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fallinnflower · 4 years

Text

red velvet

bambam x reader (modern prince!bambam x fashion designer!reader, fluff)

a/n: huge shout out to @wangtuanian for helping me make this happen. why did i write it? who knows.

wc: 10,779

Bambam tends to get what he wants. Not because he’s a prince — really, in this day and age, what does that title even mean — but because he’s charming and persistent. He learned at a young age that most people have trouble saying no to him, and he’s used it to his advantage ever since.

He’s a bit of a playboy. It hits magazines sometimes but only if there’s absolutely nothing else going on. You’re more likely to find him in a fashion spread than a gossip column, but he’s had his fair share of flings; after all, in the company of models you meet some truly beautiful people. He once ran off on a wonderful weekend getaway with a photographer — they haven’t spoken in years, but the memories are aged gold.

But the past is the past. Those desires don’t matter anymore. What he wants now is you.

From the moment you entered the room, you dominated it. It’s a testament to how the people in your field respected you — everyone stepped out of the way, although you didn’t have a particularly menacing aura. In fact, as he took stock of the emotions in the room, nobody seemed afraid but rather awestruck by your presence, as if you had descended from the heavens right before them.

In your crisply pressed white suit, you may as well have. You reach Bambam and quickly extend a hand.

“Hello, Your Highness. My name is Y/N, and I’ll be your personal designer for your gala suit. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He feels a familiar smile creeping across his lips, and rather than shaking your hand he takes it and lifts your knuckles to his lips. He lifts his gaze to find you, rather than flirtatious or even flustered at his gesture, looking highly perplexed.

“The pleasure’s all mine,” he purrs, and you retract your hand rather hastily. You blink a few times in rapid succession before beaming up at him.

“So,” you start, suddenly reaching back to tie your hair into a ponytail, moving towards a desk to his right. He takes the time to admire the curve of your neck, the slenderness of your hands and the deftness with which you snap the band around your hair.

“Do you have anything in mind? Colors, patterns, materials? Or am I in control?” You turn to him, eyes sparkling, with a roll of measuring tape hanging around one finger like an oversized wring and a clipboard now shoved under your arm. One of the many assistants scurries forward to take it from you, and you nod graciously, barely taking your eyes off Bambam.

He stiffens at first as your gaze roams over him, then forces himself into a more relaxed pose, sporting his most charming grin as he regards you with heavy-lidded eyes.

“Do you like being in control, Y/N?” You shrug primly, eyeing his shoulders and suddenly beginning to circle him, not unlike a curious cat. He would liken you to a shark, but your movements are too curious, too gentle to be truly predatory in nature. He watches you in baffled amusement, catching sight out of the corner of his eyes of the interns who are blushing at his blatant flirtations.

“If you don’t have a preference,” you say, stopping suddenly before him again. “Then I think a velvet blazer would be lovely. It’s very in-season, you know. Maybe red, or purple — something rich.” Your voice is reduced to less than murmurings, but even so your assistant with the clipboard rushes to write down your every thought. Bambam himself begins to crane his neck slightly, wanting to hear you—

“Stop moving,” you say sternly, and he immediately stands at attention. “I need to get your measurements. Stand like you normally do for these appointments.” He does as you ask, waiting almost breathlessly as you approach him with the measuring tape. You carefully unwind it, stepping up directly in front of him. You wrap your arms around him briefly, starting with his chest measurements, and he feels his breath catch.

“Stop flexing,” you say, rapping your knuckles gently against his abdomen. You don’t even spare him a glance, mumbling the measurements under your breath. Somehow, watching as a few strands of hair slip out of your ponytail to frame your face, lips pursed slightly in concentration and brows furrowed, Bambam can’t keep himself from smiling. Briefly, you speak over your shoulder to your assistant to give them the measurements, a gentle smile breaking across your face, and he feels an unfamiliar warmth taking over him as you turn back to take his shoulder measurements. Your movements are quick and deliberate. As you lean down to measure his legs, he notices you letting out a frustrated huff, trying to get a strand of hair out of your eyes. He reaches down and tucks the hair behind your ear for you, letting his fingers skim across your jaw as he pulls his hand back up. He’s sure to have his most charming smirk when you look up, and yet you simply beam up at him innocently, sincerely,

“Thank you.”

Confronted with the honesty in your eyes, Bambam feels the burn of a blush creeping up the back of his neck and straightens his posture once more, clearing his throat. He averts his gaze as you go back to your work, barely managing to mumble back a response.

“You’re welcome.” For the remainder of his appointment, he finds his eyes watching you curiously, tracing the shape of your movements and the generous curve of your smile. Every eye in the room seems to be on you, all ears waiting for your next words, and Bambam finds that he’s no exception. He’s not used to people ignoring his advances. Rebuffing, sure, fine— but just being completely oblivious? How is he supposed to deal with that?

How is he supposed to deal with you?

Bambam decides he needs to do his homework. There has to be something that makes you tick, a way to get under your skin and he’s going to find it. He’s determined.

He starts the easy way. Looks up your name in an internet search, starts scouring through interviews. Everything is about your work, even in those interviews you turn personal questions into something work-related. He finds that you’ve been working very hard to keep your carbon footprint small, you’re highly involved with sustainable fashion and it’s part of what’s made you rise to prominence — that and the fact that you’re reportedly good-natured to work with and for.

He finds a total of one interview where you mention anything about your love life. It’s a brief almost flyaway comment, but he catches it.

“Well, my ex would probably say I was very oblivious! He always had to be very blunt with me. I don’t think he liked that much, he was a very romantic person, but I couldn’t keep up with a lot of the things he did... I guess I’m a bit too focused on my work.”

You’d said it all with a smile and a cool laugh, moving onto the topic of your work once more as though you were unfazed, but Bambam can’t help but play the clip over and over. The dullness in your eyes when you talk about your ex makes him bristle slightly. How could anyone harbor any anger towards you? As far as he can tell, you’re nothing but a soft-hearted, hard-working individual.

He has a feeling you were the one who went unappreciated, not the other way around, but that you’re just too nice to say anything about it. Maybe you hadn’t even noticed yourself. Has anyone ever taken the time to truly engage with you on your level?

Bambam continues watching interviews, finding himself more and more irritated by the questions you receive. So often they were about the models you were working with, or possible commissions or projects you had done for a celebrity rather than your work itself. It’s obvious to him that you want to talk about your process, but you always seem to get cut short. He can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen you truly enjoy yourself during any sort of interview, and it makes his heart clench every time he has to watch the spark in you die out because a reporter wants something juicy.

He sits back, gazing at a paused video of you, contemplating how to get closer to you. It’s strange to him, he usually doesn’t have to try very hard to find something people like — usually, it’s him, and he can work from there. But you hadn’t reacted at all when he was with you at work, so he needs a new approach. It should be easy enough to learn a bit more about fashion, he thinks. He’s always been interested in it, though he’s never really been on the other side of the industry from his modeling. There’s a first time for everything, he thinks, pulling his laptop back into his lap. You’d mentioned velvet blazers, hadn’t you? He chuckles to himself as he types it into the search bar — at least it’s a place to start.

His next appointment with you isn’t meant to be for a week and a half, busy as both your schedules are and the fact that you tend to let all your staff keep their weekends open unless there are big events. Bambam tends to like having his weekends open too, and this week his schedule just happens to work in his favor — he’s got an entirely free Sunday, and all he wants to do is wander around town and maybe do some shopping. Call it research, he thinks, looking at the latest fashions and updating his wardrobe. And, the cats are out of the nice, locally-baked treats he likes to buy from a specific store downtown, so he has to go out anyway.

Many people would probably be shocked or find him rising early, leaving the apartment by half-past eight in the morning, but the sun is shining brightly and the weather is perfect — so he can’t help himself! Traffic is light coming down from his house, gradually entering civilization as he descends from his lonely mountainside residence. Some days, he thinks, he’s really fine being up there all by himself, just the cats and sometimes a cleaner, looking out into the trees through the tall, broad windows.

And then on days like today, when the sun is out and the sky is clear in the early morning, he gets inexplicably stir crazy. Really, the cat treats are an excuse and he knows it — he has anything and everything they could possibly need stockpiled in his palatial mansion like he’s preparing for doomsday. Or just time out of the spotlight.

He parks in a reserved space in the lot of a government building, smiling widely at the security officers as he gets out of his car. The air is warmer in the valley, and so he strips off his coat, opting simply to walk around in his sweater. He drags a hand through his bleached locks and shoves his keys in his pockets.

The pet store isn’t open for another twenty minutes, which, in Bambam’s opinion, is a perfect amount of time for getting coffee and a quick breakfast in a cafe. He window shops along the way, waiting for something, anything to catch his eye—

He’s at the crosswalk, waiting to walk over to a new cafe, when he spots something, someone, familiar. And he really thinks he must be going crazy, because why on earth would you be spending your Sunday morning staring out the window of a cafe? As Bambam crosses, you duck your head, appearing to be scribbling something down in a hurry. By the furrow in your brow, the serious set of your mouth as you work, he’s suddenly certain it’s you.

Well, now, who is he to deny what fate is offering him? He came here partly to do ‘homework’ to get to know you better, and here you are! With an admittedly giddy smile on his face, he approaches the window you sit behind and raps his knuckles against it, watching as you jump slightly in your seat. When your eyes meet his, however, your expression morphs into one of pure delight, and he thinks his heart could melt — he knows he’s done for when you gesture for him to come in, clearing your things off of the unattended side of your table.

He acquiesces. He has a feeling you could ask him to do anything and, as long as you smiled like that, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

“Bambam!” You greet, and he realizes he loves the way his name falls from your lips. He can’t help but smile as he walks towards your table; you stand to greet him.

“This is perfect — I just had some design ideas for you and I really want you to see them.” Hardly leaving him a second to breathe, your small hand lands on his shoulder, steering him into the vacant seat. You shove your sketchbook towards him,

“Just look through it, I’ll order for you — what kind of coffee do you like?”

“Iced Americano,” he says, chuckling. Your energy is contagious, and he can’t help but be excited as he flips through your sketchbook.

The first page you’ve turned him to is obviously about him. The figure is a bit rudimentary, but definitely resembles him, and the outfit is reminiscent of what you had mentioned at the previous meeting. He looks at the different cuts of jackets you’ve whipped up, all the various collars and lapels and even possible tails to the coat. He finds himself examining each one carefully, realizing how naive he’d been to the nuances of your trade all this time.

Once he starts flipping around, however, he realizes all the previous pages are very quick sketches with brief notes jotted all across the pages. Based on the positions of the figures, he realizes they must have been walking past this very window and simply caught your eye.

Suddenly, his drink appears before him, and he looks up to meet your gaze just as you drop into your seat.

“Honestly, this is like fate,” you say, tucking stray strands of hair behind your ears. “I just got struck with inspiration for your outfit and then, suddenly, here you are!” He laughs, albeit it sounds nervous and off-kilter even to his own ears. If you notice, you don’t comment on it, simply watching as he continues to peruse the designs.

“These are amazing,” he says, finally. And they are, but they’re more than that — he just doesn’t know how to say so, how to mention anything about your artistry without sounding like a complete fool.

“Thank you.” Although he’s sure you’ve heard this before, you still bashfully duck your head as he says it. You reach out to turn the page for him, and he glances up to watch you look over the row of colors you have swatched on the page next to a crisp blazer design. He wonders if you know that you pout adorably when you’re concentrating, or if it’s just another one of your unassuming charms.

“This one,” you say, tapping just above one of the colors. Bambam looks down to where you’re indicating, finding himself confronted with a deep red with hints of purple.

“It’s actually even better to see it with you here,” you continue, though he can’t be sure you’re even talking to him. “Your skin tone looks different in person, cameras always seem to wash people out.” You point to another color, more red than the last.

“If I go with velvet, it might look a bit more like this when the light hits it. I think both work well for you.” You nod resolutely, and Bambam finds himself laughing softly as he nudges your sketchbook back towards you.

“Is this how your mind always works?” He asks playfully, and you snort in response, taking a sip of your drink.

“Seems to be,” you reply. “It’s still my passion. Some people said it would fizzle out once I started working, but it hasn’t yet.” Your gaze falls back out towards the street, and Bambam attempts to follow it, trying to see whatever it is you’re seeing in the people passing by. After a moment you turn back to him, shrugging.

“Guess I’m just lucky. I still love designing.”

“Good to know I’m not torturing you with a commission, then,” he teases, and you roll your eyes. Seeing an opening, he leans forward, resting his elbows on the table.

“Actually, I’m a bit curious about fashion myself. I’ve done some modeling, you know.” You chuckle over the rim of your cup.

“I know, Bambam.” The teasing edge to your voice only makes his smile grow.

“So, could I ask you a few questions?” He asks, raising his eyebrows.

“Fire away.”

So he does. Although he’s sure he sounds like a complete amateur, he asks you anything he can think of about the design process. He listens attentively when you start talking about color theory, and about an hour in he gets a refill for you — turns out your tastes are a bit sweeter than his, requesting a pump of vanilla and some cream in your own americano — and returns to find you with your gaze out the window and hand flying across the sketchbook page.

“How do you do that?” He asks, watching the drawing take shape, albeit messily, despite your eyes being away from the page.

“Practice,” you reply, only turning to look at him when the person you were watching disappears fully from your sight. “Sorry, that was just— that person was wearing this amazing skirt, and I had to get my idea down.”

“Do you do this often?” He prods, and you nod, cleaning up the sketch slightly as you do.

“Whenever I have free time, really. Even in my apartment, or on trips — it seems like I’m always trying to think of new designs.” Bambam nods thoughtfully, looking out the window himself and trying to imagine just what it is that catches your attention. He’s startled by the sound of paper ripping, only to find you pushing a blank sheet of paper from your sketchbook and an extra pencil towards him.

“You try.” He blinks at you helplessly and you laugh. He decides he really likes the sound of it.

“Just look for anything that catches your eye. You don’t have to draw it if you don’t want to, you can write it down, but designing is ultimately about people, you know? So it’s good to see what people like wearing.” Your eyes are already back on the sidewalk, and Bambam finds himself gazing at your profile for a moment longer before turning away.

The two of you continue that exercise for a while, talking back and forth about what you notice, what you like and what you don’t like and why, and Bambam can’t help but think how easy it is to be around you. He thought it would be hard, that you would be more difficult, but you seem to be surprising him at every turn. It wouldn’t bother him one bit to sit here with you all day, sketching passersby — or just watch you sketch, anyways — and he probably would have if not for the ringing of his phone interrupting the two of you. The message is unimportant, but it catches both of your attention right away.

“Ah, you probably have things to do, don’t you?” You say as he sets the phone aside. Your lips curve into an apologetic smile. “I shouldn’t be taking up all your free time with work-related things — I’m sorry.

“Don’t apologize!” He replies, too quickly, countering your confused gaze with a smile. “I wasn’t out for much, there’s just this local pet supply shop nearby and my cats love the treats the owner bakes.” He allows himself to trail off, wondering why he decided to tell you something about himself that sounds so childish—

“You have cats?” Bambam immediately looks back up at the bright tone of your voice only to see you leaning across the table towards him, eyes practically sparkling. He nods, and you let out what can only be described as an excited squeal.

“I love cats!” You gush, propping your chin in your hands and looking out the window wistfully. Bambam takes on a similar posture, but his gaze is focused on you as you continue speaking, “I actually learned how to knit making sweaters for my grandma’s cats — she had a little dog, too, and we made them new ones every winter. I’m too busy for a pet, really, but I’ve always told myself that when my life calms down, I’ll get a cat of my own.”

Suddenly, your eyes snap back to Bambam’s, and he sits up straighter even though you’ve already caught him obviously staring at you. You let out a nervous laugh, tugging at a loose strand of your hair.

“Sorry,” you say, again, voice small. “Sometimes I just get carried away. Maybe I shouldn’t have had that refill.” The way you avoid his gaze, your nervous fidgeting, all of it makes him feel oddly crestfallen. Only moments before you had seemed full of life, brighter than the sun outside the window, and now suddenly you’ve retreated into yourself. He licks his lips nervously and drums his fingers against his glass.

“I don’t mind,” he says, gently. “And, I mean, you can come with me if you want. To the store. It isn’t far, and the owner has a cat…” The sparkle seems to return to your eyes as Bambam lifts his gaze to meet yours. He can’t help but mirror your grin.

“I’d love to,” you say.

Bambam helps you pack your things back into your bag before leading the way out onto the street, feeling elated just to have you walking by his side. You’re as smitten with the shopowner’s cat as he had been upon his first visit, and while you’re preoccupied petting it Bambam fields teasing remarks from the old woman as she bags up his treats behind the counter. He only wishes he could keep himself from blushing; his protestations would probably be more believable then.

“It’s getting a bit late,” you say as the two of you exit the store, and Bambam has to agree. The afternoon is upon the both of you, and although Bambam didn’t have any engagements today he does still have some paperwork to look over back home — and, of course, his cats to tend to.

“Do you need a ride home?” He asks, tilting his head. You blink in surprise, then shake your head.

“Oh, no, I’ll just catch a cab. I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.” He wants to push, but he can tell by the look in your eye that you won’t take the offer, so he simply makes his way over to a nearby bench instead.

“Then I’ll wait with you.” You roll your eyes but concede, placing the call for your taxi before taking a seat beside him. The two of you sit in amicable silence for a moment, Bambam allowing himself to admire you from the corner of his eye as the golden hour creeps ever nearer. Eventually, however, you break it, turning your body to face his.

“Bambam?” You ask, gently. He hums in response. “Could I see a picture of your cats?” At this, he perks up. He has plenty of pictures of them, of course — they’re his pride and joy, but usually people tend to think he gets carried away. You, however, coo over every single picture of them he has, laughing at some of the video clips he manages to show you before your cab pulls up to the curb. He opens the door for you, unable to keep the grin off his face as you duck into the car and promptly beam up through the open door at him.

“Thank you, Bambam,” you say.

“My pleasure,” he replies. “See you Wednesday?” You smile, nodding emphatically.

“See you Wednesday.” With that, he closes the door for you and waves as the driver pulls away, watching until you disappear before heading back towards his own vehicle.

He’s never wanted a weekend to end so quickly.

Bambam doesn’t think he’s ever been so excited for a Wednesday in his life, but the thought of seeing you again has him smiling even when his alarm goes off before dawn that day. The morning is jam-packed with meetings discussing his parents’s anniversary party and what he needs to do in preparation. When he finally leaves there, he stops by a local cafe to pick up some coffee to get him through the day.

However, as he’s standing in line he can’t help but remember the last time he saw you, and before he knows it he’s in front of the cashier ordering two iced americanos — one with a pump of vanilla and creamer.

And so that’s how Bambam finds himself strolling into your design studio with a drink carrier holding two iced americanos. He recognizes one of your interns from last time at the front desk, and he takes off his sunglasses, placing them in his blazer’s chest pocket.

“Good morning, Your Highness,” the intern says primly, smiling, and Bambam waves a hand dismissively.

“Just Bambam, please.”

“As you wish,” he replies, then glances up to look over Bambam’s outfit. He raises an eyebrow, and Bambam suddenly finds himself standing up straighter, feeling as though he’s being appraised.

“Wrong time of year for a linen suit,” the intern says. “But you look good enough that I don’t think our Y/N will mind.”

“Our— what—?”

“Bambam!” You call, walking into the lobby area. “Oh, is that coffee?”

“Yeah,” he says, straightening out his suit with his free hand. “I was getting myself some, and I figured you could use some too.”

“Well, thank you,” you say, smiling as he passes your drink to you. You take a sip of it while beckoning him to follow you back into the studio.

“Come on, we have a lot of work to do.” Bambam follows you loyally, and by the time he gets into your studio you’ve already set the cup on the desk and are pulling out fabric samples. He’s barely reached your side before you’re holding them out to him.

“So, I managed to get my hands on some color samples— really lucky for us, actually, because this isn’t a color they make regularly, but I convinced them. Anyways—” Suddenly, you start walking again, and Bambam hurries to follow you as you wave him over to a part of the room with better lighting.

“See, this one has more purple undertones, but the other one is more crimson. Both colors complement your palette, I already checked, so now it’s all to your preference.”

He swears he was paying attention to the velvet when you first walked him over, but at some point his gaze drifted over to you. The light is harsh where you both stand and, objectively, unflattering — and yet Bambam can’t keep himself from staring. There’s a small crease between your brows as you hold both squares of velvet up, shifting them so they catch the light. Even when he does look back at the fabric, he can’t help but think what they would look like on you and not him.

“So?” You prod, and Bambam clears his throat, rolling his shoulders back.

“Um— I mean, they’re both nice. Really nice!” You look up at him, brow furrowed and lips curved into a frown.

“You weren’t paying attention, were you?” Despite the overall gentleness of your features, Bambam finds himself feeling ashamed under your obviously disappointed gaze.

“Sorry,” he replies, looking down at his shoes. “I was a little distracted. But, really, Y/N, I think you have the better judgement out of the two of us.” When he glances back up, he finds you staring back down at the fabrics. You let out a little sigh he can’t help but find cute, shifting your weight back onto your heels a bit.

“I won’t deny that,” you murmur. “Anyways, for the pants, I’m just thinking simple. Black, straight-leg, a little slim but not skinny. For the shirt, I want to be just a little more creative. If you’re willing, of course!”

“Such as?” Bambam asks, unable to keep from grinning.

“Well, I was thinking black silk with a scarf-style collar. You know, very chic. Nothing crazy, because I want the blazer to be the key piece, but it would remove the need for a tie... what do you think?”

You look up at him inquisitively, and Bambam is almost flustered by how genuinely interested in his opinion you seem to be. He leans down a bit to be closer to eye level with you, smiling all the while.

“Once again, I trust your judgement, Miss Designer.” You let out a scoff and roll your eyes.

“You’re no help at all, you know.” With that, you turn back towards your desk, setting the fabric samples down and taking a sip of your coffee. Bambam takes a drink of his own, watching as you jot down notes on a page of your journal with your free hand. Although you’re lively in any setting, you seem to be almost glowing here, completely in your element. He opens his mouth, though he isn’t sure what he’s planning to say, when suddenly his phone begins to ring.

It’s an alarm, alerting him to his next engagement. He only has a few minutes to spare, and considering it’s nearly the lunch rush he knows he should be going. He lets out a sigh, running a hand through his hair.

“Alright, well, I should probably be going then—”

“Wait!” You day, and he freezes on the spot. You reach beneath your desk and then come to stand before him. Hanging from your fingers is a paper gift bag, and he raises an eyebrow, chuckling as he takes it from you.

“What’s this?”

“A gift,” you reply, grinning in a manner he can describe only as cheeky. Before he can come up with a witty retort, you gently push him towards the lobby. “Go, go— I’m not about to be the reason you’re late!”

“Alright, alright!” He relents. “See you later, Y/N.”

“Bye, Bambam.” You wave him out the door of your studio before disappearing back into your office space. He lets himself settle in the car before rummaging beneath the tissue in the bag, brows furrowing when he feels the soft texture of yarn. When he pulls the first object out, however, he can’t help but smile.

In his hands is a perfectly cat-sized sweater, with a neatly embroidered patch bearing the name King with a little crown affixed to it. Although he knows he needs to go soon, he sticks his hand back into the bag. Amidst the three other sweaters, he feels a small, rectangular piece of card stock, which he hurriedly pulls out. When he turns it over in his hand he’s greeted by the sight of your neat handwriting,

I hope you (and the cats) like these! If it isn’t too much trouble, could you send me photos of them in the sweaters?

— y/n ***-***-****

Down in the corner is a tiny doodle of a happy cat face, and he’s warmed by the cuteness of it. Suddenly, Bambam feels very motivated to get to his next meeting — or, more accurately, get done with it so he can go home.

You’re half-asleep, hunched over your sketchbook when your phone suddenly buzzes with an incoming text. In the dimly lit corner of your room where your desk is, your screen suddenly seems far too bright.

And the time far too late. Who on earth is texting you at two in the morning?

< Y/N!!! Those sweaters are so amazing!!!

< [attachment: 5 images]

< Can I post these online? No pressure, of course, I just really think people would like them and the cats look so cute!

You can’t help but laugh. Although you had no way of knowing it, Bambam had practically been vibrating with excitement until the moment he finally got home and managed to get all his cats into their sweaters. He also wouldn’t ever admit it, but he might have cried a bit when he got a photo of all of them together on his bed, looking incredibly snuggly and adorable. You take the time to go through all the images before actually replying, unable to keep yourself from smiling. The sweaters on their own were cute, fine, but actually seeing them on their intended forms made all the difference. You saved the images and navigated back to your messages, saving Bambam’s number in your phone.

Ahh, I’m glad that they all fit! I was worried. If you want to post them, that’s fine with me. I’m honored you like them so much! >

As you set your phone down, you suddenly find yourself yawning. Bambam’s text had shocked you out of your zone, and now your exhaustion was beginning to set in. You’d been up before the dawn, and if you went to bed now you might be able to get a solid five hours in before your day needed to start up in earnest. You lean back in your seat, examining your sketchbook in the lowlight. For hours, all you’d been doing was attempting to recreate Bambam’s silhouette in various different suit jacket cuts. As a consequence, now you find yourself staring at seemingly endless images of Bambam, none quite living up to the real thing. How could you hope to capture that brilliance with mere pencil on paper?

Hurriedly, you shake the thought from your head, wondering just how tired you actually are to be thinking something like that. Bambam is a client first, and that’s probably all he will ever be. You just… admire his form. Right?

At least, that’s what you try to convince yourself as you get to bed. It doesn’t help you fall asleep at all.

Bambam is a busy person. And he knows that you are, too, but that doesn’t stop him from trying to communicate with you as often as possible. Really, all he wants lately is to talk to you — especially when the boring meetings seem endless and the planning gets stressful. When he has an off moment, he finds himself trying to come up with new things to ask you about. A picture of his cats, fashion items he thinks look cool, he’s even sent you a few memes at this point. Your replies tend to be spaced out, though you’re quick to explain it — you’re working on his outfit right now, and after begging for progress shots he finally receives one.

< Consider yourself lucky, I don’t like showing people unfinished projects!

Well, he certainly feels lucky, though he’s not sure how to tell you that without sounding too forward. And given your usual reactions to his outright flirtations, he thinks subtlety might be the way to go with you.

But Bambam is a little ostentatious by nature. Where’s the fun in being subtle?

Are you at the office? >

Surprisingly, you respond quickly.

< Yes. I’m planning to spend the whole day here.

Grinning at your response, Bambam leans back on his couch, lifting his arms up over his head slightly to accommodate one of the cats as it jumps up onto his stomach. He punches in the address of your office, tracking down a nearby cafe and following the link to their website. Within a matter of minutes he’s organized for a half-dozen iced coffees to be delivered to your office, along with an assortment of baked goods from the local shop. Although it shouldn’t seem like such a big deal, he finds himself biting his lip out of a mix of nervousness and excitement as he waits to hear from you. He tries to imagine your reaction, the way your eyes will light up and the smile on your face when one of your assistants, no doubt, presents you with your coffee. He only hopes that they added a sleeve with a note on it like he asked—

The buzzing of his phone snaps him out of his imaginings, and he can’t help but beam when he reads your message,

< Bambam! You did not just order coffee for my entire office!!!

< How did you even know there were six of us here?

< And the pastries?! How much did this cost you?? I’ll pay you back!

He has to take a moment just to get over how cute you are. How is it possible for someone to be so endearing over texts? Looking at your final message, he simply shakes his head. Under normal circumstances, he’d probably try to smoothly suggest you pay him back with a date, but that doesn’t seem like something you would quite catch on to.

Lucky guess. Do you like them? >

No need to pay me back. Just consider a gift from an adoring fan~ >

< Aish, you’re too cheeky!

< I need to get back to work, but all the staff say thank you. I promise I’ll pay you back!

Without thinking much of it, Bambam snaps a photo of himself winking, keeping the sleeping Latte in frame as he does so. He sends it along with a caption before setting his phone aside and resting one hand atop his napping cat, preparing to join his pet in slumber.

You’re more than welcome. I’ll be looking forward to whatever you come up with. >

Bambam can’t help but feel disappointed that he doesn’t hear much from you between then and his next appointment, much less see you. Nonetheless, the fact that he’s getting your attention for an allotted amount of time has been enough to power him through the week. He spent at least ten extra minutes picking out an outfit he hoped all your staff would approve of — ridiculous given the fact that he’s going to be changing out of his current clothes and into your designs in a matter of minutes. Maybe he puts too much stock in the impressions he leaves on you and your staff, but he feels pretty confident in himself, so maybe his silliness is worth it.

“Good morning,” he calls out, opening the door. The same assistant is sitting at the desk as last time.

“Bambam,” he replies, smiling. “Thank you for the coffee earlier this week. Although I’m sure it wasn’t me you were trying to impress.” His grin turns sly, and Bambam clears his throat, hoping the blush he can feel creeping up his face isn’t too obvious.

“Jinyoung!” Your voice interrupts the both of you, and Jinyoung raises an eyebrow but otherwise returns back to business as usual.

“Yes?” He calls back. Bambam shifts his weight, dragging a hand through his hair and rearranging a few strands carefully.

“Has Bambam come in yet?”

“Just now. I’ll send him back.” With that, Jinyoung jerks his chin in the direction of your studio, and Bambam nods, making his way back into your space and trying desperately to ignore Jinyoung’s teasing, knowing look.

When he gets into the room, he doesn’t see you — just the mannequin form sitting beneath the white lights. The ensemble looks better in person than it had in any of the pictures you had sent, and he takes another step towards it before calling out your name.

“Y/N?”

As he takes another step forward, you suddenly peer around the corner, a small number of colorfully-topped straight pins held between your teeth. You attempt to smile at him, but Bambam’s heart skips a beat and drops as he rushes towards you.

“Give me those,” he says, reaching up thoughtlessly to pull them from between your teeth and dropping them into his palm. “That’s so dangerous, why would you hold them like that?” It isn’t until he’s got them all safely in his palm that he realizes how close he is to you, faces close enough that your noses could nearly brush. Your wide, confused eyes peer up into his, and Bambam finds himself unable to breathe when you let out a soft giggle.

“It’s just what seamstresses do, you know,” you reply, gently reaching into his palm to take the pins out. Your fingertips brush against his skin, and if you were anyone else he’d be ashamed at the way his spine seems to tingle at the contact. You turn on your heel, walking across the studio to a small changing room and pulling the door open.

“Anyways, I realized I didn’t have any of these ready for your fitting. But now that I have them, you can go ahead and change.” It takes him a moment to get his bearings again, but once he does he moves quickly into the dressing room. Before he can close the door, you stop it with your foot, laughing.

“You might need these, Bambam,” you say, holding the recently finished clothes out on their hangers. He shakes his head lightly, laughing as well, albeit more awkwardly than you had.

“Right, yeah— thank you.”

He takes the outfit and closes the door, gently knocking his forehead against it. How could he be so stupid? What is it about you that makes him so foolish, and why today? Bambam takes a deep breath and tries to make himself be still before he lets it out in one long, slow sigh. He hangs his clothing on the extra hangers you’ve provided in the room before slipping into the new clothes.

Although he thinks he should expect it, he’s still a bit surprised by how well the clothing fits already, unaltered. He looks himself over in the mirror, smoothing down the blazer and striking a pose in the mirror. Just as he moves to strike another, you knock gently on the door.

Bambam, feeling almost giddy with how good he looks, opens it with a flourish, leaning into the doorframe with his fingers curled around the top of the door.

“Careful!” You cry, pulling at his arm and smoothing the material down the shoulders. “The seams are loose!” Bambam flounders for a moment, feeling his cheeks redden all over again. You gently lead him over to the middle of the room, where he steps up on the platform. He rolls his shoulders back, perfecting his posture as you take a few steps back and tapping your fingers against your chin. Your dark eyes rake over him, moving up and down before you start circling him. Bambam swallows thickly, feeling stripped by your intense gaze despite the fact that your eyes never stray beyond your own designs hanging off him.

After one slow orbit around him, you step up closer. It’s only when you kneel down that Bambam realizes you’ve got a pincushion in your hand, probably to spare him another heart attack at seeing you with pins in your mouth. You frown gently, and Bambam can’t help but smile a bit at the cuteness of it. As you reach for the hem of his pants, however, he stiffens up slightly, righting his posture once again. Although he can’t see it, your frown deepens, and you gently slap your hand against his calf, causing him to jump a bit. He pouts down at you only to find you smiling up at him,

“Loosen up, would you? Just stand like you usually do, so I can be sure it will fit you comfortably.” You lean back and he clears his throat, shifting slightly and shaking out his arms and shoulders slightly. He lets out a deep breath and tries to muster a laugh to lighten the mood. Your expression doesn’t change, however, falling silent and serious again as you inspect his hemline once again. Bambam feels awkward simply standing there in silence, and so he clears his throat once again.

“So,” he begins. “Did you think of how you’re going to repay me?” He watches as you sit back on your heels, jaw going slack as you look up at him. Your expression quickly morphs to one of guilt, a pout forming on your lips. Bambam furrows his brows, cocking his head to one side as he looks down at you.

“What’s wrong?”

“I meant to buy you a coffee for today…” You smooth your palms against your thighs, looking down nervously. Seeing you in such a state, Bambam can’t help but laugh, though just a little.

“Well, in that case,” he says, “I have an idea.”

“And what would that be?” You ask, leaning forward again to double check the hem. Bambam continues to gaze down at you, swallowing hard as he feels his heart hammering against his ribcage.

“You could come to my parents’s anniversary party?” Your hands still, body stiffening as you process his words.

“What?” You ask, softly. You’re hesitant as you lift your gaze to meet his, and Bambam finds himself feeling somewhat awkward with your reaction.

“I, um—well, I just thought it might be nice. If you came, you know. Everyone that’s going to be there, they’re my parents’s friends and our family, so I thought it might be nice to have you there.”

“With you?”

“Yeah,” he says, half breathless all of a sudden. He thinks it must have something to do with the earnest, almost imploring look in your eyes. “With me.”

He holds your gaze for a long moment, feeling as though he could fall right into your eyes — and maybe he is, for all he knows. He’s certainly falling for you one way or another. After a prolonged moment he shifts his weight awkwardly once again, looking away.

“Only if you want to, though. Please, don’t feel pressured.”

“Okay,” you say, and his gaze snaps back to yours.

“Okay?”

“I’ll go,” you reply, a smile playing at the corners of your mouth. Bambam feels starstruck by the sight of it, only shaken when you gently swat at his leg once again, silently urging him to straighten his posture. He obliges, though he can’t keep the smile off his face throughout the rest of the fitting.

As he prepares to leave your office, he turns back to you one last time, leaning against the threshold of the doorway leading into your lobby.

“I’ll text you the details,” he says. You turn away from adjusting the clothes on the mannequin, grinning playfully at him over your shoulder.

“Only if you promise to send pictures of the cats, too.” He can’t help but laugh gladly at your request, running a hand through his hair.

“You have my word.” He makes an ‘x’ over his heart with his fingertip, and you let out a short laugh as you turn back to your work. Bambam watches you for a moment longer, enamored by the smile still on your face, before he walks back through the lobby. As he goes to leave, he hears one last thing that distracts him.

“Whipped.”

Bambam snorts at the sound of Jinyoung’s voice, though as he exits the building he can’t necessarily disagree with the assistant’s statement. In fact, all he can really think is: so what if he is whipped?

The week and a half that follow are absolutely hellish. All that Bambam can hope is that it would all be worth it, and his parents’s party would be everything he wanted it to be and more. He’s been in and out of the ballroom so many times on the day-of that the staff finally banned him from entering before the celebration began, and so he resorts himself to pacing back and forth in his old bedroom, fussing with his hair and clothing. As he does so he tries to recite his speech, but a part of him knows he’s going to end up winging it a bit anyways — he always does, especially when he’s nervous and has alcohol in him.

As promised, he had given you all the details for the party. He had offered to send someone to go get you (ideally, he would have gone himself, but he couldn’t risk being late and didn’t want you to feel rushed), but you had declined. You had been busy throughout the past week and a half too, and so Bambam felt doubly anxious to see you.

Just when he thinks he can’t get any more nervous, the party begins.

Although it’s a bit embarrassing, Bambam is one of the first to snatch a glass of champagne off a passing tray, downing half of it before reverting to more elegant sips. He greets various semi-distant relatives he hasn’t seen in years, and the lack of familiar faces only makes him more nervous. His parents aren’t due to arrive for another half hour at least, when they’ll make their grand entrance as a couple.

Bambam tries to keep conversation light, mostly because he can’t keep his eyes off the door for long. A number of people compliment his outfit — something which makes him puff up with pride, mentally trying to keep tally of all the pleasant remarks to report back to you later. You deserve to be reminded just how talented you are, after all.

He’s on his second glass of champagne when he swears the entire ballroom falls silent. Even his chattiest aunts seem to go completely quiet, and on instinct he turns to the door—

He nearly drops his glass of champagne. You stand in the doorway, looking around the room, and although he knows he should wave you over he can’t seem to make himself move. You look incredible — more than incredible, really, but Bambam can’t think of the words for it, only complimentary words that all feel far too dull to encompass how spectacular he thinks you look.

The red velvet dress hugs your curves perfectly, the sleeves hanging off your shoulders, and Bambam swallows hard when he sees the same shade of red, the same as his blazer, painted on your lips. How is it possible for anyone to look that amazing?

Finally, you turn your head his way, dark eyes latching onto his across the room. A bashful but excited smile stretches across your face, and Bambam feels as though he’s floating, being pulled across space towards you rather than walking. When he’s finally standing in front of you, with your sparkling eyes gazing up into his, he can’t manage any words other than,

“Wow.” You laugh softly, looking him up and down and tucking a strand of hair back behind your ear.

“Wow, yourself. But I did do a pretty good job, didn’t I?” You ask, gesturing to him and yourself. Bambam chokes out a nervous laugh, shaking his head in disbelief.

“You— you made that?” He asks, voice cracking slightly. As soon as he asks the question he passes a hand over his eyes, sighing in embarrassment. “What am I saying, of course you did. And you did more than good, you look incredible.” The playfulness slips from your expression, and Bambam can see your ears turning red with blush as the earnestness in his words hits you.

“Thank you,” you reply, softly. Bambam can’t help but smile at your slight bashfulness as he offers you his elbow. You slip your hand into the crook of his elbow and at this proximity, it no longer seems possible that anyone could miss the fact that your outfits are cut from the same cloth. Bambam’s heart beats wildly at the thought of you looking like his date to all his relatives and parents’s friends.

“Are you thirsty? Hungry? Have you eaten? I have a speech to give once my parents get here, but until then I can keep you company—” He babbles, leading you further into the ballroom. He finds himself searching for a waiter somewhere in the room to flag down some champagne for you, but is interrupted by you gently tugging at his arm. He looks down only to be met with your teasing expression.

“Loosen up,” you joke, but he can see the honest concern in your eyes. Bambam keeps his eyes locked on yours and takes a deep breath, trying to stabilize and center himself. The sight of your smile somehow puts him at ease.

“Alright,” he sighs. “I’m loose. I’m loose, see! Now, I think it’s time we show off your marvelous work, don’t you?” Bambam shoots you a cheeky grin, pressing his hand against the small of your back to continue leading you into the crowd. You roll your eyes but keep pace with him, reaching for a glass of champagne as a waiter passes with a tray.

“I think my work speaks for itself, don’t you?” Bambam can’t help but smile at you, nudging you playfully with his elbow.

“Confidence is very attractive on you, you know.”

“Aish,” you sigh, rolling your eyes. “Don’t you ever get tired of teasing?”

“Who said I was teasing?” He fixes you with as serious a look he can muster, though he can’t keep himself from smiling. He’s giddy just having you beside him, and his underlying nervousness makes it hard to hide his emotions. The same blush as before creeps up the column of your neck, and he finds himself smiling more broadly as you clear your throat and pull him forward.

“When’s your speech?” You ask, shoulder bumping against his as you sidesteps another guest.

“Well,” he starts, going over the itinerary in his mind and pulling you both to a brief stop. “Once my parents come in, they’ll greet everyone and then a few of us will give speeches before they have the first dance. The buffet will be laid out once they’re here, and then the cake will get cut at the end…”

“Ah, I see.” You glance around the room, but Bambam keeps his eyes on you.

“I could introduce you to some of my cousins. They’re all a bit older, but then you won’t have to sit alone while I’m occupied.”

“That might be nice,” you reply. “Are they all as cheeky as you are?” Bambam winks at you, nudging you playfully with his elbow.

“Lucky for you, I’m one of a kind.”

“Mm, lucky.” Your teasing tone strangely brings him comfort, and he rolls his eyes playfully, pulling you into his side.

“Come on.” With that, he guides you towards a small cluster of his cousins, nodding in greeting as the two of you approach.

He’s barely managed to introduce you to them all when suddenly he hears someone tapping into the microphone on stage.

“Please welcome their Royal Majesties, our King and Queen!” Bambam turns along with everyone else to applaud at their arrival, watching as his parents enter the room. The two of them are practically glowing as they walk in arm in arm, waving at their friends and family. As they approach the elevated table at the back of the room, Bambam turns back towards you, nearly forgetting about his cousins entirely.

“I’ll see you after the speeches, okay?” You smile and wave him off, barely taking your eyes off of his parents in all their splendor.

Bambam’s speech is the second to be delivered. And thank God for it, because for all his confident airs he feels very judged by the lack of people his age in the room. As his uncle speaks, Bambam goes over the words in his head and can’t help but feel that they’re juvenile in comparison to what his mother’s brother is saying.

But it’s too late to change it now. The evening’s second round of applause is his queue to stand from where he’d been seated at his uncle’s side at the elevated table. His parents look at him, expectant and proud and happy, and Bambam really hope he doesn’t fuck this up. He rolls his shoulders, loosening up once more, and smiles back at his mother and father.

“You know, growing up here, in this castle, I always felt like my life was a fairytale,” he starts, trying to keep his voice steady. “But once I got older, I realized being born into royalty wasn’t quite like what you read in the books, or see in the movies. It’s a lot more paperwork than magic.” That garners a few laughs from his relatives, half-hearted but enough to get him to finally look out at the crowd. He looks to you almost out of instinct, only to find you smiling reassuringly at him, eyes turned up into endearing crescents.

“The real magic in my life has been love.” His heart hammers against his chest, and he takes a deep breath before speaking again. “My parents — seeing their love throughout my whole life, that’s the real fairytale charm here. The fact that they’re still so happy after so many years together, it’s powerful. When things get hard, they’ve always been there for each other, and they’ve been there for me. They’ve passed their love onto me, and I hope that all of us here tonight can feel the power of that bond, that we can feel the magic that my parents have created here together.” He turns back to his parents, feeling dangerously close to crying and seeing that they appear to be much in the same boat.

“So, mom, dad — happy anniversary, and here’s to many more to come!” He reaches down to grab his champagne glass off the table, lifting it as many others in the room clink their glasses together with those around him. He sniffles as he sits down, riding the emotional high as he passes the microphone on. After composing himself somewhat, he looks back out into the crowd only to find you looking directly at him. Your expression has turned from one of reassurance to one of pride, and you shoot him a thumbs up, giggling, before turning your attention to the current speaker.

But Bambam can’t seem to take his eyes off of you. Even when he claps along at the end of the speech, his attention is only on you — you in your incredible dress with your broad, beautiful smile.

It’s then that he realizes he’s fallen harder for you than he initially thought, and that he has to tell you. Tonight, before it’s too late, before he loses his nerve and you go back to work just like always. Once he realizes it, it’s all he can think of, distracted even through his parents’s beautiful first dance. All he can think of is making his way to you, sneaking behind his relatives and catching only glimpses of his parents as they spin around the room.

You’re easy to spot, the red of your dress standing out, and Bambam slips between his cousins and gently takes hold of your elbow to get your attention. You turn, brows furrowed, but your expression melts into one of pure delight when you see him.

“Bambam,” you greet, hushed but just as excited as you had been that day in the cafe — the day you had said was fate. “Your speech was amazing, I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks,” he whispers, barely more than a breath. He stoops down a bit to be eye level with you, hoping not to garner too much attention. “Can we talk?” You tilt your head curiously to the side.

“Sure, but shouldn’t we stay for the dance?”

“This really can’t wait.” He’s running on adrenaline, he can feel it; hears his heartbeat pounding in his ears, almost loud enough to drown out the music. You nod, so he takes your hand in his and pulls you back out through the crowd onto one of the balconies off the far side of the room. Once the two of you are outside, you turn to him, concern painted across your features. You squeeze his hand, looking over his face nervously,

“Is everything alright?” Bambam lets out a breathless laugh, nodding, feeling liberated beneath the light of the moon.

“Yeah, yeah, I just— I really needed to tell you something.” When he looks back into your eyes, he finds himself pausing, feeling as though he’s being drawn in by an unseen force. He’s interrupted in his poetic thoughts by you slapping his arm lightly, pouting up at him.

“You’re making me nervous!” You whine, and Bambam laughs again, taking hold of both of your hands now and bringing them up to his lips. He presses a soft kiss where your two hands meet in his,

“You’re cute when you're nervous, did you know that?”

“Did you bring me out here just to tease me?” You ask, though he can see the lingering anxiety in the stiffness of your shoulders.

“Maybe,” he teases, and you roll your eyes and start to pull your hands away. Bambam tightens his grip just enough to have leverage to pull you against his chest. He presses your hands above his sternum, where he’s sure you’ll be able to feel the way his heart is thundering out of control.

“Depends on if you feel the same way.”

“Same way about what?” Your voice has dropped to a whisper, and when you speak he can feel the warmth of your breath fanning against his lips.

“About me. Us.” He lets his gaze drop to your lips, lingering for a moment, and he feels your fingertips curling slightly into the fabric of his shirt.

“What about us?” You continue, softly, drawing ever so slightly closer to him. He feels intoxicated, drunk off of your presence, like his head is spinning and the world has fallen still instead.

“I’m falling for you,” he says, because it feels too soon for love but he knows he’s on that track. He’s certain he could fall in love with you— will fall in love with you, if you give him the chance. He waits with bated breath for your reply, only it doesn’t come.

Or, at least, not as he expects it. The kiss you press to his lips is brief, but enough, and he’s quick to pull you into his arms when you hide your face away in his shoulder.

“What a dramatic confession,” you say, half muffled by his blazer. Bambam chuckles, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

“Did you expect anything less?”

“Of course not.” Bambam closes his eyes, relishing being so close to you. The music streams out from the ballroom, enveloping you both, and he gently begins to sway you to the rhythm. It’s only once the tune has ceased that you let out a sigh.

“You know, Jinyoung has been teasing me about this for weeks. It’s only going to get worse now.” You draw back just enough to look up at him with a playfully accusatory glare. Bambam grins cheekily, sliding his hands down the back of your smooth velvet dress till they rest at the small of your back.

“Oh, has he?”

“Yes,” you reply, shaking your head. “I suppose you’ll just have to take responsibility. It’s your fault he’s teasing me, after all.”

“And how do you expect me to do that, hm, princess?” He asks, watching the way you blush from the tips of your ears down to your throat. Nonetheless, you flash him a confident smile, pulling him back down towards you by the lapels of his blazer.

“For starters,” you murmur, lips brushing against his. “You could take me on a date.” Bambam can’t help but smile, feeling as though there are fireworks going off in his chest.

“Only if you promise to be mine.” The corners of your lips twitch up into a broader grin at his response.

“Deal.”

And a few days later, Bambam upholds his end of the deal — the first of many, many dates (though nothing he does can stop Jinyoung’s teasing).

#bambam scenarios #got7 bambam #got7 scenarios #got7 writing #got7 fanfiction #got7 texts #kpop fanfiction #kpop reactions #kpop writing #kpop scenarios #kpop texts

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sending-the-message · 6 years

Text

I've been wandering through Aokigahara Forest, where bodies hang all year long by Ra1n_Walker

Hi guys. This is going to be long, because I'll just be as thorough as possible. I don't think leaving out details will contribute to the story, so bear with me. Or don't… I was wondering how many of you are aware of the existence of this forest. The Sea of Trees, as they like to call it, or, on a less brighter note; Suicide Forest.

I have a mildly unhealthy obsession for the obscure and unsolved mysteries, which often leads me to venture to lost and forgotten places. Abandoned asylums, hotels, evil looking buildings. I love to scour the internet for strange occurences and events that seem to involve anything going from ghosts to murderers or aliens. People will believe anything to feel excitement.

I wouldn't call myself a believer. In fact, I think it's funny how people can get all serious and worked up about some weird theory that sounds creepy, but has not the slightest proof or link to a plausible explanation. What I do believe in is that people have a tendency to do some really fucked up things. Guess everyone knows to what extent, but the real atrocities are preferably kept a bit further in our daily lives and rather not thought of.

It litterally turns me on. I can get goosebumps hearing about gruesome scenes, imagining someone's pain or finding truly disturbing things. The 'this-song-makes-me-wanna-cry' type of goosebumps. I can't ever get enough. So I heard of this forest and read about it on the web. Reddit also has some accounts on this and there's even a few movies based on its reputation and stories (which I haven't seen yet as I don't want to ruin the experience) so it really isn't hard getting a bit educated about it. I had to fricking go there.

So that was that, and I was off to Japan only about a month later. I always thought Mount Fuji might be worth seeing and I definitely had a strong passion for the Japanese culture. And their anime and manga, obviously. Being on a plane towards my long awaited destination, I had enough time to go through the available information and read up on the forest. I probably read it all already, being the special person that I am, but it amused me.

It definitely was a cool mystery anyway. The 'facts' were often disturbing and the assumptions made around the place were even more so. There's a few of those that really stuck with me that I think are thought provoking or at the very least interesting. I read about a lot of aspects. Locals would believe they could pin point the exact type of visitor to the woods.

There were the ones trying to snap pictures of Mount Fuji and its impressive base and flora around it. Some would go in there and hope to find something dark or scary. Thrillseekers if you will. And then there's the obvious type, the type that make the forest famous; the suicidals that don't plan on coming back out. What the fuck

The thing that struck me when I first heard about it is that it would have to be littered with corpses, seeing as over 75 people were found every year. Most of them hanged. They even reached over a hundred victims a few years back and decided to stop reveiling numbers to avoid making it more popular, thus resulting in more suicides. So yeah, there's a fricking cleanup crew. Every year locals search the forest for bodies or what's left of them.

According to what I'd read, they would drag decomposed bodies or parts of them, skeletons and personal belongings scattered around the sea of trees back to some kind of room where they'd store them. There's accounts of people staying in a room with the bodies, because according to local folklore, it would mean bad luck to leave those alone.

I landed after a long flight and needed a good night's rest. I always admired people who were able to sleep on a plane, I was too nervous to achieve that. I'd never been too keen on flying and this time was no different. It felt good to get out of that bird. I called a cab and made my way to my hotel, about an hour drive from Shizuoka airport. I would've loved to chat with the driver and learn more than I already knew, but guess what. The dude didn't speak one word of English.

"Yessir."

Good talk...

I dozed off in the car, face against the window and coat over my head to block out the light of the evening that still shone bright. When I woke up, the cab had stopped and I was in... Shimizu? My Japanese was about as good as the cab driver's English, so I didn't bother even trying to ask. I got out, stepped inside the hotel and was pointed to my room. I stayed there the whole evening to fall asleep quickly. Next day; alarm at 6am, breakfast with some documents and brochures to re-check my way to Aokigahara and what to look out for.

After speaking with the hotel clerk, whose English was good enough to be able to make out key words. It only took me half an hour before being on a train towards Mount Fuji. Shizuoka airport was about 80 miles from Aokigahara and I was about half way going from where I was right then. An hour drive before getting there and I had to walk quite a bit before arriving at the area I was trying to get to, after even taking an extra bus.

And that's when I finally got to the place I had been looking forward to for the last weeks. I had Mount Fuji looking over me from the distance, like a titan contemplating the world beneath, and the forest of Aokigahara in front of me. The Sea of Trees. Suicide Forest... I was standing at the beginning of a path that lead into the woods. The path seemed to be an easy one to follow, it was clearly maintained regularly and countless footsteps were printed in the slightly muddy trail. Heart racing and adrenaline pumping, I took off hoping for adventure.

The path continued for much further than I had imagined and started twisting and turning the more I got into the forest. I knew it stretched about 13 miles and I wasn't helpless at all when it comes to navigating. I know how to use a compass and I have a good sense of awareness, so I never worried once. I just thought it was a bit weird that people tried to maintain this, as if they were trying to shake the woods' reputation and attract more tourists and less suicidals.

I have to say, after an hour or so, my surroundings felt a bit darker, a bit scarier if you will. One of the reasons for this is that there were multiple ways to go from the main trail. Dozens of paths leading deeper through the trees that were everywhere. I mean it's a forest, but goddamn this forest was dense. A lot of those paths were marked with a sign or a carving in a tree. Messages saying things I couldn't read, others in English saying life is precious and I shouldn't give in, a plea to return to the town and talk to someone... They really tried hard to stop you from killing yourself. Those signs were well intended, but I couldn't help thinking this shit was spooky and so out of place.

Honestly, it was creepy, but nothing I couldn't handle and definitely not enough to satisfy my need for excitement and adventure. I noticed more turns and twists in the trail I was following and I looked behind me on a few occasions just to make sure I kept my bearings. Plus, I was slowly getting a bit paranoid. The forest got darker the more I ventured in and I thought I heard footsteps every so often. Don't get me wrong, I love this. But yeah, shit gets scary when you go looking for it.

At one point, I decided I'd take a break and drink some water while checking the compass, just to be sure. And of course, my compass was acting up and desperately looking for north, while I looked at it and sighed. No biggie, I just have to turn around and follow the trail back, should I want to leave. Problem is, I turned around to find myself standing on an intersection. I had three possible directions to go and I doubted a little when wondering which one I came from. I couldn't remember seeing any paths starting from the one I was walking until then and I felt a lot less confident all of a sudden.

Shit

I was used to the feeling of panic rising and that was also part of the thrill I wanted to find every time I went looking for it. So I took some time to take in my surroundings and thought about what to do now. I hadn't seen anything really exciting so far and I was slowly doubting to go back. But the day wasn't over and I was dedicated to my trip. So I looked up to see if I could see the sun's position and nearly screamed like a girl. The foliage was way too dense to see through, only a small amount of light pierced through the canopy. But hanging practically right above me was a little girl, eyes missing and legs bitten off to the knees. Her head was hanging down rested on her chest and I gagged.

I jumped back and fell down, tripping over and hurting my wrist in the process. I cursed at myself while looking at the grim scene before me, but I can't say I wasn't excited. THIS was the thrill I liked and I was proud of myself for getting where I was trying to get, the small border between adrenaline and madness or insanity. But when you're looking at a dead body of a hanged little girl, there's some things you don't expect/want to happen, because you might just get a heart attack like I almost did.

"Hoshi."

Guys. No shit. I sharted then and there and I'm not even ashamed to admit it. It was the voice of a little girl that sounded like she was playing with her dolls or having an imaginary tea-party. Except she was having it in the middle of a dark forest all alone with a dead girl as a view... It came from right behind me and I turned around with eyes wide open and a scream ready to escape my mouth. There was no one there and I started to feel watched and incredibly nervous. I could hear rustling from behind me and I prayed. I wasn't superstitious, but I think I knew what was coming. I turned around and felt myself turn pale.

"We are the doo doo doO dOO DOOO you help me sir sir please sir for the I want to down down me or you"

The girl was still hanging in the trees when she said it and her empty eye sockets seemed to be shimmering in the dim light. Her mouth didn't move, but her head was straight up and looking forward, completely immobile. It was the most unsettling thing I'd ever experienced and I honestly stood there nailed to the ground, unable to think or move. I didn't understand the first word I heard coming from behind me, but what she was repeating now was so chaotic and abnormal that it scared the living shit out of me.

I stepped back even more and rubbed my eyes, hoping I was dreaming (which I definitely wasn't) and I tried to set my mind straight.

""We are the doo doo doO dOO DOOO you help me sir sir please sir for the I want to down down me or you"

This time it was MUCH louder and coming from much closer and I felt my heart pumping in my head, scared to open my eyes. When I did, I could've cried. The girl was now standing a few feet in front of me, pieces of flesh dragging behind her while her legs, or what was left of them, carried her lifeless body towards me. Saying the same thing over and over again with the rope still tied around her neck, tight.

I stood there watching her, never blinking. She was really frightening with her deep empty eye sockets, her mutilated body and the fact that she was so little. Despite all of that, the sensation of fear and the desire to run became less urgent. I started feeling more sad than scared. A girl that age committing suicide was just above me, it blew my mind and I couldn't shake the feeling this was wrong. Well, of course it was, but isn't it more than just weird to see such a young child here? I looked up and saw the rope going from her neck towards the canopy and realized what was bothering me that much. How the fucking fuck does that rope even get there.

Not kidding, the trees were high. Like, really high. You'd have to use machinery to get all the way up or be a damn good climber and I couldn't for the life of me picture this kid doing that. It was so high up I couldn't even exactly see where it was attached and when I looked back at her, she was holding out her hand as to motion me to grab it. I reluctently took a step forward and held out my hand, watching her getting closer.

Before I continue; what would you do?

Seriously. I'm nearly 30 years old, I'm the biggest horror fan I can think of and I have a tendency to question everything that doesn't have a reasonable explanation. So, what would you do?

I stood there watching her as she stopped in place and looked right back at me with those black, hollow eyes. Despite the obvious fucked-upness of the whole situation, I just couldn't shake the feeling I was having. Unable to explain it, I'd have to go with sheer empathy… This girl had to be, what? Six? Seven years old? I'm not a pro, so ten probably would've done it as well, but you get it. No kid this young should be thinking about suicide, nor should a girl this young be here in a forest so dark and dense you can't hear any birds or other animals. I only heard the sound of the wind rustling through the leaves as I looked at the first person I encountered in these woods; a girl that was so young and looked so innocent that I got sick thinking about the undeniable fact she was here. In these woods that carried its name so clearly and casually, forgotten forever.

"Hoshi."

That word snapped me back to my senses instantly and made me feel like I lost something that I never had. Who the fuck leaves a kid in here, or who the fucking fuck makes a kid feel so bad that it makes her ending up here with a rope around its neck in the Aokigahara forest? Or where the fuck ever. So I don't know what you would do, but tears were almost running down my face when I practically lunged forward and grabbed her hand as firmly as I could.

I guess the world stopped

I was somewhere else, feeling like someone else and thinking like someone else. I was afraid.

If only…

I was scared as I had never been before. The world around me was pitch black and I couldn't hear anything but my frantic screams and the drumming of my blood pumping in my brain, making me feel like I was going to explode. The feeling I had persisted until a loud bang made me jump up and nearly gave me a heart attack.

My blindfold was taken away and the light that attacked my face stung like a thousand wasps. The smack on my jaw made sure I wasn't distracted by the stinging of the air in my nostrils and also made me open my burning blue eyes to watch what was causing me to feel like this.

The guy I was watching looked far too happy to be sane.

I was sitting down in a corner of a room, hands tied behind my back to a chain that was attached to a radiator, the only thing in the room besides me. My wrists were on fire and I saw my little feet twisting in front of me as I cowarded backwards against the wall, trying to escape his filthy hands. The knife in his right hand was all the more threatening when he grabbed my neck with his left and started applying pressure.

Panic, fear, anger, loss, despair. Those are but a fraction of the emotions flooding me at that time and I wouldn't even know how to begin to describe the rest of them. As if the lack of oxygen wasn't enough, the pressure on my neck felt like it was going to make it snap and the fact that my legs were everywhere and arms flailing made sure to make me lose all hope. The world went dark with the last image of a lunatic smiling at me as I drew my last breath.

Then I woke up

I was in the middle of the forest at an intersection and it didn't take me more than a few seconds to realize I was right where I was before I started dreaming. Panicked, I turned to look around me and above me, only to see I was alone in the woods. But the fucking rope was there. Right in front of me, where the girl had been standing, there was a rope on the ground heading deeper into the woods.

Safe to say everything was already fucked up and I didn't even think straight when I bent over to grab it and started following it into the forest.

Stay. The fuck. Out of there.

Guys, I followed it and walked for an hour (approximately) and from the very first minute I was surrounded by a sea. Not of trees, but bodies. Kids hanging from trees, some mutilated, some unharmed as if they were sleeping. Others decomposed to almost nothing but bones, fallen down as their ropes were still ominously hanging from the invisible canopy… it kept going for as long as I was. When I got to the end of the rope and thought I'd shed every tear and consumed all the fear that was hidden inside me, I was standing in the middle of a clearing and looking at a guy.

An asian guy standing by some kind of enormous plastic bag and hoisting something up in the trees with a rope. I started shivering and I felt like all power was taken away from me when I saw an arm sticking out if the bag. The boy he was hanging couldn't have been older than five and the fact I was watching this as if I'd be watching a street musician suddenly put me in a mood I hadn't yet been in.

Tears running down my face and legs unable to take a step in whatever direction, I felt a hand grabbing a hold of mine. The little girl, the one I could watch now without being scared, the one that showed me and asked for help was standing next to me. Although they were blue, she didn't have eyes, but her smile was worth a thousand words.

What happened next took five minutes at the most.

I anonymously notified the police when I found my way back out of the forest almost a full day later and I went back home immediately. I know that nobody there likes to talk about the reputation of the forest and I know that other things have been covered up, so I have no way of knowing what happened or if anything got done.

Don't fucking touch children, because I might be the last thing you see. I looked up what she said -hoshi- and I guess she meant hoshii… I'm not Japanese so I might be wrong, but I believe she wanted/needed someone to help her

#reddit #nosleep #scary #story

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