Chapter Text
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you looking for something dumb to do?
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Kara has literally never been more turned on in her life.
And that includes the incident last week, when she'd arrived at Lena's apartment to find Lena standing in the middle of her bedroom, arms akimbo in Kara's classic pose, and wearing an extremely tight-fitting "Sexy Supergirl" Halloween costume she'd probably bought as a joke, given the playful smile she'd been unable to wrestle off her face when the real Supergirl had walked through her door.
But if Kara's being honest - and just a little bit narcissistic - there was nothing funny about the immediate bolt of hunger that had ripped right down the center of her being the moment her eyes settled on her occasional friend-with-benefits, and scarcely a second later, Kara had Lena braced against the wall devouring those oh so tempting lips and the delicious sounds she so often inspired from them, before falling to her knees at Lena's feet, her mouth hot and wet on Lena's exposed stomach, dragging blunt teeth across the woman's hip bones, mewling at the way Lena pitched into the contact, breathless and arching, her fingers grasping Kara's hair when Kara's hand slipped under that atrociously tiny skirt.
That had been a level of hot Kara hadn't known was possible, and one that made it particularly torturous to sit across from Lena at lunch everyday and pretend that Kara wasn't thinking about just how good the House of El crest looked stretched to its limit across Lena's unfairly perfect chest when Lena arched her back into the first wave of -
Look, it was a very long, very frustrating week for Kara Danvers, and she was very, very close to just throwing caution to the wind and breaking it to Lena that her only two friends in National City happen to be the same person, and that (one) friend happens to have some very good ideas on how to better utilize their shared lunch hour, preferably by involving fake Supergirl costumes and Lena's desk.
And up until this exact moment - the moment happening right now - Kara had felt confident in saying sexy didn't get any sexier than Lena Luthor in a fake Supergirl costume. Possibly with the added bonus of also being perched on the edge of her desk with papers scattered haphazardly all around the floor and Kara's fingers buried inside her. But regardless, it was as good as fact that that was the upper limit of quantifiable sexiness, as far as Kara was concerned.
Kara was very wrong.
Because even all of that somehow pales in comparison to Lena fucking Luthor standing in the middle of her state-of-the-art, designer kitchen, wearing ludicrously high stilettos and a dress that probably cost more than all of Kara's monthly expenses combined, her hair perfectly done up, her make-up flawless, looking to all the world like she's just returned from some classy gala.
Except for the grease smudged down one side of her nose. And across her cheek, her forehead, the underside of her chin, on the stupidly expensive dress. And her hands more closely resemble those of a blue-collar auto-mechanic, rather than a Fortune 500 CEO, with grease streaked nearly up to her elbows as she fiddles with the scattered pieces of what seems to be some sort of combustion engine that she's dismantled across her beautifully lacquered kitchen table, all the while casually humming along to the top 40s station playing in the background as though she hasn't just sent Kara's head into orbit.
And Kara is aware this whole scene shouldn't be as devastatingly attractive as it is. She knows it speaks to something else, something not suited for two people who've accidentally stumbled into an ill-advised affair that they're already pretending isn't as dangerous as it has the potential to be, and Kara should definitely take this as a warning to leave now, to run before they make this whole thing worse.
But all Kara can do is stand frozen at the kitchen doorway, her boots hovering half an inch off the ground, mouth hanging open, eyes wide, with the wooden door jam groaning under her unconscious grip while she watches Lena frown down at whatever part-of-a-part she's currently taking a small socket wrench to, opening it up into a million more tiny pieces across the teak table, and Kara just wants kiss her so fervently it steals every cubic inch of air from the woman's lungs.
She wants to drag Lena to the bedroom and strip her of that ruined dress, not giving a damn about the black smudges scattered across Lena's skin, and spend the whole damn night worshiping Lena like she's the goddamn sun, with purposeful touches and passionate kisses that say so much more than Kara has ever been able to properly articulate into words.
Kara should leave before she says something she can't take back.
Or, at the very least, she should navigate this moment as though everything up to this point really has been about the sex; that the costume had just been sexy, with absolutely no implication toward Lena bearing Kara's family crest for the traditional reasons. She should pretend she wants to tell Lena who she is because it will afford them midday hook-ups, and not because Lena looks physically pained when she can't kiss Kara goodbye at the end of their lunch hour. And she should definitely pretend Lena is just an extremely attractive woman who can manage to look good even with grease on her face, and that it doesn't rip the air from Kara's lungs to witness something so unique to Lena, to be so drawn in to a scene that captures Lena's truest self so entirely that Kara just wants to drown in this moment and never let it go.
"I'm gonna marry you."
Lena's eyes flick up, eyebrow quirked, and bold red lips pursing around a smirk, and fuck if it's not the sexiest thing Kara's ever seen.
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fin