Everything Carol Danvers did was with intensity, focus, passion.
Even things that bored her, she did with passion; a passion to be loud about the fact that she was bored, that she’d rather be done with the task at hand.
Maria shouldn’t have been surprised, then; the sheer ferocity Carol kissed her with should have been par for the course, not shocking.
But first flights were always shocking.
And this was a first flight, for sure.
Because they were laughing and then they were leaning into each other, catching their breath, and Maria’s eyes dropped to Carol’s lips, and Carol’s breath hitched as she smoothed stray hair out of Maria’s eyes.
And later, neither would be sure who brought their lips together first, but Maria would always be sure of the way her knees buckled when Carol’s tongue slipped into her mouth, the way her entire body swooned when Carol pulled away, just far enough for them to make eye contact, pupils dilating and voice trembling.
“You sure?” she asked, and Maria had never heard her voice sound so ragged.
“Shut up and kiss me, Danvers,” was all she could manage, and it was the only sentence she’d ever uttered that mattered.
It was the intensity of Carol’s eyes that did it.
The way all that focus, all that discipline, that drive, that she usually put into flying better than any man on base, laser-focused onto Maria.
Just Maria.
Because Carol studied every one of Maria’s responses to her touches, her kisses, the way her teeth nipped at her neck and her tongue at her breasts.
Carol worshipped her body with her mouth, with trembling hands, as she stripped her thorough and slow, and Maria wondered vaguely why they’d never done this before.
Maria wondered how she’d ever breathed oxygen that wasn’t right from this woman’s lungs, as she flipped Carol over and did some exploring of her own, painting a map of Carol’s skin with her lips, her tongue, her teeth.
“Fuck.” Carol was the first one to swear, to arch her hips up toward Maria’s body, to offer herself completely to this transition in their relationship, this new set of discoveries they were writing onto each other’s bodies, each other’s hearts.
“All good?” Maria had to make sure, because Carol’s voice was a low rasp and her face was the image of a woman who was beyond wrecked, but she didn’t want to be projecting, didn’t want to be hoping too hard or assuming too much.
“Shut up and kiss me, Rambeau,” Carol echoed, and Maria laughed against newly bare skin.
“Anywhere in particular?” Maria asked, and Carol whimpered.
Maria immediately cataloged and cherished the sound.
“Everywhere.”