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When Greta has a day like this; arduous and exhausting, she finds it hard to fall asleep. It comes from days on the run with Joey, where they’d be exhausted but have to keep moving. She’s watched people who can’t do that be swallowed up by cities. And Greta’s been a million different people in a million different places, and she’s been tired to the bone no matter when and where- but she will never lose herself to a city that doesn’t want her.
And so now, when they spend all day morning running plays and all evening practicing at bat, stopping only for lunch, Greta is exhausted, and yet. And yet she can’t sleep.
It doesn’t help, really, the way Carson looks with her gear on, even just during practice. Strong and confident, signing faux-plays from behind the practice plate that the team carries out without question. And when things go wrong she’s gentle, but firm in explaining problems and solutions. It’s a way of being she’d learned over the season and settled into. There’s Carson and then there’s Shaw, and they’re two very different people.
Not to mention the backwards hat. She tries her best not to think about the hat.
It’s been a long day though. Maybe she should be allowed to think, just a little, about both Carson and Shaw.
Maybe she should let her mind wander. She thinks about the times that they linger. A hug just a moment too long at the front door. Gentle touches out of sight, just for them. Hands laid on top of thighs at the dinner table. The locker room- Carson, in the locker room earlier today, chatting with the team with all of her gear still on, until the space empties except for the pair of them.
Carson shrugging off her mask and her chest protector and every other piece of equipment. She’s meticulous with this, the same way she is with her game cards- it’s a ritual she won’t break, even when she knows she’s being watched, waited for. Once each piece of gear is off she cleans it, gentle and precise and with devotion. Hands on belts and buckles and leather.
Hands on her. Greta needs her hands on her.
“Just wait there,” Carson had said, unnecessarily. Greta won’t wait for a lot of things, but she will wait for her. Stand here in the shadows, so desperate for alone time with Carson that she’s getting worked up over baseball equipment. “I’ll be all yours in a minute.”
Carson had been hers, afterwards- something fast and heated in the car. She’d pulled Carson into her lap with her dress hitched up, kissed her until she was groaning, softly, into her mouth. They’d been interrupted then, Jess calling for the Coach from outside. Of course, they’d been interrupted. Carson sighs into her skin and Greta presses a kiss to her collar.
“Later,” Carson tells her earnestly, hands unweaving from Greta’s hair, smoothing the disrupted curls, “Later, later, I’ll be all yours, I promise.”
There’s an eagerness to Carson that’s endearing, usually, when it’s outwardly focused. She gives herself up for her people, tackles tasks with an unmatched devotion. But when she’s leaning her against a wall and kissing until Greta has to tilt her head up and gasp just to breathe, Carson’s hips still rolling against her, well. It’s hot, and wonderful, and she ends up so turned on she forgets every rule she’s ever had- and it’s anything but endearing.
She needs that again, she thinks, hand tracing up and down her thigh in bed. Devotion. To be fucked until Carson’s wrist is sore and then maybe a little longer. Until she forgets where she is and how many rules they’re breaking all the damn time and maybe, then, she can finally sleep.
She’s out of bed with that thought. She finds herself downstairs in a moment, Carson at the dining table staring down at some paper. And as needy as she wants to be here, as much as she wants to walk over there and be taken against the kitchen table until she's comatose- well that’s a bad idea, and usually she leaves those to Carson.
So instead Greta holds herself tall and back straight as she checks the rooms adjacent to the kitchen. Jess is knocked out on the couch, thank God- she won’t wake up until tomorrow morning, and they’ll have a bed for this. Lupe’s there too, pretending not to pay attention to Esti, and Greta’s pretending not to pay attention to any of them when she turns and leaves back to the kitchen where Carson’s sitting.
“Hey,” Carson says, eyes wandering already.
“Hey,” Greta smiles back from the doorway, “It’s later.”
“It's..?” The question trails off as Greta slips her tongue across her lips. The paper crinkles in Carson’s hand. “ Oh, it’s later .”
“Right. And you promised you’d help me with this play-”
“Yeah!” Carson almost shouts, far too loud for this time of the night. She stands so quickly the chair she’s sitting on nearly falls, scraping on the floor. She does a sign- the one for a double steal, like Greta would ever be involved in one of those. “I know you needed help with that play so I can help, with that, if you want? Now?”
She tries her best not to laugh. It’s that eagerness again. She’s the worst liar she’s ever met and yet Greta can’t ever bring herself to be mad. “Now’s good, Coach.”
Carson nods at her, dumbly, until Greta turns to leave. She follows her up the stairs and into the bedroom, half a step behind.
Greta enters first, sitting down and Carson shuts the door behind them. She leans against the door, exhaling. When she turns back she’s got a new resolve in her eyes. Greta is met with Shaw, not Carson.
“Hey.” Carson says, moving across the room. She zeros in on Greta as she goes, drinking her in. They don’t get to just look at each other, enough.
“Hey.”
Carson smiles. Her dimples pop out when she sits down beside her, putting her hand gently on top of Greta’s. “I think we had this conversation before.”
“You’re…” Cute , she wants to say. You’re wonderful. You’re beautiful . She wants to say , Carson Shaw, you’re something I can’t describe but I’m so glad to have found you. It feels like too much, here, even as Carson looks at her like this. “Are you going to help me out, Coach?”
“What did you need help with?” Carson’s thumb rubs circles into her palm, and she pretends it’s less distracting than it should be.
“Couldn’t get to sleep. Too….” She raises her eyebrows, pausing just to watch Carson track her lips, “Riled up.”
“Uh huh,” Carson says, clearly already half-gone. She presses lightly against Greta’s shoulders until she falls back on the bed. “I’m sure we can do some stretches or-”
“Or maybe you could just come and kiss me?”
“Oh!” Carson lets out, not expecting it. She leans down, laying a kiss on the corner of her lips before replying. “Sure I can.”
It’s a gentle sort of kiss, not hesitant but still soft. Carson’s hand rests by her ear, teasing loose strands of hair, and Greta feels herself sink into the wanting of it all. She’s tired still, and yet energized, electric, and most of all hungry for it.
Carson shifts above her, pulling back, and Greta opens her eyes. She finds herself watching Carson watch her. She wonders what Carson sees in her, face cleaned of makeup and hot, needy. Carson stares down, expression a little stunned and very turned on, in the way she always does before. Like she still can’t quite believe it’s happening.
We’re real, we’re happening , she wants to say, We’re something, Carson Shaw, you’re something to me. But it’s too much, it’s always too much, she’s always too much. And if she says it, if she lets Carson feel it, the weight of this might crush her- She is torn between wanting to reassure Carson, and wanting to keep herself safe. So instead she tugs and tugs until Carson relents, leaning back down to kiss her.
Carson's hands are in her hair, not pulling, but stroking softly. Maybe Carson had read something in her expression when she was looking down at her, because she’s gentler than usual. She puts a lid on the eagerness, excitement still simmering between them but there’s something different about tonight. Maybe, this is what it feels like to have that Carson Shaw focus devoted entirely to her .
“Dress off,” Carson says, like she’s not already working on it.
“It’s a nightgown,” Greta teases.
“Nightgown off, then,” Carson groans, uncaring. It makes a laugh bubble up in Greta’s chest, soft and light when Carson finally pulls it over her head. Her hand goes straight to Greta’s open thigh and the laugh is cut short, strangled into a quiet moan when Carson presses a kiss to her hip.
She keeps going, Across her hip and down her thigh, bending Greta’s leg up to press one to her knee. And then she rises back up, kisses her hotly as Greta moves underneath her, legs wrapping around Carson’s back for leverage, for something to grind up onto.
“Jesus, Greta,” Carson sighs out above her, breath hot on Greta’s lips. And then Carson’s fingers are finally- fucking, finall y after the longest day on earth- moving inside her.
Greta feels the pressure building with Carson’s every movement, every kiss Carson presses into her shoulder, until- until nothing, until Greta is groaning, frustrated, that this would happen tonight of all nights.
This happens, sometimes, when she’s like this. Her body refuses to let go. It stops responding like she wants it to, refuses to walk anywhere near that edge. Another night she might have asked Carson to go, unwilling to be seen out of her own control like this, but there’s something about tonight. There’s something about the way Carson is looking at her, eyes devastatingly hungry, unbothered by the time Greta’s taking to come undone.
Resolved, jaw set and eyebrows knit, Carson looks at her like she’s a puzzle she can solve. And Greta thinks, If her body won’t take the step on its own, she can at least give Carson a hint on how to make it move.
“Im gonna,” She exhales, stopping Carson’s hand, her hips chasing embarrassingly despite it. “I need you to count me down.”
Carson doesn’t seem disappointed by this turn, just confused. She lets her breath settle before asking, “Count you down?”
“Count me down, when I’m close,” She tells her, a little reserved. She’s still not used to this- to being an equal in bed, in the give and take of them , whatever they are, instead of the give, give, give she’s used to. But she wants to take. Wants to be given this. “Make me come one.”
“Oh.” Carson’s clearly never heard of this- though she’s never heard of a lot of things. She’s processing, eyes wide, until her hands tighten around Greta’s waist. “ Oh. ”
“Start at ten,” Greta urges, pulling Carson’s hand back down. “Carson, please.”
“Yeah,” Carson says, lifting her other arm to tuck Greta’s hair back behind her ear. She presses a kiss to her forehead, softly, and Greta feels herself melt back into the pillows. “Ten.”
“You’re going to have to touch m-”
“Nine,” Carson counters, fingers slipping back in, easily. Greta’s hips move without her telling them to, a trembling roll against Carson’s hand. “Eight.”
“Seven,” Carson says, hand splayed out on Greta’s stomach to stop her from moving. Greta moans as quietly as she can, with her focus as shot as it is- which is to say, not quietly at all.
“Six.” There is this feeling, finally, of giving in. Of touching and of being touched. Of knowing and being known. This is them, now, here, present. For once, everything is for them. Here, with Carson, Greta lets herself be known.
“Five, Greta, baby-.” It seems to slip from Carson’s mouth by accident, just like Greta’s whimper that follows it. A broken whine of a noise that she cuts off early, tries to hide deep in her chest and hopes Carson doesn’t hear it rumbling there.
“You’re- Four, baby, you sound so good,” Carson rushes out, and of course she noticed, of course, of course. The hand on her stomach is tracing a pattern, which is certainly not helping Greta keep quiet, “but you’re going to wake someone up.”
“You hand,” Greta gets out, barely coherent. She reaches with weak arms, pulling Carson’s hand up against her mouth and breathing heavily out through her nose. Her whole body moves with the next inhale, exhale, inhale, she has to keep herself in check, can’t be too loud, too much, can’t ruin this now.
“Three,” Carson sighs out, almost a whisper. Greta can see through the haze, the deep thrumming of the build-up, that Carson is looking at her, wide-eyed and ravenous. “You look so beautiful like this, Greta, you’re almost there.”
“Two,” Carson’s thumb moves finally, just lightly against her clit, and somehow it feels like less than before, the lack of friction making her groan into Carson’s palm, eyes slipping shut, finally meeting the edge.
“One, Greta,” Carson says, voice shaking like she’s witnessing something profound, something sacred. Greta bucks up against her, whole body tensed with it, still not quite permitting herself to fall, until, “Let go, baby, it’s okay, I’ve got you-”
She comes, long and drawn out and whimpering into Carson’s hand. Tears spring to her eyes. And then, while she’s barely half-conscious, still bleary-eyed with the come down, Carson presses a handful of kisses against her hip as her hand moves again, thumb flicking, and this time Greta is coming with a silent gasp under Carson’s palm.
Greta blacks out. She’s gone for a second at most, she reasons, until she lets her eyes open and Carson’s tucked loosely against her right side, arm slung over Greta’s body. She’s been there for some time, Greta thinks, when she notices the smug smile on her face.
“Hey,” She says softly, limbs like jelly, eyes still wet. If she was exhausted before, she feels completely drained now, aching in the best possible way.
With a clean hand and light touch, Carson caresses her face, holds her like that for a moment. Greta almost cries for real this time, almost lets out the joy, the wanting, the love. It must read on her face, too spent to school her expression like she usually would. Carson turns, presses a kiss to her shoulder softly, mumbles about how good she was tonight.
And Greta lets herself think, maybe Carson could handle this. Maybe Carson wouldn’t feel weighed down by her. Maybe she’s not too much. Maybe Carson sees her like she hasn’t been seen in a long time. Maybe Carson likes what she’s seeing.
“Hey,” Carson smiles at her, laying beside her girl, the two of them resting, finally, for the first time today. “I think we had this conversation before.”