AMERICAN WEDDING: Now what’s mine is yours— that’s American Law
attention: fluff, fem!reader, married!leon – im tired of the ada/claire discourse, he’s married to me i don’t make the rules — 1k
‘M-r-s. K-e-n-n-e-d-y’
Leon remembers it like it was yesterday.
He watched you write with such enthusiasm, it almost washed away the skepticism he had of you ever becoming and staying his wife. The quick scribble of your hand and the shake in your giggle made his body jump; no one ever gave him the comfort of feeling loved just as intensely as he loved you. That was until he saw you jump for joy feeling him place the same ring you wear today on your finger all that time ago. The joy in your eyes, the content look of love on your face that beamed when you glanced at him, tossing the pen back on the desk after you signed your marriage license.
He’s 49 now, but when he was younger, he felt like the world was on his shoulders. The only salvation he had was his own autonomy and this decision was non-negotiable.
He thinks back to when he was scribbling vows to say to you even though it was just you and the judge. Those words meant the world to him even though they hardly left his mouth in such a mushy way in your shared day-to-day. When he wrote them the night before your wedding, he cursed himself while hovering over the desk in your bedroom as you slept. Chris told him when they first met that marrying would feel more like an insurance policy than a relationship, but when he recounted that memory as he scratched on the paper words his mouth wouldn’t let him say, Chris couldn’t have been more wrong.
Especially when it came to finally saying them. Leon’s eyes met yours in nervousness, bright blond hair doing its best to cover watering blue eyes. His voice shook in worry like it all felt temporary. He loved you deeply and he could hardly contain it through the hard to read sentences that made him squint, stutter and restart. That was until you took his hand. You always proved to be a constant in his life.
He kept his words to a minimum, but with the blush forming on the apples of his cheeks, the thrill of genuinely being ‘Mr. Kennedy’ rattled the heart inside his chest. It was when you lifted your ring finger to show something only mildly flashy with a “how do I look?” made him respond with the sweetest, “your eyes still shine brighter than that thing.”
And yes, that was the fifth out of seven options he had for you.
That was just the beginning.
Though Leon never took off his ring, he tattooed the band on his finger just in case he lost it during a mission he was on. That ring was his favorite piece of jewelry. It reminded him of you. It didn’t matter if he was going to the store, grabbing a drink from the bar by himself or on a mission, he still thought about his Mrs. Kennedy.
And the missions– this man didn’t think he would be able to survive with the idea of you stressed about his well being. But the show had to keep going. Leon made sure to show a side of himself that was filled with charisma and confidence that he thought every man should have at that age. But you knew better when he was fighting with you and Sherry in his ears. Sherry of course was there for the intel, but the minute his bluetooth call disconnected, he’d talk you through his thoughts, even chuckling with blood all over his body as you jokingly tell him that he’s responsible for dinner.
“Let me make it out alive and I’ll be home with your favorite.”
His missions were as vulnerable as you’ve ever seen him. You heard the shake in his voice, the grunt he released from the power of his weapons and the hopelessness when he grew too tired. Leon saw people die all of the time. From viruses, by his own hand, from natural causes. It was fair for him to assume that you would eventually do the same. The only thing he wouldn’t have been able to bear is divorce. He felt silly for it, but he’d give you everything he had in his name and still fight to get you back. You being able to reassure him with your own round of jokes made his heart warm.
Of course, your favorite pastime was getting to just be with Leon, in his arms. Him being home was the equivalent of everything returning to base. It’s never been a question to him; he’d rather be wrapped in your warmth than even a step outside. He always made sure to hold you close. So when he did come home from that mission with a tattered bag filled with a sorry excuse for dinner in his hand and bruises and wounds all over his skin and an outfit that was all too baggy to be his, you knew it was company issued so he could get home in something clean.
You were just happy to be with him again. So of course, the food stayed on the counter, you helped him get clean and let him drag you into bed with him. You could’ve talked to him for hours, but your internal clock was on a different schedule. At least that night.
“Hey–” he called out with a faux calm as you turned from him. It was a simple shift so you could get comfortable in bed, but he didn’t see it that way. “Face me,” and the best part of you being his wife, you almost felt it in your bones to obey his instruction, pulled into his embrace as his breath shakes around you. “You can do backflips in the bed for all I care, as long as I’m not here. But when I’m here?” he started, looking you in the eyes. “You, me,” all of a sudden, you see a hand motion between the two of you, “here. Like this? Got it?”
INTROVERT: a person who is predominantly focused on internal thoughts and feelings rather than on external things or social interaction
attention ☆ wlw, fluff, smut, spoilers(!), introspection, pining, fingering, fem!reader, dom!grace, cunnilingus, strap usage, i realized i don’t have a lot of grace fluff yet, so im building it into my smuts until i can get my knight fic done! — 1.8k
It’s safe to say that Grace’s social circle is rather… non-existent. It’s not all bad; her being solo is almost by design. And trauma. She doesn’t like to talk about the latter, but mainly because the first one is much more significant in daily conversations. Or lack thereof.
The most chatter the blonde has had in a long while is with Leon and Emily. But more recently, you. Having so many people in her life at one time is overwhelming when she’s used to coming home and bed-rotting. So many connections she needs to uphold, but she tries her best. One thing she used to hear from her mother was that she’s too— introspective. It gives her the shivers every time she recounts it.
Grace wouldn’t call it introspection; she’s just in her head a lot.
But it’s not a bad thing in her mind.
Not when Grace has people who can externalize these thoughts to now… if she wants to.
Most days she can find herself thinking about you. At her desk. Mid conversation with Leon. Even while Dempsey is actively assigning her work. It’s like you always find a way to slip in and make a greeting that others can’t see. Grace loves it.
Leon might be the closest thing she has to a father. Emily is probably the closest she wants to have as a daughter. But you–
You belong to her.
Her best friend, her lover. You’re the one to call on her lunch breaks after she checks on Emily, the one who can laugh with her all night with when nothing is on tv, and the one she knows will hold her when the weight of the world just feels too strong.
She knew you were the one when she exploded with laughter over something you said that only makes her giggle now. Her face was so happy, Alyssa would’ve rolled over in her grave if she saw it. She lights up when you’re around her. There’s no force from you to talk to her; you two can sit in silence, hold one another. Maybe kiss you from time to time.
She notices the small things first.
The way you check on Emily when she’s late from work.
The way you remind her to eat.
The way “take care of yourself,” sounds more like you’re scared she’d vanish off the face of the earth rather than a simple ask.
The big things matter too. But the small ones are what have her mind stuck in a loop.
There are even times where all you have to do is walk into the room and the entire atmosphere collapses in on itself until it’s just you. No tv, no couch, no silly music playing in the background of her laptop– just you.
Grace prides herself on being careful with people. Observant. Analytical.
It was her job of course. She studies how people move through the world. What they say, figuring out intentions and all of their contradictions. But with you, she realized something unsettling; she’d never opt to study from a distance. She wants to be part of the life she’s watching of you. She used to be more so in love with the idea of yearning than actually settling down with it in her lap. The longer she kept her eye on you, she understood that you’re the final person worth staying by. The missing piece.
Do you know how easy it is for her to sit down and watch you for hours?
If you realized how much space you take up in her head you’d probably be stunned by just how much one person could think about another. This isn't the first time she’s wondered about these things, and she’s sure it will not be the last.
She likes your loudness.
She likes your silence.
She likes your proximity.
She likes you.
She loves you. Dare she say it.
She figures that the only problem with liking you is that she doesn't know what to do with herself when she is around you.
It happens again today. She can be found huddled at her desk with a hand behind her head, tapping a light pen to the nape of her neck as she tries to focus on a file she couldn’t give less of a fuck about. Grace’s eyes flicker along the papers with a faltering smile at a small thought of you. She swears she’s not that distracted and that she can get back to work any time she wants.
The only downside of being your girl is that you’re so satisfactory that she in turn doesn’t know what to do with you. Anything. Second guesses of where to put her hands, what to say and how to say it are always up in the air. It honestly fills the woman with this cloudy fog of an amalgamation of emotions when it’s established that she has more power than she’d like to admit in this relationship.
How she is able to get you right where she wants you is beyond her, but when she asks Leon about it, she’s always met with a, “seems like you’re not the only one with a crush, kiddo.” and that breaks her. You like her, and that is more than enough for her.
Trust her, she knows she watches you too much. Though, the strange part (for her) is that you never seemed bothered by it. Sometimes you will glance up from whatever you’re doing and meet her eyes from across the room. It’s not a look of shock or surprise– a simple smile. Like you know you’re meant to be there with her.
At home, Grace knows she doesn’t have it under control. But at work? Grace likes to think that there’s this obvious composure.
Professional. Controlled.
But her mind is already guiding her from her desk at work to leaning over you on the couch. Heat with nothing on her mind and you are entirely too close to her. Her concentration slips right through her fingers. With a kick of her toes against some paper work out of reflex, she falls out of her trance but quickly goes back to lalaland with you.
Her thought of you enveloping her fingers while holding her face, begging for mercy lingers in her mind. The heat of your body takes her over as she fills and pulls out of you. The typical silence of her place is suddenly filled with your moans lingering in her ear. How pretty you are. The rise and fall of your chest, your small, “baby, please,” that twist of your lips when your hips rock into the palm of her hand when all she can do is watch you from above, not stopping until her job is finished. She thinks about when she coaches you through it, dropping little kisses on your face, “you can take it.”
Grace is snapped out of it when it’s time to get back to her job– the one she’s at right now. Sighing out, her glasses meet her desk, leaning back into her seat as she gives her files an intentional break. “Fuck,” mumbling under her breath, fixing her blazer and picking up her phone to see a text from you.
It’s a simple message hoping that your girlfriend has a good rest of her shift and that you can’t wait to see her. It makes her blush. How could she have thought about something so sinful in a moment when you’re so soft? Until Grace realizes– you’re not soft either. No, no. You've got demons of your own that captivate her.
Like the time she easily slips back into when her hands tangle in your hair as she watches you latch onto the heat between her thighs once again, at the hand of the blonde. Grace’’s got the world in her palms with her thighs wide open for you, quietly cooing in your ear some of the hell-raising words she had no idea she was even capable of. How soft your tongue and lips maneuver on her with kisses, sucks, teases and taunts. She orders it out of you; leaned back on the bed, toes curled and gasping for air, “Just like that,” a small demand pulls from her shaky breath. “Keep looking at me.”
The ding from her phone happens again. It’s already been two minutes since she last thought about you. She can find herself getting antsy at your mere existence. Taking a look around the cubicles around her, it’s still a slow and busy day for most folks; small discussions in the air. As she clears her throat, there’s one more troublesome glance at the work in front of her that makes her debate knocking it all out right now.
At this point, work doesn’t stand a chance. Not before she gets another text from you. This time something that makes her throw her phone faster than she picked it up. “What did I do to deserve this,” under her breath, the words escape. In her phone is a picture of a new toy, one that’s right up her alley that you seemingly bought without her knowing. In the picture lays a shipping label and discreet packaging that already has her conjuring up ways to use it on you.
And as if it’s her final act, she dips off once more. The thought of your hands deep in the duvet, back arched with your bottom swelled in the air just for her as you take something silicone and in your favorite color throws her right back into the scene. Your pleas are muffled through the pillow you bite on, taking every thrust like your life depended on it, rolling your hips back on her in the desire to chase your own pleasure on her.
“Ashcroft.” There's a call for her, but it’s not enough to slip her out of her own head.
“Ashcroft!” This time, there’s heavy knocking in a familiar pattern. It stirs Grace, but not by much.
“Grace!” This time she rips from her thoughts and looks Dempsey in the eyes once more. Shit.
“Yes?” this time, she sounds more annoyed than she does frightened, but it’s all the same to him. Work must be done.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” he calls out to her, beckoning her to follow him with a tilt of his head. “Come with me. You’ve got a new assignment.” He carries a tone of irritation, but he knows who she is and how young and hard headed new hires can be.
Suddenly the air cools down and reality sets back in the twenty two year old, “right behind you!”
“Uh-uhm, hi.” Grace peeks her head into your office with a gentle flick of her hand, holding a file of something all too important to be playing around with you right now. There’s only one thing on your mind as she stumbles upon her destination. Sure eyes bore into the back of you as you scribble something irrelevant down in a notebook.
Grace, the best technical analyst (allegedly), is always in your office for something small. Nothing important— just wanting to take up your space. You always let her in anyway, enjoying the small talk. However, the timid girl always comes with an energy that makes you blush every time she leaves. You can feel the sprite-like warmth fill the room every time she tries to make you laugh or talk about something that takes your mind off the heavy hitting assignments you take on. There’s nothing she needs from you, generally, but you two cross paths after you work on her case. Watching her so shaken up when coming back home inclines you to keep in contact with her in case she needs someone to talk to. Or maybe someone to spend time with. The latter (sadly) never happened. But when she comes to visit you, there’s this bubbling urge to push the boundary.
She hardly ever saw you before, and shame on her for not paying attention. But leading up to her mission, you two were able to interact more. Watching you, watching you work, and interacting with others, she peeps this social maturity that keeps you in her frame of mind.
You never rush when you have places to be; everything you do has a sense of control. To her, you look like you know exactly what you’re doing. Far more than she feels about herself. When you start working on her investigation at her side, it’s like the horrors she faces feel like an everyday experience for you. On multiple occasions, you are able to showcase a certain stillness that twenty two year olds hardly ever have downpacked.
Whether it’s watching agents call you ‘miss,’ retreat at your tone, or simply react to you with respect, the question mark above Grace’s head keeps getting louder, brighter, bigger. Sometimes you raise your voice. Sometimes you don’t need to. You just know how to bring the conversation back to you. And she thinks about that often.
She is always attentive, maybe too attentive. You can always tell she is looking for you when she passes your office, olive colored eyes trying to spy without being caught. You always catch her.
And again, like any other day, you look at her— messy bob, glasses high on her nose, and a fandom pin she carries proudly on her blazer.
“Hi, Grace,” you welcome her warmly, giving her the space to walk into your office freely. She takes her chance, sitting down on a small file cabinet of yours. The way you lean back in your chair when she takes her first few steps into your office makes her feel like this is more of an appointment than a chance to flirt with you, but it doesn’t stop her.
Her eyes catch your hunger. She’s no dummy. Your eyes are low, tired, and laced with bags. But there lingers a hunt in them that she feels you’re suppressing. If you can handle a room of male field agents, no way you couldn’t take her.
She knows there is an age difference between the both of you; she can hear it when the other agents speak about you, the stories you mention and don’t even bother to explain. But when she looks at you, her mind doesn’t just see you as an older co-worker. The alarm bells go off. Her heart pounds in her ears and she feels like there’s something about you that drives her toward this new feeling that reads ‘danger’ in bold red letters. The kind that makes her want to lift the yellow tape and examine you anyway.
Your eyes, however, are low, daunting, and mischievous. She peers at you through her glasses, taking a mental image of your predatory look while her face burns hot. Having your time to flirt with Grace always makes you feel a little proud. She is so receptive to your words every time. Every time. But, in her mind, she dies for those words to actually mean something other than workplace banter.
Grace replays your words when you’re not around; she always does. She knows you like to flirt with her, but she yet can’t confirm why. And neither can you. You know you probably shouldn’t start something you can’t finish, but you also don’t know if you can’t finish it.
“Most times, people would at least knock first before staring at me.”
Grace widens her eyes, clearing her throat. She didn’t even know she was out of it. “Was I?”
Drawing back from the topic at hand with a smile you’re trying to hide, the blonde can see you trying to shake it off and change the subject. As your fingers graze over some final papers, “you used a gun called ‘Requiem,’ right?” Grace sighs as you stand to your feet; she devours everything about you in her mind.
Before she came in, you did need to speak with your SAC and time with them is limited. While you enjoy her company, you do have to get a move on.
But Grace is just so adorable as a puddle hanging over your work. “I- I did,” you really did read her file.
Her temperature bounced between hot and cold, thoughts about you spinning. “Leon Kennedy gave it to me. It’s uh, DSO weapon.” She makes it her mission to relish the little bit of time with you before she lets herself out to get back to the stacking projects on her desk.
“Do you still have it?”
“Yes. It’s framed on my wall.”
Snorting, your feet carry you to the younger woman, formulating a way to coax her out of your office with promises that she could come back, but you can see in the shuffle of her eyes that she doesn’t want to leave. At least not yet. “You know, I never asked you,” Grace speaks up, hand raising to reach for your wrist before retreating. “How old are you?”
Grace’s eyes follow yours when she realizes the question stills you. She watches your brows raise; you’re older than you’d like to admit. Surely you’re not too much older than Grace, but you’re at the age where it makes you shiver telling others how old you are. “What’s the best technical analyst doing here in my office… again?”
“You’re avoiding my question,” Grace shifts in her position, wanting clarity.
“You’re in the big leagues now!” Your tease is dark but playful. “Getting gratification early isn’t allowed here.” She hears your words, slow and intentional when looking at her, watching her head lower a bit.
“B-best?” Grace chirps, shimmying off the abrupt darkness in your tone. Lifting her head again in shock, she knows that no one else in this damn building is calling her that. “I mean, it’s out of my realm of expertise. I do what I can.” Plush cheeks flush a soft pink in contrast to her naturally pale tone.
Turning back to your computer, she sees you rip a file off your desk. That’s her file. “Your report is public now. You did what a lot of agents couldn’t do. And your job shouldn’t have left you so… disheveled.” You saw the pictures; the ones when she came back on a chopper, torn clothes, bloodied and scarred.
“I didn’t have to do it,” Grace brake-checks you quickly. “I just— conflict of interest? I needed answers.”
Grace watches you look over her file, absorbing your look. You look so invested in her work, it makes her bite her bottom lip. “I’m not judging you, Grace.” You turn back to her, tossing her report back on your desk. She makes sure to fix that lip before your eyes catch contact once more.
With a quiet, “oh,” she nods.
“You did what you needed to do. I carry a gun on my hip every day and still couldn’t do what you did. I probably would’ve died.” Hearing you chuckle disrupts the awkwardness that begins to brew in the air after Grace stumbles over her words.
“I wouldn’t have let that happen,” Grace releases a breathy, unsure laugh, tucking her locks behind her hair.
Oh, she definitely would have thought she could keep you safer. She may not be the FBI’s best, but she knows how to stay by Leon’s side; surely you wouldn’t have been any different if it were you on the field. Save you, though? Well, you admire her thoughts about you. However, a corny flirt sure can get into your heart, and Grace feels like she’s chipping away at some of the stone around yours.
“Wouldn’t be too caught up staring at me?”
“I made it out twice, I can make it out again.” Grace’s confidence shines through this time, beaming a smile and patting the gun on her hip. “This time I’d have a proper motive…”
In slight victory, you feed into her just a bit. “Why do you want to know how old I am? How old do you think I am?” You peer down at your feet, a flash of insecurity behind your eyes.
Grace hastily tries to change the look on your face back into something that exposes interest. “Old enough for me.“
“Grace—” her attempt makes your armor fall with a laugh pushed out of an exhale. She beams at the heat rising to your ears, proudly grinning and exhaling a satisfied chortle. “If there’s something that you’re planning on doing with that information, you better come correct, Ashcroft.”
It’s only a small matter of seconds that she needs to process your desire to withhold such a number, which only makes her question why. She doesn’t say anything just yet, but as you watch her stand with her own work cradled in her arm, she swallows.
It isn’t the fact that she is younger than you that makes you drive this idea home in such a way that intends to keep her at a semi-professional distance, but it’s the worry that she could possibly outgrow you. The things that you’re doing right now come with a responsibility that is every day. Grace has so much more to see and experience before even meeting you at your age. Someone who can meet her where she is something that you wish for her, not to make advances on a woman who’s had too much and somehow, not as much experience as her.
Grace has stopped pretending she doesn’t come by your office on purpose.
At first, it is easy to justify with work questions, file clarifications, reports that technically need a signature. But eventually even she knows those excuses are getting tired.
She adores being around you.
Your office is always a disaster, stacks of papers leaning messily against each other and half written notes scattered across the desk. Grace rests on suspicion you understand where everything is anyway.
When she leaves Raccoon City, the souvenir isn’t planned. She only means to walk past the silly item on the street among the chaos. But then she sees it and immediately thinks of you. Now it sits somewhere in your office, probably buried under paperwork, and the thought makes her smile every time she stops by.
Even if she only stays long enough to watch you work.
Honestly, every reason you come up with to not dive deeper with Grace only makes you feel superficial. Shallow even. It’s as if the attention she gives you is a double-edged sword. She looks at you like you’re something worth chasing on your own time, at your own pace. Though you know better, or think you know better. There‘s a silence that lingers in the air just a little bit longer than either one of you would like, but you don’t move. Instead, you watch her approach you, clutching her work in both of her arms before giving you a quick glance, “I can find a way to get your age.”
Her tenacity makes you snicker, palming her waist while she stutters on her feet out of the door, “Right. I will be looking forward to what you can find out about me, Grace.”
· ─ ·· ⪩⭒⪨ ·· ─ ·
And oh, does Grace stop at nothing to figure out how old you are. She will never tell you, but her tone with her peers when asking about you is straightforward, as if she’s asking for work-related reasons. She even takes part in harmless employee searches. Coworkers don’t have enough conversation history with you to know, and personal information is clearly classified. It’s worth a shot though. The moment she leaves your desk, there are two things on her mind: you and your age. No way you would make it a big deal if it weren’t something to worry about. Maybe you look younger than you are. In Grace’s mind, she doesn’t care at all about how old you are.
Even her own boss finds her scrambling through her work here and there after realizing she’s out of focus even for a brief moment. He doesn’t address it, but gives her a look that puts her back in tow for the rest of her shift.
“Miss?” It sends a shock through your core to hear such a familiar voice speak so formally with you. There you sit with your back turned toward the woman, extreme focus on your work. Grace has only ever seen you like this when passing your office and you couldn’t bother to speak to anyone. Turning back in your chair to find Grace there once more, your brow perks up at her arrival. Though her usual anxious stance is meshed with something a little more sinister and much more mischievous.
Standing tall, Grace spots you looking at her before taking a peek outside. “It’s pretty late. Are you on your way out?” Grace holds a hefty bag on her shoulder, feet curled at the entrance of your workspace, hoping to get out of her flats as soon as possible.
“Uhm,” your eyes glare at your phone, tapping it to activate your home screen and taking a look at the time. The last time you looked at your phone was four hours ago. Did you really miss that much daylight? As you sigh, you lean back in your seat. “It’s late, I guess I should.” You situate yourself to stand, only then remembering your little conversation from earlier. “Find out how old I was?” A small smile dances across your widening lips, shaking your head at the earlier conversation.
There’s a quiet shuffle and thud behind you as you snag your belongings into your grasp, finding her closer to you with a jolly, comfortable smile. “Not like I spent the whole day trying to figure it out,” the inside of her cheek is bitten between her teeth, but her smirk is still prevalent. “But I guess the fun part about that is, maybe you’ll let me guess until I get it right.”
“You thought about it that much?” Grace relishes in your confusion, padding her feet deeper into your space, eyes expertly searching for things that could clue in on your age. “How are you gonna do that?”
Grace smirks, placing a finger to her face that shows she is absolutely planning something. The digit taps against the apple of her cheek, bending over to take a look at all of your (mess) belongings. Then she finds it; an old nineties nu-metal album sitting on one of the shelves near your computer. Snagging it, the woman feels like she grabbed the golden ticket at the chocolate factory. “This wouldn’t happen to be an indication, would it?”
“Yes and no.” You reply simply, feeling the glory run off the rascal’s body. Grace rests on your desk, dropping her bag. There is no way she wants to leave– and she knows at that point you have no intention of doing so either. “Yes, I’m about that old, but not old enough to be alive for the release date.”
“So it’s safe to say you like metal,” the blonde nods. She doesn’t watch you confirm with a nod of your own, but she opens the CD case and looks at the artwork, fascinated. “I like older women,” she blurts.
There’s silence that bleeds into the room, washing the space of anything professional between the both of you as you slip into a state of sudden understanding. It feels like a horn blares across your face as she says it, eyes meeting hers.
“Professionally– of course.”
“Grace?”
The woman realizes what she’s done, dropping her smile only a bit when setting the album back where it was among the mess, “Yes?”
“That made it so much worse.” In all honesty, Grace can’t see how telling you this is bad at all. Of course, Grace is generally nervous, but under the right amount of pressure she always knows how to make the room shake. The room is filled with heat, confrontation, and a little sleepiness. “Ashcroft… you’re young. Don’t you want to find someone closer to your age?”
Hearing you push at her makes her cock her head back in disapproval; “you’re a couple years older than me, tops. It’s not like you live in a retirement home.”
You say nothing, giving Grace room to keep going.
“Well, now that I know your age… kinda,” the younger woman creeps back up closer to you with a hopeful smile, only growing when watching your lips turn in the same direction as hers. She knows she’s got you when you roll your eyes. Grace bares full teeth in a crooked grin. “Maybe I can get to know the actual number at dinner?”
“Grace…”
“Professionally!” Her hands lift in a lighthearted defense.
“We will see, Ashcroft.” Grace’s face is burning hot; your hand tucks a lock behind her ear. “I suppose I can give you a ride home if you just can’t get away from me,” she catches your tease, leaping for her things once more to follow you out.
“I wanna ask you something,” you whisper underneath her ear, pushing her against the counter of the bathroom. The plush of your lips graze against her neck, the tip of your nose dancing behind the curve of the woman’s ear. “If I ask this question and you don’t like it, you can shoot me,” chuckling, you feel her head turn, nervous olive colored eyes not once meeting yours, but you take it upon yourself to take advantage of her facing you, placing a gentle peck at the corner of her lip.
You can feel the heat radiating off of Grace, the sheen along her forehead and the rouge on her cheek making her look more like a rose than a woman. “Has anyone eaten you out before?”
The pair of you are trapped in the bathroom by your own doing. It was Grace that accidentally spills that beans that she thought others experiences are much more valid than her own. That sex isn’t anything too exciting to anticipate. She wish she can eat her words now, but now she has to face the music and you were one for confrontation. If she told you (or anyone) the truth, her life was just far too serious to indulge in bedroom games. How can she really enjoy it knowing she has responsibilities that don’t allow her to live in pleasure for long?
Grace in all twenty two years of her life has never thought that she would have an encounter so intimate, or intense until she had met you. You’re someone who is devoted to being a consistent lover in her life. You want to belong to her, just like she tries to give herself to you. Everything you did for her only exuded passion, care and a little something else that you couldn’t bring yourself to acknowledge just yet. Maybe you’d call it yearning if your ego let you breathe, for now, you’d call it an extreme care for her.
And gosh, does she adore you just as much. Her life practically revolves around you despite you being there or not. Confronting her feelings head on never felt so freeing until she met you. Now, she takes the leap with a little extra faith. With you, she’s a Grace you both can be proud of.
The lights are low and the apartment is far too silent for the both of you. It’s late and the city is sleeping. The after hours approach you steadily, only hearing the rumble of cars or the croak of nearby birds from outside of the window.
The question alone makes the blonde hum in an attempt to maintain composure. Her chest rises and falls, shifting in her stance only slightly as one of her hands grip the rim of the sink. The other is loosely clung to your belt loop. You watch Grace's eyes shut, shaking her head.
Checking in, you of course see through on your word, seeking consent to continue, “was that okay to ask?”
“Yes,” she immediately nods, ripping her hand from the sink to wrap behind your neck. With her lack of experience, the only thing she wants to feel is your lips on hers again, finding your kiss swiftly. “And no,” she whispers against your mouth. “No one ever did.”
Her eagerness fuels your lust; lowering your body at an achingly slow pace. Swollen lips miss yours the moment your kiss trails down her chin and down to her jaw, peppering her neck with your mouth. “That’s a shame isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
With a quiet laugh, your hands run down her torso, fingertips running over her top, feeling the bra underneath her shirt to the quick breath through her abdomen. The second your fingertips meet the band of her bottoms, you tug at them for a moment to help lower yourself to your knees. The whole time, Grace’s hand never abandon you, seeking refuge in your hair as you leave her mouth lonely.
Heavy breaths fill the thick atmosphere and they’re all hers. She thought that this would go a completely different way. A way that carried more structure and less carnal desire. But maybe that wouldn’t have been half as enjoyable. She has so much that she wants to say but her throat stops her from getting the words out every time. Grace will never admit that she is a virgin, but when you watch her clam up at intimacy and need a bit of a boost for physical connection, you figure her romantic prospects have been limited in the past, but it didn’t deter you from becoming her girlfriend after you confessed your feelings to her. It clearly bothers her since she can’t even tell you. In fact, her timidness invites you to be in her life more because you want to be the one to expose her to all of her firsts. You want to be her first kiss, the one who figures out how she wants to be touched and the one she craves when her temperature begins to rise.
“Such a shame,” she hears you coo, finally snapping out of her train of thought to realize the only thing she has to do is kick off her pants. It’s enough for her to do so, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Can I eat you out?”
There the woman stands in a simple t-shirt, her grip slamming over her mouth, wanting to remain quiet as she possibly could in a moment like this. Seething, she gives you a nod lacking confidence, but not consent. “Y-y-yes,” she mutters quietly like your apartment is filled with company and you had to keep hush. Grace nods without a proper pace. She’s eager to see what you have in store for her, but her heart races a mile a minute, feeling like she could either throw up or cry. Was Grace standing there going to be enough for you? She didn’t know if she should stand a specific way, try to say something sexy or maybe even pose.
“Wanna hold my hand?” you try to ease the anxiety in her heart, holding out a palm for the hand she’s got on her face.
With trust, the woman reaches for your hold, observing you closely. Your grip is firm, but comforting and your smile is just as warm. “Just breathe, if you want me to stop, I will. You just need to tell me.”
“I don’t want that, you haven’t even touched me yet,” the analyst blushes from your concern, turning her head away after hearing you chuckle. But it doesn’t last long when the tips of your fingers began to dance and curl round the lace of her panties. She honestly wasn’t the one to reach for underwear so scandalous until she saw yours. Panties and bras were comparable to any secret, fantasy lingerie store when hers are rather plain. Now, she relishes in the gentle feeling of the damp warmth of your tongue leaving a stripe over the fabric of her hips, happy to be in a set that makes her feel good.
“Put your leg on my shoulder,” you direct comfortably, adjusting for her do exactly as you ask, getting the right amount of room to work with.
Quickly, you take it upon yourself to use a thumb to pull her panties to the side, breathing in the scent of her and to much to your amazement, it damn near intoxicates you. Your tongue is careful, running down the inside of her thigh and licking up and in between her flesh. The woman above you holds your hand tighter, resting both of your hands on her thigh, whimpering without any inhibitions. “Fuck,” her hips roll in shock, jolting agaisnt your face that causes you to work on her body. “I’m sorry,” she apologizes, but with no time to entertain her insecurities, you feed her impending orgasm.
Your face dives in her, keeping her panties away from your goal. Grace’s taste on your tongue is something you devour all day, and in a perfect world with a lot of time, that is what you would rather be doing. You salivate at the pulse of her core, hungry to latch onto her swelling bud.
Grace shudders at your expertise, feeling your tongue massage against her. She wishes she can be louder, be needier, greedier. Whatever she wants she knows all she has to do is ask, but considering you can’t properly respond, there’s a weak pull at your head. Looking up to find Grace looking directly at you, lips parted and begging for air. She gasps, pushing herself deeper between your lips. “Fuck,” she cries, grinding her teeth at the feeling.
Her body is trembling, but you continue your task. She’s not shaking as much as you thought she would, but you know it’s not because you’re not doing your job. Sweet girl. And while you know she’s aches to be quiet, there’s something deviant in you that desires for her to get a little loud without care for consequences. You continue to work on her with a fond devotion that makes her feel like it’s just you and her for miles.
Squeezing her hand in yours, you use it as a way to check in on her, but she is not immediately responsive. She feels it all; the tenseness is her stomach growing larger, you working on her and not letting up. Grace usually has an assortment of toys that she used to get her to where she needs to be until she climaxes and can continue with her day. Though with you attached to her like this, it felt much more different than batteries could give and there is no way in hell that she would ask for it to end.
As the time passes, you hum at her taste. She soaks your face more than you anticipated, but it drives you to keep going. The analyst pulses against your face, tongue trapping her bud against your top lip; suckling mischievously. It’s as though she’s even scared to move. If you lost your place on her, you would’ve found it again, but you don’t blame a girl over her nerves.
“Ah– shit!” hissing, the woman doubles over, glasses falling off of her face and onto the ground, luckily not breaking in the process. Grace on the other hand is too out of it to care, lips apart, her gasping for air turning more into groans. “Please, please keep going.”
Her wish? Your command and with you more than willing to oblige, her body losing its posture. “Please…”
You don’t let up on her. Not when the hand she has in yours shakes, not when her hips shiver against you and especially not when she seizes against the bathroom sink, throwing her head back and calling out your name in relief. When Grace finishes, it’s uneven, loud and messy. Your mouth has nothing left to do after you devour her clean, but your hands hold out for her when she sinks onto her knees in front of you.
“Fuck– Grace?” you ask, holding her body close to you, kissing the top of her head as her body relaxes into your chest. “Grace,” you demand, hoping to get a word out of her.
“I’m okay,” she promises, “I’m fine.”
Sighing out, fall to your bottom, resting your back against the tub as you hold her. “I told you that it was better to get it instead of reading about it,” teasing her, your head falls back. All of that work you put in made you tired. Your eyes shut with only a few seconds passing until your girlfriend’s lips press against yours. Her body is limp in your hold, lazily climbing into your lap.
“Thank you,” Grace chuckles. “You’re right.” she admires your tired face, smiling though you don’t spare Grace a glance. “Oh!” reaching over for her lenses, she pops them on once more. “So…” she waits for you to look at her, kissing you one more time before speaking again. “I want to learn– how to do that to you.”
Chuckling, you shake your head. “You can do whatever you want to me when I'm done wearing you out.”
Your voice has been ringing in her ears since she’s gotten home. Over small things; Grace is always receptive to conversation with her favorite girl. But since you're whipping up something over the stove, she’s the most involved spectator in history. Grace could eat anything you make and not complain. At this point, she’s just there. She stopped hearing what you said maybe not even a whole five minutes ago. What was supposed to be a sweet evening between the both of you turns into you rambling about something she stopped caring about before the world around her turned red.
“Grace?” you call for her, but she’s silent.
Tired eyes, smudged with mascara violate your body. They rip your clothes off every limb just to see every curve, contour and mark that makes her pick you from a crowd. She doesn’t hear you when you call her again, but she does jump when you spin around with a spatula in your hand. There's a playful threat in your stance. Her eyes blink, clearing her throat and sending you a soft smile.
She’s knelt on one of the stools in the kitchen, (trying) to keep you company. “H-uh?” A look that says ‘I hope I didn’t get caught’ flashes on her eyes and before she can fix it, she catches a smirk on your lips. Her breath catches before she inhales again, clenching her fists in her bent over position, leaning over the counter.
“What did I say?” She can see the flustered look in your eye. Upset is not an emotion she can see on you, so hopefully that means she’s still in the clear. Through her silence, your face falls flat, "I don't know what you’re thinking about Grace, but it must be very serious. I would hate to tell that story all over again.”
Despite the mental fog, she did pick up on some things. Work has been hell for you. In fact, it's all Grace had been (willingly) hearing about all week. “You… were talking about work,” she attempts to shoot in the ballpark. After she watches you turn back around, the red in her eyes begins to falter. The energy radiating off you is something flustered but she can’t pinpoint it.
“You’ve been distracted a lot Grace,” you pose the chance for her to say why, egging on a proper response, “especially recently and you haven’t told me why.” That heat, so warm in her skin, comes back to burn. If she tells you why, it would put her in a position to act. And this act is daring. Still, with not a word from the woman, Grace slowly stands up without you sparing her a glance.
“I’m sorry,” the woman apologizes with genuineness that breeds your shoulders falling. It’s as if she can see the smile on your lips without even seeing it. And when her feet bring her close to you, the pulsing in her ears grows louder, but she won’t back down, “there’s been a lot on my mind.”
It comes out more like a question, observant eyes looking for your gaze, hoping you'd turn around. A shaky hand of hers lifts to reach for your jaw, but before Grace can get her hands on you, you see the attempt at affection that stops her dead in her tracks. You say nothing; eyes flicking between her hand and her eyes, but you let her have it. You don’t move it, and as her fingers shakily wrap underneath your face, her breath steadies. Slightly.
“Like what?” Grace’s lips part when you lean into her hold, dropping your task to live in her palm. Through knit brows, her nose guided her face to yours, ghosting her lips over yours. A smile glitches on her mouth before she exhales against your skin, feeling you grip the waist of her top.
“You,” she whispers.
“Nervous?”
“N-no,” the analyst breathes out, even shaking her head in uncertainty. Not uncertain of you, but uncertain of her ability. “I just– shit. I want you.” Her fingers tremble against your face. “I’m sorry I wasn’t listening. Th-there’s something I… wanna do before you tell me.”
This time it’s you who doesn't answer her, instead shaking your head. The touch you give her spare hand shakes the woman, placing it on your hip, feeling Grace wrap her fingers into the band of your pants.
Your lips keep a hungry distance, wanting to mesh but only capable of brushing against each other. You didn’t push for her to move; in fact, you let her have all the power she wants. In your mind, it’s to alleviate the anxiety buzzing in her feet. Green observes you lazily under hooded eyes, hidden behind thick, black framed glasses. Almost as if she’s begging for permission, she holds out for a few seconds. It feels like a break in time before the shift in Grace alters into something darker, dominant. It’s easy to see her swallowing her emotions, decision clear in her mind. She doesn’t need to beg when you look at her so expectantly.
Her tongue dangerously laps a kiss from you, closing the gap.
When you fall into her grip, pushing you into the counter becomes an easy task. “Don’t– don’t move,” Grace mumbles under your ear. There’s a steadiness in her voice that makes your legs go weak. However, a moment later, “please?”
You nod, winded from her kiss. Trapped against the counter, the blonde keeps you upright and against her chest. “Here,” she beckons, shifting your position so you're resting against her body as she’s the one leaning against the countertop– all too close to the stove.
Grace doesn’t care.
She watches your body breathe; up and down the rise and fall of your chest makes her body throb. There was no way in hell that she would try to stop now when she has you right where she wants you. She can feel your hands drag down her thighs, your breath quake on her. It drives her.
“I- I–” there’s a pause in the air.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
She’s got this. She’s made it this far. She can keep going. And though you can’t read minds, when your fingers grip at her flesh over her jeans, the woman relaxes completely.
Grace knows she doesn’t have it under control. With every wiggle, writhe and whimper against her body, she feels like she’s the one giving her body to you. But she remains strong. The hand she has on your jaw falls, using her other arm to wrap underneath your bosom, clutching your ribcage with a sense of protection rather than intimidation.
Her other hand snakes down your torso, fingers jumping at the ragged rhythm in your breath, her arm feeling the goosebumps on yours. There’s heat that lingers on your skin when her fingers plunge into your pants, shifting past panties and a shock under your girlfriend’s skin when your hand wraps over her arm.
“Grace,” you whimper.
“Yes?” She's attentive, analyzing your every move, feeling your body arch off of her as she toys with your heat slowly.
It’s hot. And not because of the stove. Grace can’t even think straight; she’s too busy keeping an eye on your chest breathing heavier, lips parted against your jaw, leaving sloppy, messy kisses along your neck.
Nothing matters to her other than making you finish on her hands. It’s genuinely the only thing she has been thinking about for the longest time. Your toes curl, back falling back into her torso with a low grunt from the woman behind you. There’s a heavy, choked cry from you that sends a wave through her body. If you had anything to say, now you don’t.
“I’ve got you,” the analyst’s voice cracks in your ear, holding onto you tighter. Her fingers work along your flesh quicker, never minding the fabric of your denim fighting back with her strength. But Grace is stronger. The tip of her nose plants into the apple of your cheek, using hushed whispers to keep you quiet though if she didn’t give a fuck about your neighbors, she would’ve found away to get you loud just for her.
She doesn’t even have to feel it happening to her because she can feel it through her. Your electrifying moans, hands getting antsy as they pull and prod at your girlfriend the needier you become.
“You do?” you breathe out, now filling the air both for your breaths and the sound of something wet.
“Yes.”
Underneath all of that work, there’s an equal match of intensity that both of you feel. And as she spends her time working on the heat between your thighs, she loses track time. It took her days to build the courage up to do this– without anything holding her back. Respectfully, everything that was racing in her mind up until she had the courage to do this made everything outside of her irrelevant.
She didn’t care about the mundane tasks at work.
She didn’t care about silly little chores at home unless you needed them done.
She didn’t mind small talk, but she wasn’t one for full blown conversations either with people who weren’t you.
She just wanted to please you.
And as you falter under her touch, quietly begging in a high pitched whisper, she takes it upon herself to tighten the grip she has on your body. Grace sits in the lust with you, keeping you upright when your body seizes in her hold.
The woman gasps at the mess you make in your pants, cooing you back to reality, slowing down her pace.
“Fuck,” your mind finally is able to use words again, taking it upon yourself to turn your head, feeling your girlfriend peck your lips.
“Satisfied?” you question, chuckling out quietly.
“Now I can hear about your job,” Grace teases with a smile. That’s not what’s on your mind exactly. Not yet.
“Okay,” you start. “But since you disrupted me making you something to eat, would you like to shower with me and then help me?” you ask, but she knows that there isn’t really an option. Grace giggles a small laugh, hiding her face in the curve of your neck.
attention: smut practice, wlw, fem!reader, smut, strap usage, sub!grace, dubcon (mentions of a drunk grace and drunk reader) — 458 words
Grace thought she could take it. Well, why wouldn’t she? You seem to take her when she uses the strap on, and you do so very well.
So with a friendly game of drunken truth or dare, the other game has started. Who can make the first move? It was all in fun, daring each other to lose articles of clothing, asking silly questions and stealing kisses under the influence caused a daring ask from not you, but Grace.
“I uh,” she smiles with rosy cheeks, looking down at the seat of your lap. “I dare you to let me ride you.” The question makes your eyes grow wide and a smile pulls your lips two times wider than it already was. Knowing her, she was thinking about that more than you think you estimate.
It is safe to say that she’s cursing herself now that she’s actually a top of you, shivering around the silicone. It takes no time to get your girlfriend propped above you, still sharing giggles even after the game long gone from both of your minds. Now, all she wants is for you to console her, tell her how good she’s doing and give her kisses when she tilts her head up from your shoulder to get them.
“Shit—! It’s so big,” she groans.
Using a hand to run through her hair, your other palm guided the roll of her hips. She’s fighting the urge to rip a broken moan in such an open space such as the living room, but the more fluid you're encouraging her to go, the bite she has on your top isn’t merely enough to keep her quiet. She cracks out a moan, quickly reaching for your face and diving into a kiss filled with the aid to quiet her down. Your lips trap hers, tangling your kiss into a messy bow telling her to not to pull away when your hand grips the swell of her ass.
Her hands fall from your face as they slide over the back of the couch, only pulling away for a breath.
“You’re doing so good for me.”
Grace tries to conjure up a smile but only gives a faltering smirk before her lips part open and her head falls back. Though she jumps at your hands holding her waist to keep her up. “Fuck,” she gasps, body all too hot and aroused from grinding agaisnt you the toy you lent her for the night. “When I come,” she mutters, “Y-You can have this back.”
Giggling, you pepper small kisses on her face. “Not a fan?”
“I didn’t say that!” She admits, but you don’t push. “I just– shit. I need m-more p…ractice.”
Thinking of a fully recovered Leon who is back from Raccoon City and the only thing he wants is to fill up his pretty wife until you're fighting tears.
It’s an absolute mess in his mind. He’s thinking fifty thoughts at once while trying to shove them all down by the sound of your moans and how good you feel around him. He’s not letting up either, spooning his favorite girl with his face digging into the side of your face. He growls for you to keep moaning and to be loud about it. You can feel his body rock into yours with hard hits and a strict rhythm. The rough shadow of his beard scratches your skin as you feel his warm breath beat down on you and you swear you know the look he’s got on his face. The one where his lips are parted, his eyes are closed and the knit of his brows like he is fighting the urge to fill you up.
Your moans only motivate him to keep going, keeping your thigh high in his arm. “I can’t, I don’t think I can hold it,” you break through gritted teeth. With a pillow pressed into your face, he made out your words through the muffled sounds, making him exhale a chuckle.
He commands you to look at him with a shaky, “look at me,” and that’s when you spot him trying to control the pleasure on his face with a lip bite. “You, fuck,” he exhales with shift in his pace, “don’t have to hold it in, now do you? Do ya pretty girl?”
Leon beams as your face pouts, shaking your head. “No–”
“No, that’s right,” he growls, taking over your lips with his for just a brief moment. The kiss is ravenous and eager, leaving him pulling away before saying. “I’m right here, come for me.” or in other words, ‘I'm right here, take my mind off of it all.’
