Work Text:
one.
The first time, Greta just smiles and shakes her head, shifts away from Carson’s mouth as soon as she makes her come and gently urges her up into a kiss.
The first time, Greta doesn’t think anything of the little sound of disappointment in Carson’s throat, the way she doesn’t stop kissing her neck until they fall asleep beside each other, doesn’t think much of the way Carson is quiet for the first time in what feels like hours. Carson likes to talk, and Greta knows that, likes that about her, even, but she barely notices because they’re enveloped in soft darkness, and they so rarely get moments like this.
The first time leads to the best sleep Greta has had in months, maybe years, and she knows it’s because of Carson’s arm slung over her hips. It’s everything she’s needed for longer than she wants to admit, especially when she wakes up and Carson is still there, holding her tight.
Normally, it’s Greta who does the holding.
She falls back asleep before she can think of all the reasons why her heart is pounding.
She wakes again, and Carson is still wrapped around her.
She smiles, hides her joy against her pillow and listens to Carson's breath a little bit longer.
***
two.
“God, you’re good at that,” Greta says softly, easily, fingers tangled in Carson’s hair.
Carson’s got her mouth on her, kneeling at the edge of the bed, and she hums at the praise, groaning when Greta pulls at her hair.
“You like that, don’t you?” Greta asks, breathless, shivering when Carson whimpers a little, two fingers coming up under her chin to press against her, just barely inside. “You like knowing nobody else can fuck me like this?”
Audibly, Carson’s breath hitches, but she doesn’t stop, barely even pauses, and that’s all of the answer Greta needs.
Devotion is the word that comes to Greta’s mind when she gets this way, feels her this way, how Carson’s tongue moves over her, certain with just the right amount of teasing. Her eyes snap open when Carson closes her lips around her clit, turning her head to the side to muffle a moan in the pillow.
Without thinking, her eyes catch on herself in the mirror hanging next to the closet, on Carson, naked between her thighs, her head bobbing, her eyes closed like she’s ready to consume what will be her last meal.
Greta notices the flush in her own cheeks, the way her hands fist harder in Carson’s hair, and it’s something out of body – to see herself reflected back, the picture of desire, the way Carson so wholly desires her.
“Faster,” she gasps, heels digging into the base of Carson’s back, and Carson complies without hesitation, easing her fingers all the way in to the knuckle, tracing shapes on her clit until Greta feels it: the way her throat almost closes, the arch in her back tightens until she’s coming, until she couldn’t hold back if she tried, until she sees stars.
Until Carson doesn’t stop, her mouth still against her even as Greta knows her jaw must be getting sore by now. She tongues at her, fucking her through her orgasm until Greta whimpers before she can stop herself, until she’s coming again, hard, with a soft cry.
Carson’s hands hold tight to her hips as she licks at her before Greta whines and has to push her head away. “Sensitive, baby,” she murmurs, but she’s so pleased that she can’t really form full sentences.
“How was that?” Carson asks, and Greta doesn’t need to look at her to know she’s got that confident half-smirk on her lips.
“Shhh,” Greta teases. “Don’t ruin it, Shaw.”
Coming up to lie beside her, Carson laughs. “Sorry.” They both know she isn’t really sorry at all.
***
three.
“You’re so wet for me,” Carson whispers, and Greta doesn’t know what to do with that.
They’re in the back of the car again, unwinding after a weekend that included too much drinking, smoking, and pants to make the league very happy, but they’re happy and that’s what matters.
One moment, they were just talking, Carson rambling on and on about coaching styles and how maybe she can do better, and the next, Greta was in her lap, so much more needy than she’s ever allowed herself to be with anybody else.
One moment, Carson was talking baseball, and the next, Greta was more attracted to her than she’s ever been to anyone in her whole life, the way the game falls off the tongue like prayer, the way Carson just knows so many things in a way that only Greta ever has.
Carson knows baseball, and really, Greta thinks that must be what makes her such a quick study in the art of making her forget her own name. Carson knows baseball, knows it’s as much about how much she pays attention as it is how much she cares, and that really, those two things are synonymous.
Carson knows Greta, and she knows it’s the same way with her.
Which is how Greta ended up in her lap, hiking up her skirt, suddenly so ready it’s hard to think, so wet that it would be embarrassing, but Carson’s left hand is under her top, and she wants her, wants her, wants her, and Greta thinks that for the first time, somebody wants her just as much as she wants them.
“Fuck me, Shaw,” she mumbles, teeth nipping at the shell of Carson’s ear.
“So bossy,” Carson jokes, but she brushes her fingers against Greta’s clit all the same, grins into her shoulder when she feels her shiver. “Fuck, you feel good,” she whispers, heel of her palm sliding forward as Greta feels Carson’s fingers find her slit.
“Please,” Greta murmurs.
Softly, she hides her face in Carson’s neck so that she won’t see the stupefied expression on Greta’s face when she slips inside of her easily, first with one finger, and then two, and then three–
“Oh fuck,” she whines – God, she’s never been this full in her life. Her hips jerk forward as she tries to find a rhythm, as Carson curls her fingers until Greta is whimpering, making these fucking noises that drive Carson crazy but she doesn’t stop.
She doesn’t stop until her hair is wild, Greta’s fingers up in it, until she’s soaked all the way down to the wrist, and she thinks she may be addicted to all things Greta, to Greta so open like this, wet and wanting, a plea on the tip of her tongue.
Carson thinks, idly, honestly, that she could stay here forever.
Because the truth is Carson talks when she’s nervous. When she’s truly comfortable, there is only silence. And that’s what there is now, except for Greta, who’s slowly melting in her lap, any trace of her public persona disappeared in this moment.
“Make me come,” she whispers, guiding Carson by the back of the head until her face is buried against Greta’s chest, mouth hot against her heartbeat, until she does come and Carson fucks her all the way through it, fucks her until she can’t breathe, can’t speak, can’t do anything but think Carson, Carson, Carson.
Later that night, Greta feels soreness take hold in her thighs, and she thinks of her lover all over again.
In the living room, she notices dark eyes watching her massage out the tightness, and Greta can feel just how satisfied Carson is.
***
four.
Carson likes to give. Especially with Greta.
For so long, she’s been used to having to just take what she’s been given. But now, she wants to give and give and make sure that Greta gets what she needs. What she wants. What she craves.
She wants to lie with Greta until they forget the world, until the world forgets them and they can be exactly who they want to be, even for a moment. She wants the vision of a life together, where she can come home to the woman that is hers, that she belongs to, too, and kiss her hello, make love to her after a long trip away where their love felt far and hold her close until the sun comes up.
She wants so many things. And she thinks about how Greta, quite literally her dream girl, told her it’s okay to want things.
It’s okay.
And she hasn’t stopped thinking about it since. Not when her head is between Greta’s thighs. Not when she fucks her with a hand over her mouth in the shed, feeling more powerful than she ever has. Not when Greta can’t move after, makes grabby-hands at her and tells her to stay for five more minutes.
Carson lets the want burn bright. She lets it fill the room until the flame licks at her, Greta’s fiery hair the first place that her world as she thought she knew it began to fall to pieces – and so for the better.
In the place of a house that never felt like home, she finds somewhere to belong, somewhere she’s needed. She finds herself curled around Greta, around a woman more gorgeous than any other, a woman made of red and reasonable doubt that she was ever really living before.
Carson kisses her again. Greta lets her.
***
five.
“I just want to make sure it’s real,” Carson admits when Greta finally asks her about it, about why she doesn’t quit until Greta asks her to. They’re sitting beside each other on the floor of Greta’s room, and Jess is predictably nowhere to be found even though it’s definitely past curfew; thank God.
“Come on, baby,” Greta says softly in her I really do enjoy it; I just want to know why voice. It’s a voice she uses more times than Carson cares to count. She supposes she could just call it Greta’s curiosity voice, but it doesn’t feel quite right to boil it down to something so simple. “You know we get to decide how real this is.”
Carson swallows, eyes flickering over Greta’s face, like she’s calculating something in her head.
“What is it?”
For a moment, Carson hesitates before she leans over the space between them quickly, impulsive, lips barely brushing Greta’s as she whispers in return: “This. Real or not real?”
Greta shivers, kissing her back, slow, dirty, sweet. “Real.”
Carson pecks her lips again before she traces her mouth along Greta’s jaw, tongue tracing the sharpness of it. “This?”
She nips at the spot just below Greta’s ear, where her jaw meets her neck. Greta’s always so sensitive there, and it always makes her wet. Of course Carson knows it.
“Fuck.” Greta’s hand comes up to cradle the back of Carson’s head. Her head tips back a little, expecting more, but Carson stays put, her tongue moving over the skin until it begins to turn pink. “Fuck.” Greta whines. “Real.”
Nodding and clearly pleased, Carson continues, her right hand reaching down to bravely move up Greta’s inner thigh. She pulls back to lock eyes with Greta, to make sure it’s okay, and Greta only lets out a shaky breath and a nod. There’s a flush in her cheeks, and she’s biting her lip around something obscene.
Carson doesn’t think she’s ever looked more beautiful. Surrounded by gentle darkness, Greta shines.
And to her, Carson is all strong hands and soft eyes, the exact kind of woman she could fall for. The exact kind of woman she would risk real for. She’s strong hands that hold too much, soft eyes that betray enough emotion that Greta knows that Carson feels as much as her.
Finally, her hand reaches the apex of Greta’s thighs, and already, she’s wet. She hopes Carson can feel it.
“And this–” Carson continues, thumb brushing against her clit over her panties. She’s soaked. Carson smirks. “And this, is it–”
“Real,” Greta gasps, spreading her legs without thought, a moan caught in the back of her throat. “God, real. Carson, please–”
And it’s all real, every minute of every hour of their little, secret life together, every breath that Carson forgets to take, every kiss Greta commits to memory.
Carson touches her just barely, but Greta is still hot for her in minutes, feels the way her legs tense and she grips the back of Carson’s shirt just to have something to hold on to, just to remind herself that Carson isn’t going anywhere. That Carson is good at staying, and that she’s teaching Greta how to stay, too.
“You’re really beautiful,” Carson whispers against her cheek, kissing the corner of Greta's mouth, and fuck, she’s close.
She’s so fucking close, and she muffles a whimper against the back of her hand as she presses her hips harder into Carson’s waiting hands. She can’t help it, can’t help how safe Carson makes her feel: to cry out and to breathe through it and to be held until the sun comes up.
Softly, she comes, her back arching off of the carpet until she feels like the whole universe opens up before her, allows her to stand on the edge of forever with Carson just for this moment. She comes and she comes, the image of her and Carson’s last back-to-back home runs stuck in her head, of good pizza and constellations replaying until it all feels like it’s a dream.
But it isn’t. It’s real. All of it.
Real, real, real.