#fic: the tribute | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

runariya · 2 months ago

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THE TRIBUTE • 1

pairing: alien prince!Jungkook x human tribute!female reader genre: dark romance, gore, alien!AU, survival!AU, slow burn, angst, S2L rating: MDNI, 18+ warnings: being chosen as a tribute word count: 3.2k

a/n: This work is purely fictional. All characters and events are entirely imaginary and do not reflect reality. No translations are allowed without permission. Thank you for understanding! 💕

masterlist • 02

The fall of Earth wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t marked by fire or chaos that reigned for years, the kind of spectacle you might expect in an invasion. No, the aliens came quietly, without the usual drama of war. It began with whispers, transmissions intercepted by governments that never stood a chance. They arrived one day in ships larger than cities, hanging in the sky like indifferent gods, their presence screaming authority, and the sky cracked open completely and they finally descended, there wasn’t much left to fight for, really. The endless wars in the past had drained the Earth dry, and the alien empire had swept in to take whatever remained. The human race was too weak to resist, the shattered people in all cities too broken to protect themselves. So the world bowed, bent at the knee, in a way that had nothing to do with honour and everything to do with survival.

Their message was simple: Earth would continue, but under their rule. No destruction, no immediate casualties. Just quiet domination, the slow drip of submission. They called it mercy. They showed themselves as saviours—protectors, even. And somehow, despite the bitter taste it left in your mouth, humans believed them. Or at least, they didn’t fight one bit.

The royal family appeared everywhere, almost immediately, their images plastered across screens, on every corner, in every home. Prince Jungkook’s face in particular—a cold beauty—became a constant, a symbol of human survival. His name carried weight, and the people spoke it with reverence, though they were too afraid to admit the fear that simmered beneath. He was praised, all of them were, for sparing you. Sparing Earth from what, though? You were never told.

They broadcast it endlessly, the aliens, with their vibrant robes and strange customs, framed like some divine intervention, their vibrant colours contrasting the dullness that had consumed your live. While they basked in hues of gold and crimson, sapphire and emerald, humans were reduced to grey. Everything was grey now—the buildings, the streets, the sky, and the clothes you wore. It was as if the very life had been drained from Earth, leaving behind only muted shades of what the race once was. The grey uniforms became a symbol of submission, handed out without explanation, worn without protest. A world washed clean of individuality, of hope.

But the aliens—oh, they were different. Every glimpse of them was an assault of colour, a reminder of their power. Wherever they were shown, they brought with them the vibrancy humans were no longer allowed, flaunting their dominance with every shade, every rich fabric that swirled around them like a taunt and warning simultaneously.

Then there was the tribute system. No one spoke of it openly. No one dared. You were told from a young age that it was necessary, that it kept you all safe, but no one knew what it truly meant. Why, every year, a selection was made—human lives bartered like cattle. There was no resistance, no explanation, only the silent understanding that those taken were never seen again. And somehow, that became the new normal. The tributes vanished into the unknown space, and the earth continued in its quiet, grey monotony.

We had been spared, they said. Prince Jungkook had spared us. But at what cost? No one dared ask.

You’re standing in a crowd now, one among many young humans, yet utterly alone, shoulders drawn tight beneath the weight of a thousand unspoken fears, but you keep your expression flat, indifferent. It’s easier that way. Easier not to feel anything at all.

In the centre of the square, a screen hangs suspended between two decayed skyscrapers, flickering with static before the broadcast begins. You’re used to this routine, this cold display of power, yet the discomfort in your gut has never fully disappeared. And you’re sure, it never will. The emissary’s face appears, stark and inhuman, its features angular, skin pale like polished bone with robes in colours you only dare to dream of. Its voice, when it speaks, grates against your ears, the tone full of glee and dripping with fake warmth, as if this day is worth celebrating.

It echoes across the crumbling square, sweeping through the huddled bodies of your fellow survivors. You’ve seen these broadcasts before, year after year, but this time feels different, this time *is* different. This time, it’s your name they call.

“The tribute for Sector Seven has been chosen. Proceed to the transport at once.”

Your name lingers in the air like smoke, curling through your mind, clinging to the moment. The word ‘tribute’ isn’t one that carries any hope. It’s a word that’s always meant the end of something—of freedom, of choice, and most likely, of life. Still, there’s no time to let the weight of it fully sink in. You feel the crowd shift around you, parting like a tide as eyes slide toward you, pity laced into their avoidance. Some are grateful it’s not them. Others, too defeated to care.

It’s never you until it is.

For a second, the world slows down, your pulse thudding heavy in your ears full of loud static, but the moment passes. It always does. You move before your mind catches up, limbs stiff and mechanical, pushing through the parting crowd. No one stops you. No one offers a word of sympathy. This is the nature of things now: survival is solitary, and everyone knows better than to linger too long on the misfortune of others. Still, you catch a few murmurs from those who watch you pass, low and bitter, the sort of things you’d expect from a world this broken. They’re just glad it isn’t them.

Your heart is hammering, but you keep it all locked down beneath the surface. The last thing you need is to look weak. Not now when ever single step is being watched. Not when every single step brings you closer to something that feels disturbingly like an ending.

The transport waits at the edge of the square, flanked by two of the empire’s soldiers. You’ve seen them before, standing rigid in their black armour, eyes hidden behind dark visors, their bodies almost too still to seem real. Like statues made of metal, empty of anything remotely human. As you approach, they don’t say a word, just gesture for you to board the ship. You pause for a moment at the threshold, the icy air from the interior licking at your skin, and for a heartbeat, you consider running. You won’t get far, but the urge is there, instincts flaring despite everything you know better. You’ve seen enough of these proceedings to know how it works: once chosen, there’s no refusal, no escape. You either go willingly or you’re dragged. Sometimes even killed, for what a human life is worth? Nothing.

Then you step forward. You have no choice.

The door hisses shut behind you, locking with a sound that reverberates through your bones. Inside, the transport is colder than you’d imagined, the scent of metal and machinery filling your lungs as you take your seat. You glance around, noticing the others who sit in similar silence, fellow tributes from the other six sectors—strangers, like you, plucked from whatever remained of their lives and thrown into this nightmare.

First, they don’t look at you. No one does. It’s easier that way, but you notice in an instant that you’re the smallest, the weakest, and it doesn’t help you keep the calm facade.

The transport jolts to life, the vibrations of the engines buzzing in the hollow space as it lifts off the ground. You try to settle yourself, to calm the rapid beat of your heart, but it’s impossible. Your fingers curl into the cold metal of the seat, knuckles white, as the city below shrinks away into the haze of clouds. There’s a finality to the way the world drops away, as if you’ve already crossed a line that you can never come back from, and in a way, it is.

The flight is long, though it’s impossible to tell how much time passes. You try not to think about what awaits you and close your eyes for a moment, blocking out your surroundings as best you can. Your mind drifts to the stories whispered among survivors—about what happens to tributes once they’re taken. None of the stories ever end well. Some say tributes are sold as slaves in the alien capital, while others suggest a more gruesome fate, that humans are used for experiments, their bodies discarded when no longer useful. But the truth is worse. It’s always worse.

But eventually, the descent begins slowly, the engines of the transport humming a low, ominous tone as the planet emerges from the veil of clouds below. The view from the narrow window is breathtaking, though it sickens you with the cruel reality of what Earth once was. Colours stretch across the landscape like a painter’s wildest dream—rolling fields of emerald green, rivers shimmering in shades of turquoise and cobalt, vast forests alive with every hue of autumn flame, though it is not autumn here. This planet pulses with life, chaotic and untouched, where nothing has been crushed beneath the fist of control. It is almost too much to bear.

You glance again at the other six tributes, each taken from their corners of Earth. They still sit in absolute silence, their faces sunken, the knowledge of what is to come clinging to the air between you all like a shared sickness. From the strength in their postures, the way their muscles rest beneath their skin, you can see the warriors they’ve become, they are. They carry the defiance of continents long broken—one for each, their bloodlines ancient, their strength unremarkably deep. And then there’s you. The smallest, most fragile among them, bones light under skin that bruises too easily. Even among humans, you’re the weakest, and you can feel now their judging eyes on you, wondering how someone like you was chosen.

The planet grows closer, the sky a vivid canvas of swirling pinks and golds, like a sunset that refuses to end. Yet, despite the beauty, despite the life that thrives below you, there’s a cold dread lodged deep in your being, one that rises the further you descend. You’ve heard the stories, the whispers of what awaits you on this planet. They tell you nothing directly, only that the arena lies somewhere in the depths of these vibrant lands, and within it, your survival is uncertain.

The transport shudders as it touches down, and you take in a silent breath, steadying yourself. The door slides open, and a gust of warm air rushes in, alive with the scent of wildflowers and soil, so different from the stagnant, metallic stench of the ship and earth. You step out, heart hammering, but your face remains impassive. There are soldiers waiting, but it’s the roar of the crowd behind them that hits you like a wall, an overwhelming volume of voices, cheers, and alien dialect twisted into strange pronounced syllables, all celebrating your arrival as though you were some kind of fallen star, a spectacle to be adored.

The air pulses with their excitement, their bodies draped in vibrant silks that shimmer in the sunlight, arms outstretched, reaching for you, for any tribute who will acknowledge their praise, multiple cameras capturing every second of your arrival. Some of the others bask in it—grinning, high-fiving the aliens, taking selfies as though they are celebrities, lifted by the wild adoration, their smiles wide as they revel in this twisted reception. Others shrink back, shoulders hunched, their steps faltering as they cower beneath the push of all that attention, heads ducked low to avoid the eager hands reaching for them.

But you—you keep your gaze forward, eyes locked on the path ahead, walking in a straight line behind the soldiers, schooling your face in indifference as best as you can. You try to give the madness no mind, let the noise wash over you like a storm you refuse to feel, to keep moving, refusing to be drawn into their chaos, not once glancing at the faces that strain to catch a glimpse of you.

The city stretches before you, impossibly alive. Unlike the greys and browns of Earth, this place is a riot of colours—buildings that glow with warm light, spiralling upwards in organic, twisting shapes that seem to grow from the ground itself. There is no straight line here, no harsh edges or industrial steel. Everything is too perfect, too lush, and yet, beneath the beauty, you sense a hidden darkness, something far more sinister than the flowers and trees would ever reveal.

The palace comes into view not long after, a structure made of golden, glistening stone, it’s opulence disgusting you to no limit, and as you all are led inside, your eyes flit briefly to the faces of your fellow tributes. They hold themselves with the knowledge of their fate, some resigned, others still clinging to the fragments of hope that burn just beneath their skin.

But you—what do you have but the defiance that hardens your jaw, that straightens your spine as the warmth of the palace washes over you? The silence here is rather oppressive, the sight of centuries of power pressing down on your fragile form. It feels like walking into the belly of the beast, swallowed whole by something vast and ancient, and all you can do is keep walking, keep breathing.

Prince Jungkook waits in the heart of it with seven nobly dressed men beside him. You’ve seen his image before every day multiple times, flashed across screens on Earth as if he were a god come down to walk among men. He’s a prince, they say, though it is not a title that means anything human. He does’t smile in those images, his face always carved from stone, eyes dark and unreadable, framed by robes of the richest, most vibrant colours—the kind that remind you of the flowers that no longer bloom on Earth. Here, in his palace, he is more imposing, more tall, more handsome than the images allowed.

He watches you all as you are brought into his presence, though his eyes linger on you for longer than the others. His gaze is assessing, and as he takes in your small form, something flickers there—curiosity, perhaps. You’re nothing like the others, not even close. They are all built for survival, muscles honed and bodies strong, their hands made for fighting. But you... you are delicate, too easily breakable, and Jungkook sees it instantly.

And yet, there is something in you that stirs his interest. You stand with a defiance that belies your fragile frame, your chin lifted high despite the obvious weakness of your body. He wonders how you’ve survived this long—whether it’s strength of mind or just sheer stubbornness that’s kept you alive. His curiosity piques as he steps down from his platform, moving with the grace of a predator who knows its prey has no real chance of escape.

Jungkook circles you all, the sound of his steps soft against the polished stone floor, his eyes never leaving your face. You can feel his gaze on you, piercing cold, as if you’re some strange creature he’s never encountered before. There’s no warmth in his presence, nothing that speaks of mercy or understanding. He’s power, pure and untouchable, and the thought of what he could do to you without even lifting a finger is enough to send your mind into survival mode.

But you won’t give him that satisfaction. You won’t cower before him, no matter how small you feel beneath his gaze, his so much taller frame. Your heart races in your temples, blood rushing to your brain to keep alert, but your expression remains neutral, your hands clenched tightly at your sides, nails biting into your delicate skin of your palms. You’ve already decided that if this is where you die, you won’t die with your head bowed. Never.

Jungkook eventually stops in front of you, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes you in with his head slightly tilted. There’s something almost amused in his dark eyes now, as if he finds your defiance intriguing, though he’d never admit it aloud. “Fragile,” he states, the word rolling off his tongue like an observation rather than an insult. “But not afraid.”

His voice is low, almost a whisper, and it sends a tremor through you, though you refuse to let it show. He’s testing you, pushing to see where your breaking point is. You meet his gaze head-on, refusing to flinch under the intensity of it.

“They say humans are resilient,” he continues, his tone almost mocking. “That you fight, even when there’s nothing left to fight for. Is that true?”

You don’t respond. You’re not sure you could if you wanted to. The intensity of his presence is suffocating, leaving you nowhere to escape, while his words challenge you, daring you to break, to bend under the pressure of who he is.

But you don’t.

“Fight,” his voice’s dropping to a whisper. “Or die. Those are your only options now.”

“Watch me,” you say quietly, your voice steady, though your heart feels like it might pound out of your chest.

He tilts his head, a small smile curling at the corner of his lips, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I will,” he murmurs, and the threat in his words lingers in the whole grand room.

Without another word, he steps back, dismissing you as easily as he might a piece of furniture. You all are nothing to him, and yet, there’s a flicker of something in his gaze as he turns away. Interest, perhaps.

The guards step forward, the seven men too, grabbing your arms and dragging you from the room. You knew this wouldn’t be simple. You knew there’d be danger. But now, standing on the precipice of whatever fate awaits you, the reality of it all begins to truly sink in.

They don’t take you far—just to a small, cold room with nothing but a bed and a single window that looks out over the sprawling city. The guards leave you there, locking the door behind them with one of the seven men, dressed as vibrant as everyone on this planet, standing right beside you.

It’s quiet now, save for the faint steps of the guards outside, but the silence is anything but comforting. And as you turn to face the man beside you, you don’t really want to know what will happen next. All you need to know is that the fight is coming like it always does.

And the next words coming from the man confirm just that—you, a mere human among alien gods, have been chosen to survive it. Or die trying.

„I’m Namjoon, your trainer for the Tribute Game.“

masterlist • 02

a/n 2: hope you've enjoyed it👀 lmk what you think in any way you like!

Like what you read? Check out my other work here!

taglist: @strawberryberrygirl

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urdreamgirls-dreamgirl · 2 years ago

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may the odds be ever in your favor.

“Dustin Henderson!” The voice rings out from the front of the crowd, perky and cheerful, like the whole entire town hasn’t been gathered here to watch as two of its children are sent to the slaughter on national television.

Steve’s heart pounds in his chest. Sweat breaks out across his back. Adrenaline pumps through his veins, makes his fingertips throb. Dustin, just a few rows in front of him, turns to look at Steve. He meets Steve’s gaze with tears in his eyes, panicked.

Steve can’t think. He can’t see anything beyond Dustin’s fear.

“I volunteer,” he hears himself yell out. His voice sounds shockingly calm to his own ears. “I volunteer as tribute.”

There’s a murmur in the crowd, a ripple of movement. No one from their district has ever volunteered in the history of the Games. Steve is eighteen. This was his last year participating in the Reaping. He'd almost made it.

The fear doesn’t disappear from Dustin’s face, his eyes round and glassy. Steve is distantly aware that Dustin is yelling, but he can’t hear anything over the rushing in his own ears. A Peacekeeper appears on either side of him and they pull him towards the stage, their hands firm and bruising around his biceps. Steve’s feet drag. He can’t seem to lift them high enough to step on his own. The Peacekeeper’s practically drag him up the steps and onto the raised platform of the stage.

Sam Owens, the tribute escort for their district, is smiling wide, teeth white and blinding in the morning sun. He pats Steve on the back, moves him to center stage with his hands on Steve’s arms.

“District 12’s first volunteer ever!” Owens yells into the microphone. “How exciting! History in the making.”

There’s only silence. Steve’s eyes find Claudia Henderson in the crowd. The look on her face shifts from relief to horror and back again. Even from here, Steve can see the tears on her face, shimmering in the sunlight.

Just then, movement at the back of the crowd of teenagers catches his attention. He spies Nancy in one of the back rows. She isn’t ever included in the Reaping, has never had to sign up for tesserae as the mayor’s daughter, but she always shows. Every year when Steve asks about it, she mumbles something about ‘bearing witness.’

Nancy, beautiful in her expensive wool dress, dark hair curled and pinned out of her face, raises her left hand. She presses the fingertips of her first three fingers to her lips before raising her arm high into the air.

Steve watches in fascination as the crowd shifts, shuffling in place, before lifting their own hands and mirroring Nancy’s salute. Steve swallows, breathes deep for the first time in what feels like hours.

Owens’s smile falters, but only slightly. “Right. Now for the girls.” He moves to the large glass bowl, hand circling, fingertips reaching. He pulls a tiny folded paper from the bowl. His hands are quick and sure as he breaks the seal, glancing down at the name. “Robin Buckley!”

The crowd shifts again. Steve feels his lungs collapse in his chest. He focuses in on where Robin stands at the center of the crowd of girls. Her mouth hangs open, her blue eyes huge in her pale face. Steve feels as if his knees are about to give out, wobbly and weak, but he somehow manages to keep his balance. He sees Nancy—just beyond Robin—barely react, but doesn’t miss the way her jaw tightens and her fists clench at her sides, knows her well enough by now to read her tells. The crowd parts as Robin slowly makes her way towards the stage. Owens pulls Robin by her hands, positions her so she stands shoulder to shoulder with Steve.

Steve feels like he might lose consciousness at any moment. His stomach turns, throat constricting. His vision goes dark around the edges.

He can’t bring himself to look over at Robin, knows he’ll lose control if he does, but he feels the back of her hand brush against his, feels her pinky curling around his. He has to bite back a sob and looks down at his feet, breathing deep through his nose.

Everything becomes a blur. Time seems to simultaneously slow down and speed up. Peacekeepers flank Robin and Steve as Owens leads them toward the Justice Building. They only have so much time before they’re forced onto a train bound for the Capitol, will only have a handful of minutes to say goodbye to everyone they’re leaving behind.

Once they make it to the Justice Building, they’re led into a wood-paneled sitting room with overstuffed armchairs and too many throw pillows. Steve’s head is starting to pound, temples throbbing. He feels a heavy pressure behind his eyes and he falls onto a couch in the center of the room. He leans his elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He pushes his palms against his skull. He’s vaguely aware of Robin perched on the cushion next to him, spine ramrod straight, both feet planted firmly on the floor. Her hands twist in her lap.

Steve isn’t sure how long they sit there before the door opens and Dustin comes rushing toward him. Claudia Henderson follows closely behind her son. Robin’s parents bring up the rear.

“Steve, are you stupid? Why would you do that?” Dustin screeches at him, flinging his arms around Steve’s neck—practically tackling Steve into the cushions—and holding on for dear life. Steve can’t respond to him, throat suddenly dry. All he can do is bring his arms tight around Dustin, returning his hug. Several long moments pass before Dustin finally releases him. He looks so young, face red and blotchy. He brings his sleeve up to wipe at his nose and something in Steve fractures as he watches him.

Steve looks at Claudia, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. He stands from the couch and opens his arms to her. She practically falls into him, winding her arms around his waist. “Don’t let him watch,” he tells her, voice low so Dustin won’t hear. He feels his own burning tears spill from the corners of his eyes. They only have a few moments together. “Promise me. Please. He can’t watch.”

Claudia lets out a sob, but Steve can feel her nod against him. “I promise. Come back to us. Promise to fight, Steve,” she whispers, so only Steve can hear. Steve breathes in deep, smells the floral perfume she only wears three times a year on special occasions, the one that reminds him of warm hugs and home.

“Promise,” Steve whispers back.

The visitors are ushered out of the room and Steve is finally able to look at Robin. Her eyes are bright, shiny with tears, but she hasn’t cried, not yet. She has that look on her face, the one Steve recognizes as determination. The one she wears when they decide to break Capitol rules and hike out into the woods, into the bright sunny clearing by the stream where her quick fingers work on building her traps while Steve sharpens his arrow- and spearheads. All they can do is stare at each other.

Someone knocks softly on the door, breaking the spell between them. They both jump and turn toward the sound as the heavy door creaks open. Nancy steps through.

Her face is swollen and her eyes are red-rimmed, but her bottom lip is firm and her head is held high. She has something clutched in her hand.

She crosses the room to where they sit. She kneels in front of them on the patterned carpet. She grabs at Steve’s hand with her free one, pressing whatever’s in the other into Robin’s palm.

“You’re allowed one token from home in the arena,” Nancy’s voice comes out low and quick. “Will you wear this?” Robin looks down at her hand, turns over a gold pin. Steve can’t quite see what it is, thinks it might be the shape of a bird.

Robin nods, gaze lifting to meet Nancy’s.

“Stick together,” Nancy tells them. “Promise. That’s what will get you through the Games. Trust no one but each other. They want a show. Give them one. I—just—” She clearly wants to say more, but she bites her lip, shaking her head. Her curls bounce. “Just. Keep each other safe. Stay alive.” As she says it, a single tear falls from her eye. She abandons her grip on Steve’s hand to wipe it away angrily. “Promise,” she demands.

“Promise,” Robin’s voice comes out a hoarse whisper. “We promise, Nance.” Her fingers curl around the gold pin.

Nancy wraps them both in firm but quick hugs before she leaves the room without a backward glance.

~*~

Robin and Steve are left alone for what feels like hours but can really only be a few minutes before being driven to the train that will transport them to the Capitol. Owens leads them into the lavish train car, where the District 12 mentor, Murray Bauman, already sits.

“Well,” he says, smiling grimly, arms open wide. “What beautiful and brave tributes we have this year.” He takes a swig from the bottle clutched in his hand.

Neither Robin nor Steve speak, they just move toward the seats opposite Murray, dropping down onto the plush cushions in tandem. Steve’s head is still pounding, exhaustion making his arms feel heavy.

Steve must fall asleep sitting up, because the next thing he knows, he wakes to a moving train and dark windows. Robin is no longer next to him. He hears murmuring and glances around, finding Robin and Murray huddled together in a corner, heads close.

Steve clears his throat, sitting up straight. The two of them glance toward him. Robin gives him a tight smile, small and strained. Murray’s grin is wider, but no more happy than Robin’s.

“What’d I miss?” Steve mumbles, voice heavy with sleep. He runs a hand through his hair.

“Talking strategy,” Murray tells him. “Come join the party.” He pats the seat of the chair next to him.

Steve pushes himself from his seat and crosses the small space, dropping heavily into the wooden chair.

“I was asking Murray about finding shelter in the arena,” Robin says softly, like she can tell that Steve’s head is still killing him, despite his nap.

“Right. So?” Steve turns toward Murray.

“So your first priority is surviving long enough that you’ll even need shelter,” Murray replies. “The first few moments in the arena are the deadliest. Absolutely brutal. The Careers will rush the Cornucopia and unprepared tributes will be picked off one by one. Don’t get caught up in the bloodbath.”

Steve thinks that they probably should take everything Murray says with a massive grain of salt. He and Robin hadn’t even been alive when Murray had won the 50th Games almost 25 years ago, but it was common District knowledge that he’d only won as a fluke, because of stupid mistakes other tributes had made and not because of any strategic prowess on his part. Now, Murray was mostly known as the town drunk, who spent his winnings at the only pub in town and more often than not made a fool of himself as he stumbled through the streets before the miners had even broken for lunch.

Steve and Robin share a look.

“No, stop, what’s that?” Murray says pointing between them. His gaze jumps from Steve to Robin and back again.

“What’s what?” Robin asks, genuine confusion coloring her voice.

“That look. Are you… can you read each other’s minds?” The last part is said in a fascinated whisper.

“You’re drunk, old man,” Steve says, rolling his eyes and scowling. Murray is getting on his last nerve already.

“You’re not wrong, kid.” Murray smiles and takes another pull from the bottle in his hand.

Steve sighs. “We should probably call it a night. It’s been a long day. We can reconvene when our heads are clearer.” He gives Murray a pointed look.

“My head is plenty clear,” Murray slurs.

“Right. Get some sleep,” Steve tells both Robin and Murray. “And drink some damn water.” The last part is directed at their mentor.

Murray salutes them both before disappearing from the train car, wandering off to his bed.

Robin and Steve stand in silence.

“Well, goodnight, Steve,” Robin whispers into the space between them. Her voice sounds small in a way it so rarely does. Steve can’t help but reach out a hand to her, pulling her into his chest before she goes of to bed. She sags against him, arms wrapped tight around his waist.

“We’ll figure it out, Rob,” he mumbles into her hair, dropping a kiss to the crown of her head. “We always do.”

Robin sniffles and pulls away, rubbing a hand over her face. “Yeah. We always do.”

She gives him one last look before following Murray out of the train car.

I made a post a lil while ago abt a Steddie x Hunger Games AU because Hunger Games was all over my for you page for whatever reason. Here’s a take on it. This will likely continue BUT I do not do tag lists. I’m sorry! They give me anxiety 🌝 hope you like it!

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