Katie McLuthor

Don't resist me.

Lena: ok, but it has to be fast

I made this a coffee shop AU, too. I’ve never done one of those, and I feel like it should be some sort of fanfic author rite of passage.

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“Oh shit,” Lena curses. “There she is.”

Without warning, she drops below the register, reaching indiscreetly under her shirt.

“Lena, this is becoming shameless,” Sam judges from above.

“Just block me from James, won’t you?”

The coffee shop is lax, but even Lena’s not bold enough to push their ‘uniform requirements’ to the very limit on this balmy, Tuesday afternoon.

“Why are you still torturing this poor woman? She seems nice,” Sam whines, but despite the defense, she steps in front of Lena and covers her view of their manager.

“Torture?” Lena balks, unsnapping her bra. “Please, she loves it.”

“It’s cruel.”

“Done,” she hisses a second later, ignoring Sam and plucking her bra out from under her shirt. She stuffs it unceremoniously into an empty, clean coffee cup below the counter.

Lena snaps upright just as Kara sweeps into the shop. She’s a vision in a long beige coat. Her blonde hair glows butter yellow in the dying sun. Kara’s eyes meet hers, and there’s an ephemeral smile there, a smile that’s just woken up, taken it’s first breath of something sweet, and exhaled. Then, her eyes glance down. Lena’s let her apron fall to her hips, revealing her t-shirt. It’s thin, gauzy, and borderline threadbare. It’s intentional. WhenLena poses her hands on her hips, her nipples peak through.

Kara tenses, she pinkens. She doesn’t stop walking towards the counter. She also doesn’t mark the elderly woman crossing her path. She doesn’t notice the clutched steaming hot mug of coffee, the woman’s look of rapt anticipation. Kara keeps coming, eyes still trained downward, unflapping from a clear collision course.

It’s absolute pandemonium.

“I feel guilty,” Sam says with a resigned sigh. Kara’s nearly bowled the old woman over and coffee’s splattered over the floor, the walls, like an arterial crime scene. James rushes over to help, to appease with his easy, confident smile.

“I feel like an accomplice to your crime.”

Lena merely smirks, flush with victory. She pulls her apron back up and over her shoulders.

“Your breasts need an insurance policy. Look at the mayhem they’ve caused.”

Lena watches the scene thoughtfully.

“What are the chances I could wear my apron over just my bra without getting fired?”

“Slim to none.”

“Shame.”

Chapter 2 → AO3 Link Words: 6,587 (fuck) I Chapter 2 / 2

Kara Danvers gets Lena’s phone number. Lena of the Sentient Bean. Lena, her coffee shop tormenter.

Kara Danvers gets Lena’s phone number after twelve months of torture, after fifty-two weeks of tits in face. It’s like finally climbing Everest, the biggest tit. Or swimming an English Channel full of breasts. Her sister may not understand the feat of strength it required, but it’s an accomplishment for Kara. Between managing labs and dealing with frazzled, stressed out grads, it’s a wonder that Kara’s engaged in conversation with anyone under the age of 60 and not a student. Much less, a woman.

When she was still in school, female physics and astronomy majors were more myth than reality. And interested in women? Practically a legend. Kara’s been starved. She’s out of practice. She’s a bit like a captive who’s been held several years underground and who’s lost their tentative grasp of social interaction. One beautiful awkward gay unicorn looking for another beautiful (hopefully charming) gay unicorn.

She deserves a prize for asking the barista equivalent of Angelina Jolie out.

i’m going to improvise for this one and say Lena owns a PR firm and Kara is an actress and one of her clients:

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When Lena first sees the photo in a less widely circulated publication, one that’s typically found in grocery store lines or airport shopping racks, she blinks. She stares at it for thirty full seconds. Jess, her intern, had put it on her desk that morning with a sticky note that simply read, Pg. 16, and Lena is simply staring at page 16.

No.

That’s not.

Why?

She’s still staring, still holding the greasy little magazine in her hand when she picks up her cell phone and dials her client. It rings twice before a bright voice answers.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite publicist!” Kara’s voice assails her.

Lena can hear the sound of splashing water in the background, and it’s hard not to imagine her client in some kind of polka dot little number, sun-bronzed and built like an actual god on the beach. Or maybe poolside. Or a spa.

She closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose.

Not now.

“Hello Mrs. Danvers,” she replies, ever the portrait of professionalism despite her internal thrashing.