Tethered (Kara Danvers x Venom!Reader)
Masterlist
Anonymous asked: Hi, i have a request for Kara Danvers x reader Reader is SpiderWoman and is being controlled by the symbiote, Venom, and Kara, and the superfriends have noticed her acting differently both as Spiderwoman and herself. So when Venom takes full control of R and is destroying the city, Supergirl has to fight her and destroy Venom. (Kara also has a long-term crush on R.)
(Y/n) is sitting cross-legged on the floor, goggles perched on her head, tinkering with a busted DEO drone. Her hands are smudged with grease, and her tongue sticks out slightly in concentration.
“I don’t think it’s supposed to spark like that,” Kara says, peering over the table.
(Y/n) smirks without looking up. “It’s called innovation, Danvers. Look it up.”
The drone pops. She yelps, flinching back, sparks fizzing toward her boots.
Alex bursts out laughing. Kara bites her lip, trying not to.
(Y/n) grins, unfazed, holding up a piece of melted wiring like a trophy. “Progress.”
. . .
(Y/n) and Kara sit shoulder to shoulder on a low ledge, feet dangling three stories above a quiet street. A light drizzle falls, soft and silver.
“Do you ever think about just . . . quitting?” (Y/n) asks suddenly, gaze on the skyline.
Kara looks over. “Quitting the cape?”
“Yeah. Running away. Opening a bookstore in Norway. No aliens. Just coffee and Nordic sweaters.”
Kara chuckles. “You’d get bored in a week.”
(Y/n) bumps her shoulder. “Two weeks. But you’d visit, right?”
Kara hesitates. Smiles softly. “I’d stay.”
(Y/n) goes still for a beat. Her eyes flick to Kara’s lips—just for a second—but she laughs it off. “Okay, now you’re the sentimental one.”
. . .
(Y/n) is curled up on the couch with Kara’s favorite blanket draped around her like a cape. A movie flickers on the screen—Iron Man 2, subtitles and all.
“Okay, but Natasha totally carried that movie,” (Y/n) mumbles through a mouthful of popcorn.
Kara leans against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching her. “You say that every time.”
“Because it’s true. Tony’s dramatic. Nat’s the MVP.”
Kara tilts her head. “Is that your type? Hot redheads?”
(Y/n) grins. “Only if they can cook breakfast.”
There’s a long pause.
Kara’s voice is soft. “What’s your type really?”
(Y/n) meets her eyes, and for a moment, she looks like she might answer honestly. But she shrugs instead, “Guess I’ll figure it out someday.”
Kara’s smile flickers. She hides it by walking away.
. . .
Kara walks in to find (Y/n) hanging upside down from the ceiling beams, doing crunches like it’s nothing. She’s in a sports bra and sweats, earbuds in, humming along to an old Garbage song.
Kara watches her for a moment before saying, “You know we have mats and gravity here, right?”
(Y/n) grins down at her. “Where’s the fun in that?”
She swings down and lands with a perfect three-point pose—absolutely showing off.
Kara rolls her eyes, but her face is pink.
“Wanna spar?”
Kara hesitates. “You’ll win.”
“True,” (Y/n) says, tossing her a practice baton. “But I’ll let you think you won for the first two rounds.”
. . .
A child runs up to (Y/n) while she’s mid-patrol — clinging to the side of a building, scanning for an energy signal.
The kid tugs on her leg.
“Are you Spider-Woman?”
(Y/n) crouches down instantly. “Nope,” she says seriously. “I’m a very lost window washer.”
The kid giggles.
(Y/n) pulls a sticker from her belt — a little hand-drawn spider with a superhero cape — and presses it gently to the kid’s jacket.
“Now you’re official sidekick status. Go do something awesome.”
Kara watches from the air, unseen, her heart doing something weird and fluttery in her chest.
She wishes, suddenly, that she could freeze this version of (Y/n) in time.
. . .
“I did not flirt with the alien diplomat,” Kara says flatly.
(Y/n) leans across the table, mock-scandalized. “You smiled at her.”
“She was crying, (Y/n).”
“A dangerous slippery slope, Danvers.”
Lena stifles a laugh from her corner of the room.
Kara glares at her. (Y/n) winks.
For a few hours, everything feels normal. Bright. Untouchable.
But later that night — long after everyone’s left — Kara catches sight of the new suit pattern (Y/n)’s working on.
It’s almost entirely black.
She brushes it off.
For now.
. . .
(Y/n) sits alone on the edge of a medical cot, blood streaking her temple. Her suit’s torn. One glove hangs in shreds.
“I said I’m fine,” she growls, batting away the medic’s scanner.
“You took a direct energy blast,” Alex says sharply, arms crossed. “Just let us patch you up.”
(Y/n) doesn’t look at her. Her fingers twitch. There's something crawling just under the skin of her shoulder — a shimmer, like black liquid reacting to light.
Kara watches from the doorway. Her x-ray vision flicks on for half a second—too fast for anyone to notice.
The wound is . . . gone.
No scarring. No tissue damage. Just perfect skin where bone should be bruised.
Kara’s mouth goes dry.
. . .
The knock is soft.
(Y/n) stands in the doorway, drenched from the rain, hood shadowing her eyes.
“Hey,” she says. “You busy?”
Kara gestures her in without hesitation. “Never for you.”
They sit at the kitchen counter in silence. Kara passes her a mug of tea. (Y/n) doesn’t drink it. Just stares into the steam like it’s whispering secrets only she can hear.
“You okay?” Kara asks.
(Y/n)’s fingers flex around the mug.
“I don’t sleep much anymore,” she says after a pause. “Feels like someone’s always watching.”
Kara frowns. “Have you told J’onn? Or Lena?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
(Y/n) looks up then, eyes darker than Kara remembers. “Because it’s mine. Not theirs.”
. . .
They’re patrolling. Or they’re supposed to be.
But Kara notices (Y/n)’s not scanning rooftops or listening for sirens — she’s staring down at the people.
Not protecting them. Studying them.
“You ever think about what they’d do if we disappeared?” (Y/n) asks. “Like, if we just stopped showing up?”
Kara blinks. “What?”
(Y/n) shrugs. “Would they panic? Riot? Pretend they never needed us?”
There’s no teasing in her voice. No smile tugging at her mouth.
Kara floats closer. “That’s not you talking.”
(Y/n) turns slowly. Her expression is empty.
. . .
(Y/n) stands in front of her open locker, just . . . staring at the suit inside.
The black variation. Sleek. Too sleek. It hums faintly under the lights.
She doesn’t blink.
Doesn’t move.
Not until Lena steps in, tablet in hand.
“Hey,” Lena says gently. “Did you hear me?”
(Y/n) blinks like waking from a trance. “What?”
“I asked if you wanted to help us test the new dampener tech.”
(Y/n)’s smile is too slow. “Sure.”
As Lena walks away, the reflection in the locker mirror ripples.
(Y/n) isn’t smiling in the reflection.
. . .
Kara’s heading toward the training room when she hears it.
A low, wet sound. Not quite footsteps.
She rounds the corner and sees (Y/n) crouched on the floor, back turned to her, shoulders trembling.
“(Y/n)?”
No answer.
Kara steps closer — slowly — until she sees it.
A writhing line of black substance stretching from (Y/n)’s palm into the wall like a vein.
Feeding. Breathing.
(Y/n) stiffens. “Don’t.”
Kara freezes.
“Don’t come closer.”
Kara’s voice is soft. “What’s happening to you?”
“I’m fine,” (Y/n) rasps. “It’s . . . helping me.” She turns. Blackness pulses beneath her skin. “I feel stronger now.”
. . .
(Y/n) perches on the spire of the tallest building, wind howling around her.
She’s not wearing her communicator. Not tonight.
Down below, the city sparkles. Tiny. Fragile.
She lifts one hand, fingers curled in a loose fist.
A pulse of oily black shoots from her wrist — not a web, not really — and it sticks to a nearby building, melting through glass like acid.
She watches. Emotionless.
Then she smiles.
Not her smile.
Something else’s.
. . .
Holo-screens flicker. Footage of Spider-Woman—(Y/n)—plays silently across the glass. The room is tense.
“She didn’t just web the suspect,” Alex says flatly. “She crushed his arm. No hesitation.”
Lena switches to thermal scans. “Her vitals are all over the place. Heart rate elevated constantly. Neural-activity is . . . unstable.”
“She’s still her,” Kara argues, pacing. “I know she is.”
J’onn’s expression is grave. “Perhaps. But something else is in control now.”
Kara turns away, fists clenched at her sides.
“She’s not a threat.”
“No,” Alex says gently. “She’s a weapon waiting to be used.”
. . .
(Y/n) stands in the middle of Kara’s living room. She hasn’t said a word in two minutes. Just stands there, staring at the bookshelf like she forgot why she came.
Kara watches from the doorway, quiet.
“You okay?” she finally asks.
(Y/n) turns slowly.
There’s black creeping up her neck now. Like veins. Like cracks.
“I think I’m losing,” she says, voice barely above a whisper.
Kara moves forward. “Then let us help.”
But (Y/n) flinches from her touch.
“If you get too close . . . it might take you, too.”
. . .
They try.
Kara and J’onn corner (Y/n) in an alley after a botched robbery she didn’t commit—but watched, silently.
They bring her in, gently, without a fight. But it’s like interviewing a stranger.
She paces inside the shielded holding room. Skin pale. Eyes sunken. She keeps flexing her hands like something’s under the skin.
“You don’t understand,” she murmurs. “It loves me.”
Kara’s breath hitches. “That thing is killing you.”
(Y/n) meets her eyes, and for one flickering second, something behind them isn’t human.
“It’s making me better.”
. . .
Lena pulls Kara aside, away from the others. Her face is pale.
“There’s something else,” she says, tapping her tablet. “It’s spreading.”
Kara frowns. “The symbiote?”
Lena nods. “It’s not just inhabiting her. It’s bonding. Rewriting things. If we wait too long . . .”
She doesn’t finish.
Kara’s jaw tightens. “There has to be another way.”
Lena places a hand on her shoulder.
“If we don’t act now, she won’t be (Y/n) anymore.”
. . .
And then it begins.
An explosion in the heart of the city center. A black wave of webbing coils down from the rooftops, slick and alive. It moves like an organism—coating buildings, strangling traffic, pulling civilians into the air like flies in a trap.
People scream.
Then: silence.
Then: the laugh.
Kara looks up.
Spider-Woman lands hard in the center of the plaza. Her new suit is alive — undulating, twitching, shifting with every breath. Her eyes glow white-hot beneath the mask. Teeth line her jaw where none should be.
She doesn’t speak.
She roars.
. . .
Alarms blare. Alex curses. Brainy fumbles with containment protocols.
Kara stands frozen in the center of the chaos.
The city is under attack.
And it’s her.
The woman she loves.
“Go,” Alex tells her. “But Kara—don’t go in blind.”
Kara lifts off without a word, shooting like a meteor into the heart of the storm.
. . .
She finds her fast.
The creature turns at the sound of her arrival — slow, deliberate, like it knew she was coming.
Kara floats above the square, heart racing.
“(Y/n),” she says. Not Supergirl. Just Kara. Voice raw.
It grins. “She’s not home right now.”
. . .
Smoke coils around the wreckage. Sirens wail somewhere distant, muffled like they’re underwater.
Kara floats down from the sky slowly, cape fluttering behind her.
Venom stands in the center of the chaos, limbs twitching, black tendrils licking at the air like tongues. Her new suit pulses with life—organic, endless, wrong. Her head jerks toward Kara with a snap.
Kara holds up her hands. “Please,” she says, softly. “Just listen.”
The creature tilts its head, grinning. A dozen jagged teeth split the mask open.
“We’re listening, Kara.”
Kara flinches at the way it says her name—like a joke, like a knife. But she steps closer.
“I know you’re still in there. I’ve seen you fight this. The night on my balcony. The alley. That kid with the sticker—”
Venom’s jaw twitches. “You don’t know her,” it hisses. “You only loved her mask.”
“I love her,” Kara says, stronger now. “The one who tinkers with drones at 2 a.m., the one who drinks my terrible tea and quotes movies during patrol—that’s the real you. And I know she’s still inside.”
Something flickers behind the white of Venom’s eyes.
For just a second . . . the shadows peel back.
Kara sees her. (Y/n). Sweat-streaked. Terrified.
“Kara,” she gasps, just barely, voice warping.
Kara rushes forward—hands outstretched, nearly touching her—
But the symbiote screams.
A roar like metal shearing apart. Blackness floods over (Y/n)’s face again.
“You can’t have her!” it shrieks. “She’s mine!”
Then it lunges.
. . .
They collide midair with enough force to crack the sound barrier.
Kara hits the pavement, rolls, springs back. Venom’s claws slash toward her face—she ducks, grabs its arm, flings it through the side of a building. Glass rains down like glittering knives.
Venom lands on all fours, laughing.
“We remember you crying on the balcony,” it mocks. “Pathetic little crush.”
Kara’s eyes blaze red.
She shoots forward, fists blazing—left, right, a spin-kick—but Venom adapts. It learns. Black webbing wraps around Kara’s ankle mid-swing and yanks her out of the air.
Kara slams into a bus. Her ribs crack.
Blood paints her teeth, but she stands again.
“(Y/n),” she calls through the pain. “Fight it. Please. You’re stronger than this.”
Venom hesitates. Its body glitches—jerks sideways, like something's breaking inside.
And then—(Y/n)’s voice. “I—can’t—Kara, I’m—” She screams.
Kara launches again.
This time she’s ruthless.
Heat vision rakes across the symbiote’s body—not to kill, but to weaken it, destabilize it. The creature wails, retreating from the light. Kara tackles her mid-scream, slamming her into the asphalt and pinning her there.
“I’m not letting you go!” Kara shouts. “You’re not alone!”
Tendrils wrap around Kara’s throat. She gasps.
Venom drips over her shoulder like liquid tar. “She chose us. We gave her power. We gave her peace.”
“You gave her a cage,” Kara rasps.
With a surge of heat, she breaks free, then grabs (Y/n)’s hand—the one still twitching beneath the suit—and squeezes.
“Come back,” she says, softer now. “Please. Come back to me.”
A long silence.
Then: the scream changes.
It fractures—turns hoarse. Human. The black suit begins to melt, dripping in strings to the pavement.
Kara sees her again. (Y/n), underneath. Gasping. Drenched in sweat.
Venom lashes out one last time.
Kara’s heat vision cuts through it—surgical, precise. Not to kill, but to sever.
The symbiote howls, splinters, evaporates into smoke.
And then . . .
Silence.
. . .
(Y/n) collapses into Kara’s arms, body limp and shaking. Her voice is raw. “Kara—I—I didn’t mean to—” she chokes, eyes filling.
“I know,” Kara whispers. “I know.”
(Y/n) curls against her chest, breathing shallow. “You didn’t give up on me.”
“I never will.”
The rain starts to fall—gentle this time. Soft.
Kara cradles her like she’s made of glass.
Because even though the battle’s over . . .
The healing has only just begun.
. . .
The room is dim. Soft lighting. Blankets. Clean bandages. Machines that hum quietly like lullabies.
(Y/n) lies on the cot, curled toward the wall, her breathing slow but steady. The remnants of the symbiote are gone, but her skin bears the ghost of it — faint bruises, veins that still look too dark beneath the surface.
Kara hasn’t moved from the chair beside the bed in over an hour.
She watches her sleep.
Watches every breath, like it might vanish if she looks away.
Alex walks in quietly, a clipboard in hand. “Vitals are stable,” she says softly. “No more traces of the alien compound. She’s clean.”
Kara nods. Says nothing.
Alex glances at her, then lays a hand on her shoulder.
“You saved her.”
Kara’s voice is hoarse. “I didn’t. She saved herself.”
. . .
(Y/n) wakes with a gasp.
Sweat clings to her skin. Her chest heaves.
Kara is already there — crouched beside the bed, eyes wide with concern.
“It’s okay,” she says gently, brushing (Y/n)’s hair back. “You’re okay. It’s gone.”
(Y/n) shakes her head, voice cracking. “I felt it, Kara. It was in everything. Every thought, every breath. I—I didn’t know where it ended and I began.”
Her hands tremble. Kara wraps her fingers around them instantly.
“I’m here,” she whispers. “You’re not alone.”
(Y/n)’s eyes fill. She tries to speak, but her throat closes.
So she breaks.
She collapses forward, sobbing into Kara’s shoulder — the kind of crying that comes from deep, buried places. Ugly and shaking. The kind of crying no one sees.
Kara holds her through all of it.
But not like a hero.
Like a home.
. . .
(Y/n) sits at the table in Kara’s hoodie, legs pulled up to her chest, nursing a bowl of soup Lena made. She eats in small, careful bites like her body’s still relearning how to trust itself.
Kara moves around the kitchen — slicing bread, humming off-key, doing everything gently. Quietly.
At one point, she turns and says, “You’re not your worst moment.”
(Y/n) looks up. “I hurt people.”
“You were hurting,” Kara says. “That wasn’t you.”
(Y/n) pauses. “It still felt like me.”
Kara walks over and places the bread in front of her. She leans down, eyes soft.
“Then let’s remember who you are. Every second.”
. . .
It’s peaceful up here. Wind brushing their faces. The city glimmering below like stardust.
(Y/n) sits with her knees drawn up. Kara beside her, quiet.
They’ve been sitting in silence for a long time.
Kara finally speaks.
“When you were gone . . . when I thought I lost you. . .” She swallows. “I wasn’t afraid for the city. I was afraid of never seeing you again. Not like this. Not as you.”
(Y/n) turns slowly. The night wind shifts her hair across her cheek. “You never gave up on me.”
“I never will.”
Their eyes meet.
And in that moment, it’s not dramatic. It’s not loud.
It’s quiet. Simple.
Kara leans in, slow and careful.
(Y/n) meets her halfway.
Their lips touch — soft, tentative, fragile. A promise wrapped in warmth.
When they pull back, (Y/n) exhales like she’s been holding her breath for weeks.
“You really love me?” she whispers.
Kara smiles, thumb brushing gently against her jaw.
“I always have.”
. . .
The room is quiet except for the rhythmic thump of fists against a padded wall.
(Y/n) punches in slow, careful sets — jab, cross, pause. Jab, cross, pause.
Her breathing is even. Focused.
Kara leans against the wall behind her, watching.
“You’ve got better control than ever,” she says.
(Y/n) doesn’t stop punching. “I can still feel it sometimes. Like it’s under my skin. Like it’s waiting.”
Kara walks closer, her voice calm but firm. “It’s not. You beat it. You’re in control.”
(Y/n)’s next punch hits a little harder.
“I wasn’t strong enough. I let it in.”
Kara gently touches her wrist, stilling her.
“You’re strong because you came back.”
Their eyes meet. (Y/n) swallows, nods—just a little.
. . .
It’s raining outside, but the lights from the city shimmer through the glass.
(Y/n) sits on the edge of a table, knees pulled up to her chest. Kara hands her a steaming mug of hot chocolate — two extra marshmallows, exactly how she likes it.
“I had a nightmare last night,” (Y/n) says quietly. “I was back in the suit. I couldn’t stop myself.”
Kara doesn’t answer right away. She just sits beside her, gently bumping her shoulder.
“You can tell me every time,” Kara finally says. “I’ll sit with you through every single one.”
“Even if it’s the same dream a hundred times?”
“Even if it’s the same dream forever.”
(Y/n)’s fingers tighten around the mug. She leans her head onto Kara’s shoulder.
“Thank you for not letting go.”
. . .
The room hums with soft light and holographic projections of suit prototypes spinning in the air.
(Y/n) stands in front of them, arms crossed. Kara’s beside her. Lena’s typing nearby, watching from a distance but not interfering.
(Y/n) flicks through designs with a twitch of her fingers: — a red-and-black spider design, too harsh. — a bulky armored option, too defensive. — a replica of her old suit.
She pauses on that last one.
“No,” she says. “I’m not her anymore.”
Kara steps forward. “Then design the you now.”
(Y/n) inhales slowly. Then begins.
She swipes through the interface, adjusting colors, refining lines.
Deep navy blue, with subtle silver webbing that glows faintly under certain light. A spider insignia over the heart, fractured like cracked glass—but reforged.
A sleeker silhouette.
Not flashy. Just strong.
“I want it to show that I broke, but I came back.”
Kara stares at the image and smiles. “It’s beautiful.”
(Y/n) looks at her.
“It’s me.”
. . .
The city is quiet. The sky is turning soft gold.
(Y/n) stands in her new suit, mask off, hair swept back in the wind.
Kara joins her with two coffees, still warm. She hands one over, brushing her fingers along (Y/n)’s as she does.
“You look like yourself again.”
(Y/n) nods slowly. “I feel like myself again.”
Kara tilts her head. “And who is that?”
(Y/n) smiles.
“A little broken. A little stitched together. Strong. Still healing. But…” She looks at Kara, eyes soft. “Still here.”
Kara leans in, resting her forehead against hers.
“Still here,” she repeats.
They stay like that for a long moment, quiet, warm, safe.
Then, as the sun crests over the skyline, (Y/n) steps onto the ledge.
One deep breath. One look back at Kara.
She leaps.
A perfect dive into the sky — webbing snapping out behind her, new suit glowing in the light.
She’s not running from the past anymore.
She’s flying straight into the future.
. . .
The golden hour spills through the windows, bathing the apartment in soft orange light.
A candle flickers on the windowsill. Something simmers on the stove. Jazz plays low in the background — a playlist Kara pretends is for ambiance but really just reminds her of (Y/n)’s laugh when she fake-dances to it.
(Y/n) is stretched out on the couch, wearing Kara’s oversized hoodie and a pair of flannel shorts. Her legs are tangled in a blanket, her face calm as she reads a crumpled old comic book — the one Kara had stuffed in her closet from middle school, now dog-eared and rescued.
Kara walks out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel.
“You’re really gonna read my teenage Supergirl stash?”
(Y/n) doesn’t even look up. “You wrote notes in the margins. Full essays, actually. I feel like I’m holding a dissertation.”
Kara groans, mock horror on her face. “Oh Rao.”
(Y/n) flips a page. “You had opinions.”
Kara plops down beside her with a dramatic sigh and leans in close.
“Only strong ones,” she says. “Some of us cared about character arcs.”
(Y/n) glances sideways, amused. “And some of us were being emotionally destroyed by their own arcs.”
Kara kisses her shoulder.
“Still are.”
. . .
They fall asleep tangled together, limbs wrapped up, heartbeats steady.
On the nightstand, a photo: the Superfriends at a Tower celebration, Kara with frosting on her nose, (Y/n) mid-laugh, Lena and Alex in the background rolling their eyes.
Next to it — a folded piece of webbing, from the old suit. A reminder.
Not of failure.
But of what she overcame.
Word Count: 3918 words
