Everything is Grace Ch. 01

This is slow-burn, multi-chapter lesbian D/s story with a 'psychological' focus. Later chapters will revolve around emotional manipulation and an increasingly toxic relationship. It's also a fantasy and should only be viewed a such. In real life, please practice only safe, sane and consensual BDSM.

****

Chapter 1

Emily watched her dad start the car and felt a strange wave of sadness. The dad she had always thought was lame and boring was now someone she was going to miss. This only showed how low things had gotten and how much of a failure her first year at Oxford had been. Here she was, twenty years old, missing her dad instead of feeling excited to see the university friends she hadn't spoken to in months.

In high school, Emily hadn't been the queen bee, but she was solidly in the mix - invited to parties, usually dating someone. Things had felt settled, like her life made sense. Back home, she'd had a role; maybe not the star, but still someone. At Oxford she was just a random face with nothing 'interesting' about her. She seemed to be always a beat behind in conversations: people casually mentioned books, authors, articles, as if everyone knew them, and Emily would nod along, to look them up in private later.

She'd really tried - been open, talked to people, even had a few conversations that felt promising. But nothing stuck. Everyone was friendly, just not quite interested. Deep down, she knew some of the reasons why. She gossiped, got insecure, wasn't posh, didn't sound especially clever. Still, she couldn't be the only basic bitch here, right?

She missed having a clear structure. Back at home, her life had been predictable - she had her school, her friends, her weekends. Here, nothing was clear. People just seemed to know how things worked, and she didn't. No one explained anything.

Emily stepped into her small room in one of Oxford's newer colleges - the kind she quietly felt didn't carry much weight compared to the old, posh ones with grand quads and Latin mottos. Enough, she told herself. This year would be different. She'd try harder, make friends, finally feel like she belonged. She had to.

Just how, she wasn't yet sure.

****

Two weeks later, Emily was sitting stiffly on a folding chair at the back of a seminar room. The chair wobbled a little, and she sat next to a radiator that made a faint hissing sound. This older chap with a grey beard and a worn-out tweed jacket was talking through a slideshow on the history of class struggle. His voice had that flat, droning rhythm that made it hard to focus. She wasn't sure what he'd said in the last ten minutes. Something about history, or systems, or both.

It was the first Marxist Society meeting of the year. Emily had come because she'd always sort of thought of herself as left-wing. Not in a deep way; she hadn't like read Marx or anything, and her politics came mostly from retweets and group chats back home where everyone hated the Tories. But the Marxist Society had seemed like the kind of place where she might meet some smart, interesting people, potentially... friends.

Speaking of. Emily glanced around. Everyone else seemed to be in groups. The chairs on either side of her still empty.

After the talk, Emily lingered near the toilets, pretending to check her phone, hoping someone might say hi. Instead, it was the speaker who came over - the same older man from the front, still in his tweed jacket, smelling faintly of something stale.

"You asked a good question in there?" he said.

Emily gave a polite smile. "Oh - I didn't, actually."

He barely seemed to register. "You don't see many young women sticking around for this kind of thing. Good on you."

She nodded. He went on, talking about how it reminded him of when he was a student, when people "still took theory seriously".

Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he reached out and rested a hand lightly on her upper arm, his fingers pressing just a little too long, a little too purposefully. Emily froze and her throat tightened. She laughed nervously, trying to pull away without making it obvious. They were half-shielded by the wall, out of view. No one else around. She thought about saying she needed the bathroom. Or had a call. Or anything. But her body didn't move.

And then - salvation.

A voice cut through the corridor: 
"Oh for fuck's sake, Peter. Get your hand off her."

A girl appeared: slim, sharp-eyed, striding straight toward them. Emily recognized her from earlier, it was one of the society committee members.

"She's an undergrad," the girl said, "You seriously pulling this again?"

The man stepped back, mumbling something about a misunderstanding, already retreating.
"Try it one more time and I will report your ass. Properly this time."

Emily stood still, stunned.

The girl turned to her. "You okay?" she asked, seemingly more irritated than worried.

"I'm Grace. You looked like you needed a fucking bodyguard."

*****

grace: u made it home alive then

emily: against the odds

grace: the sticky pub floor almost claimed you tbh

emily: a noble death

grace: would've held a vigil

grace: with ironic candles and maybe a zine

emily: you don't even know my last name

grace: don't need it

grace: you're just "emily from the east midlands"

emily: tragic

grace: iconic

emily: thanks for tonight btw

grace: what for

emily: dunno. listening. not making me feel like a loser

grace: you're not a loser

emily: idk. last year i kind of felt like one

grace: yeah, but last year was last year

grace: now you've got me

emily: lucky me

grace: you joke

grace: but honestly

grace: you're alright, Emily

*****

Emily crossed Radcliffe Square, her heart beating fast. She was on her way to meet Grace. She wasn't exactly sure how it had happened, but somehow, Grace had sort of become her friend. Today they were going to a lecture Grace had found, something on postcolonial theory, then heading to the pub with Grace's friends. The cool ones, who always seemed to know what to say, joked about things Emily didn't quite get and talked about writers she didn't know. This was not the posh crowd, rather the indie-leftie type with tattoos, tote bags covered in badges, chipped nail polish, always smoking outside events.

It still surprised her that any kind of friendship between her and Grace had even started to form.

The first time her and Grace hung out was right after that awkward Marxist Society meeting. They ended up in some grimy pub off Cowley Road, with cheap pints and sticky tables. And somehow, in Grace's presence, Emily found herself talking. Properly talking. Not small talk, not putting on a show. Just... saying things.

And Grace actually listened. Like, really listened. She asked questions. She didn't fill silences with stories about policy internships or study-abroad trips that sounded like they came with a dress code. She just let the gaps sit until Emily found her way through them.

And Emily said things she hadn't even planned to say. How she always felt like she was around people but not really part of anything. How Oxford didn't feel like it was made for her. How weird it felt doing biology while everyone else seemed to talk about theory and politics like it was just background noise, and how bloody hard it was for her to find friends in such environment.

Grace hadn't laughed. She just nodded and said that places like Oxford didn't run on official rules. It was all the unwritten stuff, how you spoke, what you referenced, when to speak and when to hold back. Most people didn't even realise it, because they'd been taught the code from the start.

Then she said it: "I'll be your friend, if you want." Just like that. Like offering someone a cigarette.

Emily would never have said something like that. It would've felt needy, like, too much. But Grace had the kind of vibe that made it sound natural.

And so as they talked, Grace explained more about herself. Obviously, she studied PPE. Her family had money, the 'old' type of it. She'd gone to the right schools, knew the right people, spoke French. But she hated all that posh bullshit. To her, Oxford was built on fake rituals and soft power, populated by a shallow, uninteresting crowd, where half of the people were just expensive copies of each other.

Emily hadn't realised how much she needed to hear someone say that out loud.

She herself came from a quiet town in the East Midlands. Her dad ran a small company - solid money, but no edge. They went on holidays, ate out on birthdays, shopped at John Lewis. But she hadn't grown up around any of this. No one back home read "The New Statesman" or discussed postcolonial theory over lunch. They didn't go to galleries or know which fork to use at formal dinners. It really wasn't about money, it was about knowing the code.

Since then, she'd thought about that night more times than she could count.

Now, walking toward Grace's college, one of the old, quiet ones with heavy doors and no signs, Emily tried to stay calm. Tonight felt important. There was a public talk, then the pub, and Grace's crowd would be there. She didn't want to mess it up. She just wanted to feel like she was part of something.

****

Emily couldn't focus on the talk. She was two seats from Grace, and all she could do was watch her. How she took notes, how calmly yet sharply she asked a question towards the end, like she didn't care if people were impressed but knew they would be anyway.

They walked to the pub together, and a few more of Grace's friends joined, that loud and clever type of people. Emily braced for awkwardness, but Grace introduced her like she'd always been part of it. In the booth, she made sure Emily had a seat next to her.

Later, when some guy mentioned he was from near Derby, Grace turned and said, "Emily's from the East Midlands too," like it mattered. Like it meant something.

Emily stayed quiet, taking it all in. These people weren't like her friends from back home who mostly talked about TikTok and boys. They argued about real things, but still joked around. They didn't seem interested in showing off, and nothing they said felt forced. It was intimidating, but also weirdly liberating.

And Grace was at the centre of things, but not in a loud way. She asked the right questions, remembered small details, made people talk without forcing it. She didn't need to dominate the conversation because people just followed her lead. Every so often, she looked over at Emily, like she was checking she was still there. It wasn't a big gesture, but it landed, and Emily felt it in her chest. She caught herself staring, thinking - stupidly, maybe - that if aliens landed and asked to meet the best person on Earth, she'd probably pick Grace.

****

It wasn't instant. There wasn't one conversation or gesture that changed everything. But a few weeks into the term, Emily started to notice the difference. Grace would text her first. People began to expect her at the pub. When she walked into a room, someone waved. It wasn't much. But for her Oxford life, it was an earthquake.

On Wednesday nights, they usually went to open lectures together followed by the pub. Grace was always the center of gravity, and her friends were ever sharp, loud, and looking like they didn't care what anyone thought. Emily wasn't one of them, not really. But she was allowed to be there. People greeted her, expected her. That counted for something.

And Grace... Grace was still everything. Emily had stopped pretending she didn't get nervous around her. It wasn't fear, more like trepidation, or awe. Like she had to adjust how she talked, how she sat, even what she said, just to stay in sync with Grace. Grace never asked for that. It just happened.

And then there were the quiet, safe moments. Like the time they were walking back from an evening panel and Grace asked her why she'd picked biology.

Emily laughed. "Honestly? I didn't think I'd get into Oxford with anything else. Bit lame, I know."

Grace stopped and looked at her, serious but not unkind. "That's actually kind of brilliant."

Emily blinked. "What?"

"You're not here to show off," Grace said. "You're actually trying to learn. That's rare."

Emily didn't know how to respond. Since coming here, she'd always felt behind, less sharp, less brilliant. But Grace made it sound like that was something to respect.

Then Grace added: "People like us... we're not good at faking things. Not in the way this place wants you to."

People like us. These words stuck.

Emily knew they didn't come from the same world. Grace had all the codes. But still, she'd said us. Like it wasn't about class or school or who your parents were, but something else. Like a refusal. Or resistance to the game. Or maybe just the willingness to admit it was a game at all.
 She'd done that again, just like during the night in the pub: naming something in Emily before Emily even knew it was there.

As time went by, she started to notice a change: all of a sudden, she had places to go, people to say hi to, to argue with. She was making memories, small ones, but hers. Real life was wherever Grace was - pub tables in the evenings, park benches after rallies, someone's kitchen at 1 a. m. with an open bottle of red. She learned how Grace took her coffee (black), what wine she hated (sweet), which events she'd boycott on principle (most), and the names of her exes (still in the group chat).

She knew she wasn't Grace's closest person. Probably not even in the top three. But she was there. She was included. She was noticed.

Emily started writing differently, thinking differently, even dressing differently. More loose jumpers, less trying. And it wasn't really imitation, it just made sense. Around Grace, she didn't feel like she had to prove anything - not like in school, not like last year.

And Grace. Grace was ridiculous. Effortlessly magnetic. The kind of person rooms adjusted to. She didn't talk too much, didn't need to. She just was - and somehow that was enough.

And the smallest things - God, they meant everything. Grace pouring her a drink without asking. Laughing at one of her jokes. Mentioning something Emily had said three weeks ago like it mattered. Those moments hit like medals. Like she was something Grace had reached for on purpose.

She tried not to read too much into it. But being seen - really seen - was like a drug. Not the high, but the afterglow. The calm. The sense that maybe she wasn't wrong or too much or not enough. Maybe she was just Emily. And maybe that was fine.

By November, things in Oxford felt steady. Finally. Like she'd found her place.

And that, of course, was when it all started to slip.