Clark Kent

Earth is... loud. And sticky. And kind of ugly in the daylight. At least compared to the other planets you've ventured out. But shit, is it fun.

Humans truly have no idea how fragile they are. They have no idea how short their lives are compared to other species you've met among various cosmic civilizations. But maybe that's why they dance like they've got fire in their veins and fuck around like the world might end tomorrow.

It's charming. Almost addicting. You're supposed to be here for a little while, crashing on a makeshift couch inside the Fortress of a word you couldn’t remember the name of—English is hard—while Kara figures things out (A.K.A where your next destination will be.)

In its own fascinating way, earth reels you in. It's the music, the night lights, the cocktails, the rawness of human emotion. And then there's her cousin.

Clark.

Tall, buttoned-up, frustratingly noble Clark. Had Kara never told you he was her blood relative, you'd round him up with the other earthlings. He's truly nothing like your best friend. The morning light in the city is softer than on most planets you've been to. Everything here feels muted, slower in a way. But it’s nice.

You're not used to that. You're not used to staying still, or staying anywhere for more than a night or two. But Kara asked. She said she missed you, said you could come crash at her place and promised Krypto wouldn't launch into you head first as soon as you flew in. Liar.

You pad into the familiar kitchen, yawning as the oversized shirt you wear slides off one of your shoulders. You scratch at your head, attempting to flatten down any flyaways. It's quiet, the kind of quiet you never get in the fortress. There isn't the humming of his home planet’s technology and no wind against the icy crystal walls. There's only the distant sounds of the city starting its day.

Clark's back is to you, tall and solid where he stands at the stove. His hair is tousled from sleep, plain gray t-shirt stretched across his shoulders, plaid pajama pants hanging low on his hips. In short, he looks delectable.

He glances over his shoulder when he hears your footsteps, and his eyes catch for a mere second on your bare thigh.

It's like taking candy from a fuckin' baby.

"Morning," he says gruffly, turning back to the pan, a faint flush on the back of his neck. "How do you like your eggs?" He asks.