FailSnail HQ

"Where have you been?" you breathe while you basically sprint toward him. Your arms extend just the right amount enough for him to crash into you and scoop you up into his hold. Then to spin you around while squeezing you so tightly that you think your spine might snap in half.

You welcome that, though. It's better than being here alone while he's off-planet and you're making yourself sick over whether or not he'll ever come home. You let yourself be engulfed in him, in his crushing hold, in this tight hug, because at least he's here.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers. He presses a kiss onto your temple, gentle and reverent, and you melt into him. Wrap your legs around his waist just to pull him closer to you, to feel the press of his hard, familiar body against yours.

"The mission wasn't supposed to last that long. Everything that could have gone wrong ended up going wrong."

The sigh he pushes out against your temple is full of solace. Maybe a little guilt, as well, judging by the way he tightens his grip on your waist. He buries his face in your hair right after that.

Definitely a not-so-subtle way of inhaling your scent after he'd lost it for two weeks.

You pull back and shake your head.

"Doesn't matter. I'm so happy you're home," you confess through a breathy, relieved laugh.

Your hands, still tingling from the excitement of seeing him after so long, somehow manage to find their way up to his face. You brush your thumbs over the apples of his cheeks while your eyes reorient themselves with his beautiful features. Although he'd been gone for what felt like an eternity, you never forgot what he looked like.

Which proves a problem, because he doesn't look the same as when he left.

Clark leans in to kiss you, but you don't let him. You ignore your body when it screams at you to let him do it. You quickly press your hand over his mouth to hold him back, earning a confused little hum from your boyfriend. When his brow knits together, you bite back a laugh that very desperately wants to burst from your chest.

There's no doubt in your mind that he wants to kiss you even more than you want to kiss him, but that's not happening until you figure out what's new.

"What on Earth are you doing?" he mumbles against your palm.

"Shh. Hang on," you command, eyes still combing over his features. Your hands follow, fingers gently tracing over his soft, warm skin. He's got a little bit of stubble, which was to be expected. Apparently he had access to a mirror to shave with off-planet, though, because it's more of a five o'clock shadow than actual stubble.

You blink a few times. Your fingers trace over the sharp line of his jaw, and the straight, prominent bridge of his nose, and his high-set cheekbones, and his brow, and...anything on him that you can get your hands on.

"M'starting to feel like a lab experiment. Are you high?" he teases, words a little slurred because you're too busy poking and prodding at his cheeks. Laughs at you, too, giving you a glimpse at that beautiful smile you've missed so much. That smile that's the same as it was when he left.

So...his face is the same. What the hell?

"You're different."

His hold on you gets a little more firm. The easygoing, relaxed features you know so well tighten and morph into concern. A furrowed brow instead of a relaxed one. Widened, slightly scared eyes. Tensed shoulders, an even more tense jaw, and his lips quirking downward into a frown.

"Okay, now you're scaring me."

He sets you down in front of him to get a good look at the top of your head, to crane over you like he always does since he's so fucking big.

"Are you sure you're alright, honey? Did you hit your head or something while I was gone?"

He cradles the back of your head with one hand, clearly feeling for a bump or indent or anything that could explain your odd behavior. Then he leans in a little further to get an even closer look.

And that's when it hits you.

When he tilts to the left to look at where his fingers are basically mapping out and exploring your skull, your eyes fall on his hair, and everything starts to fall into place.

On the way that the curls atop of his head are longer. More defined. Water falling over his head and ever-so-slightly adding to that signature curl that always rests on his forehead.

Then your eyes travel down to the back of his head, at the way his hair is longer there, too. Long enough now that it curls at the nape of his neck, or to stick out and curl upward in the case of some of the thicker ones; a subtle difference, but enough to throw you off.

Enough to turn you on, too, because his hair has never been this long. How he managed to grow it this much over two weeks is beyond you; blame it on Kryptonian biology, maybe.

All you know is that you love it.

"It's your hair!" you squeal. "It's longer!"

"Oh, yeah," he says, face melting back into that general, lovey-dovey, gooey ease he usually has when he looks at you. He chuckles and releases your head, opting for reaching down and grabbing your hands instead.

"It's a little overgrown. I was gonna cut it when I got home."

You scoff. Why do men always cut their hair when it finally looks perfect?

"No, don't you dare! I'll break up with you if you do that!"

You get an eye roll from him for that one, but the way he's smiling down at you makes you think he's not all that upset.

"You think it looks good, huh?"

"It's so pretty, Clark," you purr. You must have laid that soft compliment on him much thicker than you thought you did. His cheeks turn pink, and he grins, and he looks down at your intertwined fingers to avoid turning any redder.

You break free of his hold to touch some of those longer curls, but your fingers stall at his suit's collar. It's different. A little shorter, maybe? The gap in the middle at his throat just a little wider? You aren't sure. Either way, you can see more skin. More of that beautiful, golden skin you dream about being pressed against yours at all hours of the day.

You lean back far enough to look at the rest of his suit, which is also slightly different. Still the same bright blue. Still the same gorgeous, flowing cape. But that symbol, the beacon of hope on the front of his chest is a little bigger. And the stretch of the fabric is a little tighter around his biceps. And those ridiculous trunks - the part that genuinely makes you salivate the most despite being so ridiculous - are a little higher up.

Fuck. He looks incredible.

"This...is this a new suit?"

He beams down at you. Steps back to do a quick little spin. You've never had a problem with a show-and-tell moment. Especially when he's showing himself off.

"You like it? It's not technically new, just...upgraded. Had to get Ma to fix the old one 'cause it was super beat up. She made a couple changes along the way."

He braces his hands on his hips and puffs out his chest. Something that should make you laugh, but now that you can see just how well his not-so-new but definitely-new-at-the-same-time suit's clinging to his thighs, you can't speak.

So you swallow when you're done ogling him and your eyes meet again. It was much harder than you wanted it to be. He definitely heard it, and the way he visibly softens and drops his mouth open tells you he's about to ask if you're okay again.

You don't give him the chance to do it, though, because you're too busy pouncing on him. Jumping into his arms and smashing your lips against his. Clark groans at your suddenness, but he doesn't skip a fucking beat. He'd been waiting to kiss you, after all; makes sense that he'd reciprocate it so quickly.

The kiss is immediately hot. It's heavy and obscenely needy on both ends. Your teeth click together in the most deliciously painful way. Your tongues fight for purchase in each others' mouths. Your hands tangle in his thick, longer hair while his hands slide down to your ass, groping it about as roughly as he knows you can handle while he stumbles out of your living room and toward your bedroom instead.

Your dorky giant trips over his own feet a couple times. His cape doesn't really help, either. Gets caught up and tangled in his boots, makes his steps all wobbly before he kicks your bedroom door open and bounds for your bed. And yet, through all that stumbling and near-falling, he manages to keep you steady in his grasp.

The best part about being with Superman? You never have to worry about him dropping you.

Clark doesn't even break the kiss as he kneels on the edge of your bed and bends over to lay you down on it. You're the first one to break it, and it's only so that you can suck in a breath to prevent passing out.

Damn him and his ability to hold his breath for an hour.

"I've thought about this," Clark mutters, leaning down to kiss your jaw and neck about as frantically as possible, "every single second that I was gone."

You laugh and tilt your head back to give him more access to your skin.

"Ditto," is all you can muster as a response. Your head is swimming with lust and a tiny bit of oxygen deprivation, and he doesn't make it any better when he nips at the sensitive spot at the junction where your neck meets your shoulder. His tongue laves over the new sore spot and pulls a moan out of you that you had no idea was nestled in your lungs.

When you unravel your legs from his waist, he settles between them. You have to hold back a whimper as soon as you feel the thick, warm hardness of his cock against your inner left thigh.

You whine, tugging on his hair to get him out of your neck while you tell him, "Kiss me. I haven't seen you in two weeks."

He obliges, but he does it in his own way. A smirk against your hammering pulse at the side of your neck. A few kisses in a trail toward your collarbones. A thin, hot line that he licks up the column of your throat.

"Anything for you, baby," he mumbles just before connecting your lips again. This kiss is slower than the last one, but so much messier. So much deeper. His tongue doesn't even need to slide over your bottom lip and beg for purchase in your mouth - you both went into it open mouthed and burning with need for each other.

You raise your hips to meet the stiff length of his cock. Even through all of your combined layers of clothing, the feeling of his hardness just hardly bumping against your clit is enough to make your walls flutter and clench.

Clark gently rolls his hips against yours, eliciting a moan from both of you. That was some very much-needed friction. It only exacerbates your need. Makes you burn. Makes you tighten your hold on his curls and pull on them again.

He groans and breaks the kiss, but his hips instinctively buck against yours. It takes all of your strength to not come from seeing the thin string of saliva keeping you connected.

Clark lets out a nervous little chuckle.

"This reunion celebration won't last long if you keep pulling my hair like that, honey."

In a playful act of defiance, you twirl some of his thick curls around your fingers and give them another tug. You smirk up at him when his hips buck again.

"You like having your hair pulled that bad, Clark?"

"I like it a normal amount, thank you very much," he sarcastically counters, but his eyes shift away from yours and he buries his face in your neck to attack it with kisses again. He's always been a bad liar.

"So if I do this," you pause to pull on his hair again - a little harder, a little quicker.

"You won't come in your cute trunks?"

Clark literally shudders. His hand falls to your left hip so he can pin you down on the mattress; it was just to get you off of him, to keep you from brushing against his cock again. Prevents him from blowing his load before you even get your hands on him.

"No, I won't." His voice went up about 10 octaves. You laugh at him and kiss his temple just before he can start moving down your chest.

With a flick of his wrist, the buttons on your work blouse are done for. They pop off of you and fling around your room, hitting the walls and clinking down onto the floor all over the place.

"I liked that shirt!" you squeak out. Your feeble little attempt at scolding him bounces right off of him, though.

"I'll buy you another one, honey. Don't worry about it."

Clark spreads your now destroyed shirt open and kneels between your legs so he can get a good look at you. All you can do is push yourself up on your elbows and watch his gaze slowly travel over your bare, heaving chest, your kiss-swollen lips, the soft, pinkish-red marks he'd left on your neck to claim you as his.

But he doesn't speak until he meets your eyes. When his lust for you gets swept aside, and he smiles so big that his dimples pop out. He reaches down to grab your hands. As your fingers intertwine with his, he lowers his voice to a whisper and confesses, "I missed you so much."

Clark's sweet, tender-hearted nature isn't something you're unfamiliar with. He's always got that big heart of his on his sleeve. Always displaying sincerity, and compassion, and kindness because he was raised that way. That's just the way he operates.

And yet there's something so special about when he's directing it at you. Something more genuine, something sweeter and kinder and more compassionate.

Because he loves you. Sure, he loves the people in Metropolis. He cares about them and their well-being.

But at the end of the day, he really, really loves you.

"I love you," he coos while his massive hands give your much smaller ones a tight squeeze.

See?

"I love you," you return without hesitation. You get a flash of that pretty grin from your dorky giant.

Then he leans down to kiss a trail down between your breasts, down your stomach, and toward your waist. He stops there. His hands, big and warm and gentle as ever despite the frantic need threatening to explode out of him, graze over the bottom of the skirt you wore to work. Thankfully, it isn't too tight.

Not like that'd be a problem. He'd just tear it off of you. But, seeing as he already tattered one piece of your clothing today...well, at least you get to salvage the skirt.

Clark pushes your skirt up until it's bunched around your hips. As soon as he gets a glimpse of what he's been missing for 14 long, long days, he lets out a shaky little sigh. His thumb gently glides over the wet patch in the middle of your panties, slow and exploratory and so fucking intoxicating that you're worried you might actually be drunk on him.

"Clark, don't," you cut yourself off with a pathetic whine as he presses down on your clit through your panties. One of your legs jolts and falls over his shoulder, the other still pressed down on the mattress because his big hand's claimed its spot on your thigh.

"Shit, don't tease!"

"I'm not teasing," he mutters. Starts rubbing soft circles on the sensitive little bundle of nerves, making you twitch and claw at the sheets beneath you just to keep it together.

"Just admiring you, sweetheart. Wish you could see how pretty you are when you're making a mess for me like this," he purrs, leaning forward to press a few soft kisses on your thigh. That five o'clock shadow burns your thighs. God, you missed that burn.

As he's marking up your thigh with soft bites that he suckles on to soothe your pain, that thumb slips away from your clit to push your panties to the side.

It all happens so fast. One second, he's torturing you through your panties, the next, he's dipping his head down to suck your clit into his mouth. You gasp and instinctively reach for him, one hand tangling in his hair while the other meets his where it rests on your thigh.

His longer hair is incredible, to say the least. It looks good. Fits him very well. Makes him look more mature even though he's already in his 30s.

Also, though? Fantastic to pull on while he's seated between your thighs and taking you to heaven. It keeps you grounded while he's moving down and dipping his tongue into your cunt. Plus, every time you yank on it, you get rewarded with a moan or grunt from him that shoots deep, gravelly vibrations straight up your core.

A particular gentle shake of his head while he's attempting to get his tongue deeper into you has you seeing stars. His nose gives your clit some much needed attention; enough attention, in fact, for you to whimper his name so loudly that it echoes within your room.

Also enough attention to get you to finish almost immediately.

You come so hard that your eyes might permanently be stuck rolled back in your head. While your body falls apart beneath him, the only thing keeping your soul from leaving it is that tight hold you've still got on his hair. You pull it a little harder as you're cresting over that wave that brings you to paradise, and while you're convulsing and trembling, he's letting out a rather loud moan of his own to match yours.

You come down a few moments later thanks to Clark's muttered sweet nothings and his gentle touches.

"Atta girl," he purrs through a few kisses he's pressing on your inner thighs. You keen. Then you blurt out a command to him, something telling him to get up off the floor so you can really get this party started.

"Um," he murmurs through an awkward laugh, "I think...maybe I'll just stay down here a little longer. If that's alright with you, of course."

That piques your interest. He does love to go down on you, but he's never turned down your begging for him to fuck you. You push yourself up on your elbows and take a good look at him.

At his widened eyes that keep darting away from you. At his bright red cheeks. At the way his chest is heaving much more than you'd expect it to be right now when he hasn't even really done anything.

You let out a weak giggle.

"What the hell are you talking about? You okay, Kent?"

"Yeah," he lies. A literal lie through his teeth. He pushed that little word out at you through a grin.

"Then come up here, weirdo," you tell him. "Sit against the headboard and let me repay you."

He presses his lips into a thin line. Swallows so thickly that you can see his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. But, he's never been anything less than obedient, so he very reluctantly starts the process of doing as you say.

As soon as he pushes himself up from the floor where he was kneeling in front of you, you see what the problem is and why he wanted to stay down there a little longer. It's in the form of a relatively large wet patch on the front of his trunks.

No wonder he moaned so loudly when you yanked on his hair while you came.

It riddles you with guilt when you feel the giggle bubbling up and out of your mouth at his expense, but you couldn't hold it back if you tried.

"Clark, did you-"

"I don't wanna talk about it," he grumbles, cutting you off relatively effectively. You cover your mouth with one hand and gnaw on your bottom lip. That helps you hold in your laugh.

It passes a few seconds later.

You shake your head.

"We don't have to."

As he reaches up to release the latches that secure his cape to his shoulders, you clear your throat.

"So...you definitely like it more than a normal amount when I pull on your hair, huh?"

Clark tosses his head back to let out a loud groan. You fall into a fit of giggles, but he's not having any of it. He huffs and crosses his arms over his chest.

"Enjoy it now, because I'm cutting it in the morning just to spite you."