Welcome To The Graveyard Of Abandoned Fics

Welcome to the Graveyard of Abandoned Fics 🕯️🔦

Here lies the collection of fics that just didn’t survive my creative chaos. Whether they ran out of steam or just didn’t get enough love, they’re chilling down here 🧍🏻‍♀️

☁️ HEART'S REVIVAL (JJK VERSION) | CEO!Jungkook x reader

☁️ DA CAPO AL FINE | concert master!Jungkook x violinist/cellist!female reader

☁️ HEART'S REVIVAL | CEO!Yoongi x reader

Hey Angels 🫂

Just wanted to let you all know I’m taking a little break from Tumblr until around mid-October. I might still answer a few old requests, but my ongoing stories will be on hold til then.

If I don’t get around to answering a request, I’m sorry…sometimes there are scenarios I really struggle with and just can’t write anything even though they’re super cool. I’m only human, after all, with limited ‘capabilities’…hope you understand!

Take care and lots of love,

Ari 💕

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!

All Rights Reserved © @runariya 2024

taglist: @strawberryberrygirl

Hola Ari, Primero, sorry if this sound rude o mal, pero English no es my first language, y I don't talk con muchas personas aquí. Me pongo nerviosa y a veces hablo too much sin querer. Espero que entiendas, solo soy una persona shy.

He estado siguiendo tu trabajo por mucho tiempo, y de verdad, eres increíble! Pero también estoy un poco worried por ti. Siento que te estás poniendo demasiado pressure. Siempre empiezas nuevos fics sin terminar los otros, y ahora con este nuevo... The idea es muy buena, no me malinterpretes! Me encanta. Pero a veces pienso que maybe estás trying too hard. Parece que sigues acumulando más y más cosas para hacer, y me pregunto si no te sientes estresada? Me asombras, pero también me preocupas al mismo tiempo.

No quiero que me odies por decir esto, pero... parece que tal vez la razón por la que comenzaste este nuevo fic es porque MBV no va tan bien como esperabas? No tienes que hacer eso, sabes. Ya tienes muchas cosas en tu plato—MBV, las requests (que siguen cerradas), el auction, y ahora el tribute. Es mucho, no necesitas distraerte o distraer a los demás empezando cosas nuevas todo el tiempo. Nosotros estamos aquí para ti no importa qué!

Perdón otra vez si esto suena rude, no estoy tratando de serlo. Solo me preocupa tu salud mental y quiero que te cuides. No quise hablar tanto tampoco, es que me pongo ansiosa.

Please cuídate, Ari. Lo estás haciendo genial, pero no tienes que hacerlo todo al mismo tiempo.

Un abrazo,

Hola anon 💕

No te preocupes, me alegra mucho recibir tu mensaje y saber que te preocupas por mí. Espero que esté bien si respondo el resto en inglés, creo que mi español no es lo suficientemente bueno como para expresar bien lo que pienso 🥴

You're right that I bury myself in work unnecessarily, and that MBV sadly isn’t going too well. But it’s not (I hope) because of that—it’s more because I simply can’t keep my ideas to myself lol

I really admire writers who can finish a whole story or a few chapters and hold onto them. I’m definitely not like that. When I finish writing something or have an idea I really like, I post it straight away. It’s probably a bit confusing for readers, I think, and I’ve REALLY tried to stop doing it, but somehow I just can’t kick the habit 🫡

I really, really hope that MBV gets the attention I believe it deserves, which is why the other content isn’t meant to be a distraction. It honestly hurts me even more if it ends up doing that. But oh well… even as things are, I’ll keep writing it with love and finish it, simply because I love the story so much 😊

Thanks again for your message, it’s so kind and lovely, and thank you for liking my work! Big hugs to you 💕

Prompt game:

🥰🤪👽

Alien Jungkook's tentacles try to get attention from the reader. But reader is mad and giving Jungkook the silent treatment. So tentacles decide to take it in their hands (?). I'm sorry my imagination is bad, but i trust yours ;)

a/n: I hope it's alright that I used this request as a Y(E)ARNED bonus...it just fits the couple so well

To spend your days alongside Jungkook is nothing short of pure bliss, a kind of beauty that shows itself in moments both grand and unspoken. There is, indeed, a profound sweetness in being the object of his love, of his adoration, a warmth that seeps into every corner of your existence, making even the most ordinary hours shimmer with a peculiar magic. 

Yet, as with all such beautiful things, this love, though a balm for your soul, does not come without its moments of maddening frustration—little flashes of exasperation that threaten, every now and again, to undo all the softness with their dizzying intensity.

It is during these moments of quiet contentment, where you’ve developed a peculiar fondness for collecting miniature porcelain figurines of Earth’s animals—everything from delicate little ducks to turtles no bigger than a thumb, from bees captured mid-flight to cows rendered in the most absurd detail. 

You‘ve chosen each piece meticulously, though the greater part of the collection, truth be told, bears the mark of Jungkook’s love and generosity. There’s no species left unrepresented, no space on the shelf unfilled. But amidst them all, there is one that‘s your favourite, a tiny maneki-neko with a raised paw and a chubby little face, who commands the centre of the shelf of your now shared home. And of all the figurines, this one—Jackson, with his impossibly cute charm—holds a special place in your heart, the only figurine affectionately christened with a name, as if that alone elevates him from all the others. 

So when you hear the unmistakable, gut-wrenching sound of porcelain colliding with the hard floor while you’re busy tidying the kitchen, something inside you breaks too. 

You turn and see Jungkook standing by the shelf, frozen, his wide eyes filled with a kind of helpless guilt, his lips parting to release the softest, most regretful “oh-oh” that barely registers in the quiet room. Jackson, once proudly perched in his rightful place, is nowhere to be seen, and the realisation dawns on you as swiftly as the growing pit of frustration inside you.

“What did you do?” you ask, your voice tinged with horror as you throw unceremoniously the dish towel aside, running towards the shelf, your heart and mind already brace themselves for the worst.

Jungkook’s wide, panic-filled eyes lock onto yours, and as you glance down to to find poor Jackson, or rather what remains of him, shattered and scattered across the floor in a hundred tiny pieces before Jungkook’s feet, your heart shatters too, as though a part of it has been dashed against the cold floor with Jackson. 

“No…” you desperately whisper, the word as fragile as all your figurines, as you resist the overwhelming urge to drop to your knees  and gather the broken pieces, knowing full well that no amount of careful reconstruction will restore Jackson to his former state.

This isn’t the first time Jungkook, with all his towering presence and boundless energy, has accidentally decimated one of your precious figurines, his sheer physicality, though endearing at many other times, always at odds with the delicate world you curated and that is so easily fractured. But this time, it’s Jackson, and somehow that makes it worse.

“I—I didn’t mean to,” he stammers, his voice fumbling over itself as he scrambles for some sort of excuse, eyes darting as if searching for a way out of the mess he’s created.

“Oh, right,” you say, incredulous, “Jackson just leapt off the shelf, did he? Jungkook, you knew he was my favourite! How could you—how could you let this happen?”

“I swear, it wasn’t me… it… it was them!” he protests, pointing towards his remaining two and free tentacles that hover ominously behind him, as though they too have witnessed the grand disaster. The tentacles, however, seem none too pleased with his accusation; they rear up, jaws flexing as though insulted, ready to challenge his words, daring him to continue with the absurdity.

“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, turning away, exasperation and resignation rolling off you in waves, the whole spectacle having become too much to bear, leaving the wreckage of both Jackson and your patience in your wake as you walk away, tired of this particular chaos.

"Princess, please, I’m sorry!" Jungkook follows you in a desperate attempt to soothe your anger, fully aware that he’s really messed up this time.

But you don’t answer. He’s destroyed your things more times than you can count—accidentally, yes, but still enough for you to give him the silent treatment before you say something you might regret. So when you enter your bedroom, lying down on your side and huffing with a blank stare, you refuse to acknowledge Jungkook, who’s now kneeling before you, clasping your tiny hands in his, puppy eyes in overdrive.

"I’m really sorry, Princess. Please forgive me, I’ll buy you another Jackson." Jungkook’s pleading eyes would usually make you give in, but this time he’s destroyed more than just a replaceable figurine. No, he murdered Jackson, your precious maneki-neko, taking your good fortune with him. So, no, you’re not giving in. You pull your hands away from his and huffily turn around to avoid his face.

Jungkook scrambles to his feet at that, running around the bed, stumbling over his own big feet, and jumping onto his side. "I mean it, I’ll buy you ten! A hundred! A million! Please, Princess, don’t be mad at me." But again, you just turn back around.

You hear Jungkook sigh in resignation as he plops down on his pillow, mumbling apology after apology that you’re not willing to acknowledge. It doesn’t take long before you feel one of his tentacles tentatively brush along your shoulder, but you shake it off, too fed up to accept any affection.

It tries again, but this time, you stop yourself from pushing it away, realising the tentacle—or rather, they—aren’t the ones at fault. A second tentacle soon joins, poking your side as if to tease you into letting go of your anger. But you still are, not at them, but at Jungkook. You start to pet them, though, and the simple action begins to soothe your frustration.

"Oh, so you’re giving them attention but not me?!" Jungkook whines.

"My precious babies," you coo lovingly, "got accused of doing something they didn’t."

"But they did! It’s all their fault!" He shouldn’t have said that, because his tentacles don’t see it like that though, and the next thing you hear is Jungkook yelping, "Ouch! Don’t attack me! Ouch! You’re supposed to protect me! Hey!"

You do your best to suppress the laugh bubbling up, knowing full well Jungkook deserves it for lying so boldly. When his tentacles slither back towards you, settling over and in front of you, you resume petting them, while Jungkook sulks silently behind you.

Your anger gradually fades, the soothing motions of Jungkook’s tentacles helping you calm down. "Do you know why Jackson was my favourote? He was the first figurine you ever gave me. On our 100th day anniversary." 

He remains silent, so you go on. "He wasn’t just a figurine. He was a symbol of our relationship and our good fortune."

"I’m sorry," Jungkook whispers, clearly sad now.

"You can’t replace him."

"I know."

"And you can’t make him whole again."

"I know." His voice is faint now, as if he truly understands just how deeply he’s messed up.

His tentacles begin to run along your arms, sensing your sadness too. You feel movement behind you, and as Jungkook’s breath fans across your neck and his big hand lightly strokes your arm alongside his tentacles, your resolve to stay mad a little longer disappears entirely. You turn around, facing his beautiful face and mesmerising eyes.

"I never understood why he was your favourite, but now I do. I’m really sorry, Princess."

"S’fine," you mumble, gently stroking his cheekbone.

"Do you want to know what my symbol of our relationship is?"

"Hm?"

Jungkook’s connected tentacles lift behind his back. "This. And this is something that’ll never break, no matter what."

Your eyes well up with tears because, frankly, he’s right. It shouldn’t be a fragile figurine that carries the very symbol of your love, but Jungkook himself. You regret ever giving Jackson that meaning, because there’s something so much stronger than porcelain—a living, conscious bond that shows just how meaningful and overwhelming your connection with Jungkook is.

"I’m sorry."

"You don’t have to be. Please don’t say that. I love you, Princess."

"I love you too, Jungkook."

And it's true, you’re the happiest woman in the world, now and always.