#grace fluff

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.

She’s got you.

So Grace doesn’t overthink herself anymore than what she probably already has, you shut your laptop and toss it on the nearby love seat. In a matter of moments your head rests on her shoulder, planting small kisses on her jaw. The analyst receives your affection, but keeps her phone locked. “I was just on Reddit,” she mumbles, turning her head in a way to steal a peck from your lips.

Much to her shock, your eyes widened, “Am. I. The. Asshole?” Olive eyes sparkle at this revelation, but you’re off by… a lot. You do know a fair deal of Reddit communities, but you dabble in all of the apps as a spectator. If you see the posts Grace has made under alias’, she’d want to move towns. Don’t get her started on her fanfiction era.

“Yes! Kinda…” Your girlfriend finally springs up the courage to open up her Reddit to showcase a feed ridden with fandom content from different forms of media. Anime and Gaming didn’t shock you at all. Though you snort, titling your head.

“So what’s the problem with this? Why’d you try to hide it?”

“List your top three Reddits,” Grace asks, and much to her dismay, you prove her right. When she heard them and not one of them contained a fandom and more discussion based forums, she sighs.

“Wait a minute. So you hid it because you’re a fangirl and you suppose that I’m not?”

“What?” she supposes that does sound bad coming out of your mouth instead of hers.

With knit brows, you smile to hide the confusion brewing in your mind. “You like Five Nights At Freddy’s, I like Heated Rivalry, but I don’t hide my TikTok feed from you. If you feel immature, I feel batshit crazy.” It honestly feels electrifying getting deep lore from your girlfriend who only ever gave you baseline ‘likes’ that everyone says. Harry Potter, this thing, that thing that everyone else in the world can agree is enjoyable. But this– this is the meat and potatoes of your night.

“I-I’m–”

“You’re plotting theories of evil children in animatronic suits and I am literally watching two men kiss for my own entertainment, Grace. It's so hot that you know how to do that. I feel like the weird one, because I want two real men to kiss forever, yours is less committal,” you joke. “And that’s because we are allowed to a: rest when we want and b: acknowledge our efforts without criticism. Especially with people we love,” you correct, but Grace’s eyes only shut. She can’t deny that it’s amusing trying to listen to you rationalize how you're on each end of the fandom spectrum and she appreciates it, truly.

“You’re right,” it’s easier to give into your words of wisdom, simply because she did need to hear that. “And I don't think it’s weird you like to see two men kiss and play hockey,” Grace’s tone is so flat, it makes you laugh harder than you intended while hearing her playful jab.

Snorting, you grip her chin, “of course, I am,” and steal a kiss from her pouting lips. “Now, you’re gonna tell me the plot of your favorite video game that I saw in your feed just there. You scrolled fast as hell, but I caught the same character five times.”

“We can play the game, if you want.” Grace suggests, smiling genuinely, happy that you like stepping into her world.

“Let’s fucking go.”

Sometimes she thinks about what happens if her boss catches her coming to a place like this. Sometimes it bothers her that she doesn’t have a partner at home, but commitment feels like too big a responsibility right now while she’s still figuring out her place in the FBI. At least that’s what she tells herself, but there’s a reason she comes here every so often. She only finds this place after hearing a few rookies talking about it outside her office when life feels ‘too dull.’ So much for dull.

She almost makes it past the crowded bar before she spots a familiar style of shoe you’ve mastered walking in lately. You don’t see her since you’re off in the back, chatting with your housemother about something petty.

A woman around her age, proud in her mature top and lusty eye makeup, beckons her. “You know, you keep coming in here, we’re gonna start thinking you’re trying to blow up the spot,” the tender jokes, tilting her head. Grace clears her nerves, downs two shots, and makes small talk with the bartender who’s been eyeing her since she walked in. The woman in front of the blonde is simple in comparison to you, but in the other patrons’ eyes, she’s as sweet as a Long Island Iced Tea; sweet, but a bit too forward. “And this is a gentlemen’s club anyway,” she says, slipping Grace a free shot of tequila with a smug grin. She already knows who the agent is here for.

The agent chuckles slightly, unease bubbling through her body over the staff noticing how often she comes in, but there’s someone here who keeps her wanting more.

You.

She waits a bit longer, entertaining the woman who made her drink. Then, as if a switch flips, Grace loses her pliant amusement and turns firm and controlled. “If I spend as much as any other man in here, you can call me Mr. Ashcroft.” Clearing her throat, she downs her last shot and eyes you slipping toward one of the private rooms— until you notice her, sheepishly awestruck by your scantily clad figure and gentle smile. Her eyes falter behind thin, black-framed glasses, her head hanging low with shyness… but something more intentional brews under her skin. You confidently wave, and she shoots you a short wave back.

She knows she probably shouldn’t be here, considering you’ve built a rapport with multiple clients. Still, when she comes here and it’s just the two of you, she buzzes. Her eyes never leave you as if she’s studying your behavior. To Grace, this is a safe haven— of sorts. When it’s just you two, she doesn’t have to care about her job or her worries. She gets to be flirted with, enjoy comfortable touches, and receive a little dance just for her from a woman who’s happy to bend for her.

In a profession like this, closed mouths don’t get fed. That’s what draws you to Grace. Her mouth stays closed, but you know she wants to say something. Anything. So you pursue her. She used to stay by the bar, but you notice she always watches you dance, so you offer her a private dance for free. That night she pays you an amount that makes her punch her steering wheel at four in the morning. You, of course, love it. Over time, she only looks for you, and you only look for her, which is how you both end up here now. And honestly? Your smile gets wider and your heart beats faster when she gives you a small gift or admits she’s been thinking about you.

So, you don’t let up. Grace is your best customer, and you make sure to lure her in with a curl of your index finger. If she’s watching as carefully as you think, she can see your lips say “come here,” and before she pays, the bartender lifts a hand to tell Grace you’ve offered to cover her drinks tonight.

With that, Grace clumsily fixes her posture and makes her way to you.

“Hi, honey,” you croon. “It’s been a minute.” You greet her comfortably, hand on her waist, watching her shift into your touch. “I missed you all week.”

The blonde allows you to take off her glasses as you lead her to an empty room. “I was here Tuesday,” she embarrassingly admits, and you’re amused. She watches your figure fill out your set, flesh hugged by lace, nets, and sparkles. She can’t forget the small stretch marks that scratch at your flesh.

As the door shuts, you slip her glasses on your head. “Four days feels like a long time without you, Grace.” You pull down her blazer, toss it onto a table, rest your hands on her hips, and walk her backward until she stumbles onto the loveseat. Grace squeaks but calms when she sees you above her. “And I’m not saying that just because you’re a client,” you add, smiling as the words flow out, “you also let me take my shoes off.”

You both laugh, but you’re a little serious. Sometimes she doesn’t even want you to dance; she might just want to talk. As you slip into her lap and her hands ghost your hips, your fingertips tuck her baby hairs behind her ears. “You know it’s okay to touch me. You’re never disrespectful.” Her hands land on your skin with a relieved sigh.

“What do you want, Grace?” you ask, running your fingers through her hair and pulling out her hair tie, slipping yours into a messy bun. You tease, “What can I do for my prettiest customer?” You bop your head and pop her glasses onto your face, making her stare with a satisfied expression.

Grace tries to avoid blushing, the red lights hiding the heat in her face. “I don’t want anything tonight. I just wanted to see you.”

Your eyes widen, and your head cocks in amusement. “Took you long enough. Don’t make me think you’re seeing other girls when you’re away from me, Grace.”

“I—I’d never!” the woman blurts, leaning closer. “I hardly have time to come here. I wouldn’t,” she insists, fingers dragging lightly along your waist. Then a thought makes her smirk. “You like saying my name?”

Your brow lifts; you didn’t think you said her name that much, but if she noticed, you don’t mind playing into it.

“I used to think it was the most boring name ever until I met you. Now I say it all the time.”

Grace tilts her head. You wink.

Rolling her eyes, Grace scoffs. “I don’t know if it’s this place, the music—”

“Not the mixed drinks.”

“Maybe not the mixed drinks,” she continues, laughing, her eyes falling to your bosom. “But there’s a reason I keep coming back here. I know it doesn’t make me special, but—”

“I think you’re very important.” Your hands run through her hair, smirking softly. It’s soft and smells of lavender. Her confession, like many, feels cute. Grace carries a falsified confidence from this angle, and you’re desperate to play into her nerves as you lean closer. “I can only kinda see with these glasses. Can you see without glasses, Grace?”

It catches her off guard. She blinks, thrown. “U-uhm yes. I can see.”

“Can you see me clearly?” you tease, watching her brows furrow.

“Y-yes…”

“I think you’re more important than the old fucks I see most nights. More important than the younger men seeing a woman’s body for the first time. And I think you’re far more important than you believe if you come here just to see me.” Leaning into her jaw, your fingers play with the collar of her V-neck.

Grace’s eyes veer away, smirking. “I don’t think you should sell yourself short just because you can have anyone in here.”