carson and greta fanfiction

She itches to remove her mitten and Greta’s simple glove and feel their skin pressed together, but this, she understands – she respects Greta’s boundary. If every time she touched someone, she knew what was going on in their heads, she would probably hate that too. It’s already too much to hear what’s going on in everyone’s hearts. As much as she longs for Greta to know exactly how much time Carson has spent thinking about kissing her. or: gretson know everything and they're still emotionally unintelligent, and also it's christmas.

Carson runs a set like nobody Greta has ever met. There’s a measure of playfulness, of equal respect all-around that Greta isn’t used to. The ship sails smoothly, and Carson is the captain. It’s rare to have a woman photograph her, too. Greta is used to men. Men who come to shoot at all because it’s her, because of her body. Because they’re hungry, and Greta lets them be, because there’s no way she couldn’t. Even after the first outfit she models, Greta can tell that Carson isn’t like that. She practically waltzes through the space as she gets the angles that she wants, never gets closer to Greta than what feels comfortable – but Carson also never even has to ask if it’s okay. She just seems to know. (Or, a photographer x model AU set in Los Angeles. The one where Greta wishes people knew she wasn't art, that she was just a woman. And Carson does. Carson has always known.)

Greta smiles ruefully every time she kisses Carson goodbye. “Wish you could come.” “Season just started,” Carson usually reminds her. And sure, coaching high school softball doesn’t amount much to watching Greta pose on a beach in a bikini or whatever it is Greta is doing down there in the Caribbean, but, Carson also has boundaries. And one of them is to be here, in New York, and not lost among a sea of people she doesn’t understand while Greta does her own work. (It’s not like Greta comes to her games, obviously, so it’s fine. It is.) or: while greta's away being famous, carson grapples with what both of them really want. they grow apart. they grow back together.

If someone had asked Carson what the secret to career progression was, she would have said, maybe, hard work and skill. She would not have said: a mustard stain and stolen bottle of wine. OR Carson is a general secretary at Pace Magazine. Until that is, Ms Gill offers her a new, exciting, and, frankly, mysterious job as her assistant.

In the aftermath of Charlie's discovery of her affair with Greta, Carson returns to Idaho to pick up the pieces of her old life. But when she receives an invitation to Greta's wedding--to a man she's never even heard of--she's forced to confront the feelings she's spent the last months trying to hide from. Canon compliant, post s01 story focusing on Carson and Greta's relationship.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Greta hisses, even as she watches the game, watches Carson leading off second base, the focus in her jawline, the flex of her calves, that stupid cap on her head. “Oh really?” Maybelle leans over Jess. “Then why are you drooling?” Greta’s face goes hot. “I’m not fucking drooling!” she hisses. “Carson and I work together.” “Yeah, I’m sure you do lots of things together,” Jess quips, proud of themself. Swallowing hard, Greta steels her resolve. They’re getting too close to the truth. She has to remember the rules she and Carson drew up in the back of class once – they should have been taking notes, but Carson’s hand was on her knee, her thumb drawing circles, so she spent most of class just doing her best to keep a clear head. “Really, Carson and I are just friends,” she says, firm. “She has a boyfriend.” And that part is true at least. Carson isn’t her girlfriend; that’s Greta’s entire problem. (Or, a modern-take on the affair and how it might play out if they were allowed more choices, for better or for worse. The one where they're in college, they're co-workers, they can't keep their hands off each other + they just really need to get their shit together.)

Carson Shaw is a damn good player, and she's definitely not about to let that go because of the shining beacon of the Ottawa Stars. Greta Gill, the woman in question, is the darling of the hockey world, tall, and beautiful, and always graceful even in the fiercest moments on the ice. She’s a favourite for the Canadian team in the upcoming Olympics, the star forward of her team, and one of the strongest players Carson’s seen in a long time. She’s also been Carson’s post-game fuckbuddy for the last three years, but that’s by-the-by. Or: Carson and Greta, rival national league hockey players, have been in love for a lot longer than they realise.

Sargent Beverley - owner of Building 666, Hell’s Kitchen – rents apartments only to the mythical and the magical. When Carson moves in opposite Greta, Greta is instantly intrigued. What God, being, or beast could be that adorable, that dimpled and that badly dressed? Greta is determined to find out.

"Did you always want to act?"   "Always had to." // in which Greta is a famous actress under contract at MGM, and Carson is a secretary in the MGM typing pool, desperate for something resembling adventure before she heads home to Idaho to get married and settle into the life she's expected to live.

They've been doing it for a while, and it's awesome, and Carson's ready to give as good as she gets. Greta shows her how.

The Racine Belles have figured out the Peaches' hand signs. Coach Shaw has one night before their next game to come up with a new system. * Carson glanced up along the contours of her spectacular view and saw Greta looking up at the roof, like she was trying to think of something. Carson had given her the hardest job: try to remember what gestures go where, all while someone’s on a hot streak, or worse, high and outside.

“Do you bruise?” “Do I what?” “Do you bruise? Easily?” Conveniently enough, Carson doesn't.

"I've known since that first night at the bar. But also, a couple weeks ago, you fell asleep in my room with Greta, rookie." Jess figures it out.

She's totally good. Great, even. And she doesn't miss Carson at all. So why the hell can't she stop thinking about her?

Swing from the hips and the hands will follow: hitting is a lot like sex in that way. (And Greta Gill, for the record, is a good player and a damn good lay.) --- First Greta loses her swing, then she loses her orgasm.