#caos x reader

It’s a perfect plan. You’ll play along, circling the young warlocks until you inevitably have to choose one, but that will be as far as it goes. The night would be yours to experience with your three favorite witches with the tricks up your sleeve in play. 

Hands wrap around your waist and you lean back. A soft pair of lips kiss your neck. 

“What are you thinking?” Dorcas asks curiously. 

“Nothing,” You pat the hands around your waist, all too aware of listening ears, “Just taking in the scene.” 

“Are you still upset that we can't celebrate together?” 

You want to spill your whole plan because Dorcas sounds so sweet, worrying for you even though you know she’ll enjoy tonight no matter what. She has her eyes on a few of the more devious warlocks. Nick Scratch, if you’re being specific, though Sabrina Spellman will fight her every step of the way. 

Turning in her arms, you kiss her sweetly. She deserves nothing less for how considerate she’s being of you—how considerate she always is. 

“I’m not thrilled about it,” You say honestly, “but I want you to have fun.” 

“I don’t think I’ll participate—past the Matching, I mean.” 

You raise a brow, “Dorcas, you love warlocks.” 

“It will upset you.” 

“Sweetheart, I’ll be okay. Your heart will still be mine at the end of the night, won’t it?” You ask. 

Dorcas nods so hard you fear for her neck. As if to send the point home, she kisses you, pulling away to press similar kisses on any swath of skin she can see. It makes you laugh, holding tight to her. 

Her smile is relaxed and sweet and you know you’ve said the right thing. You haven’t lied—you don’t mind who any of your witches physically engage with, as long as their heart remains with you—but you don’t really intend on Dorcas enjoying whatever warlock she ends up with. It’ll just throw a wrench in your plans if she isn’t in the woods on Lupercalia. 

“You’re so good to me.” Dorcas sighs dreamily. 

You hum, “Don’t let anyone else know that. It’ll be our little secret.” 

She giggles and steals another kiss, before rushing from your arms and back to her room in a whirlwind. You should be preparing too, but you’re more worried about getting everything in place than dolling yourself up.

A flash of color in the corner of your eye makes you turn. Leaning against the bannister, watching you with an inquisitive stare, is Sabrina Spellman. You’re really not in the mood for her dramatics but plaster on a pleasant enough look anyway. 

“How are you okay with it?” Sabrina asks. 

“Okay with what?” You ask, tilting your head. 

Sabrina moves closer and stands at your side, the two of you looking down on the set-up with matching expressions of distaste. One of you does a better job masking it than the other. 

“Dorcas spending the night with someone else.” 

Ah, you think. You shrug and try to see it through Sabrina’s eyes; it must be odd to go from the image of married perfection to a world where monogamy is an old idea. You can understand the institution of marriage, as your parents were married, but they both engaged in their fair share of witches and warlocks. Being a witch is sin and that’s never been something you saw as an issue. 

Looking at Sabrina, you try to take her in, wishing you could read her thoughts. Does the sin and lust bother her? Her aunts raised her, but how much did they really show her of her magical community? Maybe Sabrina’s idealism towards humanity isn’t entirely her own fault. 

“It’s just sex,” You shrug, “It’s fun and pleasure, but it isn’t what we have.” 

“But Dorcas is yours. They all are, aren’t they? You’re not bothered by someone else having them?” Sabrina prods. 

You sigh, “I don’t own anyone, Spellman, that’s the point. We share things. Bodies aren’t sacred things to be hidden away for witches and warlocks, their vessels of lust and greed and pleasure. Why would I ask my girls to deny the very thing we were all made for?” 

“You say witches and warlocks don’t consider bodies sacred, but my Father did.” 

“Your Father was an anomaly. He had a few points about getting along with mortals, sure. But his views were… are odd for our society.” 

Sabrina is the one examining you now. She looks at you like she’s missing something and the answer is in your face. When you give nothing away, she sighs and puts her head in her hand. 

Teen angst radiates off of her. Whether it’s a Sabrina thing or humanity thing, it’s annoying, and you put some distance between the two of you. You don’t completely walk away though. Something feels unsaid and you’re in no rush, so you follow her line of sight to none other than Nick Scratch. 

You bite back a laugh. 

Nick Scratch is an entertaining guy, sure, but you’ve never understood why all the witches fawn over him. You remember a whole host of stories Prudence used to tell you about him when they were going out and he seemed like any other warlock. But Sabrina has latched herself onto him and you feel a kind of empathy for her. 

It’s hard when you love someone more than they love you. You remember the feeling before you found your witches. Nobody deserves to feel it, not even Sabrina Spellman, magnet for chaos. 

“You were upset when the rules of the Matching were explained to you and now you’re not. Why?” Sabrina says. 

“I was upset I couldn’t spend the evening with my witches,” You shrug, “But my enjoyment and theirs doesn’t depend on if we’re together. I just wish we were.” 

“Witches are weird.” Sabrina decides. 

You laugh and pull back from the bannister, patting her on the shoulder, “Okay, half-witch.” 

Sabrina rolls her eyes so hard you can practically feel it, but you continue past her and down the stairs back to your room. Dorcas is nowhere to be found and neither is Prudence, though her things are laid on her bed. Agatha sits at the mirror painting her lips a shade close to black. 

You walk over and lay down on her bed, watching her work. Agatha tilts her head when she looks at you. 

“You’re not getting ready.” She says. 

“I will,” You shrug, “I’m not in any rush.” 

“Are you still upset?” 

“No, just… disappointed. Warlocks aren’t really my thing, so it cuts the enjoyment.” 

Agatha sets down her lipstick and comes to sit next to you. She runs a hand through your hair, looking down with a smile, curious. You try to sit up and kiss her. A hand in the center of your chest stops you, her small smile now a wide grin. 

You pout and lay back down, folding your arms over your chest. 

“Don’t pout, I just applied this lipstick.” 

“You can reapply it.” 

She pauses as if thinking it over and weighing the time she has. A small spark of hope sits in your chest and you turn, propping your head up on your hands. Agatha looks gorgeous in white. It’s rare to see the gloomy coven in bright color and you can’t say you mind the change; black is good for any occasion, but white makes them look good enough you forget the occasion. 

You’re most excited to catch a glimpse of Prudence. As long as you can remember, she’s wrapped herself in deep blacks and purples, even an occasional red. The only thing you recall being brighter is the cream-colored slip she wears to bed sometimes. 

A pair of lips is pressed to your own and you startle before Agatha’s hands on your face soothe you. She takes her time and thoroughly explores your mouth with her own. It’s like being drunk and you feel like you could sway despite sitting down, clasping her arms to remain upright. 

It’s different to Dorcas’ quick kisses and Prudence’s teasing ones, Agatha kisses like she’s putting you in a trance. And you almost hate to admit that it works every time. 

When you pull back and stare up with glossed eyes, Agatha giggles, and wipes at your mouth. The dark color is spread all across her face and you can only imagine how it looks on you. 

“Are you happy now?” Agatha asks. 

“Extremely.” You smile. 

She shakes her head, but looks just as happy, “You really should start getting ready.” 

You open your mouth to offer an excuse. 

“She’s right.” Another voice interrupts. 

Prudence stands in the doorway, clad in a figure-hugging white dress. It’s longer than either Agatha’s or Dorcas’ with a split up the right side, exposing one of her legs. She looks practically ethereal. Something about the color brings out the glow in her cheeks and makes you swoon. 

She walks down the steps and makes her way to your side. When she looks at you, there’s something in her eyes you can’t decipher. But you forget it just as easily when she leans down and kisses you, slowly, but not long enough. She laughs when she pulls away and you try to follow. 

“You agreed to participate, darling. It’s time for you to get ready.” 

“Why? I won’t get much from Lupercalia.” You challenge. 

Prudence’s eyes are knowing and she smirks, “Oh darling, I don’t believe that at all.” 

Somehow, she knows. You can’t ask how with Agatha in the room, but she knows, and you know it. You nod and get off of Agatha’s bed to get your things from your chest. Kneeling at the end of the bed, the lock is warm in your hands, a sign your spell is holding tight. 

There’s an audible click! When you whisper the incantation under your breath and the lock opens. You sift through your valuables until you find the outfit you chose for the evening. It stands apart from that of your witches, but isn’t different enough that it’ll make you feel alienated. It’s a lovely silver garment that feels like silk in your fingers. 

Agatha and Prudence eye it with interest, eyes curious and lustful, but say nothing as they leave the room to let you get ready. 

Everything goes according to plan at the Matching; everyone is paired up, including yourself. You luck out with your friend Zander. He’s like a taller, wider Ambrose Spellman, with dark dreads he’s dyed white at the ends. Fortunately for you, he shares your lack of… interest. 

You’re careful to go through the motions and not arouse suspicion. The Courting is actually fun for the two of you. You paint one another with the blood and milk but lay under the moon talking. It’s nice, a relief to be near a warlock who isn’t driven by his lust for the festivities of Lupercalia. 

Then comes the Hunt. 

Your witches look stunning. It takes everything in you to even let them out of your rooms, but you give in, if only because your real plans involve being in the forest together. 

Ambrose blows the horn to signal the start and the chase is on. You do your best to keep your eyes on Dorcas and Agatha; you trust that Prudence will appear when the time is right, since she’s managed to catch onto your plans. 

You catch Agatha and her match first. The place they’ve chosen isn’t hidden well and before he can lay another kiss on her, you’ve stuck an eldritch root under his nose. His eyes roll back in his head and he loses consciousness. 

“Are you going to help me?” You ask Agatha, laying her match gently on the ground. 

She’s pouting, “I was having a good time.” 

“I had plans for the four of us… but I guess if you’d rather stay with him…” 

“No, I’m coming.” Agatha sighs. 

You kiss her sweetly, just long enough to assuage any lingering upset. 

“I’ll let you have some extra fun with him at Dorian’s tomorrow.” You promise

Her beautiful face splits into a giddy smile and you laugh. Grabbing her hand, you pull her with you through the crowds of still-running matches, ignoring the screaming of a few girls, though it threatens to grate on your nerves. 

There’s dozens of girls wrapped in red, but you can’t seem to find the one with red hair. Then you hear it. Somewhere ahead is Dorcas’ voice, declaring something in hushed tones. 

You don’t look to see who she’s hanging on before shoving the root beneath his nose too. He drops and you catch Dorcas before she can fall too. She fights your hands and turns, freezing when she sees you and Agatha. 

“I see what’s going on here,” Dorcas giggles, “This feels dirty.” 

“That’s because it is.” Prudence says. 

She’s appeared seemingly out of nowhere and leans against the tree behind you. Her smile is devious. You can’t help the excitement in your chest at everything falling into place. 

“Shall we, darling?” Prudence asks you, making Agatha and Dorcas turn to you as well. 

The physical changes are only a temporary side effect, one that you welcome. They mean peace for a few days after; no voices, no urges, just blissful quiet and energy eventually floods your body like you’d slept for days. 

Then it ends. You open your eyes to a heavy feeling in your chest. Voices, whispers in the back of your mind prod you without end—eat this, do that, kill them. The little control you have goes to staving off those urges. 

No one notices, praise Lilith, but it's miserable. 

A hand settles on your arm and you turn to meet inquiring eyes. Zelda examines your face like she can understand exactly how you feel. Most of the time, she wasn’t too far off. 

“Have you prepared for this evening?” Zelda’s eyes dart briefly to your wrapped fingers. 

“As much as I normally do.” You answer. 

This prompts an eyeroll. Her hand leaves your arm, coming to rest on her hip as the other holds a lit cigarette. She inhales slowly, breathing it out in a quick puff. Then once more just for flair. 

“Which is to say you’ve done nothing.” She states—no question in her tone, just a knowing glare. 

“It’s a little counterproductive to prepare for something you can’t predict.” 

“Perhaps it would be more predictable if you were.” 

You laugh. A bitter note creeps into your chest, tinging the amusement with something angry. If only it could be that easy. You thrive on routine, but this… beast inside of you does everything to fight against it. Being predictable would go against its very nature. 

“If you say so, Zelda.” 

“You know this could be avoided if you allowed me to be there,” She says, inclining her head and flourishing with a hand as she speaks, “but you choose to doubt my skills.” “There is nothing about doubting your skill involved. I’m choosing not to put you in danger.” You say. The conversation alone is giving you a headache, though it’s one you have often. 

“I’m quite capable of protecting myself.” 

Humming, you let the conversation lapse into silence. It isn’t comfortable now, but soon enough it will be. You greatly admire Zelda’s willingness to help, the problem is that by helping she puts herself in danger. Too many people have been willing to put her at risk and you refuse to do the same. 

This is something you’ll figure out alone. If you hurt someone, especially Zelda, you will never forgive yourself. 

Your shoulders tense, flashes of images running behind your eyes; cruel nightmares brought on by your affliction. Nightmares of the beast taking over, rendered useless as it tears the woman apart. Bile rises in your throat as your stomach turns. 

Her hand settles on your arm once more, eyes apologetic. You give her a small smile. 

“The wards will allow you in, should you need my help.” Zelda murmurs. 

“Thank you.” 

The staccato of heels grows quiet as she walks down the hall and into her office. You let out a breath, closing your eyes and trying to push away the horrid images. Why is this your fate, of all things? Is it too much to ask for control over your own mind? 

Class doors open around you, forcing your movement. Your free period is over. In a few minutes, a class will await you, full of curious young witches and warlocks who are completely oblivious to their professor’s lack of control, lack of being. 

With your mind clouded by worry, the rest of the day passes quickly. It’s like a blur where you feel in control and yet, not present. It isn’t you speaking or moving; you watch from outside yourself as it all happens. You would blame it on the other part of yourself, but it has no involvement. It’s too busy getting ready for the full moon. 

Fear creeps in slowly, leaving you frozen in your living room. That’s all you remember before everything goes black. 

—

Something… hard is pressed against the side of your body. Not hot or cold, but lacking in any sort of temperature, and uncomfortable. You shift and something tugs at your arm. A pin-prick of pressure, pulled and released in an instant. The groan that leaves your mouth is something less than human, forcing you to open your eyes and look down. 

Splayed in front of you are two long legs covered in fur. You shift from laying on your side to laying on your stomach, feeling that familiar prickling as the wooden boards pull at your fur. The only thing allowing you to see in the surrounding darkness is an overhead light and your enhanced vision. You’re on a porch, one you don’t recognize until glancing at the door. 

Zelda Spellman stands in the doorway, leaning against the wood, smoke framing her face. She watches you with only a curious glance. You can’t believe you hadn’t caught the cigarette before, it’s stench overwhelming; unpleasant if not for the way it mingled with Zelda’s perfume. 

“Took you long enough.” She sighs, further framing herself with the smoke, “Come inside.” 

Your body moves before your mind can catch up. As if you’re on autopilot, you stand on aching haunches, moving towards her. It isn’t until your mind becomes present that you stop. That familiar voice, though faint, was ordering you not to obey—not to follow the orders of a witch. 

Before, this voice’s desires would be law, forcing you onto an alternate path. Now it was a suggestion. You continue in spite of its angry cries, following Zelda up the steps and into a room you’ve seen before. You hesitate. 

“I’ve had the sheets changed for you, go on.” Zelda urges.

Unfamiliar warmth fills your chest as you leap onto the bed. She had no idea you’d come, but made the effort anyway. The covers, no matter how old and worn, were reserved for you. You have some small place in the Spellman house. Even if it is temporary, it’s more than you had before. 

You turn, working out lumps that aren’t there. Curling in on your body, your ears twitch. A soft sigh catches them before the door closes and you’re alone. Left with the faint scent of cigarette smoke and Zelda, you settle in for the remaining hours of the night. 

—

“Hilda, don’t disturb her. She’s had a long night.” A voice hisses through your exhaustion. 

“I’m giving her some clothes.” Hilda hisses back. 

The lack of twitching in your ears is reassurance of being human once more. You try not to move too much or breathe too fast, so Hilda won’t worry that she’d woken you. If Zelda got on her case, you’d feel horrible. 

“You’ve done more than enough, now shoo.” Zelda whispers, her voice losing some of its bite. 

“I’m going, I’m going!” 

Hilda’s steps fade, but you can still feel a presence. Zelda. Her warmth seeps into your body despite her place across the room. Eyes pierce your flesh and continue to do so until you open your own. 

“Good morning.” You murmur, meeting her eyes. 

“It’s closer to the afternoon, but yes, good morning.” Zelda says. 

“Why didn’t you wake me?” 

You shoot up, just managing to remember your state of dress before the blanket falls. Some time during the night you burrowed below the covers. Now, they’re the only layer between you and Zelda’s stare. 

The near-slip makaes Zelda’s lips twitch, a smirk beginning to form. You would glare if the energy was available to you. But when you shoot up, your vision begins to spin, and your head feels heavy. 

“I’m not in the habit of giving my guests a schedule. You needed the rest.” 

“Still, I feel… rude for intruding on your home and then missing breakfast.” 

“As if Hilda could think of you as anything other than a delight. She’s saved you more than a fair portion of her food and excitement.” Zelda scoffs, but can’t hide the note of fondness when talking about her sister. 

“Thank her for me, will you? For that and the clothes.” You smile, motioning to the neatly folded shirt and pants at your feet. 

“You can thank her yourself after you get dressed.” 

Zelda makes no effort to move and you glare. Rolling her eyes, she covers them. She sees no point in your efforts to conceal your form, being around for ages makes the stigma around the human anatomy trivial to her, especially since she’s of the same sex. But she respects your desire for privacy. 

“Something was different last night, wasn’t it?” She asks, eyes still covered as you dress. 

Now that you think of it… something had been different. Though you can’t quite place your finger on it. All you know is that you felt better this morning, less tired than after previous transformations. 

“It was, I believe. Though I’m not sure what changed.” You answer honestly, finally coming to button the pants you were offered, “You can look now.” 

Zelda lowers her hand, taking in your appearance and nodding. Then she sits back in her chair. You notice a short glass on the table next to her, no doubt filled with a sophisticated mix of alcohol, despite the early hour. 

“You seemed more like yourself when you arrived. Less… aggressive.” 

“Aggressive?” You ask, a note of panic seeping in. Have you hurt her before? 

“You’ve never done anything physical, though a fair bit of snarling anytime I came near you. You were far more annoying than dangerous.” 

Swirling the liquid in her glass, she takes a slow sip. Her eyes watch over the rim as you relax. Many times the two of you have discussed your fears, especially those related to hurting others. Causing any pain to people around you would blemish your caring spirit. 

“I had more awareness when I arrived. You told me to come inside and I could, I didn’t have to fight with… it to do what I wanted.” You admit. 

“You have to stop referring to your other half as an ‘it.’” Zelda sighs, exhausted with the effort of repeating herself, “Every time you’ve ventured closer to acceptance, you’ve gained more control. You can’t fight for the rest of your life.” “Says who?” You snap. 

It’s pure, unfiltered anger that you direct her way. She hesitates, filling you with guilt, before moving forward without acknowledgement. 

“It isn’t healthy. You know this, you’re just too stubborn to admit it.” 

“Because this thing, this curse? It isn’t me. It will never be me. How can it be, when I can’t even control it?” 

The look in Zelda’s eyes leaves you uneasy. Worse than pity or sadness, it’s an understanding. She knows what it's like to lose control and it terrifies you. You’re keenly reminded of her own experience, your stomach turning unpleasantly. 

“Whether you like it or not, lycanthropy is a permanent affliction. You lose nothing from trying to accept it.” 

“I lose myself!” Tears pull at the corners of your eyes, threatening to fall with each breath. How many times will you have this conversation before she understands? 

Zelda looks into your eyes. Her mouth is open, lips poised to speak, when she pauses. A nerve has clearly been struck. It's only natural, but there will never be a conversation on this topic that didn’t strike a nerve. The open wound in your heart will know no peace. 

“In order to become what it is, it needs you, Y/N. Mind and body. It is fueled by magic, but lives only with your essence. Losing yourself is impossible.” Zelda stands, crossing the room. She stops before you, forcing your eyes to meet her own, “The being you believe is in your head? It has to bend to your will. All you need to do is accept its presence and it will fall in line.” 

You let some of the tears fall, emotion tightening in your chest. A hand wipes away the tears, delicate eyes following the trails of them. Can it really be so simple? 

Months; you’ve fought this feeling for months. So many words have left Zelda’s lips in that time. Reassurances, urges—all to accept the situation as it was. The things she said bounced off of your mind, never taking purchase, until now.

Relief should flood through your veins. The tears in your eyes should be happy, joyous. Instead, grief drags your heart from the joy it craves. You’ve prolonged this pain for months, when it could’ve changed in days, all because of your fear. 

You have no idea if Zelda will understand, but you don’t need to know. Not when she pulls you against her. Tears soak her blouse, she says nothing. Your hands clutch onto any part of her available. 

“I’m… scared.” Wincing against the grit in your voice, you try to pull away. Zelda doesn’t let you. 

“I know,” Zelda says, rubbing a hand over your back, “but one day you won’t be.” 

You hated to admit she’s right, and over time, she is. Instead of shutting the animalistic thoughts and urges out, you redirect them; picking up something to do or eating to keep your jaws busy. The fear is still ever present. As small as it is, it holds you back. 

Zelda takes on exercises to attune you to your own senses and now you stand in a large field, eyes closed as she instructs you. 

“What do you smell?” She calls from across the space. 

“I don’t know. Flowers?” 

The sigh she releases makes you grin. Then comes a click, metal on metal; Zelda’s lighter. You hear the sound dozens of times per day, enough for its absence to worry you. 

“Attune your senses to my cigarette. Expand your breadth, take it in.” 

Hands clench at your sides, you make the effort to open yourself to the surroundings. It's like unplugging your nose after swimming in a pool. For a moment, scents meld together. The mixture is like a stain on your sense of smell. Then they begin to separate, splitting like a cell. 

Petrichor clings to every blade of grass and leaf, enhancing the pungence of the sweet florals. Some are fresh, strong, their blooms new to the world. Others brown at the edges and give off musky nodes. Standing out among the natural scents is the familiar burning of Zelda’s cigarette. The tobacco is new, though the paper is damp. 

All of it is so defined now, clear and original. It was overwhelming before you latched onto Zelda. Now, in your mind’s eye, you can confirm her position based on the tobacco. It struggles to blot out the fresh blossoms on your left. If you hadn’t heard her voice come from that way before, you would locate her now. 

The more you think, the more you know it isn’t her cigarette that gives her away. Plenty of witches at the academy smoke. None of them wear the same scent, bear that same unintentional fragrance of soil like she does. It is her. As if it was written into her very DNA, you know this to be true. 

“Tell me what you know.” Zelda says. 

“They’re new, but you went out to smoke this morning. The paper was already damp before coming out here.” 

“What brand?” 

“Heavens Zelda, seriously? That’s impossible!” 

“Focus. Don’t make excuses.” She hardens her tone, sending a chill down your spine. 

You try to focus, but you can’t get a hint from the tobacco itself. Sometimes the box can give a hint of where it’s been. Nothing. You have little knowledge about cigarettes and can’t pinpoint anything. 

“I don’t know.” Your shoulders sag and you open your eyes. 

The red and white box catches your eye, you grit your teeth. It’d been so simple. Marlboro reds are popular, but that was the reason you didn’t name them. Zelda isn’t someone who ordinarily goes with the popular choice. 

“Do you normally smoke those?” 

“If I want an easy option, yes.” 

“What the hell does that mean?” A laugh escapes you, walking closer to her.

“I roll my own cigarettes, darling, that is what it means.” Zelda says. 

You raise an eyebrow at that. Everyday you learn something new about her, something obscure. She is a woman of refined taste and knowledge. The idea that she rolls her own cigarettes shouldn’t surprise you. 

Though that begs the question; if she rolls them, does she grow her own tobacco? The mortuary does reek of it, but you’d put that down to Zelda’s constant consumption. That would explain the ever present scents of less… legal plants coming from the attic as well. You guess that was just Ambrose’s doing. 

“Alright, Coach, what next?” Crossing the field to stand at her side, you offer her a grin. A small smile pulls fondly at her mouth. 

“I’m afraid I’m cutting it short today. I have far too many papers to grade this evening.” She sighs. 

Zelda pinches the bridge of her nose with two fingers, cigarette nearly burnt through in her other hand. You take it and stub it out on the bottom of your shoe. The entire moment, your eyes never leave her. The tense set of her shoulders, barely shaking hand, and creases on her forehead create a worrying picture. 

“Zelda, when was the last time you slept?” You ask. 

“Last night.” 

Her answer is quick, too quick. When your eyes meet, you can see the exhaustion reflected back in them. You reach out to rub a worry line from her forehead. It’s an unusual desire, but she allows it, despite her surprise. She even leans into it slightly. 

“And how long did you sleep last night?” You prod. 

There is no hiding the sheepish, caught expression on her face. It mingles perfectly with her typical indignation at being managed, “...Three hours.” 

“I thought as much. Come on.” 

You give her no time to adjust before taking her by the hand, pulling her across the green space in the direction of the academy. She stumbles for a brief moment. She attempts to pull her hand from your own, but your gentle grip is firm. An over dramatic sigh comes from behind you. 

“Must you manhandle me? I’m perfectly capable of walking.” Zelda says. 

“Are you?” You throw back without thinking, “Because you’re not capable of basic self care. It makes me wonder.” 

That is another piece of your affliction you are adjusting to; your natural shyness is nowhere to be found, replaced with a quick-wit that often surprises others. Zelda inhales sharply, but says nothing. She’s becoming used to your easy quips. There is nothing for her to argue against, though, as you’re right. 

It isn’t until you’re surrounded by the walls of Zelda’s office that you release her. Then you begin rifling through her desk, making her raise an eyebrow. She crosses her arms as she watches the scene, “What in Lilith’s name are you looking for?” 

“Your answer key.” You throw back distractedly. 

She’s at your side in an instant, unlocking the top left drawer and handing over a stack of papers. You scowl while she smirks. 

“What are you doing with them?” 

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m going to grade your papers.” You smile. 

Zelda freezes in place. She looks as if she’s never seen you before. You wait, in awe of a truly speechless Zelda Spellman. Finally she speaks again. 

“Why?” She asks breathlessly. 

“You need papers graded and you need a nap. You can’t do both, so I can take care of one for you.” 

Her flinty, suspicious eyes soften into warm pools. Indecision keeps her from speaking. You say nothing, not wanting to interrupt the thoughts running through her mind. Is your offer really so shocking? It feels like a trifle compared to all she’s done for you. 

“I can’t let you do that, Y/N.” Zelda tries, but her voice lacks conviction. 

“You can. Now, lay on the couch, I’ll go grab a blanket from my classroom!” 

You rush from the room before she can mount an argument. Left behind in the office, Zelda sits down heavily on the leather couch. She stares at the doorway in disbelief. A tumultuous swirl of emotions pulses through her chest, a mixture of pain and longing. Somewhere relief worms in. 

When is the last time someone went out of their way for her? Someone who isn’t her family, that was. She can’t recall. The number of friends she has can be counted on a single hand—a single finger, even, as she counts only you. Her heart aches. 

You rush back into the room, a large green blanket piled in your arms. Behind the mountain of fabric, she catches the smile you aim at her. Her heart ceases in its ache, instead overwhelmed with warmth. 

“I had to dig through my chest, but I remembered you liked this one last time,” You comment, missing the shaky smile on her lips, “Now lay down and don’t worry about a thing. I’ve got it all under control.” 

For once, Zelda has nothing to say. She lays her head on the arm of the couch, letting you drape the blanket over her. Her eyes follow you to her desk where you sit. Then they slip closed briefly. 

When they open again, she tries not to move. She’s content to watch you; the way you fiddle with the pen in your hand, eyes darting back and forth over the papers on the desk. You bite your lip in concentration and a fond smile breaks out on her features. 

Over the weeks of work, you’ve become sure of yourself. More than ever before. And in that, you begin to take extra steps for her. Though she’s coming to realize they’ve always been there. Your care isn’t new, just more obvious under her constant attention. Like your affections, she’s also failed to acknowledge her own. 

“Damn.” She hears you mutter, tapping the pen to the wood rapidly. Then you meet her eyes. 

A brief expression of surprise flits over your face, before you smile. Zelda lets her own smile remain. What was it she said to you—that accepting your situation would make you happier, offer more control? Perhaps accepting this feeling in her chest will do the same for her. 

“Has something stumped you?” 

“Maybe,” You say, smile never wavering, “Did you enjoy your rest?” 

“I did. It seems you need some now.” 

“I’m okay, Zelda-” 

“You can’t enforce self care on me and then refuse it yourself. It’s remarkably hypocritical.” Zelda says, raising a challenging eyebrow, “Come here.” 

Knowing you’ve been caught, you stand and cross the room. You plop unceremoniously down next to her. The action draws a chuckle from her lips, husky with sleep. 

Zelda offers a portion of the blanket to you. Rather than trade spots with you, she remains seated, waiting for your decision. It takes no time for you to take the offered warmth. In the silence of the room, you snuggle into her side. She leans back into you.