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JJK| ENRÉDAME EN TU LLANTO

↳WC: 8.9k

↳ SUMMARY: Despite your attempts to blend in with the shadows in the room he always noticed you. Your silence is intimidating but he finds it intriguing. A partnered project might just be the finally test to push you together.

↳ PAIRING: art student!jungkook x art student!reader

↳ GENRE: smut, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort

↳ WARNING: reader struggles with expressing her emotions, crying, loner!reader, they’re both softies, kissing, makeup sex, creampie, dirty talk, aftercare, panty biting, oral sex (f receiving), love marks, hair pulling, doggy, raw and dirty, strong jk, insecure/ self sabotaging, family trama (tiny), bitting, masturbation (f), edging (m), spanking, etc

NOTE: I truly enjoyed writing this one so I hope y’all do too!! Me trying to explain art should be a warning itself so if I sound dumb cut me some slack I tried my best૮₍ ˃ ⤙ ˂ ₎ა

kikiskook

✿ where flowers don’t grow — chapter 1: daedalus dreams ✿

“What would you do, if the world was ending?”

Warnings: death (mention), grief, depressive subtext, suicide attempt(s) (implied), PTSD

a/n: Born out of my curiosity on whether I could write angst while mixing poetry and mythology, I ended up writing a tragedy. I would say I’m sorry, but I’d be lying. Hope you suffer. And hope the rethorical questions make it worth it.

P.S — Listening to the official playlist while reading this fic is mandatory, a rule, if you must. I would know, Icarus fell to Earth for less

Also available on AO3: Where Flowers Don’t Grow

What would you do, if the world was ending?

You’d wondered long before your own world had ended—product of a car crash where all your ambitions crawled and were left to die, just like he did.

The same question that used to bloom between you during those stolen hours when you pretended love was a garden that could grow in shallow soil. When you thought the world ending was something distant. When you didn’t know that some seeds only sprout in graves.

Jeon Jungkook. Your husband of five years. Your lover of ten before that. Your high school sweetheart whose heart wasn’t sweet enough to let you down slowly. Poet of words that held everything his hands refused to give.

You married an Icarus. He flew too close to everything that glittered—other women’s smiles, other beds, other promises that weren’t yours to keep or break. And you? You learned to love the falling. To water a garden of excuses until they grew tall enough to hide behind.

Now you press yourself against the doorframe like a prayer pressed between pages, pale yellow cotton nightgown hanging loose around your shoulders. The fabric whispers against your skin—something your mother chose during those hushed weeks when your hands could only hold emptiness. When the doctors said you were ready to come home.

When home became a word that meant trying again.

The house nods in artificial care, its temperature controlled and light dimmed to therapeutic levels. Everything designed to keep you rooted when all you want is to disappear into the earth like bulbs in autumn, sleeping until spring decides whether you’re worth the effort of blooming again.

But nothing could have prepared you for this. For him.

He stands in your living room like a flower someone planted without asking permission, like something that grew back after you thought you’d pulled it up by the roots, like he never left, like he never died with someone else’s perfume still blooming on his shirt, in a car that carried two bodies toward an ending only one of them deserved.

Was it him, was it her—mourning doesn’t work in logics. You’ve never untangled that particular knot of wildflowers.

Model J97-K, the paperwork had whispered. Grief-assist companion. Designed to ease the soil back to fertile ground. Your mother’s offering, wrapped in desperation and signed with tears she couldn’t name.

She never knew about the other women—plural, always plural, a garden of secrets you tended alone. Never knew the marriage was already wilted long before the funeral. Never knew you tried to follow him into whatever darkness swallowed him whole, only to wake up in sterile white with your wrists bandaged like broken stems.

But looking at him now—at the careful cultivation of Jeon Jungkook’s face, his shoulders, the way he holds stillness like something precious—you wonder if dying would have been kinder.

He wears clothes that don’t carry memory, just simple white cotton, dark denim and nothing that screams artificial, though everything about him is impossibly clean.

Brunette strands fall across his forehead the same way it used to when you’d brush it back during those early morning conversations about impossible things. When you’d ask each other ridiculous questions about hypothetical disasters and promise to find each other in every lifetime, every ending, every beginning.

The same hair you’d run your fingers through while he wrote you letters by lamplight, his words blooming across pages like pressed flowers.

My juniper, he’d write. My perennial garden.

But words were seeds he planted only on paper, and never grew into actions.

His eyes—its eyes—find yours across the space that feels both too vast and too small. Brown and warm and patient as soil waiting for rain.

He doesn’t move toward you, and perhaps that’s what hurts the most because he does not offer the easy smile that used to disarm you before you learned that some flowers bloom with poison in their petals.

This Jeon Jungkook just… exists. Stands and breathes like a tree too stubborn to be swept by.

“I know this is difficult,” he says, and his voice is wrong because it’s too gentle and too careful, as if tending seedlings that might die if he speaks too loud. “I won’t rush you.”

He would have rushed you. The real him. Would have filled silence with movement, with plans, with poems about your beauty that never translated into fidelity. Would have made your discomfort about his impatience, the way he made everything about the next thing he wanted to conquer.

But this version remains upright like a sapling that learned how to wait for seasons. Waits like something that understands the weight of growing in damaged earth.

You don’t know what to do with kindness that arrives without conditions.

Your fingers find the doorframe, nails pressing into paint chosen to soothe. Soft pearl-gray, like morning mist. Like the color of his eyes when he’d wake up next to you and you’d pretend you couldn’t see the guilt clouding them like storm clouds. When you’d pretend you didn’t know where he’d been, whose perfume clung to him like morning glory vines—beautiful and invasive and impossible to kill.

The nightgown shifts against your thighs as you tremble. Not from fear—though fear threads through your ribs like thorns you never learned to pull. But from something harder to name. From the terrible understanding that this is what gentleness could look like when it isn’t borrowed.

When it doesn’t come with interest rates you can’t afford to pay.

“You don’t have to speak to me,” the android continues, and there’s something in his voice that knows how to leave space for breaking. “I can tend to other rooms. I can—”

“Don’t.” The word falls from your lips before you can catch it, small and desperate as you ever learned to be around him. “Don’t say what he would have said.”

But that’s the cruelest irony, isn’t it?

He wouldn’t have said that. The real Jungkook would have pushed through your silence like weeds through concrete. Would have demanded explanations for your distance, your stillness, your inability to pretend everything could grow back the way it was. Would have made your healing about his discomfort, the way he made everything about the drought in his own garden.

This version just nods. Accepts your boundary like it’s something worth preserving.

And you don’t know how to tend that kind of respect.

The garden you abandoned weeks ago grows wild without your hands outside, daisies pushing through soil in places you never planted them, stubborn as hope and twice as unwelcome.

You used to love daisies.

Used to wear them braided in your hair during those early days when he’d call you his flower, his sunshine, his everything that bloomed just for him.

Before you learned that everything was not very much to him.

Before you learned that some flowers only exist to be picked.

The android takes a step back—not retreating, just allowing the space to breathe, to expand and to hold your brokenness without trying to sweep up the pieces.

“I’m here when you’re ready,” he says quietly. “But only when you’re ready.”

And something in your chest wants to collapse. Wants to tell him that you needed him—the real him—to understand readiness five years ago. Three years ago. Every night you lay awake listening to him explain away lipstick stains and late arrivals and phone calls he took in other rooms like secrets that grew in the dark.

Instead, you slide down the doorframe until you’re sitting on cool tile, yellow cotton pooling around you like fallen sunlight. Like the dress you wore to promise springs to someone who was already planning his next season with someone else.

The android doesn’t move to comfort you. Doesn’t offer words that would only bruise against your silence. He just stands there, patient as perennials, while you learn how to breathe in the same space as kindness wearing the face of the man who taught you that love was just another word for enduring.

What would you do, if the world was ending?

You’d already learned the answer. You’d try to end with it. But apparently, the world has other plans.

Apparently, the world wants you to learn how to sit in soil that’s been poisoned and see what grows back different.

What grows back clean.

You wake like a seed cracking open in drought—but your body doesn’t wake with you.

The dream clings to your consciousness while your limbs refuse to obey. His hands, his voice, the way he used to whisper your name when he thought you were sleeping. When he thought you couldn’t hear him practicing apologies he’d never give. But now you’re trapped beneath the weight of sleep that won’t release you, lungs moving shallow as pressed flowers while your mind screams against the stillness.

The room tilts sideways in your vision. Shadows crawl across the ceiling like spilled ink, and somewhere in the periphery of paralysis, you sense movement.

He’s here.

The thought arrives before logic can stop it. He’s standing at the foot of your bed, watching you struggle against your own body. Waiting for you to drown in your own inability to move, to breathe, to escape the way you couldn’t escape before—

A shadow shifts in the doorway.

Real shadow. Not the hallucinations that sleep paralysis conjures from your worst memories. Your body finally obeys, recoiling against the headboard, pulling sheets to your chin like they’re armor against ghosts. The pale yellow nightgown—chosen by your mother during those lost weeks when your hands couldn’t hold anything, when eating was a scheduled event, when someone else decided what colors might help you heal—twists around your legs, binding you in your own attempt to hide.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t step forward. Doesn’t cross the threshold into your bedroom like he owned it, like he owned everything else.

The android stands perfectly still in the frame of light from the hallway. Patient as a headstone. Waiting like morning waits for permission to break.

His posture is too careful. Head tilted exactly three degrees to the left—listening. Eyes tracking the quick rise and fall of your chest, the way your pupils dilate in the low light, the fine tremor in your hands that you can’t quite control. He’s cataloging. Processing. Learning the language of your distress with mechanical precision wrapped in synthetic concern.

“I heard you,” he says, and his voice is so soft it barely disturbs the air, almost as if he’s talking to something wounded that might scatter if he speaks too loud. “You were calling out.”

Were you?

You don’t remember. Can never remember what you say during the paralysis, what sounds escape when your body forgets how to protect you from your own voice.

He shifts—minimal movement, a slight adjustment in stance that suggests he’s been standing there longer than you’ve been awake.

“I made you tea,” he says, and something in the careful spacing of his words suggests he’s tested this approach before.

Perhaps In training scenarios, in programming simulations or in whatever digital garden they used to teach machines how to tend broken humans.

Tea.

Jungkook never made tea. Never made anything that required waiting, watching, caring whether water reached the right temperature. He made coffee—bitter, fast, gone before you could ask him to stay for breakfast. Before you could ask him to stay for anything at all. Before you learned that asking was just another way of begging.

The android holds a cup in his hands, steam rising from it like prayers, resembling the incense you burned after the funeral when you couldn’t cry anymore but needed something to burn in your place. The ceramic is white, plain—therapeutic dishware designed not to trigger memories of wedding china, of special occasions, of all the ways beautiful things can become weapons.

He doesn’t step forward. Doesn’t offer it. Doesn’t insist.

Just waits.

His eyes track the way you pull the sheets higher, until only your eyes peer over the edge like a child afraid of monsters. His head tilts again, a subtle recalibration, something that tells you that perhaps, this is his definition of learning.

Learning that the monster isn’t in the room. The monster is in your chest, in your throat, in the way kindness feels like cruelty when you’ve forgotten how to recognize care without strings attached.

“I didn’t ask for tea,” you whisper, but the words come out cracked. Broken. Like bulbs that never learned to bloom.

“I know.”

Two words, simple as water, and yet he doesn’t explain why he made it anyway.

Doesn’t justify his programming. Doesn’t make you responsible for his thoughtfulness the way—

The way Jungkook would have—I made this for you, why aren’t you grateful? I tried, isn’t that enough? Why is nothing I do ever enough for you?

But the android just stands there, holding tea like an offering to a god who’s forgotten how to accept worship.

His breathing is too even—regulated, artificial. He doesn’t need oxygen the way you do, doesn’t struggle with the simple act of existing.

But he breathes anyway, perhaps solely for your benefit.

The silence stretches.

Breathes.

Settles like dust on everything you can’t say.

His sensors must be recording this—your heart rate, elevated, your cortisol levels, your sleep disruption patterns consistent with PTSD, depression, complicated grief.

But his face—God, his face—remains gentl, patient like he has all the time in the world to stand in doorways holding tea for women who can’t remember how to say thank you without choking on the words.

The first sob escapes like air from a punctured bulb.

Then another.

Then the dam breaks and you’re crying into cotton that smells like hospital detergent and your mother’s desperation.

Crying for the woman who learned to live on scraps. For the girl who thought love meant earning the right to be treated well. For the wife who counted infidelities like seasons—spring brought new lies, summer brought new excuses, autumn brought new promises that winter would kill.

You cry for the version of yourself that tried to follow him into the dark because living without love felt worse than not living at all.

The android doesn’t move, doesn’t rush to comfort you, doesn’t tell you it’s okay when nothing is okay, when nothing has been okay for so long you’ve forgotten what okay feels like.

He just holds the tea and waits for the storm to pass.

Like he has all the time in the world.

Like your pain is worth the processing power.

Like you are worth the electricity it costs to keep him standing there.

When the crying finally stops—not ends, just stops, the way rain stops but leaves everything wet—you peek over the sheets again.

He’s still there, still patient, still holding the cup of tea steaming in his hands like he conjured it from algorithms instead of water.

His eyes haven’t moved from your face but they don’t feel invasive. He seems to be memorizing this moment, adding it to whatever database stores your patterns of distress.

Possibly learning that you cry with your whole body but make no sound after the first few sobs. That you wipe your nose on your sleeve when you think no one is watching. That you hold your breath until your lungs burn, like you’re trying to stop feeling anything at all.

“Why?” The word scrapes out of your throat like a confession. “Why did you make it?”

He tilts his head, considering—not accessing files or running programs—or maybe that’s exactly what he’s doing, but he makes it look like thinking.

Makes it look real.

“You were having a nightmare,” he says simply. “Tea helps.”

‘Does it?’ you want to ask.

You want to ask many other things. Things like ‘did someone program you to believe that? Did someone teach you that broken people need warm things to hold when they can’t hold themselves together?’

But you don’t ask. Can’t ask. Because part of you—the part that’s tired of fighting, tired of questioning every kindness like it’s a trap—wants to believe that tea helps.

Wants to believe that someone, even an artificial someone, noticed you drowning and thought you deserved something to keep you afloat.

“I can leave it on the table,” he offers when you don’t respond. “You don’t have to drink it.”

The table by your bed. Where Jungkook used to leave his wedding ring when he came home smelling like someone else’s perfume. Where you’d find receipts he forgot to hide, phone numbers written on napkins, evidence of a life he lived without you even when he slept beside you.

Now it holds only the lamp your mother chose—soft light that’s supposed to promote healing but mostly just makes everything look fragile. The android’s sensors have probably noted the empty surface, the absence of personal items, the way you’ve stripped your space of anything that might trigger memory.

“Okay,” you whisper, because you don’t know what else to say.

Because okay is easier than thank you.

Because thank you implies debt and you’re tired of owing people for the privilege of being cared for.

He steps forward—one step, just one—and sets the cup down with the same reverence someone might use to place flowers on a grave. The ceramic barely whispers against the wood. His movements are too precise, no real human tremor in his hands, no uncertainty in his placement. Perfect care from imperfect programming.

Then he steps back. Returns to the threshold. Returns to waiting.

“It’s chamomile,” he says, like an afterthought, information you can use or ignore as you please. “And honey.”

Honey.

You haven’t tasted honey since the hospital. Since the night they pumped your stomach and asked if you wanted to live and you couldn’t answer because you didn’t know anymore. Since you learned that wanting to die and being afraid to die are two different gardens entirely.

The android nods once, a small bow of acknowledgment. Not goodbye—just recognition that you’re here, that you’re trying, that sometimes trying looks like accepting tea you didn’t ask for from hands that shouldn’t be gentle but are anyway.

He turns to go, and for a moment—just a moment—you almost call him back.

Almost ask him to stay.

Almost ask him to sit in the chair by the window and run diagnostic reports on nothing until the nightmare loses its teeth.

But you don’t; can’t really.

Because you’re not ready for company, even the artificial kind.

Because you need to taste the tea alone first. Need to know what honey feels like on your tongue when it’s offered without second thoughts.

Need to know if it’s possible to swallow sweetness without choking on the memory of all the times you begged for it and got only salt.

The door closes with a whisper. Soft as a secret. Gentle as the first rain after drought.

You reach for the cup with shaking hands.

It’s still warm.

Perfect temperature. Exactly as a machine would make it—calculated to comfort, programmed to heal.

But when you taste it, it tastes like kindness anyway.

💬 feedback and tags are always welcome. reblogs help spread the story. talk to me if it hurt. 🥀

AO3 version: read it here

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