will-o-whiisper

[will-o-whiisper]

slightly related this makes me think of when i went to a pop up thrift and a white girl around my age touched my hair without asking (as if id let her even if she asked) and i was like what r u doing and she goes “its so beautiful” and i told her that doesnt give her the right to touch me or my fro and she, i kid you not, pointed to her blm pin on her bag and expected me to be like overjoyed and praise her for Liking Us but got nasty with me when i said “You don’t get to fucking touch me” there r millions of u performative allys walking around being weird to us trust me we know how to spot u, bc u feel entitled to us and expect praise for Liking Us but you never even actually Like Us

[will-o-whiisper]

North

Supergirl. Supercorp. Lena Luthor x Kara Danvers.

Word Count: 4.5k

Notes: loosely inspired by Clairo's song 'North'.

The key sticks in the lock. 

Of course it does. The house has been abandoned for years—so long Lena forgot it even existed until she needed somewhere no one would think to look.

The door groans open, and stale air breathes out like something exiled and forgotten. She doesn’t step inside. Not yet. Just stands there, one hand still on the key, trying to summon something—anything—from this place.

If she stares at the couch long enough, maybe a memory will surface. Lex and Lillian playing chess. Lionel with his whiskey, some heavy book cracked open on his lap. Maybe a younger version of herself curled by the fireplace, small and shadowed, just trying to be unnoticed.

But nothing comes. Not even when she forces it.

Her mind is playing tricks on her, because the only voice she hears—the only presence she feels—was never here.

Kara Danvers doesn’t even know this house exists. And still, Lena swears she can hear her, “Hey Lena, come snuggle on the couch and watch a movie.” She shakes her head as if to shake the voice inside her brain off.

The place smells like dust and old wood, varnish gone sharp with time, a ghost of lakewater and damp earth. But when Lena breathes in, it’s Kara she feels in her lungs. 

That’s why she left. That’s why she ran. Because everything in her penthouse smelled like Kara. Like sunlight and laughter, like warmth that creeps in on you. It smelled like sweet nothings and heavy comfort. Sun-warmed cotton, bare skin, and smooth-talking.

It clung to her pillows. Her couch. Her clothes. It haunted the house with invisible hands, brushing over her shoulders, curling against her spine.

Kara stayed over.

Just like that. No excuse. No justifying why she didn’t go home. She curled up on the couch with Lena like she belonged there. Head on Lena’s thigh. Gentle fingers tracing the seam of her trousers. Not sexual. Not not, either.

“You always smell like lavender. It's my favorite.”

Lena didn’t know what to say. Her heart was already beating too hard. Kara had looked up at her with those wide blue eyes and smiled like she’d just said something innocent.

In bed, later that night, she pushed it further.

Whispered as a secret in the quiet of the night, under the same darkness, surrounded by the same blanket, “Goodnight, my heart.”

And Lena's heart, god, it screamed. All of the sudden there were flashing lights. Sirens in her bloodstream. Every nerve buzzing like something terrible was about to happen—because something always does. When she lets someone close enough to touch the parts of her no one should reach—awful things happen to everyone involved.

She’d said nothing. Turned her back to Kara and stared at the wall like it might save her.

But it didn’t. Because Kara stayed the night. And in the morning after, she made coffee like it was her kitchen. She danced around in socks, humming some stupid song under her breath, calling Lena love like Lena had earned it. But…

Did she?

Lena could feel herself splitting down old fault lines. Cracks she’d plastered over years ago beginning to open again.

So she ran.

No note. No goodbye. Just a bag thrown together in ten minutes and a car aimed north.

Now the lake stares back at her through tall windows like it knows the truth.

This wasn’t supposed to be her story. She wasn’t supposed to be the one who fell first. She should’ve had the upper hand. The control. The distance. All the things she learned in this very house—maybe, probably—to wield like weapons.

But Kara had gotten under her skin. Sweetly. Softly. Like honey. Like flowers growing under your feet. Like something that gets you before you even notice it's there.

And somehow, impossibly, Kara is still here. In the creak of the floors. In the way the light moves across the walls. In the ache behind Lena’s ribs that won’t subside.

How is it that Kara's warmth seems to have followed her all the way here, when it should be a place filled with nothing but resentment and expensive art?

Lena drags herself upstairs. The bed is enormous. Cold. Blinding white. Too Luthor.

She strips it bare.

The old sheets go in a pile on the floor. She buys new ones. Drives an hour into town to make sure they’re not satin, not high thread count, not something Kara would sink into with a smile. These are scratchy. Beige. Soulless. That’s what she needs.

She buys too much food. A way to tell herself that she is here to stay. That, this time, she won't shake this feeling in two to three business days. No. This time, it's deep. Nestled inside her like marrow and she knows she will need weeks to get over her love for Kara Danvers. 

Maybe— maybe she even knows she will never truly get over it. She just needs to be functional before going back to National City.

There's a text on her phone, when she glances down at it. Kara’s name. That stupid heart Lena had added next to it. Pink. Soft. Mocking.

It’s not the Luthor way, she tells herself. Then again, perhaps it’s the most Luthor thing she’s ever done—this brand of operatic madness. Because she’s out the door before she can stop herself.

Underwear and a T-Shirt. Nothing else. Not even shoes.

She runs and runs—through grass, down the slope, straight to the edge of the lake. Breath ragged, chest burning. She keeps running.

And then, she stops just short before the water meets her toes and flings her phone so far into it, she knows she will never get it back. 

She doesn't even know what the text said. It doesn't matter. A hello at this point could have killed her.

She stares at the lake for about ten minutes until it dawns her, whoa—that was dramatic. And completely unnecessary. The superwatch is still perfectly fastened to her wrist, of course. Because while she may have lost her mind for a second, she’s not insane enough to throw that into the water.

She draws a breath and turns toward the house. Resigned. She walks back up the slope with wet grass clinging to her ankles and mud drying on her calves. Every step heavier than the last. By the time she makes it back inside, she wants to scream.

Because—what was that? What was all of that?

The sleepovers. The touches. The pet names. The way Kara looked at her in the mornings like it was already theirs, like Lena was something she could keep.

And then—nothing.

No explanations. No confessions. No kiss. 

Never a kiss. 

Was it all a game? Was she just… practice? A warm place to land until Kara figured out who she really wanted?

Lena knows Kara. Knows her heart, or thought she did. And she wants to believe that Kara wouldn’t play with her like that. That she wouldn’t be cruel.

But what if she is just too good at it?

That’s the part Lena can’t stand—the possibility that none of it meant anything. That Kara can smile and touch and whisper like that, and still walk away unscathed. That she can call someone my heart like it’s nothing.

And maybe Lena was foolish for believing it. For letting herself think that this could be different. That Kara—sweet, sunny, ever-loyal Kara—could see her, really see her, and still stay.

Lena rips open the fridge. The door bounces back from the force of it. She stares inside like it's supposed to offer her answers, and then laughs—a bitter, hollow sound that barely makes it out of her throat.

She’s angry now. And it’s better than being sad.

Because it hits her—how pathetic she must’ve looked. Curled up on the couch with Kara. Letting her lay there, tracing lines onto her trousers like that didn’t mean anything. Like she wasn’t branding Lena at that moment. Whispering things no one had ever said to her before and expecting her to survive it.

And what did Lena do?

She smiled. She let it happen.

God, what kind of Luthor was she? A bad one. One that would be scrutinized if anyone else from her family had seen.

She was twelve. Sitting in the lounge of this very house, legs tucked up under her as she watched Lex play chess against their mother. Lillian didn’t even glance at her as she moved a rook and said, flatly, “People who are soft don’t get to win.”

Lex had chuckled, cruel and easy. “People who are soft get turned into weapons.”

Lena had pretended not to care, pretended it wasn't about her they were talking about. Had pretended her heart wasn’t cracking just a little when Lionel looked up from his whiskey and said, “See, Lena. You have to learn that no one will like you if you’re soft.”

She stares at herself on the nearest shiny surface. Her hair’s a mess. Her eyes are red. She looks like someone who didn’t learn.

Kara had walked right into her life with sunshine and sweetness and meant it, and Lena still managed to fall for it like a fool. Like a Luthor desperate to believe she could be loved.

No. No.

This was her mistake—thinking she could be soft. Thinking she could lay back and let someone like Kara hold her and stay the night without consequences.

She grips the counter tighter.

If she’s going to break, she’ll do it on her own terms.

The wine doesn’t even taste good.

She finds it in the cellar, one of the few things in this house she vaguely remembers liking. Dusty bottles, stupid labels, vintage worth more than most people’s cars. She doesn’t care. Just pops the cork with shaking hands and drinks straight from the neck, mouth tilted, jaw tight.

She finishes and starts another bottle in the same breath. Manages to get halfway through it, before she stumbles her way upstairs again. Leaves her clothes in a trail behind her like she’s shedding everything Kara ever touched.

The sheets are beige. Soulless. Chosen for their lack of memory. And yet…

She throws herself into the bed—and freezes. The scent hits her before she’s even fully underneath. That fucking smell.

Not Kara, not exactly. Not like her skin or her perfume. It’s subtler. But it’s there. That warm cotton softness, that trace of vanilla from Kara’s shampoo. The smell of safety. Of being held.

And Lena chokes on it.

“No,” she whispers, fists already twisting the pillow, dragging it out from under her to throw across the room. “No—no—no.”

She tears the blanket off, throws it down, tears at the sheets like they’ve betrayed her. Which they have. Which everything has.

“I bought these. I chose them,” she says, voice rising, cracking. “You’re not supposed to be here. You’re not supposed to be anywhere near me.”

But Kara always was good at sneaking in.

Even now, even here—hundreds of miles away, behind locked doors and miles of dirt road—Kara got in anyway.

That’s what breaks her.

Not the wine. Not the bed. Not the house or the lake or even the fucking text she never read.

It’s the realization that no matter how far she runs, she still brought Kara with her. Kara Danvers is in her blood now. Every breath tastes like her. Every ache leads back to her.

She sinks to the floor beside the bed, knees drawn to her chest, arms around them like a cage. And then the tears come. Angry. Humiliating. Loud.

Not the elegant kind that slides down cheeks like poetry—no, these are the kind that rip their way out. Ugly. Shaking. Snotty.

“I hate you,” she sobs into her own arms. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you—”

But she doesn’t. God, she doesn’t.

And that’s the worst part.

She presses her face into her arms and tells herself it’ll pass. That she’ll wake up tomorrow and feel nothing.

But the ache only gets louder.

Because right now, she doesn’t believe Kara ever meant it. Not really. Not the hand warm on her tight, not the pet name, not the staying over, not the never leaving.

And that’s the part Lena can’t forgive.

She cries until her throat hurts. Until she’s gasping more than sobbing. Until her body is wrung out and her skin feels too tight for her bones.

Eventually, she drags herself into the bed again—not because she wants to, but because the floor is cold and she’s shivering. The sheets are still warm from her outburst, but the smell lingers. She hates that it’s in the fabric, hates that it’s in her. That even now, Kara feels closer than anyone else ever has.

She stares at the ceiling in the dark, blinking through the leftover tears, and lets the silence press in around her. No phone. No noise. Just her, alone in the bed she tried so hard to make sterile.

She wants to hate her. But Kara never gave her a clean wound. Only the kind that keeps reopening.

She kind of wishes Kara had kissed her and then disappeared. Slept with her and then laughed. Lied, cheated, done something she could hold like a weapon. But Kara hadn’t done anything like that. She’d just stayed. She’d lingered.

She’d said things like goodnight, my heart.

And Lena—idiot, idiot—she’d believed it.

That’s what gets her again. The punch of it. The humiliation of how deeply she let herself believe. Like some wide-eyed farm girl in a high school movie, not someone raised by wolves in thousand-dollar suits.

“Luthors weren’t built to be this stupid,” she mutters bitterly into the mattress.

But she was. Somehow, she was.

Because when Kara smiled at her like that—when she touched her hair like it was silk, and called her love like it meant something—Lena believed her.

And now she doesn’t know how to stop feeling Kara in her bones.

She’s surviving on tears. And anger. And wine, obviously.

Usually, by now, she would’ve gotten over it. She would’ve reasoned with herself—told herself it was ridiculous. That having this many emotions about one person is not only unhealthy, but maniacal.

She’s not Lex. She’s not about to become the kind of person who spirals over Kara Danvers like he did over Clark Kent.

Only… Lex didn’t want Clark to kiss him breathless and say he was in love.

Or maybe he did. It would explain a lot more.

Maybe Clark played with Lex’s feelings the same way Kara plays with hers.

Kara leaned in too close one night, in the penthouse. Close enough that Lena could see her own breath stutter in Kara’s glasses. Close enough that when Kara whispered something—I swear this lipstick drives me insane—and then kissed her cheek like it was nothing. She thought she would die.

But her hands had stayed on Lena’s hips for a second too long. Her eyes had dropped to Lena’s mouth like they’d meant to.

And Lena, like a fool, had tilted forward.

Just slightly. Just enough to ruin everything.

But Kara only smiled. Like Lena had misread the whole thing. Like they were playing some game Kara never agreed to start.

And then she’d left.

Went home like she hadn’t just lit Lena’s entire ribcage on fire and walked out before watching it burn.

Maybe it wasn’t even romantic. Maybe it never was.

Maybe Kara’s just doing that thing people do—keep your friends close, your enemies closer. Whispering sweet things to keep her soft. Keeping her roped in, just in case. For leverage. For safety. So she’ll always know where to find her, if she needs to.

Maybe that’s all Lena ever was. A safety net. A contingency plan with good taste in wine and a huge bed Kara liked sleeping in.

Because how else do you explain it?

How else do you explain the way she keeps coming back? The way she touches Lena like it’s second nature and then pulls away like she didn’t mean it? Like Lena imagined the whole thing?

God, maybe she did.

Maybe that’s the real Luthor curse—not the madness or the ambition or the name carved in stone—but the delusion. The desperate, pathetic hope that someone like Kara Danvers could ever mean it when she calls her love.

Before she realizes, it’s been a week.

Look, Lena is a pathetic mess when it comes to Kara Danvers. But she’s better than that. She’s smart. Resourceful. Half a Luthor—for whatever that's worth.

So she comes up with a plan. A damn good one.

She keeps herself busy with the stupid house. Cleans it. Throws things away. Hides others in the basement. She gives herself a clean slate. Somewhere she can almost see herself living for real. After all, she does have a portal.

But when her mind plays tricks on her, she has a contingency plan.

She runs. Down the slope and straight into the freezing lake, until her body is fighting just to survive. Until the cold shocks her brain quiet again.

It isn’t a perfect system, but it helps.

Until it doesn’t.

It works until she’s dragging herself out of the lake, soaked and shivering and breathless—only to see Kara standing at the edge. Just waiting. Her mind is either powerful enough to conjure Kara here, or she’s been found.

She freezes.

Literally and figuratively.

Kara says nothing at first. Just looks at her like she’s not cold, not dripping, not trembling from the inside out. Like she’s something Kara’s been watching for a long time.

Lena wants to scream.

Instead, she walks right past her. Leaves a trail of lakewater and bruised dignity all the way up to the house.

“Wait—”

Kara follows. Of course she does.

“I’ve been texting. You just disappeared, and I had no idea—”

Lena slams the door behind her like it might keep the words out. Like it might keep her out. Even though she knows Kara is strong enough to break it open if she wants to.

“Ever think I didn’t want to see you?” Lena snaps through the door. Her voice shakes more than she means it to.

No way—no fucking way—she’s letting Kara into this house. It’s been hard enough trying to scrub away the smell of memories, the echoes of touch, the look Kara left her with.

“Lena.”

It comes out in that stupid, pleading tone Lena hates. Or loves. The one only Kara ever uses. The one no one else would dare use. The one she’s addicted to.

Kara’s at the window now. Hand pressed to the glass like she could reach through it.

Lena blinks hard. Maybe she’s still hallucinating. Maybe Kara’s just a trick of the cold.

But when she opens her eyes again—

“Lena, please. Let’s talk.”

It makes Lena laugh. Sharp. Bitter. It bounces off the clean walls she’s spent a week pretending weren’t the ruins of her heart.

“Why are you running?” Kara asks. “Why were you half-naked in a freezing lake all the way up north, alone? Why are you acting like I’m the reason for all this?”

A shiver crawls down Lena’s spine.

She realizes, belatedly, she’s still mostly naked—and freezing. She grabs the robe by the door, perfectly placed from all the other times she’s had to defibrillate her emotions back into submission.

Still, the shiver doesn’t stop.

Because Kara is right there on the other side of the glass, asking all the questions Lena thought she’d buried. The ones she thought they’d both already answered.

“Let me in?” Kara says. So softly it nearly undoes her. It’s the gentlest thing Lena’s ever heard. It makes her knees shake.

“I have let you in. So many times.”

Kara’s lips part like she might argue—but she doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t. She just stands there, blinking like she wasn’t expecting that.

Lena laughs again. Bitter. Broken. “You want to talk? Now? After all this time pretending there was nothing between us?”

“I wasn’t—” 

“Yes, you were,” Lena cuts in. “You always were. Pretending it didn’t mean anything when you looked at me like that. When you touched me like that. Like it was nothing when you whispered things no friend would say and left before I could answer.”

She’s shaking again. Robe clenched in both fists like armor.

Kara’s eyes go wide. “That’s not— I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

“No,” Lena says, stepping forward, voice low and sharp. “You were just trying to keep me. Keep me around. Keep me wanting you so you’d never have to decide if you wanted me back.”

Silence falls. Heavy. Too big for the room.

Kara looks down. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” Lena agrees for an entirely different reason. “It isn’t.”

They stare at each other through the glass. Kara looks like she might cry. Lena already is—but the tears are stuck somewhere between fury and ache.

“You don’t get to show up here like this. You know why I ran. You’ve always known.”

Kara presses her forehead to the glass. “Baby. Please. This isn’t how we should talk.”

“Like what? With something between us?” Lena huffs a laugh. “This is the only way I can talk to you—so you don’t sneak in again and tear down all my walls and make me love you like I’ve never been hurt.”

Kara doesn’t flinch. She just watches her. Tender and unflinching. Like Lena's breaking along the same fault lines Kara has traced with her hands a thousand times before.

“I never snuck in,” Kara says quietly. “You let me. Every single time.”

Lena’s breath stutters.

“And every single time, you ran. When it got close. When it got good. You ran.”

Lena stiffens. “Don’t turn this on me—”

“I’m not, I’m not blaming you. I’m just saying I knew. I saw this coming.”

Lena blinks fast. Her voice drops. “I thought if I stayed gone, you’d stop caring.”

Kara shakes her head. “I thought if I gave you space, you’d come back when you were ready. Like you always do.”

Lena just stares at her, like seeing her for the first time. Like something she believed is quietly cracking apart inside her.

“I keep trying to reach you, but every time, you disappear. You know it’s not just me, Lena.”

A breath catches in her chest. She follows Kara’s eyes to the door. "Please?”

And that does it.

With trembling fingers, she unhooks the latch. The door creaks open like even the house is holding its breath.

Kara doesn’t move.

Lena breathes in, sharp and shallow. “I hate you for being right.”

“I know.”

“I hate that I still—” Her voice breaks.

“I know.”

Kara steps in. Slowly. Carefully. Like approaching a wounded animal, unsure if it’ll bite or collapse.

“I didn’t come here to win,” she says. “I didn’t come to pull you back.”

“Then why did you come?”

“To be here. If you want me to leave, I will. But I couldn’t let you think I didn’t care.”

Lena’s lip quivers. She stares at Kara like she’s trying to find all the parts of her she’d rewritten as apathy. As abandonment.

“I thought you didn’t want me,” she whispers.

“I’ve always wanted you.” Kara says it so fast, so sure, there’s no room left for doubt. “But you have to want it too. You have to want it enough not to run when we’re close. When we’re almost there.”

Lena looks away—and this time, the tears come. Quiet. Unstoppable.

“I know you’re scared,” Kara says, softer now, each word wrapped in care. “I know they taught you to question everything—especially love. But you don’t have to question mine.”

And something in Lena breaks. She exhales like there’s a crack in her chest—like something old and heavy has finally given way.

“I thought you were playing with me,” she whispers. “Because it was convenient. Not real.”

Kara flinches, her face folding like the words physically hurt. “Lena, you’ve always been real. I want to give you everything. I just need you to stay when it gets real. We have to stop doing this to each other.”

Lena wipes her face and finally meets her eyes. “I always thought it was you pulling away… but maybe it’s been me. This whole time.”

Kara steps closer. Still not touching. Just there—radiating warmth like sunlight through winter glass, soft and sure.

“Let me stay?” she asks. “Let me in again?”

Lena’s voice is barely a breath. “And if I want you to stay forever?”

Kara’s smile is huge, warm, uncontainable. Like the sun breaking into the house, rewriting its history. It reaches the darkest, dustiest corners. And it does even more in Lena’s heart.

“It’s the only way I know how when it comes to you, my heart.”

Lena doesn’t speak. She just breathes Kara in like she’s been underwater for days and only now found air again.

Then, quietly, like the words might break her even more than silence already has, “Hold me?”

Kara doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to.

She steps forward and wraps her arms around Lena, careful at first, like she still might be pushed away. But the second their bodies meet, Lena exhales, a choked sound against Kara’s shoulder. She’s still shivering, damp and cold, but Kara’s warmth is immediate, all-consuming, the kind of heat that sinks into bone. And so she just melts.

Her arms circle Kara’s waist like she’s anchoring herself to something real for the first time in days. Maybe longer.

Kara pulls back just enough to cup Lena’s face, her thumbs brushing the tears away like they don’t scare her, like she wants to touch every part of the pain and still stay.

Lena’s eyes flutter shut, then open again. Steady now.

“No more waiting,” she says, voice raw. “No more running. Make me yours in a way none of us can deny anymore.”

Kara’s breath catches. Her gaze flicks to Lena’s lips like it’s instinct—like she’s been holding back for years and suddenly can’t remember why.

She kisses her.

Soft at first—reverent, trembling with everything they just said. But Lena makes a sound, a tiny, desperate thing in the back of her throat, and Kara deepens it without hesitation. Her hands slide into Lena’s hair, pulling her closer like she’s trying to fuse them together. Like there’s no world beyond this room, this kiss, this moment.

And Lena burns. From the inside out. With just a kiss, Kara surrounds her again. The warmth creeps in slow and steady—the smell of vanilla, sun-warmed cotton, and bare skin. It’s everywhere. It wraps around her like a weighted comfort, like coming home.

And Lena wonders, dazed and breathless, why she ever ran from this. Because this—this feeling, this touch, this one person—is the best she’s ever had.

When Kara finally parts their lips for air, Lena already knows what’s coming. Knows it like a vow. A promise etched deep into something eternal.

“No more dancing at the edge of us,” Kara murmurs.

And Lena, heart thudding, voice barely more than a breath, answers with her own vow—soft but certain: “No more hiding our feelings.”

Kara lifts her like it’s easy, like it’s always been meant to be, and Lena wraps her legs around her without hesitation. She’s laughing through her tears now, breathless, alive.

She used to think love like this would ruin her—but it’s the only thing that ever made her brave enough to stay.

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dystopia au where we are all assigned one of two chosen genders at birth

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thanks for the tag @maybequinnidk !!

this honestly differs a lot between what i like to read and what i like to write, so i’m filling this out based on reading preferences

coffee shop or flower girl | au or fix-it | enemies to lovers or childhood friends | angst or fluff | love at first sight or pining | modern au or historical au | break up & make up or proposal & wedding | get together or established relationship | soulmates or unrequited | fake dating or secret dating | obvious pining or domestic fluff | hurt/comfort or crack | meet the parents or meet cute.

tagging: @uiharu-and-company @obliviouskara @myxas-stuff @associationaccount

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my friends r so talented. rb if ur friends are talented

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High School AU - Chapter 4

Lena puts on her headphones to fade out the surrounding noise. Out of the corner of her eye she notes a glimpse of white, red and yellow. The Valkyrie’s uniform. Lena turns to take her in fully. There she is. Kara. It’s been a while since they last spoke. Technically the last few words they exchanged were in a pink envelope that now rests in Lena’s desk drawer. That was three weeks ago. Here she is in all her glory. Playing the actual role of head cheerleader. The red skirt, high ponytail, blue ribbon. It’s cute. As in sort of adorable, not attractive. Not that she isn’t attractive. Lena just means— Kara looks cute in a skirt. She’s allowed to notice that. Now that she’s closer she can make out the way her light brows crinkle together, the way she fervently nibbles on her lower lip. She’s clearly deep in thought, staring holes into the ground as she steps closer and closer to Lena. She takes off her headphones in preparation as Kara comes to an abrupt halt in front of her. She draws her gaze up to meet Lena’s, her eyes wide. A few seconds pass as Kara fiddles with her hands. Opening and closing her mouth a few times. “Please?” She finally squeaks. Lena can’t help but arch a brow in confusion. Kara seems, well, scattered. What could she possibly be so worked up about? “Please… what?”

Read chapter 4 of "No one's ever had me (not like you)" here!

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Hahahaha

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LMFAO

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Knowing that trans women of color started the movement in the united states and were literally immediately erased and excluded from what they started is the most deeply jading knowledge.

It is the original sin of the so-called queer community and it damns it from the cradle.

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Sometimes I genuinely forget they did not make Supercorp canon in the final episode. And then I'm like - what were they thinking? What did they think they were doing those 5 seasons with Lena on the show leading up to the finale? Why did they establish Lena to be everything Kara ever wanted and Kara to be everything Lena ever needed, and then did nothing with it? Why did they make sure we knew about the extremes they were willing to go for each other, especially compared with the other characters, some of them canonical love interests I might add? Why did they build the perfect ground for a love story between them and then watched every opportunity for a follow-through fly by without doing anything about it?

What was it all for then?

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y’all ever read a fanfic that you cannot believe an author just wrote for free?? what an honor it is to read a piece of someone’s soul they shared out of nothing but love for a piece of media. what a privilege it is to be allowed their talent because you share an interest!!

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people when a canon ship involves a black woman

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High School AU - Chapter 3

my moodboard for lena in this fic :)

Lena’s phone lights up with a message from Alex. ‘hey. you busy?’ Not when it comes to her. She puts aside her tools with care, before getting up to change. Alex should be with Maggie right now, so this…well, this isn’t a good sign. And since Alex can’t ask for help to save her life, Lena shoots back a quick ‘Nope. What do you need?’ The response is immediate. ‘i need to get shitfaced’ Okay, something went down. ‘and a burger or something’ With Lillian in Metropolis, Lena has the freedom to do whatever, even at this late hour. So, she’s outside Alex’s house in no time. She watches her climb out of her bedroom window with practised ease. She’s not sure what to expect, but when Alex approaches, her red, tear stained cheeks coming into view, Lena’s heart sinks. In the passenger seat, Alex leans back, closes her eyes and reaches for Lena’s hand. No talking for now, Lena understands. So she doesn’t ask about Maggie, or the tears, or the sting of alcohol on her breath. She intertwines their fingers, turns the ignition key and drives. They just drive.

Read Chapter 3 of "No one's ever had me (not like you)" here!

[will-o-whiisper]

posting chapter 3 today! thought i‘d share my art of teen alex too :)

fun fact: before posting this i realised i had made her bday the 24th of december which… idk where that had come from? i don’t think alex‘s bday is canonically on christmas eve?

anyway i changed that cause it kind of interferes with events in the fic

supercorp - high school au!

cheerleader!kara x goth!lena

this art was created to accompany a fic of mine! (i drew these last september, so this has been in the works for an ungodly amount of time considering i'm not even close to done writing)

the fic isn't up yet, but once it is, i'll post the link here too. if this has piqued your interest, be sure to keep your eye out! i'll probably upload the first chapter within the next two days :)

(the cheerleader kara idea was inspired by a post by @obliviouskara)

you can read the fic here!

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BBC Merlin except they all come back in 2012

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Kara telling Lena she's the only reason she got out of the Phantom Zone in front of everyone who just experienced their worst nightmares trying to get her back is still funnier than it should be

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Found in Translation

Supercorp. Kara Danvers x Lena Luthor. Alex Danvers.

Word count: 2.8k

Lena doesn't know how to explain it. One day she’s being interviewed by Clark Kent and his cousin, and the next she’s Kara Danvers’ best friend.

It starts like these things usually do: harmless, warm. Shaped like something simple and fun. Coffee dates, movie nights, the occasional world-saving detour. Lena tells herself it’s just friendship. Tells herself she doesn’t notice the way Kara lights up when she laughs, or how often she reaches for Lena’s hand without thinking.

And then, it stops being harmless on a Tuesday.

Or maybe it had started the first time Kara smiled at her like that—wide and unguarded, the light catching on her cheekbones like the sun itself is paying attention. Maybe it had started long before that, when Lena first realized she wanted to be seen. Really seen. And somehow, impossibly, Kara always did.

They’re at game night. Alex is complaining about losing. Winn is pretending not to cheat. There’s laughter in the air, soft and golden, curling around the windows and cushions like smoke.

Lena’s half-listening, caught somewhere between the burn of bourbon in her glass and the curve of Kara’s mouth as she teases Alex.

She almost doesn't notice when Kara leans in, low and fond and a little breathless, and says under her breath, like it’s just for her:

“Zrhureiao.”

Kryptonese.

It lands like a meteor in Lena’s chest.

The syllables ripple through her—delicate, devastatingly beautiful. She knows what it means. God, she knows. Knows that it’s one of those tricky words that doesn’t translate cleanly, but always carries the same weight: attractive, lovely, captivating. The kind of word that leaves your mouth when you're not trying to be careful.

She hadn’t heard it in years.

But now Kara’s voice is curling around the word like it’s a secret, like it’s a spell.

Lena thinks about answering. The words are right there on her tongue: you think I’m beautiful? but she swallows them whole. Because of course she understands it, but she can’t explain to Kara Danvers why.

Not without telling her that she studied Kryptonese as a teenager. Not without explaining that once upon a time, she was trying to impress a brother who only cared about aliens if he could control them. That she buried herself in the language Lex found important, until she understood it better than most diplomats. That she kept studying even after it stopped being about Lex at all, because there was something about it. Something beautiful and sacred. Something that told her she would need it. Something more. 

Now—now she knows exactly why she felt like that.

Lena’s breath stutters. The moment stretches too wide, too bright, like a spotlight turned inward. Kara leans in again, tucking a strand of Lena’s hair behind her ear like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like she hasn’t just upended everything.

Lena blinks. Swallows. Commands her heart to behave.

But it doesn’t.

It keeps whispering it back to her all throughout the games. On the ride in the back of the car. On the elevator ride up to her penthouse. In the hush of her bedroom when all the lights are off and sleep betrays her—and her heart does even worse. It hopes. It beats hope and love and Kara’s name so loud, she doesn’t know how to keep it a hushed secret anymore.

Zrhureiao.

Gorgeous.

Her fingers brush her own ear like maybe the sound is still caught there. Like maybe she could press it back into her skin and forget it ever happened.

But she can’t. She won’t. 

Because Kara said it in her mother tongue.

And meant it like a vow, not something wrong.

And Lena understood it perfectly—like it was hers all along.

It happens again a few weeks later. During an argument this time, of all things.

Lena’s pacing in her lab, fury simmering beneath her skin like static before a storm. Kara made a last-minute decision on a joint mission—something reckless, heroic, infuriating. Something that could’ve gotten her killed.

Kara stands in the doorway, sheepish, trying to explain. But Lena won’t let her.

“You didn’t tell me you were going to do that,” she snaps. “You just flew off like—like you didn’t think I’d be able to handle it!”

“I trusted you to—”

“No,” Lena cuts her off. “You didn’t trust me, Kara. You protected me. Like I’m some fragile piece of glass you can keep on a shelf and hope I never crack. I'm not a damsel in distress!”

Kara’s eyes widen. She steps forward, hands raised in surrender—open palms and soft breaths, always trying to deescalate what she doesn’t understand.

“Lena—”

“No,” Lena says again, sharper this time. “You don’t get to ‘Lena’ your way out of this. You don’t get to look at me like that and expect it to just... disappear.”

But Kara does look at her like that. Like Lena is the axis the universe turns around. Like she’s the only truth left in a world full of chaos. And then, softly, barely more than breath:

“Ta- rrip zrhureiao rrem rrip doshai?”

Lena freezes.

She knows that tone. Knows the weight of those syllables like they were stitched into her ribcage. She wishes she didn’t know what it meant. Wishes Kara didn’t say it like it hurt to hold it in.

Why are you so beautiful when you're mad?

The anger vanishes—like breath on glass. Like it was never real at all.

Lena opens her mouth, then closes it. Looks away before Kara can see what’s breaking loose across her face.

She clears her throat, soft and sharp. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Kara blinks, confused—genuinely. Like she didn’t even notice the way the words escaped her. Like Kryptonese is just muscle memory now, leaking truth where silence used to be.

Lena shakes her head. “Forget it.”

But Lena, herself, doesn’t forget. She can’t.

Because Kara keeps doing this—speaking in Kryptonese like it’s safer than English. Like it’s a secret place she can feel everything she’s not ready to admit. A language where nothing is casual, where every word is laced with truth.

And Lena… Lena keeps understanding. Keeps translating Kara’s tenderness like scripture. Keeps collecting these slips like sacred footnotes in their history together. Keeps falling a little more, every time.

It’s late. The kind of late that softens the world, that stretches shadows across the walls and melts time into something unmeasurable. A kind of late where it feels like the night might stretch on forever, and Lena wouldn’t mind if it did. Not from where she is standing.

They’re curled together on Kara’s couch, draped in a blanket that clings like the last trace of a dream: light as air, heavy as comfort. The TV flickers with some old rom-com neither of them is really watching, its dialogue a distant hum against the quiet ache of something unspoken.

Lena’s head rests against Kara’s shoulder, her legs tangled in Kara’s like ivy curling toward sunlight. 

There’s peace here—but it’s the dangerous kind. The kind that settles in your chest too gently, makes you forget how fragile it is. A stillness that feels earned and borrowed all at once, like the universe is holding its breath, just waiting to take it back.

Lena tells herself not to notice. Not to register how perfectly they fit—how easily Kara’s hand could find hers if it reached, how natural this could all feel if she let it. Like puzzle pieces. 

She glances at the clock. A breath drawn in quiet defiance of what comes next. A slow, reluctant untangling.

“I should go,” she murmurs. Her voice is steady, even if everything inside her bends around the words.

Kara doesn’t move. Doesn’t pause the movie. Doesn’t ask her to stay.

Instead, she whispers. Soft. Unarmored. The words barely more than a breath, so fragile they might splinter in the air:

“Khuhp zhind ao rrip zhadif awuhkh vagem.”

Lena freezes.

The syllables roll over her like a tide, salt-rich and moon-drawn, ancient and aching. A language that should feel foreign but lands instead like home. Like something buried under her ribs, waiting to be spoken back into existence.

She doesn’t have to ask. She knows. She always knows. I wish you’d never leave again.

And something in her breaks. Quietly. Cleanly.

It isn’t fair, the way Kara says these things.

Like she doesn’t understand the gravity of them. Like she doesn’t know they could crush Lena just by existing. Like her words aren’t made of stardust and glass and every wish Lena ever folded small enough to hide.

She could answer. Could let it spill.

But the reply burns too deep. And if she opens her mouth now, everything will come rushing out—untamed, untranslatable. It would sound too much like love.

So she laughs. Or something like it. Something thin, breakable, and kind. 

“You’re getting sleepy,” She shifts back just enough to let the cold seep in. A punishment. A shield.

Kara blinks slowly, still somewhere between dream and meaning. “Mm. Yeah.”

Lena rises.

She draws the blanket tighter around Kara’s shoulders, tucking her in like a farewell. Like a promise she wishes she were brave enough to make. Her fingers linger longer than they should, then pull away.

She reaches for her coat without looking back.

“Goodnight, Kara.”

She doesn’t see Kara’s eyes trailing after her like she’s the last light in the room. Doesn’t hear the soft, stunned echo that follows her like a ghost.

“Goodnight, baby.”

But she carries the Kryptonian all the way home. Feels it settle into her skin like stardust. Like a prayer. Like a wish Kara never meant to speak aloud—and Lena can’t stop hearing it, replaying it in her mind like music written just for her.

Like maybe, in another life, she would’ve stayed.

They’re somewhere deep underground, far from the city—old stone, slick with moss, wires cutting across ancient architecture like veins through skin. Kara’s hovering just a few inches off the ground, too impatient to walk. Lena’s beside her, shoulder brushing Kara’s tights when she leans to examine the wall. And Alex is a bit ahead with the flashlight, casting long shadows that stretch like fingers down the corridor.

“Okay,” Alex says, voice echoing. “This one’s got some alien script—Kryptonian, I think? What does this mean?”

Lena doesn’t look at Kara. She doesn’t need to. The words are already burned into her mind. She’s read them before—on dusty pages in old Luthor archives, her fingers trembling, heart young and foolish and already looking for something that might belong to her.

But Kara steps closer to the inscription anyway, her voice low. “Lao zrhureiao divi khuhp skulir kuhs.’”

Lena doesn’t mean to say it. Doesn't mean to make choir to Kara's voice already translating out loud. But it falls out of her like a breath: “The beloved one is a light I can’t look away from.”

Silence.

So sharp, it feels like the air has been sucked out of the entire Earth.

Even Alex just blinks, stunned, slowly turning toward them. “Wait. What the hell did you say?”

But Kara’s already turned. She’s looking at Lena like the words were a key. And now the door’s opened and she’s seeing the whole of her.

“You speak Kryptonese?” Kara asks.

It should sound accusatory. It doesn’t. It sounds... hurt.

Lena swallows. Her mouth feels full of sand. “Um, yeah, sorta.”

Kara doesn’t look away. Her voice goes softer, more dangerous, “Since when?”

Lena exhales. “Since I was sixteen. Lex was obsessed with Superman. And I—” She tries to smile, but it feels brittle. “I wanted something to connect… Wanted him to need me.”

Kara’s eyes narrow, but not in anger. She’s thinking. Tracing things back. Adding it all up.

“How many times?” Kara asks. Her voice is too soft to be angry, too confused not to tremble. “How many times have you understood me when I thought you couldn’t?”

Lena wants to lie. God, she wants to. But she’s tired. Tired of silence. Tired of gathering Kara’s love like contraband—like something precious and forbidden.

“All of them.” she says. “All of, um, your secret confessions.”

Kara flinches. “Like what?”

Lena takes a step back. Her eyes flick toward Alex, searching for escape, for delay—but Alex is already moving. She’s seen enough. Felt the shape of what’s coming. And like someone sensing a storm, she quietly slips out of the room.

No more excuses. No more time.

Lena breathes. And then she answers, her voice barely there—small and yet impossibly brave in the quiet Kara leaves for her.

“Like… things I couldn’t bear to lose.”

Kara doesn’t press. She just watches her, listens like every part of her is tuned to Lena’s frequency. Like the silence is sacred now.

And Lena, against all her instincts, lets herself stay in it.

“Like the first time you called me beautiful,” she says. “You looked right at me when you said it. But you chose another language so I wouldn’t know…”

Her voice falters, like the memory still stings—soft and glowing, but edged with old hurt.

“You said it like it slipped out. Like you couldn't stop it even if you wanted. And I understood every word.”

Kara’s lips part, like she’s about to speak—but Lena keeps going.

“Or the night you said, ‘I wish you’d never leave,’ when I said I was going home.”

Kara’s shoulders tense. Her expression cracks.

“I stayed awake all night just to keep it, as if it would disappear if I slept.”

The words hang in the air between them. Fragile. Shining. Too much.

Kara steps forward. Slowly. Like Lena might vanish into the walls if she moves too fast.

“You knew,” Kara says, her voice frayed at the edges. “All this time. And you never said anything.”

Lena’s reply is barely more than a breath, still sounds too loud in this barren room. “If I told you… you would’ve stopped.”

Kara is close now. Close enough that Lena can feel the heat of her. Close enough to shatter her completely.

Lena’s eyes fall shut. She’s not ready for this—for the shape of truth spoken out loud. She’s spent too long hiding in the margins, surviving on shadows and half-lit moments, on words never meant to survive the air between them.

“I wouldn’t…” Kara’s voice falters, unsteady as a heartbeat in freefall. She inhales. Holds it. Tries again. “I won’t.”

Lena opens her eyes like the act itself might crack the world open. And Kara is looking at her the way sunlight looks at stained glass—desperate to get through, to touch something it was never meant to hold.

“I will never stop saying it,” Kara whispers.

Her hand rises slowly, reverently. And when she cups Lena’s face, it’s not a touch. It’s a vow.

Lena leans in just enough to say yes. Just enough to answer without words. Because Kara’s hand is trembling—not from fear, but from the weight of what comes next. From the sheer meaning of it.

And somehow, the stillness between them feels deafening. Like something holy. Like souls bleeding together. Like love.

Kara steps closer, and their foreheads meet—soft and sure. A contact so gentle it feels like a prayer.

“I meant every word,” Kara says, voice low and certain. “Even when I thought you couldn’t understand me.”

“I know,” Lena breathes. “I know.”

There’s nothing else left to translate.

Kara tilts her head and kisses her like a question.

There’s nothing rushed about it—no fevered urgency, no desperate pull. Just warmth. Just truth. Just the gravity between them finally given permission to exist.

Lena exhales into it, and it sounds like release. Like surrendering to something that had always been inevitable. Kara's hand drifts to the nape of Lena’s neck, fingers curling softly on her hair. The other rests against her waist, grounding her, because she can’t quite believe this is real and won't let the universe take it back.

The kiss deepens and it feels as if they're learning a secret language neither of them had dared to speak before. It’s soft, but it burns. And Lena can feel every unspoken word between them written into it: I want you. I see you. I love you.

When they finally break apart, it’s only just. Kara stays close, breath brushing over Lena’s cheek like a touch.

Then, in a whisper spun of stars and honesty, “Khap zhao rrip.”

Lena stills. Her eyes flutter open.

I love you.

There’s no mistaking it. No soft translation. No ambiguity.

And this time Lena doesn’t stay silent.

Her voice is hoarse with something holy when she answers.

The words don’t stumble—they rise. From the part of her that has always known how to speak these languages: Kryptonese and love. The part of her that has been waiting.

“Khap zhao rrip, zrhueiao.”

Her mother tongue coming out of Lena's tongue feels like a key turning in the lock of the universe. Kara’s breath catches. Her eyes shimmer like something celestial.

And when they kiss again, it’s no longer a question. It’s a promise.