Pairing - WC: David!Clark Kent x bsf/theater actress!Reader | 700 (sorry It was meant to be 300 per the challenge!)
Summary: The familiar comfort of scripts, dinner, and Clark's apartment starts feeling a little too close to call friendship. Day 5 of June Jukebox Scribbles
Tags: flirty and fluffy, Clark yearning hours, mutual pining, close proximity (dancing, singing), almost kiss mwah mwah mwah💋
rewatched Spider-Man 3...do the twist
event masterlist
Practice stretched well into the evening, the way it usually did when you showed up with a new script and that hopeful sparkle in your eyes.
Clark listened to your audition monologue until the words lived in his bones, pausing only to offer soft notes slower on the turn, breathe before the last line, don’t rush the heartbreak.
Every time you launched into it again, you shined brighter. Pride and this deep and aching warmth swelled in his chest.
Dinner followed like always: garlic, basil, flour dust on the counter this time.
You at his stove. Him passing the salt before you asked. Flour on his shirt from when you’d accused him of hovering and flicked it at him. Tomato sauce smudged across your cheek after you leaned in to taste from the spoon he held to your lips.
Clark knew his gaze lingered lately.
Maybe because his apartment started keeping you even after reluctant good-bye's and good-nights: your mug beside his coffee maker, his blanket you stole when you were cold, your stack of books claiming his nightstand with a bossy little, “Trust me, Kent. These are good.”
Somewhere along the way, his favorite part of every day had become waiting for your knock at his door.
And now, his neighbor's record player crackled through the paper-thin walls. A familiar opening harmonica kicked in as a bright and bold croon followed.
Hey, hey, baby!
You perked up, turning to him with hands clasped to your chest. “Oh, I love this song, Clark!”
He grinned. Of course he knew that! He knew everything you loved with your whole heart.
Before he could answer, you traded the wooden spoon in his grasp for yours and tugged him closer.
“C'mon! Dance with me! I need the practice!”
Clark didn't hesitate. One broad palm settled low on your waist, fingers splayed as he drew you in. The other laced tighter through yours. Your bodies pressed flush from the start, and he couldn't help but tease you.
"'Kay, but careful," he spun you toward the dining table. "Can’t risk burning Metropolis’s star actress before her big audition tomorrow."
Your laugh warmed him clear through as you slid over the hardwood in imperfect sync, singing under your breath while the kitchen gathered around you in all its mess: flour streaked across his shirt, sauce bubbling too hot on the stove, a dusting of parmesan on the counter, your script abandoned dangerously close to a smear of olive oil.
I said, "That’s the kind of gal I’d like to meet."
Your hip brushed against his thigh on the turn, then again, cheekily. Clark’s hand dared to slide lower. Flour dusted from his shirt onto yours as your breasts pressed against him after each twirl and twist.
"She’s so pretty," Clark sang again, eyes holding yours as the words no longer felt borrowed. "Lord, she’s fine."
Your lips pressed together, and you ducked your face into his chest bashfully before he could see too much of what all of this did to you.
But Clark felt it.
Your fingers curled tighter around his bicep.
Your breath caught against the cotton of his shirt.
Clark’s thumb traced a slow circle over your spine as he dipped his head close enough to catch the scent of your shampoo beneath garlic and basil.
"I’m gonna make her mine, all mine," he sang against your hair.
He heard your heartbeat jump instantly, and so did his.
Finally, you looked up at him, face illuminated in the golden kitchen light.
"All mine," you mouthed back, squeezing his hand.
Traces of city noise, music, the sauce, your script all faded beneath the rush of blood in his ears.
All he saw was his best friend. His favorite person.
The one who had been with him through every bad day, every small victory, every lonely stretch of life he'd never quite knew how to fill.
The woman he wanted beside him for every tomorrow he could imagine.
One flour-dusted hand rose to your cheek, thumb swiping gently at the tomato sauce there, but neither pulled away after it was gone.
Gosh, you were so close.
Close enough to notice the way your head tipped just so with a half-lidded gaze fixed on his lips.
Close enough that if he ducked his head just a tad lower—
I wanna know if you’ll be my—
A violent hiss erupted behind him, and you both startled apart gasping.
“Shit, Clark! Our dinner!” you yelped, slipping from his embrace to point.
Clark groaned, lunging to cut off the stove while you scrambled for a dish towel, wiping at the spill with shaky hands and laughing like you hadn’t just almost kissed him in the middle of his ruined kitchen.
The pasta was spared, the kitchen still stood, the actress unscathed. And whatever almost happened between you was merely...delayed.
Because when Clark looked back at you, still smiling at him like he hung the moon and eyes lingering on his lips.
—my girl. Hey, hey, baby!
Only one thought remained.
Soon.
He was going to ask you to choose him differently.
clark "that was a big one, huh? didn't that feel good?" kent that talks filth in your ear while he's playing with your cunt; two middle fingers hooked inside, heel of his palm pressed over your clit. he toys with it, with you — teasing both your mind and pussy as he controls the way in which you feel.
it's not just about your cunt, with him. it's about your mind too. he'd argue that it needs more stimulating than anything else. so when he's playing with your pussy, working you up more and more, he's lips are against the shell of your ear whispering uncharacteristic obscenities like a guide.
he talks to you in such a dulcet tone, words of praise and admiration making you feel the most idolised and most adored. he tells you how good you sound and how pretty you look, speaking it to you like it rolls off his tongue.
and every time that he makes you cum, he's talking you through it, encouraging the rippling feeling within your body with little, "that's it, there we go,"s
when you finally come down from each and every high, he's telling you how good you did and how well you responded to him. only it's followed with a soft question, an ask about your climax and if you, "want another one?" querying whether you have it in you for just one more.
