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cover for my Grace Ashcroft x female oc fanfiction

Warm light welcomes Grace as she shakes off her leather jacket. She can see her condensed breath come out as it leaves her mouth, along with water drops trickling down her glasses and little wet blonde strands in front of her eyes. Eyes who are currently catching in the scene ahead of her. Her heart is doing its machinery movement now just as fast as when she was running in the pouring rain to bring her here, a place she has known its existence for years.

She can see them, the dozen of them. Some of them short-haired, long-haired or have their hair shaved. In flannels, in off-shoulder dresses. Many tattooed. Drinks in one hand, the other on someone's waist, back or over someone else's hand. Upon more detailed inspection, she can see carabiners, of different shapes and sizes, in their belt loops, shining under red light from neon red tubes forming two interlaced scissors. She cannot encourage herself to perceive their faces in detail.

This is a lesbian bar. A bar where lesbians meet. To drink. To meet fellow lesbians. To do things two lesbians do.

Grace gulps, as one does upon entering a new, strange territory. Her steps are fast and quiet, like when she was a young girl in a new school, while she goes to the bar's empty, wooden counter. A variety of alcoholic beverages are disposed in front of her, many she had never seen in such vivid colors. The bartender, an older, towering, woman with short, slicked back hair, looks into her eyes with a quiet smile on her face. It unnerves her, makes a shiver travel through her neck to see a woman so obviously explicit about what she desires and participates in, so different from her own.

"Welcome. How can I help you?"

"Uh, h-hi, I would like a mojito please." Unfortunately, Grace has not managed to not make a fool of herself with her words, her inherent awkwardness and lack of naturalness in this department being so clearly adamant. She could count with her fingers the times she actually went to a bar and not simply bought a cheap wine, or any other beverage, from a liquor store.

"It is your first time here, right?"

"Yeah… I, uh, I've never been here before."

"I knew it, I wouldn't forget a pretty face like yours."

"Oh, t-thanks."

The woman turns her dark eyes and body away from her to collect the necessary ingredients for her drink. Grace can feel the wetness on the palm of her hands and chest, from sweat mixed in with rain. All the telltale signs of when she doesn't follow her routine and receives uncommon attention. But this time it's different. She needs it to be different.

Raccoon City is her loyal companion. Every night, it tells her stories of her dear mother, scary scientists, little girls, bloody monsters and crazy conspiracies she never wanted to be part of. It follows her to bed, lays beside her as she sleeps, whispers to her guttural screams and squealing songs, turns her body to every side and position, acts that feel damning that wake her in the middle of the night, pressing its ghost hands against her neck and stealing her breath. Grace reached her tipping point, so she finally decided to follow her psychiatrist's advice and do something she always wanted for once.

She never told her mother. She wishes she hadn't given in to shame and had gathered the courage to tell her, but she always postponed it for some other time, for one she wouldn't fear the reaction of the only permanent presence in her life. Time she had completely lost at the Wrenwood Hotel.

And now she is here, moved by her chronic curiosity and temptation for change. But she won't repeat the same mistakes. She will give in to her desire. She will take control of her life in her own hands, as she does when holding a gun in a shooting range, calming her body down through sheer dominance, discipline and determination. She will pull herself by her own bootstraps and live her life however she pleases without giving a damn. She cared for far too long.

In her fearless reverie, the welcoming woman tenderly slides the clear, green, icy drink towards her, waking her from her self-affirming thoughts of courage.

"Thanks."

"Anytime, dear." And a wink. Oh, oh. She gotta drink.

The sweetness of the sugar, the freshness of the lemon and intensity of the rum go quickly down her throat, making her feel the sensations that only the attention from attractive women bring with even more strength. It certainly differs from her previous endeavors with alcohol, where it brought her immediate numbness and forgetfulness. Yet, by the time she finishes her drink, the alcohol-spiced script follows the same steps from the one she has at her apartment with a bottle of cold vodka in her hand: she can not longer feel the strong beats of her heart, the sweat is not longer present on her chest and forehead, and there is a sense of peace in her body and mind, one that apparently only alcohol seems to bring.

Suddenly, Grace's ears pick up movement from a chair creaking next to her, and her instincts turn her head with practiced speed. But it is not a monster from her nightmares at her side, disturbing her peace.

She reminds Grace of a wolf. Calm, strong, serious, with a quiet elegance mixed with an appealing rebellion in her style.

"Hey."

"H-hi."

"Shane." The once stranger now holds out her hand. Her fingers are long and thin, like a pianist.

"G-Grace." Their hands share an embrace, perfectly balanced in size and pressure, but Shane's are warmer (hers still have a remaining coldness). It lasts only a few seconds, but it leaves an impactful tenseness in Grace, like something incredible is about to happen. It brings back sensations of being on a rollercoaster she went to as a kid, right before the first, big drop.

Penetrating, hooded, clear eyes that seem to analyze her movements with a clearness only the veterans in their craft have.

"You're gorgeous, Grace. Can I buy you a drink?"

She feels like her body has been awakened from a long slumber in a good way. A great way.

"S-sure, thanks."

"What do you like?"

"A vodka cranberry would be okay, i-if that's alright with you."

"Hey Val, would you get a vodka cranberry for Grace here and an old-fashioned for me? On my tab."

"Sure Shane."

Shane's light eyes are still studying, inspecting her from top to bottom, bottom to top in a way Grace is not used to. It is not the judging glare she received at school, neither the tired stare she gets at work, nor the impatient leering she sometimes takes from pedestrians and other customers in shops. It is purposeful, focused yet untiring, with a certain warmth to it. It is completely alien to her, how exposed it makes her feel, yet the questions it leads her to are still intrinsically natural. What is she thinking in her stare? Do I look appealing? Am I pleasant enough? Is this weird to her? However, the excitement in the shiver finishing at the end of her spine feels far too pleasant, covering her question marks with an unrealistic chloroform drenched cloth.

It is okay to stare back, right? Grace justifies to herself, it is only fair.

Shane is beautiful, in a way that a wolf, or maybe a puma, is. Her eyes are sharp and green, with a tint of black pencil and mascara and big pupils staring directly at her lips. Her hair is dark-brown, short in a hairstyle that she would describe as rebellious in a meticulous way. Her face is angular, heart-shaped, with rosy lips in a confident smirk that is leaving her in absolute shambles. Her thin, tall body is covered in a button-up blue shirt, the first buttons being left purposefully opened and showing off her clavicle bone and silver necklace, and black jeans. Her hands, with its long, beautiful fingers, short nails and apparent veins, are not exactly big, just medium enough to comfortably cover her own. Her suspicions of her being a musician, or someone who exhausts their hands, are affirmed by the way the hands are positioned while relaxed, with curved fingers as opposed to lined-up straight. Her features and style scream pizazz from every angle, how come she is here starting conversation with her and buying her drinks? She feels like she shouldn't question fate's decisions, fearing her blessings would be taken away.

"Is this your first time here, Grace?"

"Y-yes."

"Hum, what do you think of it so far?"

"It's… nice. V-very different to experience in person."

"Really? What did you think could happen?"

Grace gulps, unsure how to answer such a question. What was she expecting out of coming here, to this lesbian bar? Drink 'till the lights went out like she does at home alone? Talk to a girl? Make friends in a slim possibility? Sure. But to have someone, especially a woman she is attracted to, sitting next to her, feels too lucky to be true. But she fears saying these things out loud will make her appear pathetic, and that this is the last thing she wants right now.

"I guess… I just wanted to spice things up for once, not going straight home after work."

"And what do you do, Grace, before you go straight home?"

"Uh, I-I'm a journalist, um, freelancer," she lies.

"Interesting, is that why you're here today?"

"N-no! Certainly not, I m-mean, no offense, I'm just here to r-relax and-"

"I'm kidding, Grace. Just wanted to see your reaction, and it was adorable like the rest of you."

"O-oh, that's… thanks," her cheeks feel too hot, embarrassment stopping her from looking back at this woman directly in the eye. Still, Grace has the urge to bring herself to do it again, as Shane's hand reaches out to delicately push her hair out of her face.

By the time their drinks arrive, their shoulders are touching and Shane's arm is around her lower back. Fortunately, Grace's jacket prevents her from telling all the sensations she is feeling on her skin. But Shane doesn't need that, all of Grace's emotions are shown clearly on her face. Her nervousness, her excitement, the shine on her skin.

"W-What do you do, S-Shane?" oh, she likes how her name rolls on her tongue.

"I'm a music teacher and pianist, I work with some bands here and there."

"That explains the hands," Grace immediately regrets the words that come out of her mouth and wants to hide her face, too bold.

"Interesting, why is that?"

"Hm… Y-your fingers are long… your nails are trimmed, and I can see the veins on your hands… the position your hands have on the counter… So, um, I just thought you had piano hands."

"I can see why you're a journalist, you see things people wouldn't normally notice," and it sounds sincere, to the point Grace can't help herself but smile.

One, two, three rounds of drinks later and Grace feels her body heavy, slow, inhibited. Grace tells Shane about the latest book she read, what she thinks of Pluribus, little tidbits about her hypothetical work that seem civilian and mundane enough. Shane tells her about the latest French film she watched, being nagged by a director at a conservatory, some drama in one of her bands. Meanwhile, Shane's arm and shoulder support her, and Grace can feel her breath tickling her ear.

"You smell nice, Shane."

"What of? Tell me," she turns her neck to the side, implicitly asking for Grace to smell her. Which she does, bringing her face close, lightly touching her nose and lips to Shane's sweaty skin (but she doesn't mind).

"I think… whiskey… and mahogany. Do… Do you wear men's perfume?" Grace's head still stays exactly where it should, her lips fumbling with her words, connected to Shane's skin.

"Yeah, do you like it?", she asks with her long fingers carefully caressing Grace's blonde strands, and she feels like she could fall asleep like this.

"I do, it fits you."

Before Grace falls into slumber to that gentle touch, she withdraws her head from the warmth of Shane's neck. Shane's hand slides from her hair to her nape, resting there. Ice blue and olive green irises, dilated pupils focus on one another and lips, very tantalizing lips. Their shared spring-touched breaths cut the distance and become one, and suddenly Shane's whiskey-soaked mouth is touching Grace's vodka's wet ones. An electric shock runs through Grace's body, from the tips of her lips, to the end of her spine, to that bundle of nerves where pleasure centers. She knows Shane can feel it through the hand on her neck. Grace's lips are initially stiff, her inexperience, with less than a dozen people she kissed, is shown clearly, but Shane doesn't seem to care, giving her the time and space to relax into the kiss. Their little experiment only lasted a few seconds, but air left Grace's lungs and a half-smile is upon Shane's lips.

Shane gives Grace enough time to catch her breath and then returns her lips to where they belong, lightly caressing Grace's neck with her fingers, sensing all her shivers. She tilts her head to the side, deepening their connection, and her tongue softly knocks on Grace's white doors, her teeth. Grace shyly grants her permission, and her own tongue leaves her own bordeaux domain, welcoming the guest at her door. Their lips taste of alcohol and lip balm, the flavor of vanilla and cocoa butter and beverages mixing feeling exhilarating to Grace. It is granting her sensations she hasn't felt in a long time, years even. How could she have lived that long, all that she went through, without enjoying this thoroughly?

Their shared organoleptic affliction continues at a pace that feels perfectly timed for Grace's novice status, slow, calm. As they separate to catch their breath for who knows how long (Grace doesn't care enough), Shane this time doesn't aim for Grace's mouth, but for her jaw, giving her wet kisses there, on her neck, her ear.

"It's kinda uncomfortable here, don't you think?" Shane whispers between kisses, but her words are not processed by Grace, what is she talking about? "Do you live nearby?"

"I-I… Yeah, but w-what… Hm!" Grace has to use her hand to block the noise coming out of her mouth as Shane licks her neck for the first time in her life.

"Should we go there?"