ownpurpose

Chapter One — New Recruit

Post-RE9 | Grace Ashcroft x Fem!Reader | Slow Burn | Workplace Tension Reader POV primarily.

After the events of Raccoon City and the discovery of Elpis, Grace Ashcroft is trying to rebuild a life she never expected to have. Between raising Emily, navigating her new confidence, and settling back into her role as an FBI intelligence analyst, she's finally learning what "normal" is supposed to look like.

Then a new analyst joins her department.

A former military recruit with a sharp eye, a dry sense of humour, and an irritating habit of noticing things Grace would rather keep hidden.

What begins as training a new colleague slowly becomes something far more dangerous.

Late nights in the office. Shared coffee. Rain-soaked commutes. Text messages that drift beyond work. And a growing connection neither of them seems capable of stopping.

As old wounds heal and new feelings emerge, Grace finds herself facing a challenge far more terrifying than any bioweapon conspiracy:

Letting someone get close.

A slow-burn sapphic romance filled with yearning, workplace tension, emotional healing, found family, rainy evenings, and the quiet realization that sometimes the people who matter most arrive when you least expect them.

--------------------

The FBI Midwest office was quieter than you expected.

Not silent. Never silent. There was always the low hum of overhead lights, the distant ring of a phone, the soft clatter of keyboards from people who looked like they hadn’t seen sunlight in days. But it wasn’t the kind of noise you were used to.

No shouting across concrete barracks. No boots on metal stairs. No clipped commands over comms.

Just coffee, paper, monitors, and exhaustion dressed up as professionalism.

You adjusted the strap of your bag against your shoulder and followed the hallway signs toward Analyst Division.

First day.

New department.

New title.

Former military. New recruit. Intelligence analyst.

The words still felt strange when attached to you.

You’d spent years being trained to move, react, assess, survive. Now you were meant to sit behind a desk and find threats before they grew teeth.

Apparently, that was the safer option.

You weren’t convinced.

A man in a loosened tie passed you with a half-empty mug and gave you a quick once-over.

“Transfer?”

You nodded.

“Analyst division.”

He gave you a look of sympathy so immediate it almost made you laugh.

“Condolences.”

“Promising start.”

“Dempsy’s office. End of the hall.”

You thanked him and carried on.

Halfway down the corridor, you heard a voice.

Soft.

Flustered.

A little breathless.

“N-no, that’s not— wait, sorry, j-just give me one second.”

Your eyes moved automatically toward the nearest open office.

One desk. Three monitors. Too many case files. A stack of folders balanced dangerously close to the edge. Sticky notes scattered across the partition walls in a system that looked chaotic at first glance, but probably made perfect sense to whoever had built it.

And sitting in the middle of it was a woman.

Blonde hair. Glasses. Dark blazer slightly too big at the shoulders. FBI badge clipped neatly to her lapel.

She had one hand pressed to her headset while the other moved rapidly across her keyboard, her eyes darting between two monitors with a kind of focused panic that should not have been as compelling as it was.

“I d-did send the revised packet,” she said. “It should be under appendix B.”

A pause.

Her face changed.

Just slightly.

The sort of tiny expression most people would miss.

You didn’t.

“Oh.”

Another pause.

She pushed her glasses higher up her nose with the back of her wrist.

“T-that’s appendix C. Sorry. M-my mistake.”

Something warm and completely inconvenient stirred low in your chest.

Oh no.

That was your first coherent thought about Grace Ashcroft.

Not her name. You didn’t know that yet.

Just—

Oh no.

Because she was pretty.

Not in a polished, untouchable way. Not in the way people sometimes tried to be pretty.

She was pretty like an interrupted thought. Like cold coffee forgotten beside classified documents. Like someone who had been running on three hours of sleep and sheer intelligence for far too long.

She was pretty in a way that made you want to know what made her laugh.

That was significantly more dangerous than anything you had signed up for.

You should have kept walking.

Instead, you slowed.

The woman closed her eyes for half a second, visibly gathering herself.

“R-right. Give me five minutes. I’ll resend it.”

She ended the call and immediately buried her face in one hand.

You bit back a smile.

Then a door opened beside you.

“You’re late.”

You turned.

Nathan Dempsy stood in his doorway, broad-shouldered and tired-eyed, holding a file you assumed had your entire professional life inside it.

“I’m early,” you said.

“You’re military. Same thing.”

You smiled.

He didn’t.

Tough room.

Dempsy nodded once toward his office. You stepped inside.

The meeting was exactly what you expected. Paperwork. Transfer details. A brief overview of department structure. A professional acknowledgment of your military background that carefully avoided asking anything too personal.

You appreciated that.

You’d had enough interviews where people looked at your service record like they were trying to find the damage.

Dempsy closed your file after several minutes and leaned back in his chair.

“You’ll be shadowing Ashcroft.”

Your attention sharpened.

“Ashcroft?”

He pointed vaguely through the glass wall.

You followed the gesture.

Blonde hair. Glasses. Chaos desk.

Phone disaster.

Ah.

Her.

“You’ll be assigned directly under her until you’re cleared to handle casework independently,” Dempsy said.

You looked back at him.

“She’s senior?”

“One of the best technical analysts in this office.”

You glanced through the glass again.

Grace Ashcroft was currently staring at her printer like it had personally betrayed her.

“She looks terrified of office equipment.”

“She is.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself.

Dempsy’s expression did not change.

“She’s also brilliant. Don’t underestimate her.”

“I wasn’t.”

That was true.

You already knew enough to tell the difference between incompetence and overworked genius.

Grace Ashcroft was definitely the second.

Dempsy studied you for a moment, then sighed through his nose.

“And don’t flirt with her.”

You blinked.

“I’m sorry?”

“Preventative warning.”

“I haven’t even met her.”

“I’ve worked this job long enough to recognise a problem before it hits my desk.”

You leaned back slightly, amused despite yourself.

“You give every recruit this warning?”

“No.”

“Interesting.”

“Don’t make it interesting.”

You held up both hands.

“Professional. Got it.”

Dempsy looked unconvinced.

Fair.

A minute later, he led you out into the bullpen.

The closer you got to Grace’s desk, the more you noticed.

Her coffee was untouched and definitely cold. A pen rested behind one ear, though she seemed unaware of it. Her desk was cluttered, but not messy. Everything had a place, even if that place looked insane to anyone else.

There was a framed photo near her monitor.

A younger girl beside her.

Both smiling.

Grace’s smile in the picture was small but real, like it had been coaxed out of her carefully.

Something in your chest softened before you could stop it.

“Ashcroft,” Dempsy said.

Grace startled.

Not dramatically. Just enough for her shoulders to lift and her hand to knock against a folder.

Several papers slid onto the floor.

“Oh— d-damn it.”

She crouched quickly to gather them.

You stepped forward on instinct and picked up a page near your boot.

Grace looked up.

For half a second, your eyes met.

Grayish-blue.

Tired.

Alert.

Beautiful.

Definitely a problem.

You handed her the page.

She took it carefully, her fingers brushing yours for the briefest moment.

Nothing dramatic.

Nothing meaningful.

Just skin against skin.

Still, her gaze flicked down.

Then away.

“Th-thanks.”

“Anytime.”

Dempsy cleared his throat.

You forced your attention back to something other than Grace’s hand.

“Ashcroft, this is your recruit.”

Grace straightened, clutching the recovered papers to her chest.

“My…?”

“Recruit.”

Grace’s eyes widened slightly.

“I thought you were j-joking.”

“I don’t joke about staffing.”

“You j-joke about budget meetings.”

“That’s despair.”

You pressed your lips together to hide a smile.

Grace noticed.

Her cheeks coloured faintly.

God.

This was going to be awful.

Dempsy gestured toward you.

“Former military. Analyst transfer. Same clearance path as discussed.”

Grace looked at you again.

You gave her an easy smile.

“Hi.”

She hesitated.

Not cold.

Not rude.

Just visibly trying to locate the correct social response under pressure.

“H-hi.”

The stutter caught softly at the start of the word.

It should not have done anything to you.

It did.

Grace tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, only to realise the pen was still there. She removed it quickly, stared at it like she had no memory of putting it there, then placed it on the desk.

You were immediately, catastrophically fond of her.

Dempsy, cruelly aware of none or all of this, continued.

“Ashcroft will show you the ropes. Database structure, internal reporting, threat analysis workflow, interagency request process. Try not to overwhelm her.”

Grace blinked.

“Me or her?”

“Yes.”

Then he left.

Just like that.

Coward.

Silence settled between you.

Not uncomfortable exactly.

Just careful.

Grace held the stack of papers against her chest for another second before seeming to realise she was still doing it. She set them down, adjusted them twice, then looked at you.

“So, um…”

You waited.

She glanced at her monitor.

Then at the spare chair.

Then at you.

“You can s-sit. If you want. Or— actually, you should sit. T-this might take a while.”

You pulled out the chair beside her desk.

“Long enough to regret transferring?”

Grace’s mouth twitched.

“N-no. That usually takes a week.”

You smiled.

“There it is.”

She looked at you, confused.

“What?”

“Sense of humour.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were.”

“I d-don’t have a sense of humour.”

“That was funny too.”

Grace opened her mouth as if to argue, then seemed to think better of it.

She turned to her keyboard instead.

“R-right. Okay. Training.”

Professional retreat.

Interesting.

You sat beside her, close enough to see the faint freckles across the bridge of her nose. Close enough to notice the way she tapped her thumb twice against the side of her mouse before clicking into a secure database.

“So,” she began, “this is the internal case aggregation system. Most analysts use it badly.”

You tilted your head.

“Strong opening.”

“It’s true.”

Her voice was still soft. Still stuttered around the edges. But there was something steadier underneath now. The moment she looked at the data, the nervousness didn’t disappear exactly, but it reorganised itself into focus.

That was fascinating.

Grace Ashcroft nervous around people.

Grace Ashcroft confident around patterns.

You watched her move through the database, and your initial attraction shifted into something sharper.

Respect.

She explained the system with careful precision, occasionally backtracking when she thought she had skipped a step. Her stutter never fully left, but the more she spoke, the more you understood it wasn’t uncertainty about the work.

It was just her.

Her rhythm.

Her voice.

“Every incoming report gets tagged by region, source credibility, incident pattern, and biological risk indicators,” she said. “T-the system flags possible clusters, but it misses context, so you can’t rely on automated matches.”

“Because algorithms are stupid.”

Grace glanced at you.

“Because algorithms are literal.”

“Same thing.”

A small smile.

There and gone.

You wanted another one immediately.

Dangerous.

Very dangerous.

Grace clicked into another file.

“This one’s old. Declassified training copy. Midwest infection scare, livestock vector, false positive.”

You leaned in slightly.

Grace stiffened.

Only a little.

You noticed.

You eased back by half an inch.

She noticed that too.

Her gaze flickered toward you, quick and unreadable.

“You can keep going,” you said.

“I was.”

“I know. I’m encouraging you.”

“That’s… not usually necessary.”

“Maybe I’m being supportive.”

Grace gave you a look.

A real look this time.

Skeptical. Almost dry.

“Are you always like this?”

“Supportive?”

“Annoying.”

You smiled slowly.

“There’s that sense of humour again.”

Grace looked back at her monitor, but you caught the faintest pink at the tips of her ears.

Victory.

Small, but decisive.

For the next twenty minutes, she walked you through database architecture, incident tagging, internal threat summaries, and interagency request formatting. You followed more than you admitted. Less than you wanted.

Mostly because Grace made concentration difficult.

Not deliberately.

That was the worst part.

She had no idea.

She had no idea that every small hesitation, every soft “s-sorry, wait,” every absent adjustment of her glasses was slowly making your first day infinitely more complicated.

She had no idea that when she became absorbed in the explanation, when her nervousness gave way to quiet authority, you found it difficult to look away.

She had no idea that the way she frowned at bad metadata was, somehow, attractive.

That one was especially unfair.

“So,” Grace said, pulling up a blank mock report, “you try.”

You blinked.

“Try what?”

She turned her head.

“Tagging.”

“Right.”

“You weren’t listening.”

“I was listening.”

Grace’s brows lifted slightly.

“Were you?”

“Yes.”

A pause.

“Mostly.”

Her expression changed.

Not quite amusement.

Not quite suspicion.

Something in between.

“Mostly?”

“In my defence, you talk fast when you’re interested.”

Grace looked surprised by that.

“I do?”

“You do.”

“Oh.”

She seemed to absorb that as new information.

Then, quieter—

“S-sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

Her eyes flicked to yours.

You held her gaze, gentler this time.

“It’s nice.”

Grace went still.

Just for a second.

The office kept moving around you. Phones, printers, keyboards, footsteps.

But for that one second, the space between you felt strangely quiet.

Then Grace looked away.

“Y-you should tag the report.”

Professional retreat again.

But softer this time.

You turned to the screen, deciding to let her have the escape.

For now.

The training report was straightforward enough. You skimmed the details, selected the region, marked source credibility, and started assigning risk indicators.

Grace watched beside you.

You could feel her attention.

Not intrusive.

Focused.

Measured.

The way someone watches because they’re trying to understand how you think.

“You’re fast,” she said.

You clicked another field.

“Military habit.”

“Data work?”

“Threat assessment. Pattern recognition. Mostly people, movements, supply routes.”

Grace nodded slowly.

“That transfers.”

“Glad I’m not completely useless.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Comforting.”

“I mean—” Grace faltered. “I d-didn’t mean you were useless. I meant— you’re not. Obviously. Dempsy wouldn’t assign you here if—”

“Grace.”

She stopped.

Your voice had gone softer without permission.

Her name felt different out loud.

She looked at you.

You smiled.

“I was teasing.”

“Oh.”

A beat.

“R-right.”

Her shoulders lowered a fraction.

You noticed she didn’t correct you for using her first name.

Interesting.

“You can tease back, you know,” you said.

“I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“I’m bad at it.”

“That’s not a no.”

Grace looked as though she very much wanted to argue but couldn’t find a logical entry point.

Cute.

Again.

Always.

She looked at the report instead.

“You missed a tag.”

You glanced back at the screen.

“Did I?”

“Possible vector uncertainty.”

“Where?”

Grace leaned closer.

She reached across you, not quite touching, and pointed at a line buried halfway through the report.

“There. The language is vague. ‘Unknown environmental exposure’ usually means no one wanted to admit they lost the sample chain.”

Her sleeve brushed your arm.

Brief.

Accidental.

Enough.

You became sharply aware of how close she was.

The scent of coffee and clean fabric.

The quiet concentration in her face.

The line of her jaw.

The fact that she trusted the space enough to lean into it.

Then Grace seemed to realise the proximity at the exact same moment.

Her hand froze.

Her eyes moved from the screen to your arm.

Then to your face.

For half a heartbeat, she didn’t move.

Neither did you.

Her lips parted slightly.

Then she pulled back too quickly and nearly hit her elbow against the desk.

“S-sorry.”

You kept your tone light, because anything else would have been cruel.

“You’re very apologetic for someone who just saved my report.”

Grace adjusted her glasses.

“I didn’t save it. It’s a training copy.”

“You saved my pride.”

“That seems unlikely.”

You laughed.

Grace looked startled by the sound again.

But this time, she didn’t look away immediately.

For a moment, she watched you like she was trying to figure out what to do with someone who laughed easily in her space.

Like she wasn’t sure whether to be wary of it.

Or warmed by it.

--------------------

Grace did not know what to do with you.

That was the problem.

New recruits were usually nervous, overconfident, or painfully eager to prove themselves. You were some uncomfortable blend of competent and impossible.

You listened.

Actually listened.

Not just to the training. To her.

You noticed when she hesitated. Not in a way that made her feel exposed, but in a way that made her feel seen, which was arguably worse.

You smiled too much.

Not at everyone.

At her.

Grace had no evidence this was intentional.

She still disliked how quickly her brain had filed the information away.

She looked at the screen while you worked through the report, but her attention kept catching on small things.

The calm set of your shoulders.

The way you leaned back when she needed more space.

The way your humour never pushed too hard.

The way you said her name like it was normal.

Grace wasn’t used to normal.

Not anymore.

Maybe not ever.

She glanced at the photo beside her monitor.

Alyssa.

Emily.

Hope.

Her chest tightened, familiar and bearable.

Then you cleared your throat gently.

“Vector uncertainty tag?”

Grace blinked.

You were looking at her.

Waiting.

Not impatient.

Just there.

She swallowed.

“Y-yeah. Good.”

Your smile softened.

And Grace, against her better judgment, smiled back.

Only a little.

But enough.

--------------------

By lunch, you had learned three things.

One: FBI analytics involved far more forms than any sane person should tolerate.

Two: Grace Ashcroft was terrifyingly intelligent.

Three: you were in serious trouble.

The third point became obvious when Grace forgot to eat.

It was subtle at first.

Someone from another desk asked if anyone wanted food from the café downstairs. Three people answered. Grace didn’t seem to hear.

You waited.

She kept typing.

The cold coffee beside her had not moved.

“You eat lunch?” you asked.

Grace didn’t look up.

“Mhm.”

“When?”

“What?”

“When do you eat lunch?”

She glanced at the clock.

Then froze.

“Oh.”

You leaned back.

“That sounds like never.”

“I was going to.”

“Convincing.”

“I was.”

“Grace.”

She looked at you.

“You’re a bad liar.”

“I’m not lying. I’m… mismanaging time.”

“That’s a very analyst way to say skipping lunch.”

Grace looked mildly offended.

Then mildly caught.

Then she sighed.

“I have crackers.”

“Do you want real food?”

“I have crackers.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

She looked at you for a second too long.

Like the question itself had confused her.

Not because she didn’t understand it.

Because maybe people didn’t ask very often.

Something in your chest tightened.

You stood.

“Come on.”

Grace blinked.

“What?”

“Lunch.”

“I c-can’t. I have to finish this.”

“It’ll still be classified and depressing in twenty minutes.”

Her mouth twitched.

“I shouldn’t leave the files open.”

“Then lock your computer.”

“I—”

She stopped.

Because that was a reasonable solution.

You watched her realise it.

Then watched her dislike that she had realised it.

“You’re very bossy for a recruit,” she said.

You grinned.

“Former military.”

“That explains very little and too much.”

“There’s the humour.”

Grace shook her head, but she locked her computer.

You considered that a win.

The café downstairs was small, overly bright, and smelled better than the office by a wide margin. Grace stood beside you in the queue with the posture of someone unused to being removed from her natural habitat.

“You look uncomfortable,” you said.

“I’m fine.”

“You look like someone confiscated your spreadsheets.”

Grace glanced sideways at you.

“That would be serious.”

“I believe you.”

She looked down at the food display, worrying her thumb against the side of her index finger.

Another habit.

You were collecting them now.

You probably shouldn’t.

“What do you usually get?” you asked.

“Coffee.”

“That’s not food.”

“It has calories.”

“Grace.”

She looked at you, and there it was again.

That tiny pause when you said her name.

You wondered if she noticed it too.

Maybe she did, because she quickly looked back at the display.

“Soup,” she said. “Sometimes.”

“Soup it is.”

“I can choose my own lunch.”

“I know.”

“Then why did that sound like an order?”

“Because soup it is.”

Grace stared at you.

Then, unexpectedly, she laughed under her breath.

Small.

Almost unwilling.

The sound landed somewhere behind your ribs and stayed there.

You were absolutely doomed.

At a small table near the window, Grace sat across from you with a bowl of soup, a bottle of water, and the faint air of someone who had been tricked into self-care.

You unwrapped your sandwich.

She stirred her soup once.

Twice.

Then looked at you.

“So. Former military.”

You nodded.

“So. FBI technical analyst.”

Grace’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“You’re deflecting.”

“So are you.”

“I asked first.”

“Didn’t know there were rules.”

“There are always rules.”

That was the most Grace Ashcroft sentence you’d heard all day.

You smiled.

“I did threat assessment. Some field coordination. Some classified work. Nothing I can talk about in a basement café with bad lighting.”

Grace nodded, accepting the boundary immediately.

You liked that.

More than you should.

“Why analyst division?” she asked.

You considered giving the clean answer.

Career progression. Transferable skills. Stability.

Instead, you gave her a true one.

“I got tired of only seeing threats after they were already moving.”

Grace’s expression softened almost imperceptibly.

You wondered what she heard in that answer.

Regret maybe.

Exhaustion.

Recognition.

“That makes sense,” she said quietly.

“What about you?”

Grace looked down at her soup.

The air changed.

Just slightly.

Not enough for anyone else to notice.

Enough for you.

“Data analytics,” she said.

A rehearsed answer.

You didn’t push.

“Good thing you’re scary good at it then.”

Grace looked up.

“I’m not scary.”

“No. The good at it part was scary.”

Her eyes flickered with something you couldn’t quite name.

Embarrassment.

Disbelief.

Pleasure, maybe.

“You’ve seen one morning.”

“I’ve seen enough.”

She swallowed.

Then stirred her soup again.

“T-thanks.”

Soft.

Sincere.

You looked away first.

Not because you wanted to.

Because if you kept looking, you were going to make your problem obvious on day one.

And Dempsy had specifically warned you.

Preventative warning.

Annoyingly valid.

When you returned upstairs, Grace seemed different.

Not dramatically.

Just a little less braced.

She walked beside you instead of half a step ahead. She still held herself carefully, still kept her voice soft, still stuttered through explanations, but something in the air between you had shifted.

Not trust.

Not yet.

But the first outline of it.

Back at her desk, she noticed the cold coffee and frowned.

You picked it up before she could.

“I’ll get you a fresh one.”

Grace blinked.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

“I can get my own coffee.”

“I know that too.”

“Then why—”

“Because I’m getting one anyway.”

Grace looked at you carefully.

You held her gaze.

A beat passed.

Then she looked away.

“Milk. No sugar.”

You smiled.

“Noted.”

As you turned, you heard her voice again.

Quiet.

Almost too quiet.

“Thank you.”

You glanced back.

Grace was looking at her monitor now, but her hand had drifted toward the photo frame beside it, fingertips resting lightly against the edge.

You didn’t comment.

Some things were not for teasing.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

By the time you returned with coffee, Grace had another file open.

She accepted the cup with both hands, as if surprised by its warmth.

Her fingers brushed yours again.

This time, neither of you moved quite fast enough to pretend you hadn’t noticed.

“Thanks,” she said.

The word caught softly.

You sat beside her again.

“Anytime.”

Grace stared at the coffee for one second too long.

Then back at the screen.

“R-right. So. Interagency reports.”

“Lead the way, Ashcroft.”

She looked at you sharply.

“Grace is fine.”

You blinked.

She seemed to realise what she’d said at the same time you did.

Colour rose faintly in her cheeks.

“I mean— since you already— it’s not— professionally, it’s fine. Either is fine.”

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

“Grace, then.”

Her name settled between you.

Soft.

Dangerous.

She turned back to the monitor.

“Y-yeah.”

For the rest of the afternoon, she taught you how to read between lines that weren’t supposed to exist.

Missing details. Repeated phrasing. Suspiciously clean reports. Government language that meant someone had either made a mistake or buried one.

You learned quickly.

Grace noticed.

You knew she did because she started giving you harder examples.

Then harder ones.

Then, eventually, one that made you pause.

“Is this still a training file?” you asked.

Grace hesitated.

“Yes.”

You looked at her.

She looked back.

“…mostly.”

You laughed.

“There it is again.”

“What?”

“Your terrible lying.”

Grace actually smiled this time.

Small, yes.

But real.

You felt it like a victory you hadn’t earned.

Outside the office windows, evening settled into the city, turning the glass dark. People began leaving in waves. Chairs rolled back. Monitors shut off. Conversations thinned.

Grace didn’t move.

Of course she didn’t.

You watched her skim another report, coffee now half-finished beside her.

“You always stay late?” you asked.

She didn’t look up.

“S-sometimes.”

“That means yes.”

“I have work.”

“Everyone has work.”

“Mine follows me.”

The answer was too honest to tease.

You leaned back quietly.

Grace seemed to realise what she’d said and immediately busied herself with closing a tab.

“I mean— not literally.”

“I know.”

“I just— after everything, it’s easier to—”

She stopped.

Your chest tightened again.

After everything.

There it was.

The shape of what she didn’t say.

Wrenwood. Raccoon City. Elpis. Emily. Alyssa. Leon.

Names you knew only from briefings and headlines and classified summaries with too many redactions.

To Grace, they weren’t case files.

They were scars.

You kept your voice gentle.

“You don’t have to explain.”

Grace’s hand stilled on the mouse.

For a moment, she didn’t speak.

Then she nodded once.

Small.

Grateful.

“Okay.”

The office was nearly empty now.

Her monitor lit the edges of her face.

She looked tired.

Still pretty.

Still guarded.

Still impossibly interesting.

And for one reckless second, you wanted to reach over and take the pen from behind her ear again, just to see if she would smile.

You didn’t.

Not a mistake on day one.

You stood instead.

“I should let you get back to mismanaging time.”

Grace looked up.

There was something in her expression you hadn’t seen before.

Not disappointment.

Not quite.

But close enough to make your pulse trip.

“You’re leaving?”

The question sounded automatic.

Like it had slipped out before she could stop it.

You softened.

“First day. Thought I’d avoid setting a terrible precedent.”

Grace looked away quickly.

“R-right. Yeah. That’s… good.”

You picked up your bag.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

She nodded.

“Tomorrow.”

A pause.

Then—

“Don’t be late.”

You grinned.

“I thought military early counted as late.”

“It does.”

“Then I’ll be very late.”

Grace’s mouth curved.

This time, she didn’t hide it fast enough.

You walked away before the smile could fully ruin you.

At the corridor, you glanced back once.

Grace was watching you.

The moment your eyes met, she looked down at her desk, flustered, reaching for a file that was already in her hand.

You bit back a laugh.

Definitely doomed.

Behind you, the office lights hummed.

Ahead of you, the elevator doors opened.

And all you could think was that Grace Ashcroft had said your tomorrow like it mattered.

Maybe it didn’t.

Not yet.

But it would.

You had a feeling it would.

--------------------

★ horror movie night with illit. fluff. headcanons. wc: 0.5k.

MINJU.

• 100% the person who wanted to watch the horror movie

• she forced you into watching one with her (aka was so cute when she asked you that you couldn't say no to her <3)

• will wrap herself and you into a blanket burrito roll while you watch

• laughs fondly at you every time you flinch or get startled

• puts on a scary mask when you leave to get popcorn and tries to jumpscare you when you come back

• as an apology she'll share her favorite chocolate snacks with you (even the limited edition ones she wouldn't share with the rest of illit)

• hugs your tummy if you're scared <3

MOKA.

• moka will (affectionately) make fun of you for getting scared but never takes it too far

• smiles coolly and says "don't worry y/n, i'll protect you."

• laughs softly and calls you cute whenever you flinch or cover your eyes

• bumps her shoulder against yours and gives you quiet comfort when you're scared

• softly rubs the back of your hand to let you know she's there in the scariest scenes

• gets engrossed in the movie and absent mindedly starts playing with your hair in the middle <3

WONHEE.

• wonhee's very proud of the fact that she doesn't get scared easily

• she'll brag and act all tough about it

• might make fun of you for getting scared but will give you her hand to hold

• tries to make you see her cool side by not showing any fear at all

• purposely chooses the scariest movie she can find so that you get scared and stick close to her

• will coolly tell you to hide your face against her shoulder (but internally screams the whole time because she finds you so adorable)

YUNAH.

• yunah's a complete scaredy cat. she'll try to act unbothered before the movie starts, but as soon as something scary happens her soul leaves her body

• keeps a death grip on your hand the whole time (is it because she likes you? yes. is it because she's terrified? also yes).

• grabs your shoulder or dramatically dives into your chest during really scary scenes

• yunah will be completely hugging you like a koala by the end of the movie

• hates the horror part of it but loves that she can be clingy and close to you <3

IROHA.

• roha is terrified and she owns it

• she doesn't even mind being scared though, because she gets to cuddle up close to you inside a cozy blanket

• arranges her plushies in a protective circle around the two of you

• will use being scared as an excuse to be as clingy as she wants

• if you try and tease her by scaring her during the movie she'll hit you (the gentlest kitty punch but still)

Enid: 🤨⁉️

Enid: Dearest wife, why the heck did you bring our silver engagement dagger?

Wednesday: Senior year, third weekend of first semester, girl’s night.

Enid: Huh?

Wednesday: I kissed Divina at our bachelorette party. I have successful married you. That leaves one obligation to fulfill, and an Addams always makes good on their promises.

Enid: Huh??

Wednesday: And speak of the Devil… *turns*

Esther: *walks up with a disdainful sneer* Well, Enid, it looks like you got your way in the end. I suppose it takes a freak to love a disappointment.

Enid: *distractedly* Hang on, Mom. Kiss, marry…

Enid: 😲‼️

— Clip 1 ✰

“Minju unnie, can you not…”

You muttered, shifting uncomfortably as her arms tightened around your waist from behind. She’d been like this since dance practice started. Ten minutes ago.

“But you’re so soft,” she said, resting her chin on your shoulder with a dreamy sigh. “Like one of those bakery plushies.”

“Your sweat is literally on my back right now.”

“Consider it a gift.”

You were about to scream for help when Yunah walked in. Minju immediately let go and casually started stretching like she hadn’t just been glued to you.

You: “…She’s gonna think I hallucinated again.”

Minju: grinning “Then you better keep quiet, bakery bun.”

— Clip 2 ✰

You opened the fridge, searching for your emergency yogurt.

Minju appeared beside you. No pressed beside you. Arm brushing yours. Shoulder touching. Face like 2cm from yours.

“…Are you okay?” you asked, not looking up.

“Just trying to feel your aura today.”

“I will slam this fridge door.”

“Try it,” she whispered. “You’ll miss me when I’m gone.”

You blinked slowly, closed the fridge, and left. Minju followed.

— Clip 3 ✰

The members were filming content when Moka called you over.

Before you could take a step, Minju had already looped her arm through yours.

“I’ll come too,” she said sweetly.

“You don’t need to—”

“But I want to.”

She leaned in and added quietly, “Also you said you’d share your gummies and I saw you hiding them in your sleeve.”

You gasped. “You snitch”

Minju: “Guilty as charged ”

— Clip 4 ✰

You were lying face-down on the dorm couch after practice. Pure silence. Peace.

Then… weight. On your back.

“Minju unnie,” you grunted, “get off me.”

“No.” “You’re literally crushing my soul.”

“I’m recharging. You’re my wireless maknae charger.”

Yunah passed by, didn’t even look. “Not this again.”

“I can’t feel my ribs,” you muttered.

“I love you too,” she whispered.

— Clip 5 ✰

You were half-asleep in the van, head leaning against the window, when Minju dragged your head onto her shoulder.

You groggily mumbled, “I was comfy…”

“I’m comfier.”

You blinked up at her. She blinked down at you.

Minju: “You can breathe slower. Your heartbeat’s making me blush.”

You: “Unnie please get a grip.”

Minju: smiling like she’s living her romcom dream

Moka (from the back): “I’m gonna jump out of this moving van.”

Moka x fem!6th illit member reader

word count: 366

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

You try not to gawk at her as you and the members get into your makeup and outfits for the new short film.

All the members have gotten new looks and you really enjoy the striking concept, but no part of you could’ve ever imagined short, white hair for Moka.

The Moka who would always have long brown or black hair, who you were even surprised by when she had long blonde hair for the not cute anymore comeback.

But short, white hair? beyond your wildest dreams and by the way she keeps checking her hair in the mirror, it’s beyond hers as well.

“Unnie?”

Moka looks at you in the mirror, she sees your eyes trained on her hair.

“Ah, my hair’s really different this time, isn’t it?” she tenses, “Does it look weird?”

You shake your head, “It is different, but it’s a good different. It’s just new. Fits the concept though.”

Moka shyly moves her hand down the back of her hair, “I hope you wouldn’t think it looks too odd on me. The only time I had hair this short was in Do The Dance.”

“Hey, that bob was cute! It made your eyes pop!”

You remembered how the bob curled in at the tips, shaping her face that somehow made her look even cuter.

But cute isn’t a way to describe her now. This time the hair is shorter and has a colder color. She isn’t cute, she’s handsome.

You smooth down her bangs, slightly brushing it out of her eyes, “I think..this hair makes you look more on the handsome side. Don’t you think?”

You thought nothing of the comment until you looked down to see Moka’s wide eyes and flushed cheeks staring back at you.

“What?”

“You said I looked handsome?”

“Yeah, the hair fits your face so well and when you make a straight face, you look like an ice prince. So cool.”

Moka gently pushes your shoulder, “Don’t just say that kind of stuff out of the blue.”

You laugh, “What? It’s true!”

“Still!” she starts to fan herself, “Now,

I have to calm myself down.”

“Aw, my ice prince oppa has melted.”

“Be quiet!”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

Author’s note:

Just watched that clip where a gllit called Moka handsome and she said “That’s right, I love being called handsome, thank you.”

word count: 3.5k words

A/N: Part of @prael Minju challenge over on Fanprose. Feel free to follow along there, but don't worry—I'll still be posting here!

Tags: fluff

She watches you. Out in the hallway, peeking through the window. Watches the way you casually sit on your desk, leg propped on your chair. The way you throw your head back when you laugh, loud enough that it echoes down the hallway. She watches your forearms flex as you shove someone’s shoulder, his protests drowned out by your grin.

Park Minju has always liked to watch this classroom, liked to watch you. Bassist for the school band. The one everyone gravitated towards without quite knowing why. She does—has watched you long enough to. All the girls have a crush on you, and she’s no exception. But she has one advantage over the others.

She feels a shove at her back—pressed against the wall by the newly arriving girls that came to watch you. The air is suffocating. Shoulders press against hers on both sides, blocking her view. Someone has too much perfume on, and she can’t breathe properly.

You turn to the commotion outside the classroom, and you see her, surrounded on all sides. Your smile drops slightly, worry etched across your face.

“Minju!” She looks up, face red, and sees you, waving, unhurried, as if the crowd behind her doesn’t exist. And just like that, everyone backs away. She takes two deep breaths, smooths her cardigan and skirt before entering the classroom. The noise from the hallway fades behind her. In here, she can hear your voice clearly now, the low rumble of your laugh she’d recognise anywhere.

She ignores the weight of stares she’s learned to walk through like they’re nothing.

See, the one advantage she has over the others is that she’s known you all her life.

“What are you doing here?”

She scowls at the voice before she even sees who it belongs to, her nose scrunching in irritation. She already knows.

The one disadvantage she has is that you are her brother’s best friend.

----

It isn’t unusual to find yourself in their home. It’s practically your second home. Their parents always welcome you, always invite you to stay the night.

It’s even less unusual to find yourself in their kitchen.

You roll your sleeves up as you drop three packets of noodles into the pot of boiling water, stirring slightly, waiting for it to soften before adding the rest of the ingredients: the soup packets, spring onions, maybe a bit of cheese.

Once done, you pour them into three separate bowls, one of them has a bit more than the others, before placing them on the dining table. You move again, this time to grab empty glasses and a jug of water.

“Why does she get the bigger one?”

You pour her water first, not looking up at your friend before answering. “Make more yourself if you’re that hungry.” You turn to face her. “Eat up.”

You’re already turning back to the table, moving to sit down, missing the way Minju’s cheek tinge bright pink, and the way she softly slaps herself as if that would help calm her down.

(It doesn’t)

She stares at you as you talk to her brother, wishing it was her instead. But what would she say? What could she say? Every conversation with you has been surface level. No deep discussions, no confessions, nothing beyond ‘how are you?’ and ‘good.’ and it’s all your fault. The way you maintain eye contact, how you patiently wait for her to get her words out, even when her throat closes up or her mind goes blank staring back at you.

It’s infuriating that you affect her so much, annoying that you have no clue about it either.

She watches as you become more animated telling a story. The way your arms start flailing around or the way every time you smile, your dimples come out. Her eyes travel to your neck, gazes as your adam’s apple bobs with every slurp of noodles.

Some soup splashes onto you, and she’s already half out of her seat, ready to get a tissue. Except, you’re wearing an apron. How could she forget you’re wearing an apron. And not just any apron. The apron her mom bought her when she had that fleeting dream of becoming a chef.

(That lasted two months)

“… don’t understand why we have to study! My brain hurts…”

That caught Minju’s attention.

“What are you guys talking about?”

“Your brother’s being an idiot again.” You sigh as you take another bite of your ramyeon.

“When am I going to ever need,” he stares at the title of the worksheet, “the Pythagorean theorem in my life?”

You ignore his whining, turning to face Minju.

“What about you? Does your dream involve finding the length of one side of a triangle?”

She hesitates before answering quietly. “N—no… I want to be an idol…”

You hear laughter. Her brother.

“You? An idol? Don’t you have to be an E? How can you be an idol when you’re an extreme I?” Her brother asks between fits of laughter.

You watch her look down at her hands, wringing. She slowly slides down the chair, face red in embarrassment.

You smack her brother on the head before looking back at her, ignoring his cries.

“I think you’d be a great idol.”

Minju’s eyes grow wide looking at you, already sitting up. “R—really?”

You nod. “I do. You should audition.” You’re already back to your noodles, mouth over the bowl before you continue. “You already have one fan in me.”

You turn back to her, and you smile that smile, dimples prominent, eyes in crescent shapes, head tilted ever so slightly, noodles hanging out.

If it was possible, Minju’s face would be even redder than it is. Her heart pounds hard against her chest. It feels loud, like you could hear it if you try hard enough. She smiles, and nods. “Th—thank you.”

You hold her gaze for longer than necessary. There’s something about the way she looks at you—like you promised her the world instead of believing in her. It makes your chest feel weird. Warm.

You look away first, back to your noodles, before you do something stupid like keep staring.

Later that night, you’re crashing at their place as you always do. The room is dark except for the light from the lamp post peeking through and from your phone. The floor is hard against your back, but warm. You’re scrolling through your phone when you hear rustling from the bed above.

Your best friend.

He sits up and turns to you, doesn’t say anything for a minute.

“You know she’s going to audition now,” he finally says. “After what you said.”

You don’t look at him, eyes trained on the phone but not absorbing anything. “And she should. I wasn’t lying when I said that.”

“She’s always wanted to audition. You were just the final push she needed.”

You hum, thumb frozen on your phone. You don’t know why that makes your chest tight.

He stays quiet for a long time, long enough that you crane your neck up to face him. “You’re good to her, you know. A better brother than I could ever be. Walking her home and shit. Just… don’t give her hope.”

You don’t know what he means. Or maybe you do, and you just don’t want to think about it.

“I… won’t,” you say.

He stares at you, looking for any lie. When he doesn’t, he lies back down, turning to face away from you. “Good.”

You stare at the ceiling for a long time after that. Don’t give her hope. But why not? You liked how she looked at you from across the table, eyes wide and bright that they’re practically burned into the back of your eyelids.

You close your eyes and sigh heavily, willing yourself to sleep.

----

You lean against the railing outside the studio, checking the time on your phone every few minutes. You exhale loudly, jumping at every sound. She should be out by now.

Ever since she told you her dream, she’s committed to it, taking vocal lessons, dance lessons, anything that could improve her chances of being cast. And you’ve been there every step of the way. Making sure she doesn’t burn out or that she gets home safely despite protesting numerous time that she doesn’t need a babysitter.

What can you say? You want to be here. Always have. The worrying is just an excuse you tell yourself.

You see someone coming down the stairs. Minju. One hand holding tightly on the handrail, the other trying, and failing to keep hold of the duffel bag on her shoulders.

You move quickly, avoiding people walking in front of you, taking the bag from her before she has time to protest.

“You’re here again? I told you, you don’t need to keep coming to these.”

You throw the duffel bag over your shoulder, walking out the building, arms brushing against each other every now and then. “You’d miss me if I didn’t come.”

You look down at her, smiling but she doesn’t meet your eyes. Instead, she’s staring at her shoes, scuffing them slightly against the pavement. You tilt your head to look closer. Her cheeks are red, likely from the audition.

She must be tired.

You scan around the place, your eyes finding a small bakery nearby. You take her hand, dragging her to it. You don’t look back, don’t see the flush across her cheeks or the way her eyes widen in panic.

“Wh—what are you doing?”

“I finally found it. The bakery I wanted to try out. Come on!”

You pull her arm until she’s standing in front of you. Your hand is gently on the small of her back, guiding her inside.

She sucks in a breath, and holds it there as she enters the bakery. Only when you’ve found them a seat and you walked off to the counter does she finally exhale. Where your hand was, it feels like it’s on fire.

Her phone buzzes in her pocket. Messages from friends asking her how the audition went, and that they should go out for a meal after. Her hand starts shaking, typing out the message.

Sorry. Can’t make it.

She’s lying. She knows it but it doesn’t stop her from typing. Because you’re here, and she can still feel your hand on her back, and she can’t stop the smile creeping on her face.

“Here. I got you something sweet,” you point to a chocolate croissant before pointing to a salted bread roll, “or if you prefer something savoury.”

“Thanks.” She looks up at you. “Are you not having any?”

You shake your head, a warm smile still on your face. “I’ll try it next time.”

Minju moves to grab the croissant, tearing it in half before doing the same to the bread roll, pushing both halves towards you.

You let out a soft chuckle before digging in. She didn’t ask if you wanted any. Just knew. Split them both apart without thinking, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

When did she start doing these things for you? When did you start noticing?

You open your mouth—to say what, you’re not sure. Thank you feels too small. You didn’t have to do that feels like a lie, because part of you expected her to. You’ve been wanting these small acts of kindness from her for longer than you can remember.

“How was the audition?” you ask instead.

She tells you everything. The nervous looks from the other auditionees, to the way she nailed the singing audition but messed up on the dancing one. You can’t stop watching her. How her hands move when she talks, the way she continues to talk with her mouth full. She’s so immersed in her story, she’s forgotten to be self-conscious. You’ve never seen her like this with anyone else. Not her brother, or her parents.

You don’t want her to stop. Ever.

At one point, her voice tapers off, aware that you haven’t said anything in a while, but when you ask a question, her eyes light up, and she becomes animated again, talking through mouthfuls.

You can’t help the laugh that escapes.

She stops mid-sentence, swallowing roughly around the croissant. “Why are you laughing?”

You wave a hand, taking a drink of water. “Nothing. It’s just… I’ve never seen you talk so much,” you look at her face, and the way her eyes concentrate on you. “It’s nice.”

Her ears go bright red, heart fluttering from your compliment. She smiles softly at the plate in front of you both.

And then, for a second, she hates you for it.

Hates how easy it is for you to say things like that—it’s nice—like it doesn’t cost you anything. Like you don’t know what those words do to her. How she’ll replay them every night before bed, on the bus, during study sessions, and every time she needs to remember what it feels like being seen by you.

You smile too. You can’t help it. Making her blush, it does something to you that you’re not ready to name yet.

The anger dissolves as quickly as it came. Because you don’t know. How could you? She’s never told you. And never will.

After finishing, you both get up to leave. The doorbell chimes softly as you both exit, side by side, your arm around her shoulders as you guide her through the busy night crowd.

You don’t notice the way she stiffens at the contact. At the way she relaxes against you.

Eventually, you both make it to the bus stop, sitting underneath the shelter. You look up at the timing board. 2 minutes.

“You don’t have to wait with me. You live in the opposite direction.”

You don’t look at her, instead watch as cars drive by, as people get off and on a bus. “So? I want to.”

The words come out easier than they should. More honest than you meant them to be. You glance at her. She’s staring at her shoes, but you catch her small smile before she hides it.

You’re doing it again. Making her heart race. She has to remind herself to not read too much into the way you said ‘I want to’ like it meant something more, that she can never be more than your best friend’s sister. But the way you’re looking at her right now… maybe it does mean something. Just the thought makes her dizzy.

The bus arrives soon after, and you’re walking in after her, scanning your card on the reader before sitting beside her. The bus is practically empty at this time, a couple of people are scattered around, earphones in or exhausted enough to fall asleep. You look towards Minju sat by the window, looking outside, and you’re able to get a glimpse of her reflection. Her hair carefully framing her face before she tucks them behind her ear, her lips slightly parted, her breathing fogging up the glass.

Cute.

The thought surprises you, but it’s there and you can’t take it back. You’ve thought it before—about puppies, about kids, the way she’d scrunch her nose when her brother annoyed her. But this feels different.

This feels like you’re actually seeing her.

Like you’ve been seeing her for a while now and you just didn’t want to admit it.

The bus lurches forward, the brake applied hard and sudden. Immediately, your hand moves, rests against her stomach, keeping her in the seat. “Are you okay?”

Her hand takes yours, gripping your fingers tightly. “Y—yeah.”

She doesn’t hear the driver’s apology or the complaints from the other passengers. She only feels your hand in hers, and how your fingers are calloused from touching the bass strings. You pull back, and she’s reluctant to let you go. Her fingers slip from yours slowly, and you feel the loss of contact more than you should.

You flex your hand in your lap, still tingling from the contact. You can still feel the warmth of her palm, the way her fingers tightened around yours like she was afraid to let go.

You didn’t want to let go either.

The ride to her place is long, to the point you find yourself yawning every few minutes. You turn to face Minju, only to notice her head swaying from side to side. She’s fighting to stay awake, trying to keep her eyes wide and open, only for them to close a minute later.

Who wouldn’t be exhausted after a day of school followed by singing and dancing in front of scouts in the hope of being chosen.

Her head falls dangerously close to the window, but before she could hit it, you move your hand. You shield her from the impact, gently pushing her head in the opposite direction, towards your shoulder.

She falls onto it with a gentle thud, losing the fight against sleep. You stay still, keeping her there, and making sure she doesn’t wake up. You get a whiff of her hair. Citrus. Nice. You hear her snore too, soft, barely audible unless you’re right next to her. She wrinkles her nose a few times and you can’t help smile at how adorable she is.

You feel the exact moment she fully relaxes against you—the weight of her head settling heavier, her breathing evening out, the tension leaving her shoulders. She trusts you enough to fall asleep on you. The thought does something to your head that you don’t have words for. You don’t move. Don’t shift your shoulders when it starts aching. Don’t reach for your phone when it begins buzzing against your thigh. You just sit there, barely breathing, like if you stay still, you can make this last forever.

Before you know it, the streets around suddenly become familiar. How long have you been staring at her?

Long enough to memorise the way her eyelashes rest against her cheeks. Long enough that you know she breathes through her mouth when she’s in a deep sleep, and that she scrunches her nose every two minutes. Long enough that the idea of moving—of waking her and pulling away—feels like you’re punishing yourself.

You don’t want this bus ride to end.

That thought should scare you more than it does.

You press a finger on her arm, gently enough to wake her but not enough to hurt her. “Hey, we’re almost at the stop.” You watch as her eyes flutter open, and the soft mewling sound she makes as she stretches her arms above her head, smacking her lips together a couple of times.

You lean forward, pressing the stop button before standing, grabbing her bag and her arm, guiding her to the exit.

The walk back to her home is slow, languid. She’s too tired to walk any faster, too tired to make conversation. But you stay by her side, matching her pace. Only now do you notice the bags under her eyes, under the light of the lamp posts, and how she slowly drifts into your path.

You smile, letting her lean on you the rest of the way. She fits against your side like she belongs there. Like this is something you’ve done a thousand times before, and you could keep doing it and never tire from it.

When you’re just outside her home, you gently place the duffel bag on her shoulder. She’s swaying slightly, exhausted, and you steady her with a hand on her arm.

“Go in. I’ll wait until you go inside.”

She nods, but doesn’t move. Just looks up at you, eyes soft and half-lidded from exhaustion. Her head softly falls onto your chest, and almost immediately, she stands straight, blinking a couple times. Your hand still has a hold on her arm. You should let go.

You don’t.

“Thank you,” she says quietly. “For walking me home. For… everything.”

“Minju—” You don’t know what you were going to say. Don’t know if you should say it.

She smiles. Small and understanding. Like she knew exactly what you were going to say.

“Good night,” she whispers.

You reluctantly let go. Watch her walk to her door. She turns back, just before she goes inside, and the way she looks at you makes your chest tight.

You lift your hand. A small wave. She waves back, and even in the dark you can see she’s smiling.

She enters without another word, and you watch as the door closes, standing there longer than you should, staring at the space where she was. You replay the way she looked at you, like she was waiting, hoping for you to say something. Like she’d wait no matter how long it took.

You walk back to the bus stop. Hear it coming from a distance.

Wendy x Reader

Note: soooo this plot was based on something @octoberautumnbox randomly showed us in our group chat....and I promptly stole it. Thanks box.

Also two ASND artists back to back huh. (I'm still shock btw). Ah right, moody to fluff.

It wasn’t love at first sight. Not really.

When you first met Wendy, she was just “the girl who always brought her own tea bags to the café on campus.” You thought she was a bit odd. Cute, but odd. She’d flash this polite smile to the barista, always overly apologetic about asking for hot water like she was committing a crime. You sat two tables over, pretending not to watch every time she pulled out some mysterious floral blend like she was prepping for a tea ceremony instead of finals.

You didn’t talk much back then. Just exchanged awkward nods. The occasional, “Hey, can I borrow your charger?” sort of thing. But then you were grouped together for a class project, and somehow, she just… fit.

Wendy was smart — like scary smart. But not in an annoying, I-know-everything way. She explained things with patience, laughed off your dumb jokes, and had this quiet intensity that made you want to do better. She was thoughtful. Listened without interrupting. Caught details no one else did — like how you only ever brought lunch if it was Thursday (because you had a break long enough to cook the night before). Or how you always zoned out during presentations (because you hated public speaking and she started nudging you before your turn like clockwork).

Then there were the small things. The tiny, insignificant moments that stuck with you anyway.

Like the time you were stressing over an exam, and she just dropped a chocolate bar on your desk without a word, then went back to her seat. Or how she always remembered how you liked your coffee — milk, no sugar — and ordered it for you without asking whenever it was “her turn.” Or how she’d hold the elevator door even if you were halfway down the hall, waving frantically for you to hurry up while wearing that same annoyed smile she always had when you were running late.

It was easy being around her. Too easy.

You’d text her about the dumbest things just to hear her reaction. “This squirrel outside looks like it pays taxes.” Or “Why do our lecture halls smell like old soup?” And she always replied with something equally dumb or sharp or sweet.

You got addicted to it. To her. Her energy, her presence, her stupid tea.

She started coming over more. At first, it was just study sessions. Then lazy lunches. Then spontaneous movie nights. Then sleepovers after those movie nights because she didn’t feel like walking back. It all blurred together so seamlessly that you didn’t even notice how your place started feeling empty without her.

And then there was the night she came over during a thunderstorm, completely drenched, shivering, mascara smudged. You threw her a towel and made her sit under a blanket with you while she vented about her break up. At some point she fell asleep on your shoulder — soft, warm, her breath steady — and you just sat there frozen, staring at the crown of her head like a complete idiot.

That was the night you realized your heart had already made a decision.

It wasn’t a question anymore. You were in love with your best friend.

Not the fireworks-and-sappy-music kind. No. It was quieter than that. Slower. It grew in between shared glances and missed chances. In the way she’d flick your forehead when you were being dramatic, or how she always leaned a little closer when she was showing you something on her phone. In the way your name sounded when she said it.

Familiar. Easy. Like she’d always known it.

And the worst part?

You didn’t even know when it started. Just that you were too far gone to stop it now.

You’d spend nights lying on your bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if she knew. If she ever looked at you and felt that same twist in her chest. If maybe — just maybe — she noticed how you smiled a little softer around her. Laughed a little harder. Or if she just thought this was how best friends were supposed to be.

You told yourself it was fine. That you could handle it. That as long as she was around, even as just a friend, it was enough.

But deep down, you knew that was a lie waiting to crack.

And it did on the night you got drunk.

Like... embarrassingly drunk. The kind of drunk where your mouth stopped listening to your brain and started going rogue.

The two of you had planned a sleepover that night — something casual, like the old days. Snacks, laughter, and the newest episode of that trashy k-drama you both hated but secretly loved. It was all normal until you tilted your head back, blurt the words out like they weighed nothing.

“I love you.”

Note: Lowkey this is just all the sweet things I want to do for Grace! Enjoy these Grace x GN!Reader HC, GraceHeads! SFW

Here u go Anonnnn, for the other requests I promise I'm doing my best 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

Info/Masterlist (requests opennn)

⚠︎ Minor's DNI

Synopsis: What the ask says

Notes: I mention in my last Werewolf post I was going to write some HC…and well here it is! It’s not always sunshine when dating a beast, but we make the best of it. Enjoy these Grace x Werewolf!Reader HC. Also, not stopping here, I’ll be jotting some NSFW Werewolf HC later on. Howl at the moon with this one GraceHeads! SFW (TW: Self drugging)

Rated T, everyone can interact

That's right my first non-smut, and this is based around those cheeky set pictures of Wenclair in Paris 🗼 you can read it here!

Enid caught a glimpse of them one day while Wednesday was changing. “Wends?” She approached cautiously.

Wednesday paused mid-button, lifting an eyebrow as Enid stepped in front of her. “Yes, Enid?”

Enid's gaze dropped to the pale scar on her abdomen. Her fingers twitched with the urge to touch. “I know it’s been a while, but…” She hesitated, “You never really told me what happened…” She pointed at the scar. “You know, that night?”

Wednesday frowned in thought. Without a word, she undid the buttons she had just fastened and let her shirt slide off her left shoulder, exposing the raised, cross-shaped mark.

Enid’s eyes widened as her right hand moved on its own, thumb brushing gentle circles over the scar. The skin there was smoother than she expected.

Wednesday’s breath hitched at the warmth of Enid’s thumb and softness of her touch.

“An…arrow?” Enid asked, worry etching deep lines across her face.

Wednesday gave a firm nod, “I took one. As you would say, for the team…”

Enid’s frown deepened, “No wonder you’ve been holding back on rowing…” She joked, trying to keep her voice light even though she was deeply worried. “And…this one?” Enid pointed a shaky finger towards the scar on her abdomen.

Wednesday hesitated only a moment. She reached for Enid’s free hand, pulling her closer and pressing the wolf’s palm firmly over the scar on her abdomen.

Enid blinked in shock but didn’t pull away, giving Wednesday some time to explain. She could feel Wednesday’s steady breathing beneath her touch, the subtle rise and fall that made her want to press harder, just to be sure this was really happening.

“Crackstone fatally stabbed me that night…” Wednesday said quietly.

Enid’s right hand slipped from Wednesday’s shoulder to her waist as her eyes widened with dawning horror. “Wait…fatally?” She pressed a little firmer. “You mean…like, dead?”

Wednesday rolled her eyes and took a tiny step back, “Yes, Enid. I died.”

Enid’s grip on her waist tightened instantly, holding her in place. “Died? Wednesday, what the heck!”

Wednesday closed her eyes in exasperation, “I was…temporarily declared deceased, yes, but Goody sacrificed her ghostly essence to heal me…hence, the scars.” She finished matter-of-factly.

Enid stared at her, stunned. “Goody, what?! Is that why she’s no longer around?”

Wednesday nodded once. “Now, if you will excuse me.” She took a step back, but Enid held her ground.

“I can’t believe I almost lost you.” She murmured, pulling Wednesday flush into a hug. Her arms wrapped tight, protective, as if she could shield her from a past that had already happened.

Wednesday stiffened for a moment, then she allowed herself to melt, just a fraction, into the embrace. Her muscles relaxing in Enid’s hold.

“I am never…leaving your side, Enid,” Wednesday murmured as her grip tightened in return.

Enid let out a soft chuckle against her hair. “Bold of you to assume I will…you’re my pack, Wends, and packmates stick together...”

Wednesday closed her eyes. “We are a pack,” she repeated, making the words feel engraved into their souls like an unbreakable pact.

They lingered there, reluctant to separate. Eventually, Enid stepped back first, cheeks faintly pink. Wednesday began rebuttoning her shirt with careful precision.

“So, um… we should probably finish getting ready,” Enid said, voice still a little thick.

Wednesday was already shrugging into her blazer, the hint of a smirk tugging at her lips. “Bold of you to assume I am not always ready.”

Enid’s face lit up with a bright, disbelieving smile. “Did Wednesday Addams just use my own words against me?”

Wednesday fully smirked, “I always use my…people’s words against them freely.

Enid laughed, grabbing her backpack. “Right, right. Let’s just get to class.”

Wednesday followed her into the bustling halls of Ophelia Hall, her steps feeling inexplicably lighter beside the bright, chaotic warmth of her packmate.