Chapter Text
Fridays are Carson’s favorite day of the week.
The bookstore closes early, leaving her afternoons free to do whatever she pleases while she waits for Greta’s workday to end. Normally, she prefers to spend her time off exploring the city on her own, wandering up and down the endless grid of streets in hopes of stumbling upon some kind of hidden gem, like a shop she’s never visited or a peculiar-looking piece of architecture.
Today, however, the gloomy late-winter-early-spring weather leads her straight home, where she curls up in her chair with a cup of tea and her latest literary find.
Her mind wanders so deep into the pages in front of her that she almost doesn’t hear the click of the front door unlocking. Still, she looks up just in time to watch it swing open.
Suddenly, the book isn’t so interesting to her anymore.
Greta comes waltzing through into the apartment in her pristine work clothes, a serene smile on her immaculately painted face. She’s carrying her pocketbook as usual, but Carson notices an unfamiliar brown paper bag in her grasp as well. As she sets both down on the kitchen table and goes to hang her coat and umbrella on the rack, Carson gets up from her spot on the couch to greet her.
“Hi,” she says, capturing Greta in her arms after she slips out of her heels.
“Hi yourself,” Greta echoes, punctuating her words with a sweet and quick kiss.
As much as she wants to savor their evening reunion, Carson’s curiosity overtakes her. She peeks past Greta’s shoulder at the table behind her. “What’s in the bag?”
“Nothing special, just some sample products from Vivienne. She asked me to try them out and report back with my honest reviews.” She speaks nonchalantly and professionally, but Carson knows her well enough to catch the pride and excitement threatening to peek through the edges of her smile.
“Oh? Could this have something to do with that top secret project you’ve been working on?”
Greta brings a finger up to her lips, pretending to shush her, before giving a sly nod.
The “top secret project” in question is a new shade of lipstick: Rockford Red, the official lip color of the Rockford Peaches for the 1945 AAGPBL season, to celebrate their victory in the 1944 Championships. Greta has been working diligently under Vivienne’s tutelage along with representatives from the League to develop the new product, providing input on each step of the process right down to developing the exact hue.
But the most exciting part? Greta is set to be the face of the product when it releases in tandem with the start of the new season. Who better to represent the collaboration between the League and the Vivienne Hughes brand than Greta Gill, star Peaches player and Vivienne’s own protégé?
Although she’s been explicitly instructed not to reveal the project to any of her teammates, rivals, fans, or otherwise, she was far too elated to keep this from Carson for very long.
“You’re my coach,” she’d reasoned. “What kind of player would I be if I kept secrets from you?”
She has a point. And Carson is more than happy to receive the inside scoop on the project, especially getting to watch the woman she loves use her talents and take so much pride in her work. Some rules are just meant to be broken.
Greta reaches over to the table, picking up the bag once more and raising an eyebrow at Carson. “I don’t suppose you’d like to have a look at the test products with me?”
“As your coach, I order you to show me,” she teases, earning a delighted Ooh from Greta before she takes Carson by the hand and pulls her into their bedroom.
Carson sits on the edge of the bed and waits as Greta momentarily disappears into the bathroom, returning with her lips freshly washed of the lipstick she was previously wearing. At her vanity, she removes five tubes of lipstick from the bag and lines them up in a neat row. She also procures a notepad and pen to record her thoughts—much like Carson and her game cards, Greta takes her makeup very seriously.
“First up to the plate, we have lipstick number one,” Greta announces, uncapping the tube on the far left side labeled with “#1” on the cap. Carson watches her carefully twist the lipstick out of its casing and lean in close to the mirror as she paints on a layer of the rich red color. She turns back to face Carson, bringing her lips together and releasing a puff of air with a distinct pop sound. “What do you think?”
“Gorgeous as always,” Carson flirts. It’s very similar to the usual lipstick she wears on the baseball field, if a little bit darker.
Greta examines herself in the mirror. “Hmm,” she says, her amusement shoddily masked by fake pensiveness. “It seems I’ve forgotten something to blot with.”
Before Carson can offer to spring to her feet and grab a tissue for her, Greta gets up from her vanity seat and crosses the room herself. To her surprise, instead of turning into the bathroom, she sits beside Carson on the bed and attacks her cheek with a kiss, leaving behind the perfect outline of her lips. “That’s better,” she says with a playful wiggle of her shoulders.
Carson winkles her nose, a steady blush creeping up her neck and to her cheeks.
Greta purses her lips, staring up at the ceiling in thought. “I’m going to need to collect more data on the kissability levels of this product,” she declares, following up with another kiss—this time, just above Carson’s eyebrow. She continues kissing her face, softly depositing a series of lip-shaped stamps until the color fades.
Greta takes a moment to scrutinize the marks she left behind as Carson holds back laughter at her unnecessary seriousness. “Hmm, just as I suspected. We’ll have to test the other samples as well,” she says. “Don’t move.”
Carson obeys as Greta retrieves the remaining four lipstick tubes from her vanity and transfers them to the bedside table, watching in eager anticipation of whatever Greta has planned.
The mattress dips as Greta returns to her spot beside Carson. She applies a coat of the second lipstick sample—slightly brighter than the last, and a tad glossier. This time, she cups Carson’s cheek, angling her face toward her own for ease of kissing her forehead, her chin, and the tip of her nose, while Carson laughs at the ticklish sensation. When Greta kisses the corner of her grinning mouth, Carson moves to capture her lips and kiss her back, but she quickly swerves away, placing a hand to Carson’s chest to prevent her from inching closer.
“Results inconclusive,” she jokingly notes. “My research assistant is not following the correct procedures, I’ll have to repeat the data collection process.”
“Oh, there’s a procedure?” Carson questions, smirking.
“Of course there is.” Greta puts on her best faux-serious expression again. “I’ll have you know, this is very important research, Coach,” she quips, sweeping Carson’s hair behind her shoulder to expose her jawline.
“Really...” Carson raises her eyebrows and tilts her head to the side—half quizzically, half to allow Greta easier access.
Greta nods. “You know how seriously I take my work,” she murmurs against her, warm breath heating Carson’s throat. “Now stay still.”
“Sorry, I’ll be good,” she swears, breath hitching at the sensation of teeth grazing her skin.
“That’s what I like to hear.”
Sample number three is Carson’s favorite so far, and not just because the color looks stunning on Greta, but in the way she uses it to pepper kisses up and down her neck, giving extra attention to the spot just under her ear.
Carson already knows a mark will linger there even after the lipstick is washed away. The thought raises the hairs at her nape and leaves her craving more.
It doesn’t take long for Greta to catch onto the desire building in her. In the blink of an eye, she’s straddling Carson, skirt hiked up over her knees and shins flush against the mattress on either side of her thighs.
“You’re a great research assistant,” she whispers, brushing red along the shell of Carson’s ear and sending a shiver through her. “Being so good for me.” The next thing she knows she’s gently falling backward, pulling Greta down with her until she’s flat on the mattress.
Carson moves further back onto the bed, leaning against the headboard with Greta hovering over her. She reaches to the nightstand for the next tube of lipstick, removing the cap as her free hand fumbles with the top button of Carson’s blouse. Carson eagerly helps her loosen them all, exposing a new canvas of bare skin for Greta to continue her masterpiece.
Greta applies the fourth lipstick shade, this time making a show of dragging the tube along the perimeter of her mouth, nice and slow, eyes never leaving Carson’s as she watches hungrily from below. Carson has no feedback about the shade of this one or how it compares to the others. Frankly, it could be blue for all she’s aware—she’s too focused on the slow pull of Greta’s bottom lip against the deep red cylinder before she dips down, pushing Carson deeper into the pillows. She paints sloppy red blooms down the length of her sternum, devoting quick little pecks to each of her freckles.
Carson instinctively arches off the bed, seeking more contact. Her hands roam along the contours of Greta’s back, gripping at her blouse and causing it to untuck from her skirt, and Greta takes the opportunity to pull it off the rest of the way before helping Carson untangle her limbs out of her own.
Her bra is next to go. With her path no longer obstructed by the silky, restrictive material, Greta’s trail of kisses continue descending downward, plastering scarlet marks along the curvature of Carson’s breast while a hand kneads at the other. Carson gasps as Greta takes her nipple into her mouth, sliding along the hardened, sensitive surface. Her hands roam up Greta’s back and to her hair, fingers tangling into auburn curls and pulling at the roots with each calculated pass of her tongue.
Her breathing shallows, her pulse picks up speed. “More,” she commands, tilting her head back against the headboard. “Please.”
Greta’s mouth disappears from Carson’s body as the final lipstick tube vanishes from the bedside table. She lets out an impatient whine, aching and eager for her return.
“What do you think of this one?” Greta asks, a fresh coat of red adorning her mouth. Her tongue darts along the top edge of her mouth from one end to the other, and every word in the English language leaves Carson’s brain.
“Carson?” she adds impatiently when she receives no answer.
“S…so pretty,” Carson manages to get out.
“I had a feeling you’d like it.” Greta slips back down again, kissing from Carson’s ribcage to the soft, muscular plane of her stomach. Carson squirms with surprised laughter when Greta pauses to blow a raspberry on her skin.
“Stop,” she says between giggles, and the low hum of Greta’s own laughs vibrates against her.
When her mouth reaches the top edge of Carson’s pants, she hooks her fingers inside the waistband and gracefully pulls it down past her hips along with her soaked undergarments in one swift movement. She takes her precious time, nipping and sucking against the spot by Carson’s hipbone that she knows always causes her to writhe under her touch. Carson helps her shimmy her bottoms the rest of the way down her legs until she’s extricated herself from them completely, free to spread her thighs which she knows are now glistening and slick with arousal.
Greta settles between them, guiding one leg over her shoulder, then the other. Her mouth inches further up the inside of Carson’s leg, leaving red smears closer and closer to where she needs her most. She cants her hips, desperate for contact, only for Greta to begin again at her other side.
“Please, Greta” she moans, but her manners are no use. Greta continues to stall, depositing languid smudges to her skin, only fueling the unrelenting burn at her core. Her own hand moves down her body, seeking the relief denied to her by Greta. “I need—”
“Be patient,” Greta scolds, catching Carson’s hand in hers to stop her from touching herself. “You’re disrupting the research process.”
“Somehow, I don’t think this is the type of research Vivienne had in mind,” she jokes between breaths as Greta resumes staining the inside of her leg red.
Greta pauses and pulls away, staring at her with her nose scrunched. “Can we maybe not bring up my boss at a time like this?” she teases.
“Only if you just fuck me already,” she practically begs.
Finally, finally, Greta’s tongue meets her center, taking in the wetness pooling there as she glides slowly along the length of her folds until she reaches her clit. Lightly, she sucks at the throbbing bud and Carson digs her heels hard into the mattress, gripping at the sheets with one hand and Greta’s hair with the other. Greta steadies her trembling body, palming at her ass as she strokes in slow circles.
Propping herself up on her elbows, Carson gazes down upon her kiss-stained skin, the lipstick mapping every spot claimed and adored by Greta. The marks wind along the contours of her body, some picture-perfect prints of Greta’s lips, others streaked and smudged with motion, leading all the way to Greta as she laps at her entrance. She looks up at Carson through her lashes, tongue darting in and out, coaxing new waves of pleasure to course through her.
“Fuck,” Carson moans. She knows she mustn’t take their relative privacy in the off-seasons for granted—once they’re back in Rockford in a few weeks, she won’t be able to be this vocal, and they’ll have to be very conscious about where Greta’s leaving her lipstick. But right now, she’s far too flustered to be mindful of anything but Greta’s mouth on her.
Even nearly two years into their relationship, she still catches herself by surprise every now and again with just how much indulgence Greta can tease out of her. Before, she never cared for being touched and kissed so thoroughly like this, never imagined letting anyone anoint every inch of her with physical manifestations of affection. Greta simply has a gift for making her feel wanted, worthy, powerful, beautiful.
She’s close. She knows it, and Greta knows it too—she can feel it in the way she smirks against her. “More... yes, there...” she directs, leading Greta to where she needs her.
Greta inserts a finger, then another, curling and thrusting as she continues mouthing at her clit. Carson gasps, fucking herself against Greta’s hand, tumbling closer and closer to the edge until she comes, clenching hard around Greta while floods of pleasure overtake her. Greta guides her home, fingers pumping lazily and slowly as she rides out the high, breathily kissing everywhere her tired mouth can reach.
When the stars in her eyes have fallen, Carson pulls Greta to her, seeking her lips. Greta finally allows her this time, and she kisses her softly, tasting herself. They settle beside one another, both spent and thoroughly blotched with red.
“Hey Carson?”
“Hmm?”
“You’ve got a little…” with her finger, she taps the kiss mark that she layered on top of the spot where Carson’s dimple hides, causing it to make an appearance when she smiles.
“You’re ridiculous,” Carson teases, tracing her hand along Greta’s cheek. “Gathered all the information you need?”
“More than enough,” Greta says, leaning into her touch. “Thanks for your assistance, I assure you it will be greatly appreciated by the League.”
“Always a pleasure to help out with important League business,” she says, fingers ghosting along Greta’s thigh, up past the hem of her rumpled skirt, sensing the telltale signs of her own arousal. Greta shivers with want at her touch, shuffling closer...
And then Carson removes her hand, delighted by the wanton whimper of protest that escapes past Greta’s lips.
“I’m in need of a shower,” she says. With a playful wink, she swings her legs over the edge of the bed, finding it more difficult than usual to be vertical again on her still-shaky limbs.
She expects Greta to follow her as she steps toward the bathroom, but she hears no shifting of sheets, no footsteps behind her. Perplexed, she twists around to look back at Greta, still lounging comfortably against the red-stained pillows, eyes flickering up and down the length of Carson’s naked body.
“Aren’t you going to join me?”
Greta nods. “Just taking a moment to admire my artwork before it’s washed away.”
Carson rolls her eyes affectionately, feeling herself blush once more. “Oh, it’s artwork now? I thought it was research.”
“Mm-hm. That too. Hand me the notepad?”
She obliges, settling back down next to Greta as she flips to the next blank page. Over her shoulder, she watches her love write in her beautiful, loopy script:
“Lovely pigments, partial to shade #5.
Smudges easily—Could be an issue when playing ball
(Or doing other physically demanding activities).
Looks especially beautiful on Coach Shaw.”