teammates to appear sporadically as the Professor rounded them up and offered them positions, so he wasn’t surprised when Jean had told him one morning that there was one such newcomer waiting to be introduced in the living room. No, that wasn’t surprising at all. But when he dragged himself and his morning coffee into the lounge, when his eyes had alighted on that bright, innocent smile and downright bubbly “guten tag,” he felt like he’d been knocked upside the head. By now he was good at keeping his cool whenever he felt the tug of attraction stirring up his insides. He’d learned to stay composed years ago, for the sake of self-preservation more than anything. But this, oh god, this was something else entirely.

           In reality, it had taken weeks for the feelings to reach their peak, to grow to the point that Warren’s stomach knotted whenever Kurt laughed at one of his jokes and he felt like crying whenever Kurt smiled his perfect, blameless smile. But in the twisted concoction of his memories, it felt as though he’d been that hopelessly, pitifully smitten since the very first moment. And it hadn’t gone away, no matter how much Warren had scolded himself. Again and again he’d broken through the terrifying high that Kurt’s company gave him to remind himself that he was always one tiny misjudgement away from a one-way ticket to shame and alienation, the last thing he wanted after finally finding a group who he knew accepted at least one of the less media-friendly components of his identity. He still felt it, though. He still dreamt.

           2:31am            The cab driver does not try to make conversation when Warren collapses onto the faded leather seat. For this, Warren is both relieved and unnerved. The drone of the easy listening radio station in the front seat is hardly enough to keep his own thoughts at bay, and he turns his gaze out the window, streetlights passing in a steady rhythm, bathing Warren in a sickly glow that turns his wings from white to yellow-gold and back each moment. He steals a glance of the cab driver— older, moustachioed, eyes dark and intense. As slow and muddled as his thoughts have become, Warren still catches notice of how hard the man is gripping the steering wheel, how his mouth seems to quirk as though in deep conversation with himself. It’s because of the wings. That’s why he isn’t speaking to you. The voice snarls from deep within Warren’s subconscious, punching him in the gut. Why would he speak to a mutant? Why would he speak to a mutant he picked up from a gay bar? You’re lucky he even took your ride at all.

            His breath hisses as he sucks it in through his teeth. He knows this voice well. It is the ball and chain that keeps him tethered to the ground, prevents him from ever straying too far into the foolish fantasy that he might someday be able to live without shame, without guilt. It first arose shortly after his wings began growing, and reached its loudest on the day before he took up a room at the Xavier mansion.

            “Didn’t you think for even a moment about how this affects my reputation?! You can’t just do these things, Warren!” That night, the night he’d finally given up on the tenuous, volatile relationship he had with his father, was cold. The rain pounded outside, so the volume of the TV was raised high, forcing their voices higher still to be heard above it. The news story before them showed aerial shots of the city from earlier in the day: another mutant rights protest, this one surrounding the very research facility that Warren’s father owned and operated. “I was just talking to them, okay? They’re mutants, too. They know what it’s like, they say they can help me to—” “Help you? They think they can help you? There is help for you, Warren! We tried to help you, we showed you a cure, and you refused us!” “Maybe I don’t need to be cured!” he had blurted, eyes wide, angry and fearful. “Of course you do! Look at yourself, look at those godforsaken wings! None of this is natural.” “Then why did it happen?” Warren’s father made a predatory noise, a wolfish growl. His mother, sat on the other end of the sofa, had her eyes in her lap, stiff and unmoving as though she believed she could make herself invisible just by keeping still and silent. “I’ll make this simple for you, boy,” his father spat. “Only because you’re too thick-headed to know what’s good for you. Either you get your head on straight and get yourself fixed, or you get your shit and get out of this house. And don’t even think about coming back.”

           Warren had moved out the next day, taken everything he could fit into the few suitcases he could carry. As unstable as his relationship with his parents had been since his mutation had manifested, he’d never expected to have to take up the Professor’s offer of a room at the school. Nor had he expected to enjoy being surrounded by others with their own weird and wonderful powers and abilities like his. As comforting as it was, though, it did little to dull the voice. It still visited him: at night, when he had nothing else to distract him from his darkest thoughts. Out on the street, when mothers pulled their children closer and sped up to walk past him on the sidewalk. When he caught himself daydreaming about running his hand through thick, black hair, smiling down into bright golden eyes. Different, it sneered. Different and wrong. Different and broken. Different and a mistake.

           3:15am            Warren is jostled from his reverie as the cab pulls off the road and onto the gravel driveway of the mansion. He blinks hard, though it does nothing to clear his head or focus his eyes. He digs through the pocket of his too-tight jeans and fishes out his wallet, thrusting a fistful of notes gracelessly toward the driver. As the man counts out his change, Warren takes note of the beads of water gathering on the windshield, glowing golden in the headlights. He doesn’t remember when it had started raining, but he does welcome the feeling of the fine mist against his face as he steps out of the cab. Far from the bustle and life of the inner city, the mansion is a silent, looming black mountain before him. The crunching of gravel beneath his feet feels impolite, like speaking in a movie theatre or laughing too loud in a restaurant. And yet, as he reaches the large oak doors, his eyes catch on a hint of light, past the entryway and into the living room beside the kitchen. Someone is up, someone is awake, there is life in this old house at such a late, deadened hour. And, with both a swelling and a sinking in his chest as he manages his key in the lock, he thinks he knows just who it is.