Chapter Text
They’re about to win an away game when it happens, when Greta almost loses it. Predictable.
It’s the same story, really. Greta’s up to bat, ready to crack the first pitch across the back fence. She can feel Carson’s eyes on her, Jo’s eyes on her, and she smiles, and the other team’s fans jeer from the stands. The pitcher winds up. Greta’s been watching; the pitcher digs her toe into the dirt. Greta gets ready to swing.
“You’re on the wrong team, babygirl!” one of the men here for the other team yells from the stands. It’s stupid. It’s stupid, but it’s the word “wrong” that throws her. The ball thuds into the catcher’s glove.
She can hear her teammates whispering to each other, and she does not turn around. For once, Greta lets herself beg, though only in her own head: she just wants to keep herself safe. She grits her teeth, takes a breath. The pitcher digs her toe into the dirt. Greta sees her eyes flit to the stands, the men. They just want to play baseball.
“Oooh, tight grip on that shaft!” the first man’s friend yelps, causing various members of the crowd to burst out with surprised laughter. Greta’s knuckles are white on the bat, the ball is flying toward her. Greta swings too tight and fast and mad, and her bat collides with the ball with a satisfying crack, and before the bat even fully leaves Greta’s hands she hears another crack, more sickening, and that’s the other team’s— She’s broken the pitcher’s nose, possibly, probably even concussed her. Oh fuck.
There’s whistles and yelling from all sides, a group of girls swarming around the pitcher’s mound, but it’s fine. The crowd is screaming at her, and now those bastards are shouting something about blood, and someone is calling her name, over and over, shrill and, and—
She spins on her heel, quick and sharp and mean, already scanning the bleachers, but her eyes meet Beverly’s first.
“Miss Gill,” Bev warns, voice like ice or something much worse. Greta knows she’s right, glad that she’s stopped her, really, since she clearly doesn’t have an ounce of self-control.
Greta knows enough to look for the fire in Bev’s eyes, knows that she wants to protect her, mostly, but it doesn’t make her feel much better at all. She feels fully unmoored, just off home, with the crushing, stupid feeling of failing to keep herself in line.
Greta nods. Her body feels entirely too hot, and she hates this. There’s no way to win, she gets that: take the jeering or… It’s not really like she has a choice, and it’s fine, and she’s acting like a child, but she can’t speak around the lump in her throat. Without meaning to, she catches Carson’s eye over Bev’s shoulder, because she cannot escape that woman.
It’s brief, just long enough for Carson to see the brief flash of clear shame before Greta steels herself and smiles, or grins herself back into steel. Her eyes slip from Carson as if it doesn’t take all the effort in the world.
Greta nods at Sarge again, watches as she softens slightly, and Greta hates what that must mean, that it must mean Greta looks fully as she feels and nothing like the part she’s supposed to play. Beverly sighs.
They still win the game, but Greta doesn’t much feel like celebrating. She’s really not sure that much of the rest of the team does either, but Jess and Lupe begin to drag everyone off as always, and Greta knows how much they cherish the routine. Besides, it may as well just be her wishful thinking.
Greta changes quickly. She’d almost worn pants today, because Jess had begged her to: a risk that seemed minuscule at the time, too stupid for Greta to refuse, miles from their home field. But she did, and she’s glad, now, when even the waistband of her skirt digging into the soft flesh of her stomach makes her skin crawl. Still, she glances over at Jess, at Lupe, too. They look at ease, at least. No thanks to Greta.
She’s out of the locker room, swinging her bag over her shoulder, before Carson even gets inside. As Greta strides toward the corner, she hears a voice she thinks she might know literally anywhere coming from the other direction. Greta picks up the pace, rounding the corner.
She’s on the watered down end of her second drink when the group that she knows will consist of one Carson Shaw starts to trickle through the door. She downs the last of the gin quickly and orders a beer that’s tipped halfway back by the time she feels Carson’s eyes on her.
Greta finishes the beer, orders another straight gin with lemon, and searches for Jo. She sees her across the bar, talking to Maybelle and Terri, and Greta waits to catch her eye. She’s infinitely grateful to be rooming with Joey tonight, at least. (She doesn’t let herself think about any other possibility, what might be better. She can’t.)
Jo looks up, forehead pulling in with concern as soon as her eyes lock with Greta’s. Greta shoots her a reassuring smile, but it’s kind of pointless given the fact that Jo has known her longer than any other person in the entire world. Still, Greta smiles, and she downs her drink, and she nods toward the door and waits for Jo to give her the okay.
Greta can tell Jo’s reluctant, but she smiles and nods, still. Greta knows her so well, can read her eyes. She knows she won’t be alone long.
Greta ducks out of the bar as quickly as she can, pretending Carson won’t know what she’s doing, pretending she’s not being obvious. She almost doesn’t care, though. She just wants to be still, for just a moment. That’s all.
Carson doesn’t really get why Greta is avoiding her, but she definitely doesn’t like it. Especially not after those assholes in the stands and— Well, Carson was watching her. She knows what she thinks Greta was thinking, but... Greta has to know it’s ridiculous, the idea that she’s somehow too— anything. Greta has to know. Carson continues to tell herself this as she watches Greta slip out of the bar before she gets a chance to talk to her. She tries to pretend it doesn't make her stomach drop, but she doesn’t try all that hard.
She knows Greta’s more upset than she’s letting on. She remembers one of the first games, in the locker room. Greta crying. She remembers what made Greta cry, remembers thinking Greta could never be too much, would always be enough. She remembers realizing Greta might not think that.
She knows Greta’s upset, but she doesn’t really know what to do about it. She’s rooming with Lupe tonight, which is fine, and on any normal night would likely mean it would be easier to see Greta than when she’s in a room with Shirley, but Greta is rooming with Jo, and Jo DeLuca is simply not someone Carson wants to cross right now, for obvious reasons, and asking for a moment alone with her best friend is definitely crossing something.
So Carson stands there, a few feet off the wall in the middle of the bar, unmoored.
She’s not sure exactly how long it’s been—a few minutes, probably—when Jo approaches her, holding two beers. Carson looks down, realizing she hasn’t even touched her gin and tonic, and downs it in a painful gulp. She meets Jo’s amused eyes with a grimace.
“Coach,” Jo nods, handing over one of the beers. Carson nods back, smile tight. She is totally doing great at this interaction. She doesn’t know what to say.
“You doing okay?” Jo finally asks, which, yes, throws Carson off, and she sputters slightly. Jo fixes her gaze on Carson’s eyes. “You seem a little tired. Planning to head home soon?” And Carson wasn’t, like, specifically, but something about the way Jo is asking her so specifically makes her hesitate. Jo doesn’t blink.
Finally, Carson shrugs lightly, half nodding. “Yeah, yeah, I’m pretty tired. Probably going to head back soon and go right to sleep…" she trails off, watching Jo barely attempt to hide the amusement in her eyes. Still, she nods.
“Right, well, I’m kind of planning to stay out for a while, and I know you’re rooming with Lupe, so I thought we could switch rooms if you’re going back. Greta’s already home,” Jo says, and Carson isn’t that dense. She stares at Jo a second too long, has to wait for Jo’s pointed look to push her into action. She starts slightly, glancing around the room. She catches Lupe, subtle as never, watching Jo and Carson, and she feels a rush of something like affection, followed only after by a slight burn of fear and shame.
Jo nods at her, sharp and pointed, and Carson shakes her head, nodding.
“Right, yes. That makes sense, since— Yes.” She nods decisively, staring at Jo’s nose. Jo reaches into her pocket and pulls out a room key. She drops it in Carson’s hand, and Carson is not very pleased to see her fingers are shaking. The corner of Jo’s mouth quirks up, and she taps the neck of her beer bottle against Carson’s.
“Finish your drink,” she says, and Carson knows she means hurry up. Jo brings her bottle to her lips. “You can grab your stuff from your room,” Jo tells her, motioning for Carson to stop when she starts to take out her key. “I’ll go back with Lu.” Jo says it so easily, as if it’s nothing, that it almost stops Carson’s heart. She’s so glad Greta has her, so indescribably glad.
Jo glances toward the bottle in Carson’s hand again. Carson takes a huge gulp, and Jo starts to step away. She pauses, barely into the movement, and leans back in toward Carson. She places a hand, light but firm, on Carson’s shoulder. Jo hesitates a moment more, trying to decide what to say or how to say it, and Carson continues to drink her beer, unsure of her role.
“She’s so used to being tough,” Jo finally whispers, and Carson thinks she understands what she means, that this is the closest Jo can get to what she means without betraying Greta’s confidence. Carson nods. Jo gives her shoulder a squeeze, steps back toward Lupe and Jess. Carson takes a deep breath.
She looks down at her beer, the bottle more empty than not, now. She lets the air out of her lungs in a long sigh, downs the rest of the drink in one go. She pays quickly, gives a quick nod to Lupe, and walks out of the bar, hurrying to this trip’s lodging, which is, Carson is well aware, an actual motel.
She stops in the room assigned to her and Lupe first, though she doesn’t really know what to grab. She doesn’t put down her gear bag, and she simply lifts her still packed bag from the bed. She leaves her toiletries, partially as a scrambled politeness for Jo, partially for her own rushed convenience. She closes the door behind her, lifting her bag, and walks two doors down.
Carson pauses for a moment outside the door. She knows Greta must be inside, wonders if she’s relaxing. Even though Carson does not invite the thought of Greta, stretched out in a bath, into her head, it arrives, and Carson’s face reddens as heat pools between her legs. That’s not the point right now. She wants to make sure Greta knows how wonderful she is.
“She’s so used to being tough.” Jo’s words run through Carson’s head, and she knows Jo is right. Greta… She thinks, even, of Greta in the car, in the convent, taking charge, even when she’s not. Carson just wants to show her… Carson just wants to make sure she feels loved. The thought makes her stomach turn, but that’s fine.
She unlocks the door, starts to turn the knob and pauses, briefly, to knock. There’s no answer, and Carson pushes open the door. The lamps between the twin beds are both turned on, bathing the room in a yellow-orange glow, and Greta, in a nightgown and robe, hair falling around her face, looks up and meets Carson’s eyes.
For a moment, Greta simply looks shocked, eyes wide with surprise, and even as her face shifts—a brief flash of fear, a mask of calm excitement—Carson smiles at the knowledge of her true reaction. She brings her bags inside, closes the door behind her. She turns the lock. The bolt seems ridiculously loud as Carson clicks it into place. She turns around.
“Jo asked me to switch,” Carson gasps, words tumbling out faster than expected. “Rooms. For tonight,” Carson adds uselessly. Greta’s eyes soften, her smile looks looser, jaw unclenched.
“That Joey,” Greta says, shaking her head. Carson watches, transfixed, as Greta closes the notebook on her lap. “Won’t let me follow the rules.” She leans over slowly, places it on the stand between the beds. Carson thinks it maybe takes forever, Greta pushing herself up from the bed and crossing the room to stand in front of Carson.
“Hi,” Greta finally says, bringing her hands to Carson’s shoulders. Carson totally does not do anything embarrassing, like melt or sigh, and even if she did, it would be worth it for the way Greta’s eyes brighten.
“Hi, yourself, Miss Gill,” Carson whispers, though it was supposed to come out a bit more audible. Greta laughs lightly. She inches closer to Carson, and Carson can’t help the way she instinctively lifts herself forward, toward Greta. Greta smiles, and Carson sees mirth and adoration and something a lot less hopeful, and Greta kisses her, and, predictably, Carson briefly forgets her plan to make Greta forget her own name. She forgets a few other important things, too, like what to do with her hands or how to breathe.
Greta looks so good. It’s pretty much the only thing Carson can think, besides that Greta feels so good and that she’s going to die from this woman’s hands on her hips.
Greta wraps her arms around Carson, nipping at the corner of her mouth to get Carson to turn her head upward. Carson complies, so easily, and Greta kisses along her jaw. Carson can feel the lipstick smearing against her skin, and it sends a burst of liquid heat through her that makes her weak in the knees. She feels Greta smile.
“Bed, Shaw,” Greta mutters against her mouth, pulling Carson forward by the collar of her dress. Greta walks past the bed she was sitting on earlier to the one Carson assumed would be hers, the one deeper into the room, in the corner. Smarter for sound, Carson can see, and also—and, look, she does try not to think this—farther from the door, harder to escape from.
In the last few inches Greta turns them around, pushes Carson backwards onto the still made bed and climbs on top of her. Carson would really like to get a little bit more self-control. Greta kisses the base of her neck. Carson’s chest stretches forward, into Greta, who smiles and undoes the top button.
She kisses each new inch of exposed skin as she undoes the buttons on Carson’s dress, finally pulling it off more smoothly than Carson could have imagined and leaving the catcher in just her cotton panties and bra. Carson feels herself flush under Greta’s gaze. She hopes it’s not too clear how much she rushed to get dressed and out of the locker room, but she knows it’s probably pointless. Greta knows what she wears.
“Skipped a shower?” Greta smirks, and Carson groans, embarrassed and amused.
“Yes, actually,” Carson says. “I had something I wanted to do.” Greta’s eyebrows shoot up as she drops Carson’s dress beside the bed, lowering herself back to Carson’s newly exposed chest.
“Oh? And what would that be?” she whispers, biting lightly at the shell of Carson’s ear. Carson lets out a soft, irresistible sigh. It sends a rush of arousal through Greta so strong it almost hurts. Greta brings her hand down to rest at the curve of Carson’s hip, her fingertips resting just centimeters from where Carson so badly wants them.
Carson whines, hips canting into Greta’s hand, and Greta does not want to make this beautiful woman wait a moment longer. Selfishly, Greta does not want to wait a moment longer to watch this beautiful woman fall apart.
She starts to move her hand, ghosting her fingers across the damp fabric between her and Carson. Her mouth goes dry when she realizes how wet Carson already is. Greta swallows, looks into Carson’s eyes. She’s got a streak of dirt just under her hairline on the right side of her forehead. She must have missed it when she was changing.
Absently, Greta removes her hand, reaches up to brush the streak of dirt away. Carson whines at the removal of contact, but it trails off as she watches Greta lick the pad of her thumb—the pad of her thumb that was just on Carson’s panties— and wipe something away from her face. Horrifyingly, Greta is still wearing her robe.
“Off,” Carson groans, pulling uselessly at the fabric covering Greta’s chest. Greta laughs, and it almost sounds open and free, and gently pushes Carson’s hands away. She undoes her robe quickly, slips it off, and pulls her nightgown up over her head, leaving Carson to breathlessly discover that she isn’t wearing a bra.
She’s clearly already gotten ready for bed, with no garter belt either, and Carson possibly loses her mind looking at her in just a pair of short, lace-edged bloomers. Greta blushes.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” she says with a small quirk of her head. Carson almost wishes she didn’t know enough to listen for it, the soft, real insecurity in Greta’s voice, under the makeup. Almost.
“How are you so beautiful?” Carson breathes, instead of whatever coherent thing that wouldn’t have made her look like a lovestruck fool. But Greta laughs, really laughs, lights up like a stadium, and Carson melts beneath her.
“How yourself, Shaw?” Greta grins, pulling Carson’s mouth back to hers.
Greta slots her leg between Carson’s, pushing closer until her bare thigh is flush against damp fabric. Carson bites at Greta’s lip, wanting. Greta bites back a groan, starts a slow rhythm of her thigh. Carson deepens the kiss almost instantly, responding to the small amount of friction with a desperation that sends arousal shooting through Greta.
If Greta were a stronger woman, she might make Carson wait, in another life or another world. But Greta isn’t stronger than she is, to put it as kindly as possible, and she matches Carson’s pace as she kisses her and kisses her and kisses her, fingers roaming over the expanse of Carson’s back, and thinks that this is for her, for Greta. All this.
Greta is a big enough person to admit she feels smug, when Carson comes against her thigh, whining into her mouth, before Greta even truly touches her. Carson looks slightly embarrassed, just slightly.
Greta smiles, kisses her again. She moves her lips along Carson’s jaw as she sighs, relaxing even deeper into the mattress. Greta Gill can do things, Carson thinks… Jesus.
She can feel Greta smirking against the side of her jaw, and something about it feels just stiff enough to remind Carson of her original plan. Still coming down, Carson’s resolution settles, and she reaches over to pull Greta’s face to hers. She kisses her, hard and tender, and if she wasn’t paying attention she would’ve missed the soft sigh that Greta forces herself to swallow.
But Carson is paying attention, because it’s Greta, and, in a rather unsubtle move, she manages to climb out from under Greta and turn her on her back. Greta’s eyes are twinkling, and Carson swings her leg over Greta’s hips to straddle her.
Greta is breathtaking from this angle. (From any angle, really, but that’s not quite the point.) She leans down to kiss her, cupping her face gently. Greta moans softly. Carson absently wonders if Greta ever lets herself stop performing.
Carson shifts her weight, moving her lips to Greta’s neck, and Greta doesn’t try to stop her hips from bucking at the slight friction it creates. Carson smiles, knows Greta can feel her lips on her neck. Carson slides slightly lower, ghosting kisses over as much of Greta’s exposed skin as she can reach. She can feel the wet patch on Greta’s shorts against her stomach, and it makes warmth pool again in her gut to know Greta can’t pretend she doesn’t want this desperately.
Carson takes her time, even as she can feel Greta growing impatient. She trusts her instincts, thinks she might just have figured out Greta’s tell. Greta arches into Carson’s mouth at her chest, lifting herself up onto her elbows to get closer. Carson can tell she’s a bit embarrassed to realize she’s done it, and Carson smiles at her, thoughtless, and knows she can’t hide the adoration. Greta smiles back, through just the thinnest film of plastic.
She takes her time here, too. No marks, Carson knows, but… No one is going to see this. She sucks hard at the delicate skin at the top of Greta’s breast, running her thumb over Greta’s right nipple as she feels it pebble beneath her fingers. She smiles into Greta’s skin, sucks it between her teeth, and relishes in the small gasp Greta lets out.
“Carson,” Greta breathes, and Carson is obviously aware that Greta wants more, but Carson also knows Greta. She moves her mouth to the other breast, sucking an almost identical mark into the tender skin as Greta starts to squirm beneath her. She’s not used to Carson denying her anything she wants, since Carson is absolutely smitten and all.
Carson places a kiss over the red mark, moving her mouth down and sucking lightly at Greta’s nipple.
“Carson,” Greta says again, and this time Carson can hear the way she has to strain to keep her voice level. Carson can’t stop the brief quirk of her lips as she continues to kiss at Greta’s chest.
“Greta,” Carson mimics, and Greta lets out an annoyed puff of air. Carson feels her eyes melt a bit. Greta gives her a pointed look. Carson lets her hand wander absently, rubbing her thumb against the soft skin at Greta’s waist.
“Tell me what you want, Greta,” Carson says, low and tender. She watches Greta beneath her, the things she can’t hide: the way her throat bobs as her breath catches, her pupils widening, her fingertips pressing hard into Carson’s hips.
“Your mouth,” Greta commands. Carson smiles at her, nods, and stretches her body forward to capture Greta in a kiss. She pulls away just briefly, feeling satisfied with the way Greta’s lips seem to follow Carson without any permission when she breaks the kiss.
“Here?” Carson asks, grinning. Greta can’t quite hide her laugh, and Carson watches her roll her eyes. Before she can answer, Carson moves to her jaw, kissing down over her pulse point. She feels the hitch in Greta’s breath. She couldn’t stop grinning right now if she tried. She pulls back just enough to speak against Greta’s skin.
“Here?” Greta doesn’t laugh this time. Carson feels her swallow. Carson kisses the skin on the inside of Greta’s upper arm, her collarbones, the bottom of her rib cage. Greta grows less and less still with each tiny, infuriating kiss. Finally, when Carson kisses the tender skin at the top of Greta’s hip, just where the line of her underwear is, Greta can’t stop herself.
“Carson,” she whines, hating how needy she sounds. She feels Carson pause, can feel the heat rushing to her face, God— She knows better. She does, and Carson looks up at her and the look on her face is so ecstatic that Greta forgets, for a moment, what she was worried about.
“You said you wanted my mouth,” Carson shrugs. Greta knows she’s trying to play it cool. The bad thing is, it’s working.
“Don’t get cocky,” Greta says, and her voice totally does not tremble at all.
“Tell me what you want, Greta,” Carson repeats, lower this time, and Greta’s hips cant up even as her face burns. Carson moves her hands down to Greta’s hip bones, still sitting up and holding Greta’s eyes. She can tell how much Greta is trying to hold back right now, and it almost breaks her.
“My mouth…” she trails off, prompting Greta. Greta swallows, her own mouth suddenly bone dry.
“I, your mouth. On me.” Greta feels herself flush at the base of her neck, knows Carson can tell, too, by the ways her eyes soften slightly in fond amusement. Greta swallows, tries to steel herself, wrap herself in tin foil, maybe. She will make this good for Carson. She will not— She will follow the rules. Carson has a husband.
Greta will be strong, or— That’s not really right. Greta will not let anyone see her break. She won’t, but she feels like her throat is full of sand. She can’t quite swallow right, can’t quite meet Carson’s eyes because every time she does it feels just a little bit more like everything she has never let herself want.
Greta takes a shallow breath. Quickly, her face splits into a grin, and Greta knows Carson won’t realize she’s bit straight through the skin just inside the corner of her mouth because she doesn’t flinch. She smiles at Carson, swallows a mouthful of blood and watches Carson watch her throat bob. She unclenches her jaw.
“I want you to fuck me with your mouth,” Greta states, steady. It takes so much for Carson to hold herself still at those words, but she succeeds. Her grin widens.
“Oh, I’m getting there.” Without another word she goes back to scattering soft kisses over Greta’s skin. “Would just be a waste, to let any part of you go unkissed.” Greta rolls her eyes, but Carson can tell it’s fond. Greta hopes she plays it off okay, the way her heart decides that it should actually leave her chest.
“You’re so beautiful—” A kiss. “So amazing—” Another kiss. “So strong.”
“Carson.” Greta’s squirming noticeably now. Carson smirks, nips lightly at the skin at the very base of Greta’s stomach. Her back arches up as she gasps at Carson’s teeth. Carson moves lower, kissing at a nasty round scar just under the crease of Greta’s hip that she’s never asked about, no matter how much she wants to know.
“So perfect,” Carson breathes, and as she places her lips back to Greta’s skin, Greta writhes under her, unable to stop herself from whining. She hates this, how much Carson’s stupid, earnest intimacy turns her on. She doesn’t know how to handle it, the way Carson keeps acting like she’s…
Greta’s always been the one holding glass. Or sand, or something flimsy like cheap metal— It’s beside the point. Carson’s lips flutter along the crease of her thigh, nudging the fabric of Greta’s bloomers away with her nose, brushing against the ugly scar like cool water, like nothing, like Greta didn’t burn a whole pack of matches into her skin, and Carson is still kissing her slowly, infuriatingly slowly, over every inch of her thighs and hips and stomach, which is not where Greta wants her mouth right now, actually.
“So pretty for me,” Carson whispers against Greta’s skin, her tongue darting out against the sensitive skin at the tops of Greta’s thighs. She can’t take this. Greta literally cannot take this anymore; she is going to lose it.
“Carson, st—” The sound falls off halfway as Carson does exactly as instructed, lifting her head from Greta’s skin and meeting her eyes. Greta’s staring at her, pupils blown, as if she can’t believe she almost said she didn’t want Carson’s mouth on her. Carson laughs, smiles at the pink tinge to Greta’s ears.
It’s that smile, that stupid smile, that finally does it for Greta. Carson’s soft eyes on her, the adoration in her laugh, her confidence. Greta actually truly stops breathing for a moment, choking on a gasp. Carson draws her the slightest bit closer, almost as if she doesn’t realize she’s doing it.
“Do you want me to stop?” she asks. Greta shakes her head. Carson waits.
“No,” Greta breathes after a moment, visibly struggling to stay calm. Carson feels pretty much on top of the world.
“No, what?” She says. Greta swallows, slow.
“Don’t stop.” Her voice shakes, and Carson can tell how much effort it’s taking for her to keep herself together.
“Why don’t you want me to stop?” Carson pushes. Greta tries to hide the whine building in her throat.
“Because I like it,” Greta breathes. Now Carson’s getting what she wanted. Her smile grows.
“You like it when I tell you’re perfect?”
Greta nods, almost stupefied. Carson presses a kiss over the waistband of her shorts.
“Because you are,” Carson says as she continues, meeting Greta’s eyes as Greta scrambles to help her remove her pants, shoving wildly at her impossibly long legs. Carson tries not to think too hard about when the last time Greta let herself be this way must have been, mostly because what it makes her feel is too terrifying. Her lips ghost over curls. “You’re so perfect, Greta. So good.”
Greta can’t stop the obscene whine that escapes at Carson’s praise and it terrifies her. Her eyes snap to Carson’s as Carson’s snap to hers, full of wonder, and Greta feels like she can’t breathe. It takes Carson just a brief moment to place what it is she sees in Greta’s eyes: shame, deep and dirty, and she cannot let that stay. She will not let Greta believe she is worth being ashamed of.
“You’re such a good girl, Greta,” Carson says, then, finally, licks a long stripe up the length of Greta’s slit as Greta lets out a breathy sigh. She can feel how close Greta is already, tries not to be too smug about it, and sucks lightly on Greta’s clit. Greta gasps, hips bucking, and Carson uses one of her calloused hands to press Greta back into the mattress.
“Carson,” Greta whines, and Carson does know her, knows that she thinks she needs to hold on, that Carson doesn’t need this to go on forever. Carson brings her other hand up to Greta’s chest, thumbing her nipple as she sucks at her clit. Greta’s legs tense around Carson’s shoulders.
“Come on, baby,” Carson whispers. “Come for me, sweet girl.” Greta lets out an honest to God whimper, and Carson can see her hand shoot up to cover her own mouth.
“I’m sor—”
“No,” Carson mumbles without pulling away. “No, Greta, you’re being so good—” Greta’s breath hitches. Carson is pretty confident this is what winning the World Series feels like.
Carson slips two fingers under her chin and into Greta, relishing in the way she cants her hips for more contact. Carson starts a slow rhythm.
“I know you’re close, baby. You’re doing so well.” She curls her fingers inside Greta. “So perfect.” Greta mewls, back arching obscenely. Carson can’t even fathom how wet she must be right now, still sticky from earlier. This woman… Greta Gill, Carson thinks, and sucks sharply on the woman’s clit, and Greta is coming and breathing Carson’s name.
“So perfect, baby, so good,” Carson mutters as Greta clamps her own hand over her mouth in a mostly pointless attempt to suppress her cries. Carson keeps moving her fingers, keeps spelling out praise with her tongue, as Greta falls apart in front of her, which is the most beautiful thing in the world: Greta, slipping off her own elbow as she arches impossibly into Carson, eyes squeezed shut, biting into the flesh of her thumb, which Carson wishes she wouldn’t do but is hot nonetheless.
And then Greta is still but panting, composure be damned, and Carson pushes herself to kneel between Greta’s legs, chin slick and grinning. Her eyes are so open, and she’s looking at Greta with such adoration, Greta can’t stand it. She drops her eyes to Carson’s chin. A mess.
“Was that okay?” Carson asks, smug and awkward and charming as ever. Greta turns her head to the side, into her own shoulder. She plays it off with a muffled laugh, but it catches in her throat and Greta can’t choke back the single strangled sob that escapes.
She squeezes her eyes shut, face burning, and clenches her right hand, the one not lying beside Carson on her stomach, hard enough to dig her painted nails through the first layers of skin.
Carson, to her credit, is perfect, or whatever Greta’s supposed to think that’s not reckless. Quick and smooth, Carson slips back up beside Greta, wedged in half beside her to give her as much space as possible. She takes Greta’s hands, both of them, slipping her arm under Greta’s chest and intentionally searching for the clenched fist on Greta’s other side, like she knows. Greta feels like probably her heart will burst at any second. Carson smooths the pad of her thumb over the angry skin of Greta’s palm without comment, almost absently, as she presses a kiss into Greta’s shoulder.
“That bad, huh?” Carson whispers. Greta laughs again, and really does start crying this time. She knows how pathetic she must look, she does, but… Carson wraps her arms around her from behind, tucks her chin against Greta’s shoulder, and just. Holds her.
Carson shifts to link their legs together, as if she can’t stand to be anything other than as close to Greta as possible, and Greta realizes with a jolt that Carson is still partially clothed, still in her bra and the panties Greta—
Carson is just holding her.
Greta takes a deep breath, tries to steady herself. Carson doesn’t seem particularly thrilled about the situation.
“Greta,” she breathes, a plea. Greta takes a shaky breath.
“I’m—” she swallows. “You weren’t supposed to see that.” Her voice is so quiet Carson has to strain to understand her, and it sounds like a confession or apology or… Carson pulls her tighter, lets out a light laugh because she doesn’t know what to do to make Greta believe her.
“God, I’m glad I did.” Carson hopes it’ll make Greta laugh, but she squeezes her eyes shut, shaking her head minutely.
“No one was supposed to see that,” she whispers, and Carson thinks she might understand, thinks she might finally see what Greta thinks it means to keep herself safe. She presses another soft kiss into the skin where Greta’s neck curves into her shoulder, pauses with her head resting there for a moment.
“I don’t want to be no one to you.”
Greta’s breath is still shaky, but Carson can tell she’s smiling.
“Jesus, Shaw. Gotta give a girl a warning with a line like that.” Carson grants Greta the momentary reprieve. She rubs her thumb back and forth. Another kiss to Greta’s shoulder. A beat. Greta runs the tip of her tongue over the tender spot inside her cheek,
“You—” Carson stops, collects herself. “Um. I hope you know you are, though. Good, I mean,” Carson says, almost devotional. Greta squeezes her eyes together, tightens her grip on Carson’s hand. Carson shifts even closer, pulls her in even farther.
“I don’t mind reminding you,” Carson murmurs in her ear. “That you’re good. I’ll say it as much as you let me.” The last part Carson says so softly it’s barely there. Greta’s heart flutters.
“Carson Shaw,” she chokes out, mostly because it’s the only thing she can say, mostly because it’s the only thing she can think, running on a loop through her mind.
“Greta Gill,” Carson hums. “Good, gorgeous Greta Gill.”
Greta can’t believe this is real.
They lie there for Greta doesn’t know how many minutes, Carson humming a monotonous tune so lightly Greta can barely feel it. Carson folds her arms in without dropping Greta’s stupid tell of a hand, her other hand rubbing absently at Greta’s side as Greta pulls her arm into herself: small, safe.
Carson’s fingers dance over the skin of Greta’s side, languid. Carson’s thumb glides over that stupid scar at the crease of Greta’s thigh, and Greta pretends that Carson can’t feel every tiny movement she does and does not allow herself to make. Carson stills her hand, keeping the soft rhythm of her thumb.
Greta gives up. She can’t— Carson… It’s just pointless, Greta accepts. She’s a goner.
She pulls Carson’s arm more tightly around her, shifting to meet Carson’s eyes over her shoulder. Greta cranes her neck, eyes fluttering closed, and Carson complies, kissing her. And kissing her and kissing her.
Greta just wants to tell her— just wants to show her.
She kisses Carson harder, turns farther into her, and the way that she feels Carson relax under her, become even more pliant, makes Greta want to simply lose her mind, if she hasn’t already.
Greta bites lightly at her jaw. Carson gasps.
“Greta,” she breathes, struggling to pull away. Greta can’t help the surge of fear at Carson’s sudden unwillingness, but she softens almost instantly as Carson reaches up to smooth the hair back from her face.
The way Carson’s looking at her is— Greta would definitely really not like to think about that, actually.
“Greta,” Carson breathes, and even just that— Even just that. Greta feels like she’s losing her mind.
“Do you want to talk…” Carson trails off as Greta begins to plant kisses along her neck, shaking her head. She kisses at Carson’s thrumming pulse. Carson’s legs tense, still wrapped around hers.
“Carson, please,” Greta whispers, which is a much nicer way to say that she begs, which is another thing Greta will not be thinking about. Carson lets out a stuttered gasp. Greta kisses the curve of her collarbone. She could do this forever, terrifyingly. Carson’s skin is slightly sticky with a dew of sweat or else another term that would make more sense to drive Greta wild. Her brain is not exactly functioning at one hundred percent capacity.
“I don’t know how else to tell you,” she whispers against Carson’s skin. “I don’t—” Carson gasps as Greta’s fingers brush, so lightly, over the expanse of exposed skin on Carson’s back.
“Okay,” Carson relents, though it comes out a bit like a muffled squeal, far too high-pitched and breathy, as Greta unclasps her bra. Greta smiles, so quick that Carson knows it’s real, and she’s not sure how she has this much space in her body to feel.
“Okay. Okay, I won’t forget,” Carson breathes even as Greta slides her bra off, kisses at the newly exposed skin of Carson’s chest.
“That a challenge, Shaw?” Greta looks up at her, head at Carson’s chest, lips swollen, and quirks her eyebrow.
Carson intends to respond with something clever, maybe about Greta’s competitive streak, but instead she ends up shaking her head, far too slowly, as she tries to swallow the huge marble that seems to have suddenly wedged itself in her throat.
Greta’s still smiling— she looks delighted, really, and she licks her goddamn lips.
“I can make you forget your own name,” Greta whispers, dragging her lips down Carson’s stomach. Carson plays it cool, gasping as her back arches off the bed. Greta slips her fingers under the band of Carson’s panties, looking up to meet Carson’s eyes, which are closed. She’s trembling, and Greta takes a moment, just a moment, to simply watch her.
Then Carson’s eyes shoot open. She lets out a shaky breath, like pulling teeth, and meets Greta’s gaze.
“You can’t make me forget yours, Greta Gill,” she breathes, and it’s such a stupidly good line that the Greta Gill in question almost blacks out.
Or possibly she does black out, considering she simply stills, stares at Carson, mouth just slightly agape. Carson does not do notoriously well with heavy silences.
“Your name, I mean," Carson fumbles to add, a flush creeping up her neck. It shakes Greta out of— whatever, though, and she can’t help the way her face goes totally soft.
“Good,” Greta finally chokes out, because she’s having a very hard time thinking of other words.
Instead, she takes off Carson’s pants.
Carson is so wet, thighs glistening, and Greta’s mouth is so wet, her whole body really, and actually she feels a lot like she’s melting completely into a puddle. She’s never been so— Christ .
“Greta,” Carson moans when Greta finally brings her mouth to her. “Greta,” Carson moans again and again and whines and moans again, and Greta fucks her with her tongue, just wants her to have everything she deserves, which is a whole fucking lot.
Greta wants to make Carson come forever, or at least for as long as possible, but as Carson comes down from her orgasm, she pushes at her head, whining.
“Greta,” Carson whines, a hand grabbing at her shoulder and pulling up. “Too far.”
Carson is pouting. Carson is pouting, at Greta, so that Greta will come cuddle her. Greta truly does not know how to keep functioning. No woman has ever been needy like— like this with Greta, but Carson is still staring at her, expectant, and what the fuck else could Greta possibly do?
She crawls into Carson’s arms, and she doesn’t care about how sticky she feels, and she doesn’t care that she’s too warm, and she only cares a little bit that she knows she looks like a mess, totally fucked to pieces. (Carson thinks she’s perfect.) That phrase is obviously an example of a thought that does not wedge itself at the very front of Greta’s mind.
Carson pulls her so close, smooths her hand over her hair. Greta could, pathetically— wonderfully get used to this.