#but for NOW. in my sad kindhearted windower heart. he fits

[taetaemilktea]

Criminal Cuddles

Summary: It’s no secret that Taehyung is huge on physical affection and that Yoongi... well... just isn’t. But when Yoongi catches a cold and wants hugs and cuddles in the midst of his fever-ridden loneliness, Taehyung is happy to oblige—if only Namjoon wasn’t such a responsible leader.

Sickie: Yoongi

Caretaker: Taehyung, mild Namjoon and Seokjin

Word count: 1,996

Author’s Note: If you know me, you know I love contagion haha! You can expect a part 2 with sickie Taehyung in the future! Fic inspiration from @foreheadfeels. Thank you for reading!!

~~~

Slowly. Slowly. Sloooooowly. He was almost there. Two tiny tiptoes and Taehyung had reached the closed door to Yoongi and Seokjin’s room unnoticed. Smiling to himself, Taehyung quietly turned the door handle with utmost care to make as little noise as possible. He had the door knob turned all of the way and was about to quietly push the door open when he heard a stern, deep voice call out his name.

“Taehyung-ah.”

Shit.

Taehyung turned around to find Namjoon shaking his head, arms folded across his chest. He knew he was in for a lecture.

Yoongi had come down with a terrible cold a few days earlier that honestly resembled more of a flu given the fever that he had developed a few days into the illness. Hobi had caught him stifling messy, miserable sneezes into his sweatshirt sleeves, waking up later than his usual 7:00am for coffee, and had alerted the other members.

Seokjin had shoo-ed Yoongi into their shared bedroom, immediately giving him medicine and tissues in hopes that the cold wouldn’t worsen. His hopes had obviously been crushed. Yoongi had a fever, chills, and a horrible cough the next morning.

Immediately upon hearing that Yoongi was sick, Taehyung flung himself towards Yoongi’s room and aimed to get inside. Taehyung was Yoongi’s safe space when sick. Yoongi loved Hoseok more than words could explain and would call him his closest friend, but Hobi’s germaphobe tendencies meant that he was unavailable for sick cuddles. Taehyung, on the other hand, loved cuddles. He slept with a pillow in his arms and latched on to the members any chance he got.

Yoongi was known for always giving into whatever Taehyung wanted—playing extra rounds of games with him, handing over halves of his beloved tangerines when Taehyung asked for some. Yet, never one for physical affection, Yoongi would whine and push away when Taehyung tried to hug him. He just wasn’t big on physical affection.

When he was sick, however, he pulled a full 180 degrees. He would crave hugs and to be held, which is all Taehyung could ever hope to give his hyung. The caveat was that Namjoon was too responsible, noting that every time he let Taehyung in, Tae would exit Yoongi’s room the next day with the same budding cold. Namjoon became conditioned to keep a watchful eye on Taehyung whenever Yoongi, or any of the members for that matter, got sick. Speak of the devil—

“You’re not supposed to be going in there. Yoongi-hyung is sick and he needs to rest,” Namjoon frowned. Taehyung returned the frown with a pout.

“Aish, Namjoonie-hyung! Yoongi-hyung needs me!”

“He needs to take medicine and to sleep. I know you want to be with him but you can see him in a few days when he’s feeling better. I can’t have you going in there anymore, otherwise you’ll catch his cold.”

“But you and Seokjinnie-hyung go in there all of the time. Why can’t I go in too?”

“Seokjin and I give him medicine. And we refill his water and take his temperature to make sure that his fever isn’t too high, Tae.”

“I do that too,” Taehyung retorted, a bit offended that he too wasn’t considered a caretaker of the group. Namjoon couldn’t help but chuckle, uncrossing his arms to instead face palm.

“I mean, sure Taehyung-ah, you’re very helpful. But after you’re done with all of that, you always crawl into his bed, snuggle up close, and practically help him hold tissues to his nose. That’s literally how you catch his colds all the time. Besides, you have to record with the rest of the vocal line later this week and I can’t have you getting sick.”

Taehyung frowned. He knew Namjoon was right. Sometimes he wished his leader wasn’t so good at, well, being a leader. There had been countless times when he, always prone to catching colds, would have to postpone their vocal recordings because he was too congested or had a fever too high to go into the recording studio. He always felt guilty about it, but he equally felt guilty about being unable to cuddle Yoongi to make him feel better.

Namjoon sensed the younger man’s sadness and walked closer to him, slinging an arm around his shoulder and walking him away from Yoongi’s door.

“You can see him real soon, Tae-ah. You just have to wait a little while longer. How about we go pick up some lunch? Are you hungry?”

Taehyung shook his head. All he wanted was to hold Yoongi, to make him feel loved.

~~~

Taehyung spent the rest of his afternoon moping. He tried to work on lyrics for his mixtape, but his heart wasn’t in it. He had played a few games with Jungkook, but was unenthusiastic and let Jungkook win (even though the Golden Maknae probably would’ve won anyway). Hoseok and Jimin seemed to notice his sad demeanor and aimed to cheer him up, but both knew it wasn’t worth the effort. They settled for giving him hugs and patting him on the back to reassure him.

~~~

Cup of tea and medicine in hand, Seokjin quietly pushed open his bedroom door to find Yoongi fast asleep in bed. His hair was simultaneously sticking up in different directions and sticking flat to his forehead as beads of sweat collected on his brow. Even in sleep, the poor man looked absolutely miserable.

Seokjin placed the tea and medicine on the bedside table, grabbing the thermometer from the bathroom cabinet and returning to Yoongi’s bedside. He gently shook him awake.

“Yoongi-ah? Yoongi-ah, it’s time to wake up.”

Yoongi rolled over with his eyes still closed and gave a moan of discomfort, eyebrows knit in confusion. One more gentle shake and Yoongi blearily opened his eyes, looking up at Seokjin.

“I’d say ‘good morning’ but it’s clearly evening now,” Seokjin smirked, motioning to the dark night sky just behind the window blinds. Yoongi merely peered up with a dazed, sickly look.

“Your fever doesn’t look any better,” Seokjin frowned, sitting on the bed and preparing the thermometer. Yoongi seemed to think for a second.

“I don’t feel good,” Yoongi rasped through his sore and aching throat.

“No kidding,” Seokjin chuckled, popping the thermometer into Yoongi’s mouth. They sat in silence until it beeped and Seokjin took it out. He frowned at the number. No wonder Yoongi seemed so delirious. He helped Yoongi to sit up and handed him the tea and medicine. The younger took it wordlessly, sighing as the warm liquid eased down his throat. He let out a few hoarse coughs before plopping back against the pillows and letting out a low moan, followed by a set of sneezes into the crook of his elbow.

“hH! hH’ESHHh!! hH’RSHh!! hH’ESHH’hiuhh!!”

Seokjin winced, internally praising himself for remembering to put on a mask before coming into the room.

“What else can I get you? Water? Do you have a headache? I can get you pain relievers?” Seokjin asked, handing Yoongi a tissue from the box on the bedside table.

“I’m okay. Thank you hyung.” Yoongi paused and seemed to think for a moment. “Is Taehyungie here?” He looked up at Seokjin with sad, fever-muddled eyes. Seokjin’s heart broke. He knew how much Yoongi loved to have Taehyung to keep him company while sick.

Before Seokjin even had a chance to respond, Taehyung peeked his head around from behind the open bedroom door where he had, no doubt, been listening in.

“Yoongi-hyung, I’m here. Please let me in, Seokjinnie-hyung,” he pleaded, looking worriedly at Yoongi. Seokjin sighed. He was easily persuaded. Unlike Namjoon, Seokjin wasn’t a leader of a world famous band. He was an eldest brother. The responsible hyung in him told him the keep Taehyung out, but the soft and caring hyung argued to let him in. He looked down at Yoongi, whose face dampened with disappointment. It only broke Seokjin further.

“Aish, Yoongi-ah. You’re not making this very easy for me,” he chuckled. He gave a sigh, followed by a long pause. “Fine. Come in, Taehyungie.”

Taehyung’s pout widened into his famous boxy smile as Yoongi met him with his signature gummy smile. Seokjin couldn’t help but laugh.

“You two are ridiculous. Namjoon is going to have my ass for this.”

In his fever delirium, Yoongi murmured, “That’s why you’re the best hyung.”

“I’m your only hyung,” Seokjin laughed, picking up the empty tea cup and swiftly leaving the room so Taehyung and Yoongi wouldn’t see his ears blush bright red at the complement.

“Come sit, Taehyung-ah,” Yoongi grinned and patted the bed. Taehyung walked over and, instead, pulled back the covers, climbing into bed and immediately snuggling close to Yoongi’s side. Yoongi hummed a laugh but it rapidly turned into a fit of hoarse coughs that he aimed away from Taehyung. He took a sip of water before resting his head against Taehyung’s chest.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Yoongi admitted once the coughing died down. While oftentimes very independent, Yoongi had been starting to feel lonely from being isolated in his room for so long.

“Me too. I’m definitely going to get in trouble for this, but it’s worth it.”

Yoongi smiled. “Namjoon won’t be mad for long, you know him,” Yoongi referenced their responsible, yet kindhearted leader.

“I know, but I have to record this week. I can’t let the vocal line down. Who knows, maybe I won’t get sick?”

Yoongi shook his head. “You will. You always do,” he gave a tired sigh and closed his eyes.

“I can’t help it,” Taehyung pouted. Yoongi murmured a hum in response. Taehyung’s familiar Daegu accent made him feel at ease and he could feel himself being pulled closer and closer towards sleep as Taehyung rubbed his wide palms and long fingers gently up and down his back.

Taehyung noticed that the warm fever was draining Yoongi’s already limited energy supply. He turned the lamp off and wrapped his arms around Yoongi, throwing a leg over his small waist. Humming “Winter Bear” out of habit, Taehyung’s deep and calming voice put Yoongi to sleep before Taehyung had even had a chance to whisper “Good night, hyung.”

~~~

Namjoon happily walked into the dorm carrying a bag full of Taehyung’s favorite treats and cough drops for Yoongi in his hand. He had felt a bit guilty about being stern with Taehyung earlier. He knew that Taehyung understood his orders, but couldn’t help feeling bad at seeing him with such a sad demeanor all day. He hoped the snacks would cheer him up—he knew how much Taehyung loved his strawberry yogurt!

Upon walking into the kitchen, Namjoon found Seokjin, Hoseok, Jungkook, and Jimin happily eating dinner together.

“Hey!” Namjoon greeted with a smile. “Save me some food please. I’m just going to go bring these to Tae real quick. Is he in his room?”

The four members seated at the table glanced anxiously at each other, each avoiding eye contact with their leader. Seokjin took a suspiciously long sip of water.

“Really, Jin?” Namjoon sighed in realization.

Seokjin just blushed.

Namjoon made his way to Yoongi’s room and quietly pushed the door open. He couldn’t help but grin at the sight he saw.

Yoongi was curled into a ball with his head laid on Taehyung’s chest. His nose was bright red and his cheeks were flushed a bright pink. He sniffled softly and curled closer into Taehyung, who had his face smushed into the pillow with his arms around Yoongi’s small frame. Namjoon had to admit, it was quite hard to be mad at such a sight. While the leader in him knew the following week would need to be adjusted if Taehyung got sick, he felt it was worth it to see that Yoongi, who had seemed in deep misery and discomfort each time Namjoon had walked into the room that week, slept peacefully with a hint of a soft and happy grin etched into his face.

[wolfish-trickster]

Advent kisses

13/24

Loki x female!reader

Word count: 1 099

Summary: Instead of chocolates, kisses are going to be recieved everyday until Christmas.

Tag list: @gaitwae @lucywrites02 @modestlyabsurd @winterfrostsarmy @spaceyempress @thefridgeismybestie @laramoonworld @birdgirl90

Warning: possible spoilers for Spirited away

Everything Loki needed fit in his pocket dimension. But to not look suspicious he brought a small backpack with his sketch book (thanks to you he started drawing again), phone, charger and a book.

The rest brought at least 2 bags to Tony's private plane. Loki smiled smugly at them struggling with their bags and made sure everyone saw he only carried one small backpack.

He sat by the window. It took the Avengers around an hour untill they finally got in the air. To his dissapointment you sat far back in the plane, not beside him. You were there all alone. Earphones on, closed eyes, your favourite plushie in your hands. It was the same plushie he was cuddling to when you were in hospital. He smiled at that.

After first hour of him just reading and trying to ignore the laugh of his team mates, he decided he's had enough.

He closed his book and walked over to you. He brushed the back of his fingers against your shoulder. You opened your eyes. When you noticed him, you pulled down your earphones. "Hi."

"Hello, can I sit next to you? You looked a little lonely, all by yourself. With no one but a stuffed animal."

You squeezed the toy close to your heart. "He's my favourite guy in the whole plushie world. He has always kept me company whenever I went on a big trip."

"Well, now you got me for a company. And since this flight is going to last for about two more hours, what do you suggest we do?"

You turned your whole body towards him, giving him your full attention. "I remember a certain Haku fan who wanted to discuss the movie with me," your teasing smile got better and better with each passing day.

He gave you his own smirk. "No, you were the one distracted by me yesterday and wanted to know my opinion on it."

You rolled your eyes. "Alright I admit. So, will you tell me your opinion? What did you like the most? Who is your favourite character? Do you think Chihiro and Haku will meet again?"

And here it was again. The adorable curiosity reflecting in your eyes. He loved how this became a routine. You two watch a movie together and later have a pleasant talk about the plot, the characters, little detailes he possibly missed and lots and lots of theories. It was your thing. Just the two of you.

"The most I liked the growth of the characters. Chihiro went from a little whiny girl to responsible young lady with strong morals and kind heart. Haku was on his own journey to finding out who he really is. They were both on this adventure to finding out who they really are from the moment they met on that bridge. Their fates were intertwined and went hand in hand with eachother. I really hope they met again, but I think that's highly unlikely."

"Aaaaw, why do you think that? As a little girl a imagined they met again and the lived near Haku's river and loved eachother till one of them died. Or Haku made Chihiro into a spirit so they could live together forever."

"Because, little one, that's life. A person meets someone, someone they just click with. They fell in love, but the circumstances won't allow them to stay together. This way, when they part, they will cherish the memmory of them. And even if Chihiro and Haku found eachother later in life, it wouldn've worked out. You see, Haku is a spirit. Ageless. Timeless. Immortal. And Chihiro is but a mortal girl. She will slip away from his long life sooner then he will be ready. And no amount of pure love can change that," Loki wasn't talking about those two animated characters anymore. He was talking about you two. He was Haku, you were his Chihiro. Kindhearted, strong, but aging and fragile. One day, you will die. And he will continue on. He's not ready. He doubts he ever will be.

You jokingly elbowed him. "A little pessimistic today aren't we?"

Loki tickled your side in response. "I was listening to Thor's awful war stories for 30 minutes."

You tried to push his fingers off of your tickle spot laughing uncontrollably. "Alrigh, okay, I get it. Please stop."

"And what do I get in return?" his hands just rested on your sides now, allowing you to take a deep breath

"I can cheer you up with music? We can share my earphones."

Loki pretended to think. What if you fall asleep on his shoulder while both of you listen to your favourite tunes? He can't loose that opportunity. "Alright," he pulled his hands from your sides and sat up straighter.

You gave him one of the pair, the other one went into your own ear and pressed play on your phone. It was a cheerful 90' song. With a happy tune and what not. After few minutes of listening to more happy songs he came to the realization most of the songs you consider happy have dark and sad lyrics and the only joyful thing about it is the melody.

He got an idea. "Can I have your phone for a little bit?"

You unlocked it and held it out to him. "Sure. What do you want to do?"

"Oh, it's a surprise. You'll like it," he searched through youtube and hit play on one song he related to; The only exception by Paramore.

He let you listen to first few seconds of the song, watching your expression. You smiled a little when it neared the chorus. He opened his mouth and sang those words to you. "Darling you are the only exception..." he watched how your eyes looked up at him. He continued singing the whole song, even turning the volume down a bit so you could hear him better. You were positively blushing, he could tell. When the song came to an end, he leaned down and brushed his lips along one of your blushing cheeks, possibly deepening the heat there even more.

When he pulled away you opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Only after few seconds you stuttered out: "I didn't know you could sing so beautifully. Can y-you please sing some more?"

How could he say no?

[sirpibbles-blog]

So.. About that Coffee?? Part 2

Sorry for the delay on this one! 

It sounds super weird but I had to deal with a stalker of all things yesterday soo.. I get to release it today! It took me a bit.. 1.3k words in total so enjoy!

_____________________________________

Boris stood there, frozen in dread, just outside the window. So consumed by his own doubts, he failed to notice you had moved from your place at the table to… right in front of him…

..

....

“Dr. Habit?” Your gentle voice shattered the veil of tension surrounding him.

“...OH!!-FLOwer! I Didn’t see-e you th’ere!” The man thought his heart couldn’t possibly beat any harder. A blood-pumping tempo boomed louder than his own thoughts. 

“I’m lat e Aren’t I! I’m Sorry, Flower!! I re’ally Don t know what 2 Say! OH dearr! It’s all My fau-  ”

Laughter..

...Your wonderful laughter.

Habit’s hastily put together monologue was cut short by the eruption of sudden giggles. The sight of your gorgeous smile was enough to make the doctor’s face turn shades of red. But you were laughing at him... weren't you? Of course you were. Not even a minute into your “date” and he was already making a fool of himself!

“Actually you’re right on time! I got here a bit early.. I hope you don’t mind..” ....You hope he doesn’t mind? The reassuring words quickly put out the fire in Habit’s chest. “No!! not at All!...You look...” Stunning? Perfect? Beautiful? “...nice”.

"Oh, thank you!.." It didn't take long before the blood made its way to your cheeks, now dusted in a pink hue. Today was no ordinary day to play dress-up! The outfit you wore was carefully selected. A vibrant floral top framed your figure, blending seamlessly with sleek dress pants and your favorite shoes. A look calculated to kill!..or at the very least, impress the bashful doctor. "You look nice too!". The compliment was met with a shy “T-thank you” and nervous shifting. Something about seeing this tall, overly-polite man act in a way that one could compare to a blushing schoolgirl was utterly adorable. 

“I saved us a table.” You noted, motioning to coax the taller man inside. As much as you didn’t mind standing outside, your “date” had yet to begin. And based on the doctor’s increasingly anxious energy, it was safe to assume that he was also thinking the same thing.  “Oh, Righ t. I sup-pose we should go then”. Boris made a particularly adamant notion to hold the door for you. What else was to be expected from such a gentleman? After seeing you inside safely, he followed close behind. A little too close.. Not that you were complaining. It felt somewhat.. empowering to feel the form of such a well-built man behind you. A naturally comforting connection shared wordlessly between two souls. Even if this moment was experienced simply while walking up to order coffee.

The line for the barista was shorter than expected. You took your place in line, Boris trailing close behind. Orders were given by a couple in front of you. A giddy pair of young men, hand in hand. An aura of puppy love emitted by the two. They both would share glances of shy tenderness and giddy adoration. It was painfully obvious, not only to you, but the rest of the coffee shop that a first date for the lovers.The display rocked a sense of strange unease in Boris. Envy?..No. Not malicious jealousy, but a dull thrum of longing, steadily growing stronger. He wanted what they had. It was a sense of unconditional love the doctor had been deprived of. And in his 37 years of life, the only ones to ever show him true kindness were his lily... and you. And right now it was you who agreed to give him a chance. You who treated him with forgiveness. You who stood in front of him..

..waiting.. for something?

“Dr. Habit?” 

It hadn't occurred to Boris that the couple before the two of you were long gone. They now shared an overly frothy mocha from their seat in the window. And in his own self reflection, he failed to notice both the barista and you staring expectantly at him. Oh. Right. The coffee. The entire reason you both met here was for coffee. How could he forget? "Uhm.. just a Small coffe... ecxtra Milke pleas." Despite the uncertainty in his voice, Boris did his best to hold himself with confidence in front of you. It was a surprisingly quick exchange after that. He gave his name to the barista when asked and followed your lead. 

The table you had picked out was separated from the rest in it's own corner, but had a clear view of the window, where the sun cast it's morning glow. The ambiance of gentle light and seclusion relaxed the doctor significantly. He let his shoulders relax. This is fine. He’s doing fine. Boris watched you take your seat first before bending his long legs at the angle best to fit in the chair space provided. His body hunched a bit awkwardly in the smaller seat, but he was perfectly content as long as you were comfortable.

"Flower, I want 2 Thank you for doing This.. not just coming Out to-day but.. for every’thing". Habit's voice took on a more confident, sincere tone as he continued. "Before The Habitat, I was miser’able. I thought That sum people didn't de’serve to smile..That Sum people would always be Unhappy, like me.” Boris felt his face heat up as he carefully deciphered the pool of emotions that had been brewing inside. But the ever-present gleam in your eyes encouraged him to continue. “And when you Arrived at my Habitat, I hated you. I hated you for Making me quest’ion if everything I Be-lieved in was fals. And of course It was. You taght me that Sadness is only tempor’ary... Even if it lasts a long time. Be-cause there will be self’less people like you out there, ready 2 help those in need...Maybe It was because I had always thought that love was something I was never meant to have. But for a person so kindhearted 2 show someone like me compassion, it was eye-opening.” Habit paused to take a breath. The softness of his features were framed in the gentle bath of sunlight. “And after that.. After you left, I had some time to think... I'm far From good.. far from someone Like you. But I'm trying, And I'll con-tinue to undo the wrong that I've caused…” His gold-framed irises were trained on you with determination and subtle uncertainty.“Flower? Could you help me, I want 2 be like you. I want 2 be someone who makes others smile, really, truly smile.”

“Dr. Habit, I-”

“Boris”, he interjected. “Please, call me Boris”. You both shared a heated blush. “Boris..” you started. The name seemed to slide naturally off your tongue. “Of course I’ll help! There is so much good inside you that you just can’t see yet.. Everyone deserves to be happy. And you of all people deserve to smile.” The relief washed over Habit in waves. You weren't repulsed by him. You weren’t offset by his pleas for help. For once, his weakness had been received with understanding, and not the cold reprimands of his parents, or all the others who shamed him for being human. You cared. Maybe you were the only one who cared.

“And.. if it’s not too much to ask, I want to get to know you, Boris. I want to do this again... if that’s what you want..”. You looked away at the end of you speech, embarrassed, but proud that you had voiced the thoughts echoing in your head from the moment you both arrived. Boris had been smiling warmly at your kind words for some time. It took the doctor a moment to truly take in the impact of your confession. And soon the short string of contented silence was broken by his deep, honeyed voice.

“Yes.. I would Like that verry Much so. Thank you, Flower.” The two of you shared looks of deep admiration. This is exactly what he wanted. The feeling of the rare, unconditional kindness. An element that had been missing from his life... until now.

“Oh! we should probably get our drinks!.. They’ve been sitting on the counter for a bit now..”

“What-ever you Say, Flower”. 

[dreamofbetterthings]

Fucking Newbie-Raphael Santiago x Reader

Prompt 147: “ I can take care of myself just fine." 93: "Don't you ever say that again" Celebrity: Raphael Santiago (Played by David Castro) TV Show: Shadowhunters Spoilers: None Summary: You're the youngest and newest shadowhunter on the team. You unintentionally mess up a mission and almost get yourself killed. Alec yells at you for being careless, and questions your ability on the team. This makes you go off to the training room to let off some steam. Raphael catches you before you drive off, and he helps you feel better. Warnings: Cursing, blood, and bruises

A/N 

Look at this cute little human who is playing a vampire, but it standing in front of his human chair as a vampire!

Beads of sweat rolled down your forehead as you continued to take your anger out on the training room's punching bag. The mission was simple enough: Find the demons, and take them out. You somehow managed to let them trick you, and next thing you know, you're nearly dead. If Jace hadn't come in and saved you when he did, in his words "We would have lost a valuable member of the shadowhunter family."

Normally his kind words would make you feel better, but tonight they didn't. Right now, you were pissed, and it was because of one person.

Alec Lightwood

From the moment you set foot into the Institute, Alec didn't like you but then again, he doesn't like anybody. You tried to make amends with him, and it sort of worked, until that night. The anger bubbles inside you like steam in a teapot as you remember your little confrontation with him earlier.

Clary, Jace, Alec, and yourself had just walked into the Institute, and Alec didn't hold back his words.

"What the HELL is wrong with you? Did you know you could have died out there tonight? How could you be so careless?"

Time and time again did you try to convince them that "I can take care of myself just fine.", but being the youngest, it wasn't easy; Jace was really the only one who saw your potential. He tried to argue back with Alec.

"Alec, calm down. She's still learning. Everyone has a bad day, even you do, whether you want to admit it or not."

You wanted to speak up for yourself, but Alec's insults just kept coming. One, in particular, stood out.

"Just because you're the youngest and newest shadowhunter, doesn't mean you can be stupid and weak. Look around us. There is a war going on here, and if you mess up again because you're "Still learning" then I'm not going to save some damsel in distress because she's stupid enough to not be able to take care of herself. Fucking newbie." He mumbles as he walks off.

That hit a nerve, and instead of going off on him like you knew he wanted, you walked to the training room. Nobody else was planning on being in there, so you worked on all of your skills in order to become better.

You read the clock on the wall and sighed. It was nearly four in the morning, and you got back to the Institute around eleven. When you finally stopped and decided to head home, you hadn't realized how bad you worked your fists. After putting up the equipment, you notice just now how bad they really looked, and how much it hurt to open and close them. The skin on your knuckles broke, and they bled a little. Your hands were swollen and bruised badly, but you believed it was worth it if your skills improved.

Before leaving the Institute, you grabbed some bandages and cleaned your knuckles. It hurt like Alec's words, but you held back from showing any sign of pain, wrapped your knuckles carefully, and headed home.

As you walked to your car, a familiar voice belonging to your best friend stopped you from leaving.

"Is everything alright?"

You unlocked your car and put your bags in the back, then turning around to face the young vampire.

"Raphael I'm fine, I was just heading home. We had a long day, and I just need to sleep."

You were secretly hoping he would just leave you alone, but the vampire knew you much better than you thought.

"You are a terrible liar. What bothers you so much that you ended up hurting yourself?"

"I'm not hur-" You bite your lip to keep from yelling as Raphael's arms reached out and gently took your hands. He ran his fingers softly across the bandages, causing you to flinch a little, and a look of sadness fell across his face.

"Why do you do this to yourself?" He mumbled, "I could smell the blood from the moment you walked outside."

Tears welled up in your eyes, and you looked down, not wanting your closet friend to see you cry. He cupped your cheek in his hands and brought your face up so you could meet his eyes. The moment you did, everything just became too much, and the tears finally began to flow. Raphael pulled you into his arms and held you. For once in his very long life, he didn't know what to do. He thought you were the strongest person he knew and had never seen you cry, not once.

"I'm not good enough for them Raphael." You cried into his shirt. He held onto you tightly, as if you could be taken away at any moment. No other words needed to be spoken by you, because he knows you, and that alone was enough to fit the rest of the puzzle pieces into place. He stepped back and looked you in the eyes.

"Don't you ever say that again. You are one of the most amazing shadowhunters that the world has. Nobody else gives as much to this job as you do. If they can't see it, then they will over time. So what if you're younger than them, they were your age at some point too." He sighs and takes your hands in his again. "Look, this is only causing you pain. Will your skills get better? More than likely yes, but that doesn't mean you should be destroying yourself to prove that you're worthy to be apart of the team." He holds your face in his hands and for the first time, you can see heartbreak in his eyes. "Excuse my language, but you bust your ass every night, and I'm not the only one who sees it. Jace, Clary, Simon, even Isabelle sees how hard you work, and you know she's barely at the Institute. Alec knows how good you are, and he's just scared you are going to take his place as the top dog one day. That's the only reason why he picks on you. You are an amazing shadowhunter and an even better person. Don't let his words get to you."

A small smile forms on your tear-stained face, and you go to hug him again. You weren't quite sure of how you felt towards the vampire. No doubt he was attractive, kindhearted and looked out for you, but you didn't make a move, afraid that it will mess up whatever kind of relationship you two had. Raphael planted a kiss on your forehead, reassuring that he indeed cared about you. To what extent, neither of you knew. The two of you pull away, and he opens your car door from behind you.

"It's late, you should get going."

You nod your head and get in the car. As he closes your door, you roll the window down so you can say one final thank you to him. He bends down to your level, and you quickly reach out to kiss him on the cheek, before you smile and say,

"Thank you, for everything Raphael."

He nods and watches as you drive off. He figured if he had a heart, it would be doing flips right about now. He speeds home and waits for about ten minutes before opening up his phone and sending a text to you. It takes you a little bit to get home, but when you do, you change clothes and lay down. Your phone buzzes on your bedside, and you pick it up to find a text from Raphael.

"Get some rest, and we can talk about moving that kiss from the cheek to my lips later."

[insomniaacs]

Last Call (part 1) - Sherlock x reader

A/N: Hello, everyone! So, this is my first time ever writing anything Sherlock related, and I've also never in my life written anything with a reader, so excuse my ordinary attempt at it... This supposedly takes place during 2x03, but I've changed some things to fit the plot, so the timing is a little bit different. Also, this is a new writing blog, so if you want to read more like this, don't hesitate to follow me!

Word count: 4252 Warnings: angst, mentions of suicide

[Part 2]

"(Y/N), are you safe?" John's voice came out like a whisper through the cellphone's speaker. He sounded tired and out of breath, and you could hear the faintest hint of a busy street on the background.

"Yes. Are you? What the hell happened?" you tried to speak calmly, but your voice cracked during the last two syllables. The clock hanging next to your dining table ticked seven past nine in the evening, distracting you the tiniest bit.

Time was of essence, you were aware.

"I can't really say much right now," rushed footsteps on the other end. He was running, you deduced, "but we're fine for now." You knew John was trying to be reassuring, but there was still a pang in your chest at the thought of him and Sherlock being on the run.

Sherlock...

"Is Sherlock there with you? Are you coming home tonight?" You asked in a rush. There was no telling how much time you had until John had to hang up or how long it would be until the next time you got to speak to each other.

Your eyes traveled to the newspaper in your hands, Sherlock and John's names printed on the first page; their photographs big and out of focus right above it. 'Brilliant detective or undercover criminal?', said the headline. What a bunch of nonsense.

"Yes, and I don't know," John said quickly, his voice disappearing so the only thing you could hear was the faint sound of the soles of their feet hitting the floor. It took him a moment to talk to you again, "I think we should probably stay away from Baker Street for a while, though. Wait for things to cool off a bit."

Yes, that made sense. As far as the police was concerned, they were fugitives. There was absolutely no reason for them to come back to the flat now. That was what the rational part of your brain was telling you.

The other more vulnerable part - the one you tended to forget most of the time - was suggesting otherwise.

"Can I talk to Sherlock?" You heard yourself ask against your better judgement. There was no use in talking to him. He was probably busy trying to figure out what to do next; assessing his mind for a way out of Moriarty's scheme. They were out on the streets and doing so would be risking their safety for a chance to talk to him, and yet you did it anyway. Something about the situation they found themselves at had your stomach turning with fear.

The line went mute for a few seconds, and for a scary, dreadful moment you thought the call had been interrupted. Then there was a fumbling noise at the other end of the line and his voice came streaming through your phone, low and deep and oh so beautiful. "Hello," Sherlock mumbled formally, and you felt like smiling. His voice was enough to lessen the panic rising on your stomach. Now all you needed was some sort of reassurance, something to help with the pain in your chest at the prospect of them not returning.

"Sherlock," you exhaled, a little more relieved; a little less on the verge of a panic attack.

"(Y/N)," he said even lower, and she could almost see the rise and fall of his chest as he heaved from the run.

"I absolutely prohibit you from dying, do you understand?" You tried to sound angry, but heard the slight waver of your voice and immediately knew he had noticed it too. "If I don't see both you and John walk through this door in one piece, I will make sure to murder you two all over again."

You heard him sigh on the other end, and kept a sob from coming out of your mouth. "I'm afraid that wouldn't be possible. You can't kill someone that's already dead," he said as a matter of fact, but you heard the smile on his lips. This was his reassurance. It was his promise, however shallow it might be. It would have to be enough.

"I'll see you soon, then," you replied, leaving no space for further discussion.

"See you," it was the last thing you heard from them in days.

...

You swallowed your tea with a painful cringe, coughing a bit afterwards. It burned your mouth and left a tingly, uncomfortable sensation on your tongue.

"Careful now, darling," Mrs. Hudson offered you a tight smile as she blew on her own cup before taking a graceful sip. Her hands were shaking slightly when she set it back on its matching saucer.

You were the only ones in 221B that morning. It was a particularly gloomy Sunday, with dark grey clouds hovering over London and no promise whatsoever of a clear sky for the rest of the week. There was a chilly wind coming from the open windows, and you got up with a screech of your chair to close it. Your eyes lingered on the empty street outside, and you didn't even realize the heavy sigh that came out of your lips.

It had been one week. They hadn't come back.

You turned away from the window forcefully. It was becoming a burden, this sick, constant worrying.

You had been trying to interpret the lack of news from the boys as a good sign. The fact that their bodies had not shown up in the papers and their names hadn't been mentioned in Scotland Yard's death certificates had to mean they were okay, hadn't it?

And yet not having anything concrete to hold onto was driving you insane. The days seemed to drag themselves into weeks. Your mind kept imagining different scenarios.

On the good days, you would daydream about a reunion. Sherlock and John would come striding through the door, their faces tired and their bodies drained, but then they'd both see you, and you'd embrace each other with the promise that they would never have to leave again.

And then there were the bad days. On those, your fantasies would turn to full blown nightmares. You'd imagine coming back to your apartment just above theirs and find their bloody bodies thrown across your living room, still and lifeless. Those were the days you stayed locked up in your room, refusing to eat or drink anything.

Mrs. Hudson had been kind enough not to disturbe you on those days, but the disapproving stares she threw your way showed just how much she was opposed to your behavior.

You couldn't help it though. There was something inside you that had crumbled the day they both left. Something tiny, almost imperceptible that lied deep beneath your skin and that had disappeared along with them. It was small and it had seemed meaningless, but its absence had caused you to collapse.

It had taken you just a few days to fall into a deep, dark state of desperation.

Oh, just how disappointed would Sherlock be if he knew how weak you had become?

"Your tea is getting cold, dear," Mrs. Hudson's voice cut through the silence like a knife cuts through someone's flesh. You hadn't been aware of the heaviness in the atmosphere around you until you looked up at her sad eyes and realized they were red from her lack of sleep.

It then occurred to you that she was definitely much stronger than she seemed.

The woman had been in this situation god knows how many times. Sherlock was never really the type of guy that left a note before he stormed off somewhere, and though John usually did exactly that, they never really had a date set to return.

Several times Mrs. Hudson had found herself completely alone, fearing for her own safety as well as theirs. She had spent several nights with bloodshot eyes and a racing heart every time the phone rang.

And you couldn't, for the life of you, comprehend how she did it.

How could she still smile despite it all? How could she find the motivation to get out of bed in the morning when she knew the possibility that they'd return was close to zero?

God, you envied her. You envied her strength and you envied her positivity.

You were never an optimistic person. There was nothing particularly awful about your childhood and adolescence, yet a lot had gone wrong in your early adulthood.

Put a few abusive boyfriends and a couple of problems with the law in the mix, and one would end up pretty beaten up.

You were lucky to have rented the flat directly above Sherlock and John's. You were lucky they had offered you the chance of a new beginning. Building a reputation took time, and you had managed to recreate one for yourself. There wasn't much need for a computer rat in the market nowadays; at least not one that also offered a good paycheck. It had to be a miracle when the boys invited you to work with them. Another miracle that you all happened to become important to one another.

John had been easy to befriend. He was kindhearted and easygoing. Conversation seemed to flow between you and him, especially when the topic of choice was your shared interest for the doctor's beloved blog.

Sherlock, however, had been a harder target. He obviously had no interest in anyone's friendship. How John had managed to sneak into his heart had been a complete mystery to you back then.

That is, until you found your way in as well.

Sherlock was good at many things, and one of them was hiding his feelings. John liked to say he sometimes thought he didn't have any, because he was not human. You knew better. To you, he was just very, very good at suppressing them.

And good God, did he do so until the very last ounce of his body couldn't bear to restrain them anymore.

He'd been angry the night everything had changed between you and him. You were trying to solve an exceptionally tricky case. There was little to no evidence to lead you, and things didn't seem to be going anywhere.

He'd lost his temper that night. Had screamed at your face until his voice became raspy and his cheeks turned a bright shade of red. You remembered having stood in front of him, too close for comfort and somehow farther then ever before. You had looked him in the eyes and had pulled him by the collar with such force that when your lips met, there was the distinctive clatter of teeth echoing in the silent room.

The kiss had been wild. There had been almost no contact between your bodies except for his rough, almost possessive grip on your jaw to bring you closer, and yet it had been brutal. There had been something animalistic about the way your mouth granted entrance to his tongue; something primal and irrational in the desperation of your mouths as your fingers turned almost white while they gripped his previously unwrinkled shirt.

You had tried to hide the hurt in your eyes when immediately after he became distant. His pupils had still been dilated and his mouth was still red and plump when he looked into the distance and seemed to finally figure something important about the case.

He'd walked straight out of the room without another word; had left you standing in the middle of it with your breath ragged and your pride hurt, and you had decided then and there to never mention it again.

It had worked out until now, but the thought of it still haunted you. His lips had never left your head, and you were afraid they never would.

Mrs. Hudson watched your every move as your eyes became distant. She knew you were thinking about the boys; thought you were probably worrying about their safety. What she didn't notice was the slight change in your posture. Sherlock certainly would have been able to see the dilation of your pupils, but Mrs. Hudson didn't so much as spare a second glance at the way your breath quickened ever so slightly, or the way you unconsciously lifted your fingers to your lips, as though they were actually tingling like they had all those months ago.

...

You were determined to make it stop.

The worrying had to stop, otherwise there wouldn't be anything left of you when they returned. And they would return.

Truth be told, you were tired of feeling useless. And for the span of a week, that was all you had been.

It had taken you some time, but you had finally comprehended that doing nothing was definitely not contributing to anything. Crying yourself to sleep or sulking on Sherlock's chair wouldn't help bring the both of them back, and however painful it might be, you had to get a move on.

Life would go on wether they came back or not, and you decided to be prepared for either one of the scenarios.

So you did the only thing you could to try to feel at peace: you grabbed your computer and you worked. You worked until your hands felt like falling off and your eyes were red and dry from staring at the blue light of the computer screen. You worked so much that at the end of the day, you couldn't bare doing anything other than falling into your bed and sleeping, feeling satisfied and grateful that you had no energy left to even think of your two missing friends. For the first time you didn't wake up in the middle of the night with the sound of a car outside or the ruffling of keys, and you didn't feel disappointed that it wasn't them at the door.

You woke up the next day feeling replenished and ready to do everything once more. It was the first day in a week that you emerged from your room for breakfast, and you were feeling proud and motivated.

Your apartment looked brighter than it had the past few days, and you wondered if it was because you had finally stopped making a total ass of yourself. You entered the living room and saw that, actually, it was because you had left the door open the night before.

With a sigh, you motioned to close it, but before you could do so, a voice from downstairs kept you glued to your spot.

"Oh, for christ's sake, Sherlock, it's eight in the bloody morning. Let me at least have some coffee."

It was John. His voice was unmistakable, it was him.

You had tried to be prepared for this moment, but the only thing you could do was stand very, very still, afraid that it would turn out to be some sort of trick from your mind. But the voice was getting closer, and soon an ashy-blonde head was coming out of the door downstairs, and the only thing you could do was throw one foot after the other until you reached the lower level and could hug the figure lingering outside.

"(Y/N)!" John yelped as he embraced you, holding you in one arm as he balanced a cup of coffee with his other hand.

"You bloody arse!" You punched his back slightly, afraid to let go. "You could have called!"

John merely laughed, releasing you and looking at your face. "I'm sorry. Our phone had a tragic end," he explained vaguely, but you didn't press the issue. Instead your feet dragged you inside the apartment.

The living room looked pretty much the same as it had before, except now there was someone other than Mrs. Hudson and you in it. Climbing the bookshelf on the farther corner of the room, Sherlock had his feet perched on two of its shelves, causing several books to fall to the floor.

He seemed to be searching for something on the top shelf, completely transfixed. His feet touched the ground with a thump as he jumped down; a green covered, heavy looking book held between his fingers.

For a moment you thought he didn't see you. His eyes were scanning the insides of the book; his mouth mumbling seemingly incoherent phrases to no one in particular. "What are you so stupefied at?" A few moments passed in silence, and it wasn't until he lifted his eyes at you that you realized he was talking to you.

You chose not to answer his question, simply marching towards him and stopping at an arms length. His face held a hard expression. It was like he was schooling his features, trying not to really show what he was feeling. He also seemed tired. Sherlock had always had a habit of staying up for nights and nights on wake, not bothering to close his eyes until he was finished with whatever he was doing. This tired looked different, though. His eyes seemed sunken into his skull, the lines of his face more prominent. The week had taken a toll on him, you could see.

A sigh that you didn't realize you were holding escaped your lips before you could contain it. Sherlock must've realized that you looked relieved when you rubbed at your face with your hands, because his face softened. He looked much less superior with the slight preoccupied frown of his eyebrows.

And that was just too much for you to be able to control yourself. Your arms wrapped around his waist on their own accord and you pressed your cheek to his chest, tightening your grip on him until there was no space left between your bodies.

You felt his sharp intake of breath rather than heard it- the fast rise of his chest that you interpreted as one of surprise. This was the most intimate kind of physical contact you two had shared ever since the kiss, and you knew it would probably be too much for him, but you couldn't find it within you to actually care. He was there in flesh and bones, and God only knew when would be the last time that would happen.

It felt like ages after that you felt him move, and if you'd surprised him before, his next movements shocked you beyond imagination. His arms that had been limp on his sides moved to hold you as well, and something in your belly stirred.

His embrace felt like a warm cup of tea in a stormy morning, or like the first rays of sun after days of clouded skies. It felt like certainty and safety altogether, and you melted into his arms until it was no longer appropriate.

Someone cleared their throat behind you.

Your arms reluctantly released Sherlock's shirt, and your turned to see John and Mrs. Hudson bearing baffled expressions on their faces. You felt the almost uncontrollable urge to laugh, but kept it to yourself as Sherlock moved toward the desk, seemingly unaffected by everything.

The room grew awfully quiet, and the only thing that could be heard was the sound of pages being turned and fingers pressing into a blackberry's keyboard. Sherlock typed furiously into his phone like there was no one in the room, and when he stopped, there was an empty expression on his face that left a dreadful feeling on your chest.

Something was wrong.

"I have to do something," he confirmed your suspicions, and you felt your heart squeeze painfully. John made to take his jacket from the hanger, but Sherlock stood up and held out a hand to stop him. "Alone."

No one said anything as he grabbed his overcoat roughly and went for the door in large steps, and no one tried to stop him as he barged out of the room and ran down the stairs.

From your place by the window you could see him getting into a cab, but found no strength to follow after him whatsoever. Instead your knees gave in and you had to seat on the nearest chair in order to keep from falling to the floor, while John simply left the apartment to stand outside on the street looking lost and distant.

"I'll go make some tea," Mrs. Hudson declared quietly, and suddenly it was only you and her again.

...

Two hours later, your phone buzzed in your pocket and you stared silently at the caller ID.

You had spent the entirety of those hours sitting on the same uncomfortable chair in front of the desk, staring absently out the window, sighing every now and then and ignoring the sad looks Mrs. Hudson was throwing your way.

It was Sherlock's name shining on the cellphone's screen.

Your first instinct was to ignore it. You were angry. God, you were bloody furious. At Sherlock, at life, at yourself... Why couldn't things be easier for once? Why did he have to be so distant?

The phone buzzed again and this time it was the worried side of you that spoke. What if he was in trouble? If you ignored this call and something happened to him, it would be entirely your fault.

The thought of losing him had your fingers swiping desperately on the green button on the screen.

"Hello?"

"(Y/N)," he said breathlessly, and the way he pronounced it made you frown.

"What's wrong? Where are you?" you asked and heard him draw a shaky breath at the other end of the line.

"I- This is going to be difficult to hear, but please let me finish before you speak," he pleaded, and you noticed the slight edge to his voice. He had said 'please'. You had never heard him say that before. "I need you to know how important you are... to me." A pang in your chest. What the fuck?

"Sherlock, you're not making any sense-"

"Ah, ah! Let me finish!" His voice came out stronger than before. He sounded desperate. "(Y/N), I'm not... I'm not who you, or John, or Mrs. Hudson think I am. The newspapers were right, I-" he trailed for a moment, and it occurred to you that whatever he wanted to say was hurting him immensely. "I'm a fake."

The phone almost fell from your hands. His voice was thick with what could only be tears, and you felt your own eyes water. "What? Sherlock, I-" your hands trembled as you spoke, "what the fuck are you talking about?"

"Everything, (Y/N)! Moriarty, the deduction thing... I made it all up!" He yelled, but the sound came out muffled to your ears. Your head had started ringing. You felt like throwing up.

"No... No!" you shrieked, your vision fogged and blurry by the unshed tears. "You're delusional! I know you, Sherlock. I- you're lying!" It was the only reasonable explanation. You got up from your chair in one swift motion, the force of it sending it tumbling to the floor. "Where are you? Let me help you."

You heard him laugh humorlessly. "It doesn't matter where I am," he sighed, shaky and weak. "I need to ask you something, (Y/N). I need you to do something for me." He took a few shaky breaths, trying to control himself. He was crying, you knew it. The thought of it was scary. "I need you to keep on living. To move on." Sherlock asked and your frown deepened. He was talking nonsense. Perhaps he had been drugged? You opened John's computer in front of you and clicked on the button to locate his phone.

"Stop it, Sherlock. Where the fuck is all this coming from?" the computer beeped with a result. An icon with his initials was placed on the map indicating Bart's Hospital rooftop, and you closed the laptop with a thud before grabbing your coat. He didn't answer. "Sherlock?" Please be there. Please don't hang up.

"This is it, (Y/N)," he said after a while. "I can't run anymore, and I don't expect you to understand it." His voice was thick with tears. Yours wasn't much better.

"Taxi!" you yelled, then pressed the phone to your ear again. "Sherlock, tell me what's happening... Tell me the truth!"

He sighed. "This is a goodbye," he said, and you stopped dead in your tracks. No. No, no, no, no, no, "and an I'm sorry."

"Shut up," you sobbed. "Just shut up."

"I'm sorry for all the pain that I've caused you," he continued as if he hadn't heard you, and you pressed your free hand to your face with such force that when you opened your eyes afterwards, there were black spots in your vision. "And I'm sorry that I'm not courageous enough to say it to your face."

"Shut the fuck up, Sherlock!" You screamed, not bothering to restrain your voice in public. "You're lying! You're fucking lying, and no matter what you say, I will never believe you!" You were crying freely now, the sobs mingling with the angry words coming out of your mouth. A taxi finally pulled up in front of you and you didn't even register telling the driver the address.

You heard Sherlock exhale shakily on the other end of the line; heard his unfeeling mask slipping right out of his face as the both of you just listened to each other's painful ragged breaths.

"Goodbye, (Y/N)," was the last thing he said before the line went mute, and you had to clasp a hand over your mouth to keep from breaking down.

[Masterlist] [Request list]

[spinayarnindia]

The Faithful Prince

Long ago there lived a King who had an only son, by name Prince Bahrâmgor, who was as splendid as the noonday sun, and as beautiful as the midnight moon. Now one day the Prince went a-hunting, and he hunted to the north, but found no game; he hunted to the south, yet no quarry arose; he hunted to the east, and still found nothing. Then he turned towards the setting sun, when suddenly from a thicket flashed a golden deer. Burnished gold were its hoofs and horns, rich gold its body. Dazzled by the wonderful sight, the astonished Prince bade his retainers form a circle round the beautiful strange creature, and so gradually enclose and secure it.

“Remember,” said the Prince, “I hold him towards whom the deer may run to be responsible for its escape, or capture.”

Closer and closer drew the glittering circle of horsemen, while in the centre stood the golden deer, until, with marvellous speed, it fled straight towards the Prince, But he was swifter still, and caught it by the golden horns. Then the creature found human voice, and cried, “Let me go, oh! Prince Bahrâmgor and I will give you countless treasures!”

But the Prince laughed, saying, “Not so! I have gold and jewels galore, but never a golden deer.”

“Let me go,” pleaded the deer, “and I will give you more than treasures!”

“And what may that be?” asked the Prince, still laughing.

“I will give you a ride on my back such as never mortal man rode before,” replied the deer.

“Done!” cried the gay Prince, vaulting lightly to the deer’s back; and immediately, like a bird from a thicket, the strange glittering creature rose through the air till it was lost to sight. For seven days and seven nights it carried the Prince over all the world, so that he could see everything like a picture passing below, and on the evening of the seventh day it touched the earth once more, and instantly vanished. Prince Bahrâmgor rubbed his eyes in bewilderment, for he had never been in such a strange country before. Everything seemed new and unfamiliar. He wandered about for some time looking for the trace of a house or a footprint, when suddenly from the ground at his feet popped a wee old man.

“How did you come here? and what are you looking for, my son?” quoth he politely.

So Prince Bahrâmgor told him how he had ridden thither on a golden deer, which had disappeared, and how he was now quite lost and bewildered in this strange country.

“Do not be alarmed, my son,” returned the wee old man; “it is true you are in Demonsland, but no one shall hurt you, for I am the demon Jasdrûl whose life you saved when I was on the earth in the shape of a golden deer.”

Then the demon Jasdrûl took Prince Bahrâmgor to his house, and treated him right royally, giving him a hundred keys, and saying, “These are the keys of my palaces and gardens. Amuse yourself by looking at them, and mayhap somewhere you may find a treasure worth having.”

So every day Prince Bahrâmgor opened a new garden, and examined a new palace, and in one he found rooms full of gold, and in another jewels, and in a third rich stuffs, in fact everything the heart could desire, until he came to the hundredth palace, and that he found was a mere hovel, full of all poisonous things, herbs, stones, snakes, and insects. But the garden in which it stood was by far the most magnificent of all. It was seven miles this way, and seven miles that, full of tall trees and bright flowers, lakes, streams, fountains, and summer-houses. Gay butterflies flitted about, and birds sang in it all day and all night. The Prince, enchanted, wandered seven miles this way, and seven miles that, until he was so tired that he lay down to rest in a marble summer-house, where he found a golden bed, all spread with silken shawls. Now while he slept, the Fairy Princess Shâhpasand, who was taking the air, fairy-fashion, in the shape of a pigeon, happened to fly over the garden, and catching sight of the beautiful, splendid, handsome young Prince, she sank to earth in sheer astonishment at beholding such a lovely sight, and, resuming her natural shape—as fairies always do when they touch the ground—she stooped over the young man and gave him a kiss.

He woke up in a hurry, and what was his astonishment on seeing the most beautiful Princess in the world kneeling gracefully beside him!

“Dearest Prince!” cried the maiden, clasping her hands,”I have been looking for you everywhere!”

Now the very same thing befell Prince Bahrâmgor that had happened to the Princess Shâhpasand —that is to say, no sooner did he set eyes on her than he fell desperately in love, and so, of course, they agreed to get married without any delay. Nevertheless, the Prince thought it best first to consult his host, the demon Jasdrûl, seeing how powerful he was in Demonsland. To the young man’s delight, the demon not only gave his consent, but appeared greatly pleased, rubbing his hands and saying, “Now you will remain with me and be so happy that you will never think of returning to your own country any more.”

So Prince Bahrâmgor and the Fairy Princess Shâhpasand were married, and lived ever so happily, for ever so long a time.

At last the thought of the home he had left came back to the Prince, and he began to think longingly of his father the King, his mother the Queen, and of his favourite horse and hound. Then from thinking of them he fell to speaking of them to the Princess, his wife, and then from speaking he took to sighing and sighing and refusing his dinner, until he became quite pale and thin. Now the demon Jasdrûl used to sit every night in a little echoing room below the Prince and Princess’s chamber, and listen to what they said, so as to be sure they were happy; and when he heard the Prince talking of his far-away home on the earth, he sighed too, for he was a kindhearted demon, and loved his handsome young Prince.

At last he asked Prince Bahrâmgor what was the cause of his growing so pale and sighing so often—for so amiable was the young man that he would rather have died of grief than have committed the rudeness of telling his host he was longing to get away; but when he was asked he said piteously, “Oh, good demon! let me go home and see my father the King, my mother the Queen, my horse and my hound, for I am very weary. Let me and my Princess go, or assuredly I shall die!”

At first the demon refused, but at last he took pity on the Prince, and said, “Be it so; nevertheless you will soon repent and long to be back in Demonsland; for the world has changed since you left it, and you will have trouble. Take this hair with you, and when you need help, burn it, then I will come immediately to your assistance.”

Then the demon Jasdrûl said a regretful goodbye, and, Hey presto!— Prince Bahrâmgor found himself standing outside his native city, with his beautiful bride beside him.

But, alas! as the good-natured demon had foretold, everything was changed. His father and mother were both dead, a usurper sat on the throne, and had put a price on Bahrâmgor’s head should he ever return from his mysterious journey. Luckily no one recognised the young Prince (so much had he changed during his residence in Demonsland) save his old huntsman, who, though overjoyed to see his master once more, said it was as much as his life was worth to give the Prince shelter; still, being a faithful servant, he agreed to let the young couple live in the garret of his house.

“My old mother, who is blind,” he said, “will never see you coming and going; and as you used to be fond of sport, you can help me to hunt, as I used to help you.”

So the splendid Prince Bahrâmgor and his lovely Princess hid in the garret of the huntsman’s house, and no one knew they were there. Now one fine day, when the Prince had gone out to hunt, as servant to the huntsman, Princess Shâhpasand took the opportunity of washing her beautiful golden hair, which hung round her ivory neck and down to her pretty ankles like a shower of sunshine, and when she had washed it she combed it, and set the window ajar so that the breeze might blow in and dry her hair.

Just at this moment the Chief Constable of the town happened to pass by, and hearing the window open, looked up and saw the lovely Shâhpasand, with her glittering golden hair. He was so overcome at the sight that he fell right off his horse into the gutter. His servants, thinking he had a fit, picked him up and carried him back to his house, where he never ceased raving about a beautiful fairy with golden hair in the huntsman’s garret. This set everybody wondering whether he had been bewitched, and the story meeting the King’s ear, he sent down some soldiers to make inquiries at the huntsman’s house.

“No one lives here!” said the huntsman’s cross old mother, “no beautiful lady, nor ugly one either, nor any person at all, save me and my son. However, go to the garret and look for yourselves.”

Hearing these words of the old woman, Princess Shâhpasand bolted the door, and, seizing a knife, cut a hole in the wooden roof. Then, taking the form of a pigeon, she flew out, so that when the soldiers burst open the door they found no one in the garret.

The poor Princess was greatly distressed at having to leave her beautiful young Prince in this hurried way, and as she flew past the blind old crone she whispered in her ear, “I go to my father’s house in the Emerald Mountain.”

In the evening when Prince Bahrâmgor returned from hunting, great was his grief at finding the garret empty! Nor could the blind old crone tell him much of what had occurred; still, when he heard of the mysterious voice which whispered, “I go to my father’s house in the Emerald Mountain,” he was at first somewhat comforted. Afterwards, when he reflected that he had not the remotest idea where the Emerald Mountain was to be found, he fell into a very sad state, and casting himself on the ground he sobbed and sighed; he refused his dinner, and never ceased crying, “Oh, my dearest Princess! my dearest Princess!”

At last he remembered the magic hair, and taking it from its hiding-place threw it into the fire. It had scarcely begun to burn when, Hey presto!—the demon Jasdrûl appeared, and asked him what he wanted.

“Show me the way to the Emerald Mountain,” cried the Prince.

Then the kind-hearted demon shook his head sorrowfully, saying, “You would never reach it alive, my son. Be guided by me,—forget all that has passed, and begin a new life.”

“I have but one life,” answered the faithful Prince, “and that is gone if I lose my dearest Princess! As I must die, let me die seeking her.”

Then the demon Jasdrûl was touched by the constancy of the splendid young Prince, and promised to aid him as far as possible. So he carried the young man back to Demonsland, and giving him a magic wand, bade him travel over the country until he came to the demon Nanak Chand’s house.

“You will meet with many dangers by the way,” said his old friend, “but keep the magic wand in your hand day and night, and nothing will harm you. That is all I can do for you, but Nanak Chand, who is my elder brother, can help you farther on your way.”

So Prince Bahrâmgor travelled through Demonsland, and because he held the magic wand in his hand day and night, no harm came to him. At last he arrived at the demon Nanak Chand’s house, just as the demon had awakened from sleep, which, according to the habit of demons, had lasted for twelve years. Naturally he was desperately hungry, and on catching sight of the Prince, thought what a dainty morsel he would be for breakfast; nevertheless, though his mouth watered, the demon restrained his appetite when he saw the wand, and asked the Prince politely what he wanted. But when the demon Nanak Chand had heard the whole story, he shook his head, saying, “You will never reach the Emerald Mountain, my son. Be guided by me,—forget all that has passed, and begin a new life.”

Then the splendid young Prince answered as before, “I have but one life, and that is gone if I lose my dearest Princess! If I must die, let me die seeking her.”

This answer touched the demon Nanak Chand, and he gave the faithful Prince a box of powdered antimony, and bade him travel on through Demonsland till he came to the house of the great demon Safed. “For,” said he, “Safed is my eldest brother, and if anybody can do what you want, he will. If you are in need, rub the powder on your eyes, and whatever you wish near will be near, but whatever you wish far will be far.”

So the constant Prince travelled on through all the dangers and difficulties of Demonsland, till he reached the demon Safed’s house, to whom he told his story, showing the powder and the magic wand, which had brought him so far in safety.

But the great demon Safed shook his head, saying, “You will never reach the Emerald Mountain alive, my son. Be guided by me,—forget all that has passed, and begin a new life.”

Still the faithful Prince gave the same answer, “I have but one life, and that is gone if I lose my dearest Princess! If I must die, let me die seeking her.”

Then the great demon nodded his head approvingly, and said, “You are a brave lad, and I must do my best for you. Take this yech-cap: whenever you put it on you will become invisible. Journey to the north, and after a while in the far distance you will see the Emerald Mountain. Then put the powder on your eyes and wish the mountain near, for it is an enchanted hill, and the farther you climb the higher it grows. On the summit lies the Emerald City: enter it by means of your invisible cap, and find the Princess—if you can.”

So the Prince journeyed joyfully to the north, until in the far far distance he saw the glittering Emerald Mountain. Then he rubbed the powder on his eyes, and behold! what he desired was near, and the Emerald City lay before him, looking as if it had been cut out of a single jewel. But the Prince thought of nothing save his dearest Princess, and wandered up and down the gleaming city protected by his invisible cap. Still he could not find her. The fact was, the Princess Shâhpasand’s father had locked her up inside seven prisons, for fear she should fly away again, for he doated on her, and was in terror lest she should escape back to earth and her handsome young Prince, of whom she never ceased talking.

“If your husband comes to you, well and good,” said the old man, “but you shall never go back to him.”

So the poor Princess wept all day long inside her seven prisons, for how could mortal man ever reach the Emerald Mountain?

Now the Prince, whilst roaming disconsolately about the city, noticed a servant woman who every day at a certain hour entered a certain door with a tray of sweet dishes on her head. Being curious, he took advantage of his invisible cap, and when she opened the door he slipped in behind her. Nothing was to be seen but a large door, which, after shutting and locking the outer one, the servant opened. Again Prince Bahrâmgor slipped in behind her, and again saw nothing but a huge door. And so on he went through all the seven doors, till he came to the seventh prison, and there sat the beautiful Princess Shâhpasand, weeping salt tears. At the sight of her he could scarcely refrain from flinging himself at her feet, but remembering that he was invisible, he waited till the servant after putting down the tray retired, locking all the seven prisons one by one. Then he sat down by the Princess and began to eat out of the same dish with her.

She, poor thing, had not the appetite of a sparrow, and scarcely ate anything, so when she saw the contents of the dish disappearing, she thought she must be dreaming. But when the whole had vanished, she became convinced some one was in the room with her, and cried out faintly, “Who eats in the same dish with me?”

Then Prince Bahrâmgor lifted the yech-cap from his forehead, so that he was no longer quite invisible, but showed like a figure seen in early dawn. At this the Princess wept bitterly, calling him by name, thinking she had seen his ghost, but as he lifted theyech-cap more and more, and, growing from a shadow to real flesh and blood, clasped her in his arms, her tears changed to radiant smiles.

Great was the astonishment of the servant next day when she found the handsome young Prince seated beside his dearest Princess. She ran to tell the King, who, on hearing the whole story from his daughter’s lips, was very much pleased at the courage and constancy of Prince Bahrâmgor, and ordered Princess Shâhpasand to be released at once; “For,” he said, “now her husband has found his way to her, my daughter will not want to go to him.”

Then he appointed the Prince to be his heir, and the faithful Prince Bahrâmgor and his beautiful bride lived happily ever afterwards in the Emerald kingdom.