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jooheonspinky · 4 years

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The Truth Untold

Image credit: Screenshot from Fake Love (BTS-Fake Love) BTS Comeback Show 180524

Characters: Jimin x Female Reader

Genre: Angst Synopses: Hiding behind a mask (literally and figuratively), a man keeps himself away in his home in the country. He spends his days tending a garden where in which blooms beautiful flowers that attract a new neighbor. Her presence forces him to face himself. Could he change for her and be the man she insists he is or will he continue to hide behind his mask?

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Part 1

Word count: 1.5K

Full of loneliness

This garden bloomed

Full of thorns

I bind myself in this sand castle

The days ran the same for Park Jimin, just as they had for the past 10 years. Planting his feet on the floor, he hung his head and stared at the intricate patterns on the rug through the fringe of his hair. Though morning had come and it was the start of a new day, he was already thinking of curling back into his bed to continue to sleep.

Did he really have to get out of bed? There was no one here to tell him otherwise, so did he really have to?

Sighing heavily he heaved himself up, languidly making his way to the chamber pot. His eyes briefly met his own in the mirror above the water basin and he flinched, disgusted by what he saw. Eyes downcast, he removed the pitcher from the basin and poured the water in. He splashed the tepid water over his face and neck before he brushed his teeth. He relieved himself, then shaved the scruff on his face he’d caught a glimpse of before he’d looked away from his reflection.

Once done he was ready for his morning coffee. As he padded across the cool stone flooring, his sight fell upon the black hooded cloak at the end of the hall. He shivered in repulsion knowing his mask was amongst its folds.

He despised the thing. It was a constant reminder of the black hole that had become his life simply for being who he was. How he wished he could be liberated from it, but to do so would mean certain death for him.

Perhaps that would not be such a bad outcome after all, he thought bitterly before he reached the hearth in his vast kitchen. He was quick to start a fire, hanging a pot of water over the flames. There was no one here to assist him in these everyday duties. No kitchen maid or housekeeper. He was master here as well as servant.

Unhurriedly, he scooped a few spoon full of coffee grounds into a cheese cloth he had sown around a looped wire. Twirling it tightly he then set it gently into the now bubbling water, the uncovered metal of the hoop hanging outside of the pot. While the coffee was brewing, he buttered a chunk of bread, adding cheese, and then stepped outside to check if any correspondence had arrived.

There was only one person who wrote him. Only one person who knew of his true identity. The only other person who knew of his existence was dead to him.

Finding no letters at his front stoop, he returned, setting his breakfast and coffee on his thick wooden table. He sat then and ate. The quiet of the house, his only companion, surrounded him. Him sipping at the bitter hot liquid was the only sound. When he was through with his breakfast, he washed the few dishes he’d used, tossed the coffee grounds out, then peered out of the kitchen window to the flower garden he’d worked on for nearly four years now.

It was the only thing that kept him sane, though he felt as if he didn’t deserve it. When his fingers delved into the moist dark soil he felt alive again. When he tilled and prepped the earth, it was as if he was comforted, his horrid past washed away. For him, it was as if the growth of each flower that bloomed told him that not all was lost, not all was ugly… but the moment he stepped back into the house, a shadow crept in across his heart and all was back to how it was every day for him: desolate and dark.

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What is your name

Do you have a place to go

Oh could you tell me?

I saw you hiding in this garden

A movement at the far edge of his garden caught his attention and he froze, his heart instantly picking up speed. Had he been found? Would he have to leave now? His chest heaved as panic began to set in. This was the longest he’d been able to stay in one place. Being this far out in the countryside, away from the hustle and bustle of the town, kept him pretty much isolated. Had someone discovered the identity of the young man that lived there, whom wore a mask to greet those that dared come to his door?

He leaned closer to the window, the kitchen counter biting into his abdomen as he stretched forward for a better look. The messenger boy had already come through at daybreak. He was not due to come again for another day. Who could be out there?

And then he saw her. A young woman sitting on his stone hedge gazing appreciatively at the vast array of colorful flowers. There were roses, peonies, and smeraldos to name a few. Her eyes then followed the butterflies that fluttered around, one alighting gently on the velvety petals of an open blood red rose to drink of the nectar. Her lips parted merrily and he imagined a very delicate giggle of delight that might come from her throat as she reveled in the magnificence of his garden.

He’d never seen a more beautiful woman in his life. Who was she? Where did she come from? Jimin did not recall having seen her before, but then again rare was the time he actually took much notice of those around him in town as he was always in a rush to get back home.

She looked up towards the kitchen window causing Jimin to instinctively jerk back, hiding himself in the shadows of his home. He watched her head tilt curiously as she squinted. Had she seen him? He didn’t believe so. The young woman hopped off of his fence, her loose hair bouncing behind her as she jogged towards a chestnut colored mare he hadn’t noticed before. His eyes followed her as she expertly mounted the animal, then urged it leisurely away from his home.

He relaxed when she became naught but a dark speck in the distance. He would give it a few days to see if any other strangers came by. He would certainly pack some essentials and keep them nearby in case he had to leave in a rush, he was no fool, but his instincts told him he was not in danger of her knowing who he was. Yet, there was a stirring in his chest, something akin to longing, and somehow that seemed just as dangerous.

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And I know

All of your warmth is real

The blue flower your hand was picking

I want to hold it but

The young woman returned twice more. Each time she was alone, save for her gentle mare who always waited for her patiently. The woman would sit on his hedge, her eyes flitting over his aromatic florals. The tightness in her face would soon relax as she sat there for an hour. It was as if his garden provided her the same peace he felt when he tended to it.

He’d watched as she’d hopped over the barrier and into his garden and walked amongst the blooms. Her fingertips brushed against the petals and she smiled as if she shared secrets with the very flowers that she passed. Finding much interest particularly on one of the blue ones, a smeraldo, she plucked it and he wondered what it would be like to hold the same hand that held the exquisite flower.

Tearing his gaze away from the window he knew he shouldn’t want such things. Someone as beautiful as she should be free to be out amongst nature without the fear of harm befalling her because of the very man standing at her side. Someone as free spirited as she should not be locked up in a house to wilt away.

No. He would do best to shake such foolish thoughts from his mind. Lying on the settee he closed his eyes, deciding to take a nap until he was certain she was gone.

A knock echoed throughout the bottom floor just as his head hit the cushion. He jolted back up to his feet, dashing to the foyer to snatch up his cloak. He flung it on quickly, mask held in his hand as he reached the front door in a few rushed strides.

Trying to stay as quiet as possible, the raven haired young man pressed his ear to the door and held his breath.

“Hello!” A most angelic voice penetrated through the door and entered straight into his soul. What spell was this woman weaving over him? “Hello? Is the mistress or master of this home available?”

He pressed his palm against the coolness of the wood willing her to stay and speak more. He already knew her voice would haunt his dreams for many nights to come.

But she didn’t stay. At no one answering her calls, the young woman returned back around the home, mounted her horse and left, blue flower clutched in her hand.

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Thank you for reading. This has been a long time coming. This is one of my favorite songs and I immediately came up with this story when I first heard it. Unfortunately it took me almost two years to write this because I kept getting writers block. I’m so happy to have finally finished it after all this time. Let me know what you think.

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#bts angst #bts chimchim #bts fanfic #BTS jimin #bts park jimin #bts x reader #bts x female read #jimin #park jimin

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lunaraen · 7 years

Note

”If you say let’s split up, I swear to God.” Petra and any Jesse of your choice

There’s an unexpected monotony,to being stuck in one place for the rest of the foreseeable eternity.

They don’t think they count as apoltergeist.

Scaring people, haunting theirdreams and waking them up in the middle of the night, isn’t as fun as it was atfirst, braver people getting used to blaming it on the creaking of the houseand cursing the wind.

They know ordinary people justtrying to live, even if it’s as disrespectful trespassers who don’t belonganywhere near here, have fair reason to suppose that, but it makes them tryharder. The wind deserves the credit it gets, but by that same token, so dothey.

Their only companion is the wind,and even that can come and go. Lately, however, it’s been rather empathetic.

It rages and howls like it wantsto tear the town up into nothing, leave a gaping void in its place and makeeveryone in it regret ever existing, and they can relate.

They’re biased, of course.

They died here. They died anunfair death.

They think they did, at least.They don’t actually remember what happened. The anger’s been all they’ve knownfor a while, blistering and bubbling beneath the silvery nothingness they callskin, beyond being dead.

They’re also beginning to thinklife must be so much better just because being alive means being happy.

(Most people, they’d like tothink, have the common sense not to build over somebody’s grave, but it seemsthat’s been treated with the same amount of dignity as the odd fortress thatwas torn down and used for resources as soon as the town went up.

Something feels wrong about theempty space left behind.

Maybe it’s just that it couldjust as easily be because all of this feels rather wrong in the first place andbecause it doesn’t take much for them to see the intruders who built thissettlement as callous.)

The anger, for once, is joined bysomething faintly familiar, just for a moment or two as there’s a new sort ofdisturbance to join the same searing rage.

Curiosity, they think. That’swhat this used to be, isn’t it?

But the anger blazes brighter,stronger, as they peer out from a window, head sticking out halfway through thesmooth glass as they look down at the odd little group. Whatever faint, neutralfeeling they once had, curiosity or nothing at all, is fully pushed aside asthe fury roars in their ears, makes their fingers tremble.

They know these people.

How do they know these people?And why do they want to remove them even more than they do most people?

They stare until their headstarts hurting, and it occurs to them that these people look an awful lot likethe ones on the few gaudy posters plastered around the wretched town.

Heroes.

So they think they’re heroes, dothey? Expecting to take down a vengeful spirit like it’s no problem, likethey’ve done it before…

Maybe they have. But it takes aspecial brand of fool to think heroes really exist.

People are too selfish at heart,too cruel and pitiful and scared, to be real heroes. And those dumb enough totry die pointlessly in the process.

Nothing good ever comes of heroesand people who wish to be them.

And they feel it so strongly theyknow it must be true, and proving idiots who’d dare walk on their unmarked,disturbed grave so very wrong sounds perfect as a way to spice things up.

It’s hard to call it a quietnight, and as much as they enjoy the wind, it makes hearing what their targetsare saying harder than it would otherwise be on such an empty night. Theywonder how they missed the crowd that must have started here when peoplerealized their beloved idols were here, but a glance at the horses hiding inthe halfway-decent cover the inn’s stable provides makes them think they mightbe the only ones who know, beyond the inn-keeper.

How lucky for them.

Whatever’s said, far too warm andtoo laced with laughter and happiness to have any place in a place like this,never mind a night like this, they enter the inn. It’s far easier to sinkthrough the window gain and the floors to hear them than trying to read theirall too happy, smiling lips.

(Why does it feel like someone’swalking all over their grave?

Oh wait.)

The dim, dying torchlight fromthe empty room they just left pales in comparison to the blazing fire, bathingwhatever it can in the room with its warm orange glow, few parts touched onlyby the cool torchlight. They feel only a shadow of warmth, despite hoveringright above it.

They tell themselves that’s whatbothers them and not how even more familiar the little band of idiots looks.

The smallest one, though theyknow size can be more misleading than it can ever be telling, clasps theirhands, their frustratingly familiar looking gloves somehow not making theaction look any less relaxed or friendly, as they turn to the others in thegroup.

“Well guys, it looks likewe’ve got a lot of ground to cover. Let's–”

They recognize the eye roll theredhead gives. It’s one they’ve been giving to many of the more annoying peoplewho live here who can’t see them.

(Except hers almost looks fond,her tone too overly dry to be remotely serious.)

“If you say ‘let’s splitup’, I swear to Notch…”

She has the same rag-tag, cobbledtogether, ragged armor as most thieves, liars scum grave-robbers, do, but thered, alive vibrant heated, sticks out from the blue and gold. They rememberseeing hair like that, once.

That sense of misplaced, unknownnostalgia gets even stronger if they look too closely at the large one in greenand the smaller one in red, so they don’t.

The feeling’s better with theblond, for a moment, but then it gets just as strong.

Must be the anger.

They’d rather not look at anyonehere, now that they’ve gotten a closer look and clearly have realized how muchthey hate these ‘heroes’, but they need to be here to get rid of them.

That’s why they lean back with ahuff they know no one can hear.

In the process, the vase thatthey had forgotten was behind them wobbles, tipping back and forth on itslittle spot on top of the shelf and making more noise than it has any right toit, clicking and clacking against the delicately patterned plate beneath it.

They hadn’t wanted to rattle itthis time, but after getting so good at it for so long, it’s become a habit.

A habit that’s easy for others tolaugh off, apparently.

Or at least chuckle off as theirtargets apparently decide what everyone else usually does, that it must bebecause of the wind outside and as long as the vase hasn’t shattered into amillion pieces, it’s nothing to be concerned about.

“Alright, alright, maybe notthe best idea.”

Red, intensity and brilliance andwarmth, and green, life and energy and boundless curiosity.

Red and green. What does it mean?

And the anger… dies down alittle. It isn’t as suffocating, for the first time in… ever. They feel alittle light, actually.

It hurts.

Why does it hurt?

They tune the little group out.

It’s not the anger, the rage, thefury, and the light, bubbly feeling is still there, but it feels like something’sbroken.

Do they have a heart? A soul?Aren’t they already just a soul? Can a soul have a heart to hurt?

Maybe they do.

Whatever it is, it hurts. Itstings, burns, aches, fiery and slow and suffocating.

They want the pain to stop.

They sort of float there,hovering about the ground and feeling as if there’s some kind of bitingnothingness eating them from the inside, but just because time’s screwy for thedead doesn’t mean it stops passing for the living.

Unfortunately, there’s not muchof an investigation.

Or any.

That’s disappointing.

They’re tempted to slip away, notthat there’s much need for subtlety on a night like this in a place like this,and not that they have to slink around when this entire town is essentiallytheir disrupted grave, but there’s something about the grin the redhead hasthat catches their attention, warrior disappearing into the same room asleader.

There’s that curiosity again.

The others seem to go into their own rooms, but that’s hardly as interesting.

A plan? It has to be. Why elsewould the leader and warrior be in the same room, especially after the earlierfrustration about splitting up?

They get a bit too excited,perhaps, about finding the trespassers plotting their spiritual doom.

But it’s still disappointed tofind that the music isn’t a cover up.

Not exactly.

Because while the two of them aretogether, they’re just moving. Weirdly. With each other in rhythm to the musicas they shuffle back and forth across the floor at their own pace and lookingfor all the word like they’re as happy as can be, their armor discarded and forgotten in a corner as they stay warm in their coats and fuzzy clothes.

Few creatures are as weird as theliving.

(Dancing. That’s the word.

Why are they dancing?

It doesn’t seem very heroic orlike something that would hurt a ghost.)

“Okay Jesse, is this how youexpected your vacation to go?”

Neither of them change up the rhythm,go faster or slower, even as there’s a shared smile, and there’s that blastedfondness again.

“Maybe not, but I don’t see anyreason to complain about it. I’d say we’re all having fun.” No one should beable to have such a soft giggle on a night like tonight. What they think hasnever stopped anyone, though, and it continues to do nothing here. “Besides, weget to check out a tourist trap, they get to have us tell them there are noghosts to actually worry about, so everybody’s happy.”

And they both laugh, chucklesbecoming giggles as 'Jesse’ pulls the other closer.

Vacation?

The word, full of warmth and contentmentand joy, makes them feel like ice.

They’re not here for them?

But aren’t they a monster?Haven’t they been causing enough trouble to get heroes to try and take care ofthem?

(They could throw more dishes,make more noise, but… they don’t want to. These people have never doneanything to them. No one has. Swords can’t damage ghosts, and ghosts can’t domuch but move swords around, and they don’t want to stab anybody or anything,so it would just be horribly awkward and confusing if they did try to pick afight.)

Aren’t they good enough to lookfor, though? Good enough to not be brushed off so easily as the wind or paranoia?

Jesse nuzzles the taller one,pressing a kiss to her cheek before sinking more into the coat as they keep dancing.

And the anger dies down a littlemore, replaced by more bubbly aching.

Somebody moved that way with themonce.

It was nice.

They miss that.

Red and green and pain, armorthat’s hauntingly familiar and well-kept in a way that makes their hearts warmand hurts to look at all at the same time, tourist traps and disturbed deathbeds and anger with nowhere to go.

It’s all so, so much.

They want to rest.

But there’s not really an endafter death, not one that they know of.

So they sit up there, on theroof, exerting just enough power not to slip beneath the wood and disturb thehappy people below.

(They wish they could be thathappy now. They remember a time when they were, but even what they remember issad. All they could think of was angry, terrified people, people they couldn’thelp, people they’d lost and who had trusted them and who they’d miserablyfailed.

And then, softer, duller, andsomehow sharper all at once, they’d been so happy, so thrilled, that somebody,maybe even lots of people, weren’t dead. They hadn’t failed.

And then they died.

They wish they didn’t rememberanything. Then maybe the pain would go away.)

Chimney smoke lifts from thehouses as softly as the quiet music does below them, swirling in the air beforeslowly becoming nothing as it dissipates in the few fluffy clouds and gentlemoonlight.

#My Stuff #fanfiction #mcsm #minecraft story mode #jesstra #anon

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