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Forgive me for any inaccuracies, I'm american and don't know much about other ways of celebrating new years.
Very short one because I'm doing this 1 hour before midnight for me, haha.
Viper
⭑.ᐟ Sabine doesn't often do much for the new year. No big celebration, no going to parties, just staying home or in the office. But that doesn't mean she would ignore the 'holiday' altogether, especially not when she's got you by her side.
The best she can do for you is staying up until midnight with you, pressing a tender kiss to your lips when it finally turns 12. The cider she bought earlier in the week now practically empty with how much you've both drunken, and the taste lingers when you kiss.
There isn't any big flare to your new years day, but it doesn't matter as long as Sabine is there with you. Keeping you close in her arms while you two sit on the couch, watching whatever you want to watch until the both of you fall asleep.
Clove
⭑.ᐟ Ollie is a fiend for celebrations, especially ones celebrated world wide! So of course they're hosting; with your input, of course. It'll be as big or as small as you're comfortable with, but you best believe their DnD group will be there no matter what.
Food is nothing to worry about, as they've already dropped a whole paycheck on wings, chips, candy, soda, some beers, whatever else they could think of. As well as your favorites, of course.
When the ball drops at 12, they're grabbing onto your shirt like their life depends on it as they pull you into a silly kiss. They're giggling and smiling wide as they wrap their arms around you and probably make you two fall to the ground. Hashtag worth it for a picture perfect moment with you.
Neon
⭑.ᐟ Tala says she doesn't do much, but that's a big fucking lie. She's going to parties like a frat boy; she doesn't need to know anyone there to enjoy her time. It's like bar hopping, but for parties! Rest assured her hand is in yours the entire time, dragging you along as she dances her way through the crowds.
As the night goes on the hops from party to party calm down, and she's slowing down to walk side by side with you down the road. You've both probably stopped to get something to eat at a fast joint, swinging the bag back and forth as you two walk.
Of course, she's set a timer to a minute till 12, just so she can make sure to give you that kiss. It's a quick peck, but not just one to make up for it. She's pressing kiss upon kiss all over your face as she's whispering "happy new year" in between them all.
Requests: Hello, the new Valorant agent caught my attention, so could you do it with Tejo, like him and the reader meeting each other and what their relationship is like?(male reader please, but can be gn)
Hi! Can I request dating headcanons for Tejo, Vyse, Clove, and Iso from Valorant?
I imagine your first meeting is similar to how the other agents meet him, returning from leave to find him already at base.
He’ll start following you around for one of two reasons, if you’re a rule follower like Brimstone, or someone like Jett or Phoenix, someone who breaks the rules.
If you follow them; He loves to bother you, trying to get you to break one. This gives him the chance to tease you later down the line for breaking the no fraternizing rule.
If not; Invites you out to do anything really, testing out weapons and abilities or just getting out and about.
So touchy with you, his love languages are definitely Physical touch and Acts of service.
Loves suddenly pulling you back into his arms, keeping you trapped until he’s satisfied or you escape.
Trusts you with his weapons and tools, so if he ever had to go somewhere without them, they’re going under your care.
Loves giving you pet names and will do it in front of others with no shame.
Her love languages are definitely Acts of service and Quality time.
She isn’t the best when it comes to giving you affection, she tries but it’ll take her a while before she becomes fully comfortable.
You get scary guard dog privileges.
Can’t really kiss you properly, so she makes up for it with other affection, such as hand holding, hugs and nuzzling. Although in the morning when she’s tired, she’ll lean over and press her mask against your cheek.
Behind closed doors she loves referring to you as petnames and only them, does it while you both cuddle. Becomes embarrassed when you mention this to anyone else, but they don’t believe you, who would?
Was so confident when it came to confessing but you make her feel like a school girl all over again.
Clove’s love languages are Physical touch and Words of affirmation.
Absolute cuddlebug, nowhere at base is off limits for them. Will keep you trapped in their grasp for hours at a time until you pry them off, then they’ll start whining for you to come back.
Calls you a few petnames but ultimately lands on your name.
Loves kissing you, they definitely leave lipstick marks all over your face. Won’t tell you but will silently laugh.
Matching. They’ll match anything with you, nails, bracelets, clothing or accessories.
They love taking you out for anything, eating, shopping or just browsing. They especially love cat cafes, they’re a regular at a nearby one and will take you there often.
His love language is Quality time.
Will share his airpods with you and plays whatever music you want.
Has a dedicated playlist for you, it has just over a hundred songs and counting.
Loves holding your hands, especially when giving you kisses. Does them in more sensitive spots causing you to squirm and try move away.
More than willing to sit in silence if you’re there with him.
Isn’t the most talkative person around but he tries with you, even though it ends up with you yapping while he just listens and occasionally asks questions.
If you’re down to go out he’s taking you to get boba, but if you don’t want to go out he’ll bring you some instead.
Clove kentwell x reader where clove mentors reader? It’s ok if not tho
Glory to the Victors - Clove Kentwell
masterlist
Only a Career would consider Reaping Day a blessing. For most of Panem, this celebration of the Capitol is more of a curse. Over the next few weeks, twenty-four bright and blossoming Tributes will enter the jewel of your country, and only one will walk out. It’s brutal, it’s bloodthirsty, and it’s the opportunity you’ve been waiting for your entire life.
After all, your experience as a tribute doesn’t end when you become the final survivor of the Hunger Games. No, that’s when your life just begins. Victors get a better shot at just about everything. You’d get more freedom to leave District Two on your Victory Tour, then constant visits to the Capitol whenever your audience was requested. Your home has felt like a prison for years now, a cell block of parental expectation and hunger. If you could leave– if you could win– you’d risk everything. And you will.
Every child worth something in District Two has been training for the Hunger Games for their entire lives, and you are certainly no exception. You’re a well-rounded candidate, capable of distance running, fast sprints, survival techniques, and most methods of fighting, but you prefer your knives above all else. Whether you’re throwing one to keep your distance or sneaking one up your sleeve for when death is least expected, you’ve made sure you’re ready for anything. The fact that District Two’s last Victor, Clove Kentwell, was a fierce proponent of her knives only solidified the idea in your mind. If she could do it, so can you.
Clove. The girl has a pedestal like an idol in your mind. She’s only a year or two older than you, but she entered her Games young and won them decisively. It’s not as if anyone would underestimate someone from Two, but Clove was more cunning and ruthless than even her neighbors expected. She was perfect. You remember watching her Games a few years ago in awe, as if the nimble, brilliant figure on the screen wasn’t a girl but a god. You had always wanted to enter the Games, but watching Clove, you knew you had to have it. You had to be a Victor, just like her. It was that or fade into obscurity, another almost-was nothing.
District Two loves its Victors with a burning passion, but the only emotion stronger than that love is the hate it directs towards its failures. You know of many has-beens who trained their whole lives for the Games only to miss their chance, their names never pulled in the Reaping and who let a brief moment of cowardice stop them from volunteering. They spend the rest of their days losing their hunters’ instincts in drink and despair, lamenting to any passersby how close they came to glory. Any parent would rather have a casket of a child who died bravely than a photo of someone who just couldn’t get it done.
Failure is inexcusable. You’ve known this since you were young. You only have two years left before you age out of the Reaping. The window of time to secure your legacy is slipping through your fingertips like sand. Either you enter the Games, or you’re shunted aside forever, another grown up wunderkind who never became a wonder. Everyone’s watching you now, waiting to see if you’ll complete your destiny or succumb to fear and stay out of the Arena.
You won’t let them down. The day of the Reaping approaches, and your hands can hardly stop trembling from excitement. Either your name will be called or you’ll volunteer, but regardless, you will be sending yourself to the Capitol, heaven help the poor girl who tries to get in your way. Then you’ll prove yourself, another day in the gymnasiums throwing knives into dummies or training with the instructors, and you’ll come home a Victor, elevated to glory, finally with enough to eat and a sturdy roof over your head.
You dress quickly in the morning and head out of your home, sparing one last glance at the familiar structure before you go. With all luck, this will be the last time you see this place. When you come back from the Games, you’ll be moved to Victor’s Village. You intentionally take a path to the district center that passes by the Village, unable to stop your eyes from longingly roving over the lines of luxurious houses. You can see a few lights in the windows despite the early hour, Victors eager to gather again and relive the golden memories of their time in the limelight.
One of them is emerging from their house at the moment, shutting the door softly behind them. They startle slightly when they see you, and you realize that you know this Victor by the dark locks of hair framing her face. The early morning sun shines in her dark eyes, which narrow slightly when she takes in the sight of you. It’s Clove, you’d know her anywhere. You’ve spent countless hours reviewing her Games again and again, watching every move, learning from every twist of the knife or stab in the dark.
You’re not honestly sure if she knows you. You would have crossed paths in school, of course, but that was before she became a Victor, and you’re certain all of that time must have felt like nothing compared to the success of her life now. Once you win the Hunger Games, everything changes. That’s what you’ve heard, at least. It’s not like any of the Victors bother to slum it with the rest of you enough to impart words of wisdom like that.
Your heart leaps in your chest, wondering if she’s also headed to the Reaping, if she’ll maybe even walk with you. Your hopes are swiftly dashed when Clove instead turns in the opposite direction, quickly disappearing out of sight. She must be going on a walk or something to clear her thoughts. Shaking your head with a small amount of regret, you carry on towards the center of Two. You’ll have plenty of time to see her after you join her in Victor’s Village.
The thought sets your heart alight, and your steps become lighter, carrying you on a tide of eagerness towards your fate. More citizens of Two appear from their homes as you walk, emerging from locked doors or dawnlit streets. Suddenly, you’re surrounded by a growing flood of people, all hastening to hear who will become the latest pair of soon-to-be heroes for Two.
The stream separates once you reach the fences erected around the city square. Adults and young children head directly into the center, forming orderly lines to view the Reaping. Teenagers split off, headed for the Peacekeepers tallying those who enter. You slowly progress through the lines of candidates checking in, carefully eyeing those around you. Who among your ranks is also hoping for the Games this year? Who of the boys would be your partner? Hopefully not someone you know, you would hate to be responsible for the death of a friend. Grimly, you set your jaw. Regardless of who is beside you on the train to the Capitol, you’ll win. You have to win. There is no option except your victory.
You reach the front of the line at last, accepting the prick of your finger to verify your identity. The Peacekeeper nods, and you at last progress past him to the city square. Lines are forming according to age; you join your classmates, back straight and proud. This is the last year you’ll stand here, among the nameless rest. The next time the Reaping comes to town, you’ll be with the Victors on stage, proud, carrying the honor of your district.
You scan the Victors onstage and find Clove. She’s at the front, but looks displeased with it, shifting slightly from the obvious attention. Once the camera is on her, though, a nudge from the Victor beside her is all it takes and Clove is back to her steadfast self, gritty and determined as always.
You suffer through the usual speech about the glory of Panem and the need for the Hunger Games, and then before you know it, it’s time for the Reaping to begin. Ladies’ names are called first, as always, and your hands clench into fists at your sides. All of a sudden, your heart is in your throat, and for someone who’s been waiting for this moment for years, you’re oddly terrified. For a moment, a voice in the back of your head asks if you really want to be doing this, and then–
“Y/N L/N!” The voice of your Capitol representative echoes over the crowd, and your head snaps up. It’s happened. You didn’t even have to volunteer. It happened to you.
Hands rise out of the crowd, patting you on the back. Your friends are grinning at you, their eyes a mess of jealousy. You’ll be the one to bring back the title to Two, not one of them. They’re furious at you for stealing the glory and desperately grateful that you’ve spared them from the Arena, not that anyone would be foolish enough to put that into words. Not that anyone could put it into words at all. Such clarity only exists when you’re on the other end of a knife.
Your feet carry you up to the stage, where you take your place next to the beaming woman from the Capitol. Boys are next, and it’s someone you’ve seen before a few times. You think he sat next to you in class last year, his house is two streets over from yours. He’s strong. You’ll have to be careful.
The woman from the Capitol raises both of your hands, and your district rewards you with applause. You can’t help but beam back at them in triumph, and then you’re being ushered away into the mayor’s office to receive congratulations from your family. Peacekeepers rush in soon enough to guide you to the train. It all seems to happen in a blur, saying your goodbyes for now, watching the crowds wave to you, then your whole life rushing away from you in a smear of happy faces and train tracks.
Then Two is gone, and all you can see out the windows is a racing landscape you’ve never walked before. Only now do you have the time to take in the luxury of the train, the dazed surprise on the face of the male tribute, and the Victors shuffling around the dining car on their way back to their own rooms.
You walk over to them eagerly. “So? Who do we get for Mentors this year?”
A tall man, the Victor ten years ago, laughs abruptly at you. “Aren’t you eager? You’ll get Clove. If you have any questions, ask her, not us.”
He chuckles derisively again, then grabs one last drink and walks briskly away, not sparing a single glance towards you. The rest of the Victors disappear with him, until the only ones left in the car are you, Clove, the male tribute, and another Mentor, who beckons for your schoolmate to follow him to the opposite side of the car.
You glance at them, confused. “Aren’t we going to talk together?”
Clove snorts next to you, idly sipping at a glass of water. “He’s not your friend anymore. Why would he help you by talking? We’re not going to sit in a circle and share our feelings, if that’s what you wanted.”
Her tone makes you defensive. “I’m not expecting summer camp, I want guidance from the Victors. Yet they’re nowhere to be found.”
Clove looks bemused. “Only the Mentors are required to talk to you. I drew the short straw this year, so I have to help you out. Otherwise I’d be gossiping in the drinks car, too.”
Your hero worship vanishes in a flash, replaced by cold anger. “I’m so sorry that this is so hard on you. It must be really difficult to have to talk to someone from your own district a few times. I’m not asking for miracles, Clove, but I do expect you to actually mentor me.”
Clove sits up in a second, eyes hardening. “You don’t know a thing about what it’s like. You got stuck in these Games, big deal. You’ll be dead in two days regardless of what I tell you. Congratulations, your life is over. If you’re somehow still alive in a week, I’ll apologize for the fact that none of them want to talk to you, but until then, you’ll have to deal with my attitude. Sounds good?”
You draw back in surprise. “I’m going to win these Games. As my Mentor, shouldn’t you believe that?”
Clove doesn’t bat an eye. “I’ve heard that before. Guess how many ended up telling the truth? You’re stuck with a bad deal that no one wants. The sooner you accept that, the better.”
“I’m not going to accept anything,” you say forcefully. “I wanted this, by the way. If my name hadn’t been called, I would have volunteered.”
Clove scoffs again. “Yeah, right. Everyone says that, yet we’ve had two Volunteers in eight years. Everyone gets scared when it finally hits them that they’ll die in the Arena. It would have gotten to you, too.”
You shake your head firmly. “You’re wrong. I would have volunteered because I know I’m going to win. I’ve been training for this my whole life. I’m ready.”
Clove’s bitterness leaves her, replaced by something like pity. “Everyone in Two has trained their whole lives for this. Still, we seem to have an awful lot of caskets, don’t we?”
Her words strike a chord, but you refuse to show it on your face. “I’ll make a bet with you, then. If I win the Games and walk out of here alive, you have to admit that your cynicism is worthless.”
Clove arches a brow. “And if you lose?”
You smile thinly. “Then you can gloat over my corpse.”
She lets out a half-laugh. “Your sense of humor is remarkable. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost say you’d fit right in with us.”
This time, you smile for real. “Trust me, Clove. I’ll fit in just fine.”
Regardless of whether or not she truly does believe you, Clove opens up a little more after that. You spend the rest of the train ride developing an initial strategy. Despite yourself, you keep your voice low so the other tribute from Two can’t hear, and the two of you stay on opposite sides of the car the whole time, building secrets, planning alliances.
Clove isn’t what you expected, that’s for sure. You had assumed that she would be proud of her time in the Games, that all of the Victors would be. Maybe it was naive to expect everyone to just sit around swapping stories of their grisly wins in the Games, but you thought you’d hear from someone other than your Mentor.
Then again, if you were going to hear from anyone, Clove seems like the best option. She’s the most recent Victor, so time hasn’t clouded her memories yet. Some of her advice isn’t new to you, like to always keep a source of fresh water and only take out the strongest candidates in groups, but you’re surprised by some tips too. Always sleep with one eye open, she says. Volunteer to take the first watch when you’re not sure of the loyalties of your group.
You can’t help but eye the other tribute from across the traincar. You’ll team up with the other Careers at first, of course, but only one person can win the Hunger Games. At some point, you’ll stop watching his back, or kill him outright. It’s him or you, and you have to win. After all, you’ve promised Clove as much, and you hardly plan to let her down.
Arriving at the Capitol is a blur. The faces beaming up at you from the station are gaudy and painted. You almost laugh at them before you catch Clove silently warning you with a shake of her head, and you keep yourself in check. After that, you’re led to the prep team to be made over. You’re mostly silent while they buzz around you, plotting your next moves. You’ll have the parade to contest with, of course, then training sessions and interviews. You’re most concerned with what to do in your private session with the Gamemakers. They’ve seen a lifetime of contenders, how could you possibly stand out?
The parade comes soon enough. For District Two, masonry, your stylists have gone with a statuesque look, dressing you and the other tribute up like old gods. There’s a crown of gold laurel leaves in your hair, mimicking the Victor’s crown you’ll wear soon enough, and marble cloth is draped exquisitely about you, kept in place with golden pins and a matching belt. You’ve had the chance to look at a mirror, and you hardly recognize yourself. It’s like you have a twin, another girl who might have been you in a former life. This is a Victor, you tell yourself. This is the person you have to be.
Clove is waiting for you by your chariot. Around you, prep teams and tributes chatter endlessly, fixing clothes, adjusting headpieces, whispering secrets. Peacekeepers stand sentinel everywhere, a silent reminder that the only way to go is forward. There is no escape, not here. Not that you’d want an escape, of course. You’re exactly where you want to be.
Clove folds her arms when she sees you, taking in your outfit critically. “I think I liked my parade getup better,” she says by way of greeting.
Now that you’re expecting her straightforward remarks, you don’t take the barb personally. “Yeah? How about you tell me all about it, Mentor?”
She actually grins at that. “Later, maybe. I don’t think hearing about how good I looked will be useful right now.”
You laugh quietly. “Maybe not. What do you recommend, then? How do I succeed in the parade?”
Clove’s hand darts out to fix a fold of your dress. “Just smile and wave. Look like you love this.”
“I do,” you answer honestly. How could you not? You can hear the roar of the crowd building with every moment. When was the last time that many people were delighted at the sheer thought of seeing you? When was the last time anyone cared enough that you existed?
Clove’s lips purse at your remark, but she hides her disapproval quickly. “You’ll be fine. Keep that woebegotten optimism and they’ll love you.”
“Yeah?” You ask. “They’ll love the look, at least. I look–”
Good, you want to say. You look good, for once. Before you can say it, though, Clove cuts you off. “I don’t know,” she says a little too quickly, “I think I’ll be happier when all that makeup is off. Easier to look at you.”
You laugh to hide the odd prick of unhappiness in your gut. You’d wanted Clove to like your new look, you’d wanted her to love it just as much as the Capitol, although you can’t quite say why. “So I’m blindingly attractive, then? I’ll take that as a positive.”
She snorts. “Get on the chariot. If you say anything like that in the interviews, they’ll think you’re insane.”
You roll your eyes, albeit fondly, and do as told. The other tribute is already waiting for you, and you stand shoulder to shoulder, perfect statues for the Capitol citizens to adore. You glance back at Clove one last time, but she’s already gone, disappeared into the throng of partygoers waiting to love you. You try to crane your neck and see where she went, but the tributes from District One are already starting to move, and your horses are picking up their feet, ready to carry you into the spotlight.
The parade is nothing like you ever could have dreamed. It’s so loud that you feel the cheers in your bones, dancing up the soles of your feet, drumming between your ribs. You remember waving, beaming ear to ear until your face hurt, and you remember the Capitol citizens waving back at you, cheering when you made eye contact with any one of them. The chariot took you on a loop of the crowds, stopping in front of a stage with a raised podium. Once the last chariot rolls into place, President Snow rises and takes his place.
Staring up at the man, you can’t help but fear a roll of nerves chill your stomach, icing out the joy of the screaming crowds. This is the most powerful man in Panem. He’s the reason you’re here. He’s the reason you can’t ever leave. He says a few things– greetings, expectations of glory for the Games, and then the tributes are leaving again, but that unsettled feeling doesn’t.
You only start to feel more like yourself once you’ve had the opportunity to get dressed in normal clothes again and wash the spray and paint from your body. Clove meets you in the reclining room of the District Two quarters, lounging on one of the luridly lime sofas. She’s the picture of unconcerned relaxation, yet you notice the tension in her spine, the defensive curl in her shoulders. You’d expect any Victor to be at home in the Capitol, but she seems to hate it even more than Two. It surprises you more than you care to admit.
You take a seat on the sofa next to her, idly pushing aside one of the chartreuse throw pillows. “What did sponsors think of the parade?”
Clove nods. “They were impressed. You looked like a solid competitor. Of course, so did One and Four, but you already knew that. I saw you scoping out the competition while Snow was talking.”
You glance at her, surprised. “You were watching me that closely?”
“It’s my job to watch you closely,” Clove says. “That means I have to know everything about you so I can convince the sponsors you’re worth the investment.”
“And do you?” You ask openly.
Clove studies you for a moment before responding. “Yes,” she says decisively. Her voice drops a little before she continues. “For the first time in my life, I would very much like to lose a bet, Y/N. Give me a reason to believe you’ll make it out alive.”
“I will,” you promise. Her eyes are heavy on you, making you subconscious. Your skin still feels fresh from scrubbing all of the makeup off. “Wish I could dress up like the parade every day. It’d be easier to draft sponsors to my side when I still looked like a goddess.”
“I don’t know,” Clove says, shrugging a little too casually. “I like this better.”
Your breath catches in your throat. You have to assume that she doesn’t mean it, that she says this to get you to trust her, but– It’s only the two of you down here, after all. No one is around to hear you except the empty halls. The walls seem to cocoon you down here, you and her and the threat of your imminent death hanging over you.
“How am I supposed to do it?” You ask softly. “How am I supposed to go from trusting the other Careers to watch my back to killing them all?”
Clove’s face tightens and she stares down at her hands. “It'll be easier than you think. Leave them before they think about leaving you.”
You remember this from Clove’s games. It had seemed like a bad move at the time, she’d abandoned her group even while there were still some non-Career tributes out there. Then the boy from Four had slaughtered both tributes from One in the middle of the night, and everyone had quickly realized that Clove had saved herself before the group turned on each other.
Then again, maybe it hadn’t been Clove’s ability to sense the tension in the group. After all, Clove hadn’t left on her own, but slit the throat of the girl from Four in the night as a parting gift.
You nod. “I have to be the one to make the first move.”
Clove shuffles closer to you. “Either you kill first or you’re the first to die. Which option do you prefer?”
You breathe out quietly, suddenly aware of the delicacy of the movements, the urgency of your heart beating between your ribs. Any of these vital processes could be interrupted by the slash of a blade, the impact of an arrow. It’s you or them. It’s you or them.
“I’ll kill first,” you say in a rush. “I’ll kill first, and then I’ll finish it. And then I go home.”
“And then you come home,” Clove repeats. “Do you think you can do that for me?”
You’re so close to her now that you feel like you could breathe her in. Your shoulders are pressed together, and when she tilts her face towards yours to hear your answer, you can feel the heat of her like the glow of a fire.
“I can do it,” you whisper.
Clove reaches out an idle hand to rub away a smudge of gold dust left over from the parade. Her finger rests on your clavicle, tracing over the hard rise of bone. “I know you will.”
The training sessions come next. Clove advises you to enter these with confidence. The others will treat you like a Career, so you cannot falter or fail to meet expectations in the slightest. You throw your knives at targets halfway across the room and meet cold center every time. When you look up, everyone is staring at you, some afraid, some almost hungry. What is it about young people that makes them so desperate for death? They’d kill themselves just to kill you.
After the second day of training, you find yourself frustrated. You hate this game you have to play, the demand for performances before the other tributes. You’re all going to kill each other anyway, why bother with the theatrics? Let the Games begin. They can see just how good you are then.
After attempting to burn the anger out of you with a particularly hot shower, you dress in loose-fitting clothes and stumble into your private quarters just to find Clove waiting for you. You startle, not knowing how long she’d been there.
“You should really lock these doors,” Clove says, gesturing towards the entrance to your room. “Next time, it won’t be me. Maybe your other tribute.”
“The doors don’t lock,” you complain.
“Then find something else,” Clove counters. “Wedge something under the doors. Block the handle from engaging. You have to keep yourself safe out there, I can’t always be doing it for you.”
You huff out a breath. “I doubt the other tributes will be attempting to surprise me in the shower.”
Clove’s eyes flick to the steam-covered mirror behind you, then back to you. Slowly, she pads over, standing right in front of you. “Then it’ll be while you’re sleeping, or while you’re eating. Anytime your guard is down. If you don’t believe me, feel free to wait until their sword is between your ribs.”
She jabs your ribs with her finger to emphasize her point, but her hand lingers, drawing invisible circles on the fabric of your shirt. Your skill still feels warm from the shower, hotter still wherever her touch follows. You can’t help but marvel at how entitled she seems to you, your time, your skin. Whenever she wants, Clove can come to you, keep her hands on you, all in the name of saving your life. Is this what mentorship is, then? It makes you hers?
“I think I’m glad you’re my mentor, not his,” you murmur under your breath.
Clove shifts impossibly closer, as if to steal your whisper before it even leaves your lips. “And why is that?”
You laugh under your breath. “If I knew you were doing this with someone else, I’d–”
She cuts you off, smirking slightly. “What, kill them? Maybe I should, then. I want you to be mad enough to kill them.”
She moves towards the door, and you feel the absence of her touch like ice the second she leaves you. Before you know what you’re doing, you’re lunging forward, grabbing her wrist, pulling her back to you. You’re too hasty, though, and you overcompensate. Clove ends up closer to you than she had been, too close, and then the last of your self-control leaves you and you kiss her. If you had imagined something like this a week ago, it could only have been a dream. You kissing a Victor, the one you’d idolized forever, but it’s true, it’s your Clove who curls her hand around the back of your neck to pull you closer still. If you could melt into her completely, you would.
She pulls away slightly, whispering in the ragged space of half-breaths between you, “Tell me you’ll win the Games.”
“I will,” you insist, anything to bring her back to you again. “I’ll kill the rest of them, I don’t care. I’ll come back.”
“Good,” she says, supremely satisfied, and finally lets you kiss her again.
You’re cool and confident when it comes time for the private training session before the Gamemakers. You’re the fourth tribute to appear before them, so thankfully they’re still interested in paying attention. Your efforts are rewarded by a high score once everyone has been evaluated, which is further benefitted by your stellar appearance in the interview with Caesar Flickerman. What can you say? You have some extraordinary motivation, and she’s happiest when you’re doing well.
Before you know it, it’s time for the Games. Clove walks with you as far as she can go, and leaves you with a goodbye only; you’re not stupid enough to kiss her out here, where the cameras are watching and the Peacekeepers too. There was time for that in your room before you left, and there will be more time still once you win the Games. You’ve promised that enough times, first to yourself and now many times between stolen kisses to Clove, that it seems to ring in your head with every heartbeat. You will win the Games. You will win the Games. There is no other option.
The light shines in your eyes when you reach the Arena. The tributes stand in a ring shaped like the laurel wreath you’d worn only a few nights ago, everyone nervously eyeing each other. You stand on your podium, watching the countdown slowly tick towards zero, and then all at once the cannon blares and the Hunger Games begin.
You stop thinking. Everything from before this moment fades away– District Two, your home, your family, the Capitol itself. The only thing you can remember is Clove’s voice in your head, telling you to win, and the adrenaline burning through your chest. You’re aware that someone is running full-tilt to the Cornucopia, grabbing knives, ripping through the chest of the boy from Six, but you can’t honestly say that person is you.
When the ground steadies itself and the rush on the Cornucopia is over, most of the surviving tributes have fled towards rocky outcroppings on the edge of the clearing, seeking shelter away from the deathly violence. Bodies litter the ground, maybe eleven or twelve, and you’re in a group of four Careers. You recognize both tributes from One as well as the boy from your district.
You had expected to live vicariously through the Games, to delight in the practical application of your skills. With every boom of the cannon, though, you feel your grisly need for glory slipping through your fingertips. You see the precious need to win in the eyes of every tribute you kill. No one here is any better than you are, any more worthy. You’re all the same. You’re just kids, kids thrust into the Arena. If you received any special training as a Career, it wasn’t to ensure your survival, it was just to provide a little extra entertainment to the Capitol citizens at home. Your years of training in the gymnasium are just another bauble on your dress in the Parade, or a quippy remark in your interview with Caesar. You’re a toy, a pawn, a piece in a greater game. Even the Victors have no power here.
In the midst of your madness, however, you’re kept steady by Clove. She’d warned you for when this moment would come, the point at which you’d realize that glory and gore only get you so far. She makes sure the sponsors keep sending you gifts, and you can feel her presence in every bottle of water, every canister of medicine dropped to you by silver parachutes.
A week into your Games, you start to become aware of bubbling tension between the Careers. You think back to one of your first conversations with Clove about how to know when to let go of your alliances and act on your own. When the boy from One starts getting snappy with the other tribute from Two, you know your time has come. That night, you volunteer to take first watch, and follow in your mentor’s footsteps. Once the last of them drift off to sleep, you take your knife and calmly kill the boy from One. You make it quick, he won’t even feel it. It’s better than everyone else got.
Standing up, you slip the bloody blade into the hand of the boy from your home district. When the cannon blast wakes the remaining two, the girl from One will see the weapon in Two’s hand and assume he did it. They’ll tear each other apart while you’re miles away. You slip away in the dense night, making sure to keep your trail undetectable, and are rewarded with extra food when you find a place to stay for the night. Clove approves of your tribute to her.
Judging by the two cannon booms sometime later, you can tell that your plan worked. The remaining week and a half are spent in hiding, drawing out to hunt down the remaining tributes before retreating back to secrecy again. By the time the final cannon booms across the empty Arena, your left knee is broken, your ribs have been pummeled, and your arms are weeping blood, but you’ve done it. You’ve won the Hunger Games. You’ve kept your promise.
You’re taken back to the Capitol to receive medical treatment and get cleaned up before your victory appearance before President Snow. Once you’ve been all stitched up, Clove sneaks into the medical area, leaning over your hospital bed with a faint smile.
“I think this means you win the bet,” she says lightly.
You chuckle quietly, ignoring the bite in your fractured ribs. “Did you approve of my performance?”
She lets out a heavy sigh. “You had me worried most of the time, but yes, Y/N, I’m proud of you. You won.”
You smile, letting the first wave of relaxation hit your perennially stressed body. “I made a promise, didn’t I?”
Clove reaches over to take your hand. “I’ve heard that promise before. You’re the first to keep it.”
“Now we’re done,” you whisper. “No more Arena. No more killing.”
Clove looks away, grief heavy in her expression. “You won’t want to hear this, but this is just the beginning. You’re a Mentor now. You’ll come back every year and watch more tributes die. It never ends, Y/N. It never ends. They always die.”
“Not always,” you remind her. “Maybe you’ll be surprised again.”
She chuckles disbelievingly. “Are you ever going to lose that stupid optimism?”
“Why should I?” You smile. “It seems to have gotten me pretty far.”
Clove tries to look disapproving, but she can’t quite manage it, and settles for pressing a quiet kiss to your lips. “Rest up. You’ll be needed soon enough.”
You nod, mentally gritting yourself for the show to follow. “Then we go home?”
Clove nods, squeezing your hand. “Then we go home.”
You’ve wanted this moment all your life, the glory of Victory, the exultation of living in the Victor’s Village, bringing honor to your District. However, all of that fades away in comparison now that you know you won’t be doing it alone. Clove will be by your side the whole time, two Victors, two girls with gilded crowns dripping blood. It’ll take you a long time to let down your guard, to stop flinching at loud sounds or sudden footsteps. Maybe you never will, but at least you’ll always have someone there to tell you it’s alright, to keep the nightmares at bay. You have Clove. That, at last, is enough.
the hunger games tag list: @w1shes43, @ilovexavierthrope
