Ronnie

he’s just as horny and unfiltered as before, but now he has a girlfriend who it’s all directed at. luckily for him, she’s the same, if not more forward.

surprisingly fits in at college. he knows how and when to let loose, he’ll drink and smoke sometimes, and he is shockingly good at drinking games.

over time, his admiration and want to be in the police force like his dad changed into wanting to be in the fbi, which eventually settled on to lawyer. he likes to argue.

he eventually figured out how to play lacrosse, and even plays (casually) at college. he knows he’ll never go pro, but he doesn’t want to.

he also grew into his looks more than before. you always thought he was hot, but you never had to worry about other girls finding him hot. until now. issue is, he has no idea, he still thinks he’s unattractive and ugly.

stiles seems confident on the outside, with how he dresses himself, how he can talk to random people. but you know he’s secretly twitching his fingers against your side, fiddling with your shirts hem, or gently scratching your skin.

has the best music taste you’ve ever seen in a boy. plus he loves your music and plays it so often with you, he listens to it without you.

all works with college!stiles below .ᐟ

ahhh u ask and you shall receive!! (disclaimer: NO SOTR SPOILERS!!! DIFFERENT EVENTS FROM THE ORIGINAL STORY!!)

The Three Times

young!haymitch abernathy x fem!reader content warnings: angst, normal hunger games warnings, descriptions of death (NO SUNRISE ON THE REAPING SPOILERS!!!) summary: the three times haymitch tried to keep you safe. wc: 1.6k

masterlist.

The First Time.

Haymitch isn’t afraid of the reaping.

Not because he thinks he’s safe, he’s not that stupid. His name is in there too many times, and if past games have taught him anything, it’s that the odds don’t favor poor kids from District 12.

He doesn’t fear it because fear won’t change a damn thing.

He stands in the square, jaw tight, arms crossed as the escort steps up to the microphone with their sickly sweet Capitol drawl. The sun beats down, dust rising with every shuffled step of the crowd. Haymitch barely listens, staring at a crack in the stage instead.

Then they say his name.

He exhales through his nose. It was bound to happen. He keeps his shoulders squared as he steps forward, ignoring the murmurs from the crowd. His mother gasps somewhere behind him. His little brother starts crying. Haymitch doesn’t turn around.

He won’t give them that. Won’t let them see him panic.

He climbs the stage, feet heavy, and keeps his face blank as he looks out at the crowd. It doesn’t matter. It’s done.

Then the escort reaches into the second bowl. Their manicured fingers pluck out a slip.

They unfold it slowly.

They read the name.

Haymitch’s stomach drops.

He must’ve heard it wrong. Must’ve misunderstood. But then he sees you, the way your whole body stiffens, the way your hands curl into fists.

You don’t move at first. The silence stretches too long.

His heart slams against his ribs.

This can’t be happening.

Not you.

You finally take a shaky step forward. The crowd parts for you, all those wide, pitying eyes. Haymitch hates them for it.

His whole body feels locked in place, stiff and wrong. He wants to run, to shove you back into the crowd and take your place.

He wants to tear through the square and shake every single person until someone does something.

You step onto the stage. The sun casts a glow over your face, and for a second, you almost don’t look real. You look too soft, too good for this place. For what’s about to happen.

Haymitch’s throat is dry. He knows what happens to people in the arena. He’s imagined his own death a hundred times over. It never scared him much before, not until now. Not until you.

You stand beside him, your breath coming in quick, uneven pulls.

Haymitch twitches, fingers flexing at his side. He wants to reach for you. Wants to lace his fingers through yours and promise that he’ll fix this. That he won’t let them take you. That he’ll find a way for you to make it out.

Instead, he just looks at you.

And you look back.

And in that single moment, nothing else exists. The cameras, the escort, the whole world, they all fade into white noise. All that’s left is the two of you, standing side by side on a stage that might as well be a graveyard.

His fingers brush against yours. Not enough for anyone to see. Just enough for you to feel it.

He couldn't protect you from the reaping.

But he could protect you from the arena.

Haymitch swallows hard. Then, finally, he speaks. Low enough for only you to hear.

"I won’t let them take you."

It’s a promise.

He knows, only one of you is getting out.

And if it comes down to it, it won’t be him.

The Second Time.

Haymitch runs.

The second the gong sounds, he doesn’t think, he just bolts to you, grabs your wrist and runs.

He doesn’t go for the Cornucopia. Not yet. That’s where tributes die first. Instead, grabs two stray packs and pulls you toward the tree line, shoving past another tribute before they can react. You stumble, but his grip tightens, dragging you with him.

The air is hot, thick with something wrong. The trees around you are too perfect, branches too symmetrical, leaves too still, the flowers too beautiful.

The whole place feels like a puppet stage, something stitched together by hands that never touched real earth.

You don’t stop running until your legs give out.

You collapse against a tree, gasping for breath, hands clutching at your knees. Haymitch crouches beside you, every muscle in his body tight, his ears straining for sounds of movement. Screams echo from the Cornucopia, first one, then two, then more.

You’re shaking. He can see it in your hands. He hates it. Not you, never you, but the fact that the Capitol has already won. They’ve already made you afraid.

He exhales sharply, schooling his face into something steady. Strong. You need him to be that.

“Gotta keep moving,” he says, voice low.

You look up at him, eyes wide, but you nod.

"Okay"

Good. That’s good.

He keeps you alive. That’s his only priority

****

You’re no killer, he knew that before, and it only becomes clearer the longer you’re in here. Haymitch doesn’t hold it against you. It’s not a weakness, it’s what makes you you. And if you can’t kill for yourself, he’ll do it for you.

He takes down a tribute the second night. A girl from District 4. She didn’t see him coming. He doesn’t let himself think about it—just focuses on the supplies in her bag, the water canteen, the knife.

Things that will keep you alive.

You don’t look at him the same way after that. Not in a bad way. Just…different.

Like you understand what this means.

Like you know he won’t stop.

Like you’re starting to wonder if he’s going to make it out at all.

****

You don’t get sponsors.

Haymitch does.

It pisses him off. It’s not a coincidence. He plays the part, the tragic lover, the desperate protector, the boy who would do anything to keep you alive. He knows the cameras are watching every time he presses his forehead to yours, every time he cups your face like you’re the last real thing in this whole damn world.

And the gifts come to him.

Not you.

And that’s how he knows.

They don’t care about you. They care about him.

They’ve already picked their Victor.

It makes him sick.

But maybe he can still keep you safe.

The Third Time

It happens on the seventh day.

The arena has been quiet. Too quiet.

Haymitch doesn’t trust it.

He’s on edge as you both walk through the forest, your fingers brushing his arm every now and then, like you’re making sure he’s still there.

He doesn’t blame you.

You haven’t slept. Neither has he.

You’re starving, weak. The sponsors haven’t sent anything in days. Haymitch knows why. He’s seen the writing on the wall since the first night.

They want a show.

And they’re about to get one.

The trap triggers so fast he doesn’t even have time to react.

One second, you're walking beside him. The next, you’re screaming.

A spear, thin as a needle, fast as lightning, shoots out of the ground and impales you through the stomach.

You choke. Stumble. Collapse to your knees.

Haymitch hears his own breath leave his lungs.

“No. No, no, no-”

He’s on you in an instant, hands scrambling to hold you up, but you’re already fading.

The wound is bad. Fatal. He knows it the second he looks at it. The spear is barbed, meant to cause maximum damage.

He grabs it, tries to pull it out-

But your hand covers his, weak, trembling.

“Don’t,” you whisper.

His stomach drops.

Your breathing is shallow, your fingers curling into his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you here. He sees the blood staining your lips, the life slipping from your eyes.

And there’s nothing he can do.

His hands shake as he cradles your face, pressing his forehead against yours.

“You’re okay,” he says, his voice breaking. “You’re okay, dove. Just hold on.”

You let out a weak laugh, barely a sound at all.

“Liar.”

His vision blurs.

This isn’t happening. It can’t be happening.

He should have seen the trap. Should have stopped this.

He should've protected you.

Your fingers brush over his cheek, soft, loving. The way you’ve always touched him.

“You’re gonna win,” you whisper.

He shakes his head. “Not without you.”

You smile at him, but there’s something in your eyes that destroys him. A quiet kind of acceptance.

“I love you...always and forever” you say.

It shatters him.

He can’t do this. He can’t.

“No- don’t say it like that-” His voice cracks, desperate.

You just look at him. Memorizing him. Saying goodbye.

His throat closes.

His heart stops.

Your hand goes slack in his.

Your eyes flutter closed.

And then...

The cannon fires.

Haymitch makes a sound he doesn’t recognize. Something raw, something that sounds like it was ripped out of him.

You’re gone.

You’re gone.

And the worst part?

The cameras are still rolling.

The Capitol wanted this.

And now they have it.

After.

He wins.

Not because he wants to. Because he has to. Because that’s what you wanted.

He uses the arena against itself. The force field, the Capitol’s own arrogance. He beats them at their own game.

He goes home.

Alone.

They try to clean him up, paint him into something pretty for the cameras. He doesn’t let them.

They tell him he should be grateful.

They don’t understand.

There was never a victory. There was just you and then there wasn’t.

So he drinks.

And drinks.

And drinks.

Because that’s the only way to make it stop.

So now not only were you gone.

But so was Haymitch.

Because Haymitch was the boy who loved you.

YES OFC OMG

Someday, One Day.

young!haymitch abernathy x fem!reader content warnings: none!! (SLIGHT SUNRISE ON THE REAPING SPOILERS!!!) summary: a crush on your big brother’s best friend wc: 1.9k

masterlist.

For the longest time, you've had a crush on the one and only Haymitch Abernathy. From his olive skin, his dark curly hair, and gray eyes you've been hooked. He had you wrapped around his finger since you were thirteen. Maybe even earlier than that.

The only problem?

He was your big brother's best friend.

You’d grown up watching them together, the two of them inseparable in the way that only childhood friends could be. Haymitch was always there, laughing at Burdock’s dumb jokes, sharing stories that made you blush or roll your eyes. You were just the little sister who tagged along, always feeling like the third wheel.

Until you weren’t.

Until Haymitch started looking at you differently.

Every now and then, you’d catch him staring. His gaze would linger a little too long, his smile would falter. And when he spoke to you, it was never quite the same as how he talked to everyone else.

Especially when he called you “sweetheart."

It was dangerous, that nickname. It made your heart flutter in a way you could never explain. It wasn’t like you hadn’t seen him act affectionate before; he had a way with people, a teasing warmth that made everyone feel like they were his best friend. But when he said it to you, it felt different. It made you feel like maybe...just maybe he saw you as more than just Burdock’s little sister.

But that was just a fantasy, right? Haymitch couldn’t like you that way. You were the kid he looked after, the girl who tagged along to make sure he didn’t forget to laugh once in a while. He didn’t have time for someone like you.

“Someday, one day,” you’d whisper to yourself late at night, as you stared at the stars, convincing yourself that it was nothing more than a silly crush. You weren’t anything special, just another face in the crowd.

Still, those moments, those stolen looks, kept you wondering. Was there something there? Or was it just a product of your overactive imagination? You’d never know.

The woods were always your escape. Burdock had shown you a safe way to them, so when things got too loud at home, when the world felt too heavy, you’d wander out here, into the quiet stillness, where you could be alone with your thoughts. The sunset was just beginning to stain the sky a deep orange, casting a soft glow over the trees and the dirt path beneath your boots. You felt a sense of peace as you walked, the rustle of leaves and the occasional snap of a twig beneath your feet the only sounds that accompanied you.

You had been walking for a while when you heard it, a soft crunch of leaves behind you, a familiar step. You froze. Then the voice you had been secretly hoping wouldn’t find you called out, low and teasing.

“You get lost, sweetheart?”

You turned to see Haymitch emerging from the tree line, his figure framed by the fading light of the sunset. His shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, and his usual cocky grin was replaced with something softer. Something almost hesitant. He always seemed to know where to find you, didn’t he?

“No,” you replied, trying to sound casual as you crossed your arms, the breeze ruffling your hair. “Just wanted to get away from the noise.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Haymitch said, taking a few slow steps toward you. He glanced around at the woods, his eyes narrowing a little. “But you do know it’s getting dark, right? You might want to head back before it gets too late.”

You smile faintly, your gaze lingering on the horizon where the sun was just starting to dip below the treeline. “Maybe I just like it out here. Feels...quieter. Like the world stops for a second.”

There was a pause. Haymitch didn’t speak right away, his gray eyes scanning you with a sort of intensity that made your heart skip. “One day, I’ll figure out why you always look at things like that,” he said, his voice soft, more serious than you’d ever heard it before.

You tilted your head, not quite understanding. “What do you mean?”

He took a few more steps toward you, his boots soft on the forest floor. The last rays of sunlight caught in his curls, and for a brief moment, he looked almost... like he belonged here, in the quiet of the woods, far away from the noise of the village.

“I mean,” Haymitch started, his voice quieter now, “you see the world differently than most people. You don’t just see the mess. You see the moments in between. The things most people miss. Even in people...Even in me."

You swallowed, trying not to let the warmth spreading through your chest show. Was this just some Haymitch thing, where he’d tease and then leave you wondering what he meant?

"What are you talking about, Haymitch?" Haymitch stopped in his tracks, just a few feet away from you. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you felt thick, full of something unsaid. Then, he stepped forward, his hand gently reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from your face. His touch was warm, almost hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he should be doing this.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, the nickname now feeling tender, almost like a confession, “you don’t get it, do you?”

You blinked up at him, confusion and hope swirling in your chest. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he continued, his voice now low and full of something raw, “I can’t stop thinking about you. Not since… well, not since I actually started to...see you...” he paused, a small, almost embarrassed smile tugging at his lips. “I’ve tried to keep my distance. Tried to ignore it, but you make it damn near impossible.”

Your heart raced in your chest, and before you could stop yourself, you blurted out, “But…I thought you didn’t see me that way.”

“Been tryin’ not to. For a while now. Figured I’d be the worst kind of idiot, wantin’ my best friend’s little sister.”

You swallowed hard. “But you do?”

His laugh was soft. “Every damn day.”

You stared at him, your voice catching in your throat. “Then why haven’t you said anything?”

He looked away, up toward the woods where the deer were starting to step into the clearing, quiet and watchful. “Because if I let myself want you, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop.”

Silence fills the air as you look at him with a soft gaze...then...

“You drive me crazy,” he said, barely above a whisper. “You’re all I think about lately. When I’m out by the meadow, when I’m with Burdock, when I try to sleep- hell, even when I try not to think at all.”

You stared at him, speechless, your mind reeling. The boy you’d secretly hoped might feel the same way was standing here in front of you, his gray eyes filled with longing. Slowly, you took a step forward, your voice barely a whisper.

“So...you...you like me? Like that?”

Haymitch’s gaze softened, and his smile was gentle now, sincere. “More than you’ll ever know."

You stood there, frozen, heart pounding in your chest. His words hung in the air between you, and for a moment, it felt like time had completely stopped. You’d spent so long wondering if this was just a fantasy, if you were just imagining something that wasn’t there. But now, standing in the dimming light of the woods, with Haymitch Abernathy looking at you like he’d been waiting for this moment just as long as you had, it felt real. Too real.

Haymitch seemed to sense your hesitation, and he took another step forward, closing the distance between you. His presence, so familiar and yet so different in this moment, made your breath catch. “Sweetheart,” he said, his voice hushed, almost reverent. “You’ve got no idea how much I’ve wanted to kiss you. How many times I’ve stopped myself because I didn’t want to make everything weird…but I can’t anymore. Not after everything I’ve been feeling. Not after how much I’ve missed this.”

Your stomach fluttered at his confession, the weight of his words sinking deep into your chest. You had dreamed about this. Dreamed about him confessing, about him seeing you, about him wanting you, but the reality of it was still overwhelming.

“Haymitch…” you started, your voice trembling with emotion. But before you could say anything more, he reached up, his hand gently cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your skin. You didn’t pull away. You didn’t even want to.

He leaned in slowly, his eyes flicking from your lips back to your eyes, as if asking for permission. You barely breathed, your pulse rushing in your ears, but you nodded slightly, unable to put words together. It was all you could do.

Haymitch closed the gap then, his lips soft and hesitant at first, as if testing the waters, feeling his way through the moment. When you kissed him back, just the smallest motion of your lips against his, it felt like the world tilted on its axis. All the years of stolen glances, the late-night conversations, the unspoken tension, it was all there in that kiss. The warmth of his lips, the way his hand cradled your face, the feeling of being held by someone who wanted you, needed you. It was overwhelming.

He pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against yours, both of you catching your breath. His gray eyes were darker now, filled with something raw and unguarded. His thumb traced the line of your jaw gently, as if making sure this moment wasn’t just a dream.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion. “I’ve spent so many nights just thinking about you, about us, but I didn’t know how to make it happen. I didn’t want to risk losing you, sweetheart.”

You shook your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. “You don’t have to risk losing me, Haymitch. I...I feel the same way.”

His smile, a soft, sincere curve of his lips, made your heart flutter. “Yeah? Well, in that case…”

He kissed you again, this time deeper, more certain. The world seemed to fade away as you kissed him beneath the trees, the sounds of the forest around you fading into a distant hum. It was just the two of you now, and nothing else mattered. Not the past, not the complications, not the fears.

For once, there was no hesitation, no wondering what could be. There was only Haymitch and the way he kissed you like he’d been waiting for this moment just as long as you had. And for the first time in years, you felt like the world had stopped spinning, just for the two of you.

When you finally pulled away, breathless and smiling, Haymitch rested his forehead against yours again, his hands gentle on your shoulders. “You’re something else, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice filled with awe. “I’ve never wanted anything more than this.”

You smiled, a warmth spreading through you. “Me neither, Haymitch.”

Pairing: Peeta Mellark x Reader

Synopsis: the games are over now and Peeta finds out your relationship was all an act

Masterlist

It was the day you were finally set to arrive back home in District 12 after completing your victory tour for winning the games. You’d been anxiously waiting for this day and wanting nothing more than to trade the makeup and tight dresses for your boots and own bed. The train was running late, ironic considering how fast it was, and you were too anxious to sit still. You noticed a pathway near the train platform and longed to be alone with your thoughts in nature.

“I’m gonna take a walk while we wait for the train.” You announced. Effie sighed and shut her compact mirror before looking at you.

“I suppose that’s all right. But don’t go too far. We board in 15 minutes.” She reminded you. You nodded and started to walk away when Peeta stood up.

“Can I come with you?” He asked. You gulped and forced a smile before nodding your head.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY. ⠀𓂅 ﹡ ˚ . ‎‎‎‎༶

Summary ◟What do you say when the person you love most gets sent away to the most brutal games of them all.

Warnings ◟mention of the games, angst, crying, not book accurate, authors first language isn't english.

Authors note ◟ I've never written for any of the hunger games characters before so this is interesting, and i'm so nervous 🤭 Aww idk what to say I just hope everyone enjoys reading and requests are ofc open! We need to wake the hunger games fandom on tumblr up again haha.

Not proof read cause i'm a lazy btch

too soon? baby, this is how i cope. sort-of spoilers forsotr, but these hcs are like kinda canon-divergent!!

haymitch is seriously a hopeless romantic, like?? i was so shocked by that aspect of his character. he's a lovebug!!

he has 100 pet names for you, and rotates through them all like once a day

he has a great memory and never forgets important dates (birthdays, anniversaries) and if you off-handedly mention that you want/like something, he'll get it for you a month later because he remembers the little details

he's a great listener, too - he gets to know you very deeply and intimately, and he only falls deeper in love the more he learns

has nightmares constantly, and tries to hide them from you so you don't worry - you can hear him whimpering in his sleep often, and you try to soothe him as best as you can, rubbing his back and stroking his hair

big dick. sorry i just gotta get that one out. i know it's big.

someone asked for a haymitch addition to this post, so here you go: i don't really think he's very ticklish, but if you get the right spots - under his arms or his hips - he'll crumble. because it's you, he doesn't fight too hard and just lets you have your fun, and he has the cutest laugh - he'll ramble through it, saying "wait, darlin', c'mon, don't—". he will get revenge though, so beware.

love language is words of affirmation (he's always saying i love you, affirming his attraction and devotion to you) and physical touch (he always wants to hold your hand, kiss you all over, and cuddle you)

but he also loves giving you little gifts??? he's just. genuinely a great boyfriend

hi, tysm for asking and the lovely words!! i decided to do the thg boys bc i only write for 2 atsv characters and one of them is black and as far as i understand a lot of black ppl don’t like having their hair played with so i wasn’t sure what to say for hobie?? if i’m wrong about this plz correct me lol but i didn’t want to be like insensitive so…yeah!!

peeta thinks it’s really sweet. having his scalp scratched would soothe him to sleep super fast, i think, so use this mode of affection with caution if it isn’t bedtime. if he’s had a nightmare or is having trouble falling asleep, he’ll ask you to “do the thing” aka essentially pet him like a dog.

gale finds it soothing when he’s in a bad mood or has a bad dream. it doesn’t make him sleepy, it just helps him relax. he would never ask you to do it, though, you have to just infer that he’s restless and needs to have his hair played with.

finnick loves any and all tender forms of intimacy, so hair playing is definitely included in that. he finds it really soothing, especially after a bad dream. he likes to rest his head in your lap and give you puppy dog eyes til you get the hint and play with his hair.

coryo tries to act like it doesn’t do anything for him, but it really does. academy!coryo’s hair is the perfect length to run your fingers through his curls, but peacekeeper!coryo likes when you scratch at his scalp with your nails since his hair is buzzed. it makes him turn to butter, honestly, he practically purrs, but he gets flustered that it works so well.

Words: 210

Fandom: The Hunger Games

Ships: Gale/reader

Warnings: none

What are the odds?

2.5k words, pure fluff A Wyatt Callow x Reader Fic that a friend requested of me. I hope you enjoy <3 Pre-50th Hunger Games.

Odds, numbers, sequences, and routines. Those were all things that Wyatt would find some solace in. He liked the repetitiveness of his days in District Twelve. Wake up, go to school, get home, help his family. The next day, he would do the same. After that, yet again nothing changed. Rarely did he break this pattern, and that's how he planned to keep it.

He likes the predictability of sequences and numbers. They always had a reason behind why they were what they were. There was always a journey to the conclusion, one Wyatt never had an issue finding.

Of course — what he's known for in the Booker Boy family — his talent for being an oddsmaker. Every single one of his comforts fell into one neat basket with this aptitude of his. All he had to do was analyze information, sort it into a pattern, and see where the bet lay. After years of bets by his family, Wyatt had perfected this system. Narrowing his time down to just a few moments before he churned out statistical odds.

Dandelions and Dice

isa's 700 celebration! 🍉- send me a character/character + reader pair and i'll write a picnic date moment!

wyatt callow x fem!reader (pre 50th hunger games) content warnings: none! all fluff! summary: a picnic with your boyfriend wc: 1.3k

masterlist.

You leaned back against the rough bark of the tree behind you, eyes half-lidded from the sun and the lazy warmth of Wyatt’s body just beside yours.

He sat with his knees pulled up, arms draped loosely over them, face tilted toward the sky like he was trying to memorize the shape of every cloud.

It was always quiet like this when you were with Wyatt.

Not awkward—just comfortable.

Your fingers were barely brushing his where your hands rested on the grass. Just a few centimeters of contact, but enough to make your heart do that stupid fluttering thing.

You glanced at him sideways. “You’ve been weirdly content all day.”

He hummed. “Weirdly?”

“You haven’t done a single probability breakdown. Not even once.”

Wyatt cracked a small smile, still not looking at you. “I’ve done three. Just kept them to myself.”

You laughed. “Figures.”

A breeze swept through and ruffled his hair, and your hand twitched—tempted to reach over and fix it.

Instead, he turned toward you finally, gray eyes soft and steady. “I’ve been thinking about tomorrow.”

You raised an eyebrow, curious. “Yeah?”

He looked a little sheepish now. The tips of his ears went pink.

You waited. You’d learned with Wyatt that you had to let silences sit sometimes.

Finally, he exhaled slowly. “You probably don’t remember, but...tomorrow’s the first time we ever held hands.”

Your heart squeezed.

“You were nervous,” he added, voice a little rough with memory. “Kept flexing your fingers. I thought maybe I did something wrong. But then you reached for me. Just…all of a sudden.”

You remembered now, barely. But what you did remember was how warm his hand was. How steady. How it made you feel like maybe, just maybe, nothing else mattered for a second.

“So,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “I thought I’d, um. Mark the occasion.”

“Mark it how?”

His lips curved, mischief and affection playing tug-of-war in his expression. “You’ll see. Just…wear something you don’t mind getting a little grass-stained.”

Your stomach flipped.

“You’re planning a whole thing just because we held hands?” you asked, breathless with the sweetness of it.

Wyatt shrugged, eyes flicking to where your fingers now were entwined. “It was the first time you let me hold something important.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t, really—not with your throat suddenly tight and your chest warm and full.

Instead, you leaned over and pressed a kiss to his cheek, soft and lingering.

Wyatt didn’t say anything after that. But you caught the little twitch of his lips. The way he squeezed your hand. The way he didn’t let go for the rest of the afternoon.

You had no idea where Wyatt was taking you.

He’d met you early that morning just as the sky was shaking off its fog, a quiet little smile tucked into the corner of his mouth. He didn’t say much—he never did—but there was a brightness in his eyes that made your heart stutter.

“Come on,” he said simply, curling his fingers around yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The two of you walked for a while, weaving through the softer parts of District 12’s outskirts—past the rusted fencing that barely held the wild back, past the last of the old miner trails, where the air grew sweeter and the wind carried the smell of earth and something blooming. Wyatt led with a quiet certainty, like he’d been thinking about this for days.

When the trees finally opened up, your breath caught.

A wide clearing unfolded before you, the grass tall and golden in the sunlight, dotted with bursts of wildflowers. Bees drifted lazily between blooms. At the center of it all, like a secret someone had whispered into existence, was an old patchwork quilt. Faded from years of use, but clean, soft-looking, and carefully smoothed flat. A small basket sat near the edge.

And on top of it, balancing gently, was a single dandelion.

You turned to him, lips parted, unsure what to say.

Wyatt gave a half-shrug, eyes a little shy. “Couldn’t find roses,” he murmured. “But I figured you’d like something that doesn’t need to be perfect to matter.”

Your chest swelled at the quiet honesty of it.

You knelt beside the quilt, fingers reaching delicately for the dandelion. Its bright yellow petals were messy and half-flattened, but still soft. Still alive. You twirled the stem slowly between your fingers.

“It’s beautiful,” you whispered.

Wyatt sat beside you with a soft grunt, pulling the basket into his lap. He started unpacking it carefully—half a loaf of bread wrapped in cloth, a wedge of cheese, some slightly bruised apples, and a tiny glass jar of honey you knew he had to trade something good to get. He didn’t look at you while he worked, but you could see the faint flush on his cheeks.

“Wyatt…” you said softly, warmth blooming in your chest.

He didn’t respond—just handed you a slice of bread like it was nothing. But it wasn’t nothing. None of this was.

A few minutes passed like that, the two of you eating slowly, quiet and easy. The breeze ruffled your hair and played at the ends pf Wyatt’s hair. The sunlight hit his face in a way that made you want to memorize it—how soft he looked when he wasn’t watching the world for danger.

Then you shifted and reached for your bag.

“I brought something for you,” you said, digging into the side pocket. “It’s not much. But… I thought you’d like it.”

Wyatt raised a brow, eyes flicking with interest, and you handed him the small cloth pouch you’d been keeping hidden for a week.

He took it with careful fingers, brows drawn slightly. When he opened it and the two dice tumbled into his palm, you saw his breath catch.

They weren’t perfect. Made from leftover bone pieces one of the butchers gave you after a trade, carved down with care and hours of quiet sanding. The dots were etched gently, darkened with coal dust and sealed with oil. They looked old—but they weren’t. They were new. And they were his.

“I figured,” you started, suddenly nervous, “the ones you use are kind of chipped. And these are just for you. Yours. No one else’s. Just… your own lucky pair.”

Wyatt didn’t say anything at first.

He just stared down at them, thumb brushing over the six-side like he could feel every bit of work you put into them. Then he let out a slow breath and looked at you.

His eyes were soft.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever given me something like this before.”

You swallowed thickly. “You deserve nice things.”

He rolled the dice across the quilt, watched as they bounced and came to a stop....a two and a five. His mouth twitched.

“Seven,” he said. “Lucky number.”

Then he looked up, leaned in slowly, and pressed his forehead against yours. You closed your eyes, feeling the press of him—his warmth, his breath, the weight of this tiny, perfect moment.

“This,” he whispered, voice barely audible, “this right here, it’s the safest I’ve ever felt.”

You reached up and cupped his jaw, your thumb stroking gently at the corner of his mouth. “You’re the safest I’ve ever been.”

Neither of you said much after that. Words weren’t needed. You laid back together, tangled in the softness of the grass and the quiet sounds of summer. You braided a tiny chain of dandelions and placed them on his head like a crown.

He didn’t take it off.

Instead, Wyatt lay beside you with his eyes half-lidded and your hand resting on his chest, and whispered, “Next year. Same day. Same place.”

SNOW LANDS ON TOP - send me a character and a scenario, au, or trope and i'll write some hcs!

𝐔𝐏𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 || wyatt callow x town girl!reader

most everyone in the district stayed away from the callows