A slice of life ft. yan superman
What is it like living with yan!superman? I made a(really self indulgent) day in the life! Superman, in my head, is a combination of Bendis run superman, all star superman, the current superman run, and Corwenswet supes so there might be parallels with those. if you haven't read the comics I mentioned, go read them! they're all pretty good in my opinion. Though, this is probably really ooc
gender neutral reader, SFW
tw: implied stalking, infantilization, can be interpreted as romantic or platonic, reader isnât exactly willing, is implied to have struggled against Supes before (i donât condone doing any of the things listed here irl, and if you do, youâre kinda gross)
In all your time dating, and even just talking to people and making friends, Clark Kent was the least creepy, most comically normal, person you had ever met. He was sweet, called his mother at least once a day, and made all his own lunches from scratch(which is impressive considering the quality).
So looking back you don't blame yourself, you couldn't have known. You couldn't have guessed just how much he loved you. Itâs not like he did any of this to hurt you, he could never!! :(
he just wants whatâs best for you!
When you wake up, you're by yourself. Even though he makes sure to stay with you until you fall asleep, he still has people to save, so more often than not you wake up alone. You slowly, in the hopes that he doesn't hear that you're awake and moving, attempt to sit up and get out of bed by yourself. You always hope to find out if he keeps the bedroom door locked while you're sleeping,(he keeps the other doors locked during the day, so why not this one?) but you never make it that far.
In barely the blink of an eye there's a flash of color, and Superman, who you've long since learned is Clark Kent, is at your bedside, looking at you like he's looking at the sun. Sometimes he appears with scorch marks, or scratches on the suit, or just generally dirty, or not even in costume, but today isn't one of those days. He smiles down at you, his hair slightly windswept.
"Good morning sunshine." He speaks gently and softly, like how you might speak to a child or a small animal. It's as if he thinks that if speaks any louder he might scare you away(like he hasn't done other things that terrify you).
Shortly after that, you're out of bed, and in the kitchen. Clark makes you breakfast, and you're served with the thick plastic and rubber silver ware that toddlers use. Clark claimed metal was too dangerous. You take your first bites of food, and Clark looks at you, happily waiting to hear what you think of breakfast. You've learned to just eat when he serves you, as you've figured out the hard way that he doesn't think force feeding you is beneath him. After all, its all for your own good.
"How is it? Good I hope?" He asks. Mentally, you don't want to grace him with a response, but you know that's not the best idea, even if the food is pretty good. You do your best to maintain a somewhat believable smile. "It's good."
Clark chatters at you for a bit while you eat. He talks about what he did while you were asleep, the cats he rescued, grandmas he helped across the street, etc. You lose track of what he's saying, choosing to look out of the kitchen window behind him. The sky is it's usual clear warm blue, and even if you weren't too much of an outdoorsy person before, what you wouldn't give to get to be one now. To be outside, away from this farmhouse, away from this stupid flat grassy land, and away from Clark.
"Sunshine? Sugarplum?" He says gently. It's as if he knows you're thinking about him. You always wondered why he couldnât just call you by your name like a normal person. "You alright? Dija' hear me? I was just talking about how me and Batman had a little run in."
You try to make it sound like you're paying attention, but all you can muster is a "mhm". This earns you a look of concern from Clark. He cups the side of your face with one of his large hands, forcing you to stare up at his worried expression. "Sugarplum, you've been spacey lately. Are you okay?"
There's a pause before you speak again. "I'm fine."
It's such a stupid question, but after a moment you think about it: even if you can't really do much of anything, you can make him feel bad. just as a treat. After all, you deserve to get back at him. You think of what could make him feel guilty, before ultimately deciding on the easiest option. "I think maybe I'm just use to being quiet more since I'm all cooped up, and home alone most days."
His frown contorts into one with less worry as he thinks about what you said. Itâs like he knows what youâre trying to do. Clark lifts his hand to pat your head. âI know you want outside time, but thatâs not happening buddy. You know what happens when you go outside. You get all cranky and donât want to come back in.â You scowl and he plants a kiss on your forehead. âNice try though.â
And with that there goes your attempt at freedom for the day. When Clark first brought you here, you fought him on everything. Eat his cooking? You wouldnât be caught dead. Do your chores? Never. Go to bed? He would have to tuck you in kicking and screaming. But being angry is exhausting, and you could only manage it for so long. With time, you stared to eat what he fed you, do what he told you, and sleep when he tucked you in. You could tell it made Clark happy, in his own weird way.
Slowly, you tried less and less to fight him, now only really testing Clark once or twice a day. You really were too tired to do much more.
Itâs been a few hours since Clark left for work, leaving you by yourself in the house. While itâs boring, itâs not as bad as it used to be. Because of your âbad behaviorâ when you first arrived, you had nothing to do besides chores. He later revealed to you that he only gave you things to do because he didnât want you sitting around doing nothing while he was at work. It wasnât wrong for him to worry about it, after a while being idle started taking a toll on your mental health(in addition to the obvious being held captive part), and you started doing chores. Eventually he gave you more things to do, books to read, games to play, he even started getting you stuff for hobbies.
Today you started your chores in the kitchen. The kitchen was really the only room Clark ever made you do chores in, but doing the dishes while heâs gone only takes up so much time. After about ten minutes you move on to sweeping the entryway near the front of the house, and as per usual you eye the door.
You stand there, looking out itâs square front windows. This mental exchange happens every day. Even if itâs locked, your first instinct would be to pull the handle and run outside, but youâve long since learned not to do that. You donât know how he does it , but as soon as the door so much as creaks, no matter where he is, heâs there, in front of you, ushering you away from the door.
Once youâre done sweeping you settle down for lunch, eating what Clark left for you in the fridge. Itâs good, as per usual, and has a little note on it: âdonât forget to eat!â written in his usual not-quite-sloppy handwriting, surrounded by several hearts and stars and a happy face for good measure. You donât really know why he took to writing notes, you know he sees them thrown out or left around the house. Though you do feel a bit guilty for some reason when you donât read them, but youâd do almost anything else before you tell him that.
After lunch you go over what you want to do for the rest of the day, scanning over books and dvds that have all been worn over time from use. After learning that you were willingly doing your chores consistently, as a reward Clark would bring home a book or movie or two. You never really told him what movies you wanted to watch, he just seemed to know what your favorite movies were, it was strange. You always figured that he watched you for a while before bringing you here, but really thinking about it makes you sick. Since then, youâve never requested anything specific from him, he just brings things home he thinks youâll like.
One of the books you had read before was a recipe book, but if Clark doesnât let you handle regular metal silverware, then the oven is likely out of the question. On days like these you tend to think about taking a nap, but when you nap during the day, you donât sleep well, and then Clark notices⊠not worth it. You decide to watch all of the Ironman movies again. If only superheroes like that existed instead of the ones you have. But that would be unrealistic, now wouldnât it?
The rest of the afternoon passes rather quickly.
By the time Clark gets home, youâve generally done all that you can do to entertain yourself. While he does his best to supply you with dvdâs to watch(all movies he approves), and games and activities to play, its only every now and then you get something new besides books to read. At this time of the day you tend to find yourself sitting and doing nothing. Maybe daydreaming. Early on when he brought you here you would let yourself daydream frequently, however they would oftentimes end up circling back to memories of your family, friends, and just in general the freedom you used to have. After a while, daydreaming just made you sad.
When Clark walks through the door, heâs positively beaming. He picks you up like you weigh nothing and circles his arms around you in a tight hug, droning on about how he missed you. 'Hiya sugarplum!', 'I missed you sweetpea!' and the like. He plants several soft kisses on your forehead as he talks, you donât flinch and pull away like you used to. What point would there be?
He smiles âDid you eat your lunch? I made extra of it so you can have some tomorrow since you love it so much.â Clark always checks to see if youâve eaten. At one point you would refuse to eat out of defiance, but starving gets old eventually.
âYeah, I ate.â You reply curtly. He pinches your cheek gently. âI bet youâre hangry, itâs been a while since lunchtime and Iâm lateâŠâ He trails off, hands moving from your face to his hair, running through it frustratedly. âGosh, you need dinner. Poor thing.â
You find yourself scooped up and placed in the wooden chair he keeps by the kitchen counter. He grabbed the extra chair from the dining room, claiming that he just âenjoys having you around even when heâs doing other things', but youâre convinced he just wants to monitor you any time he can.
Every so often he reaches out from whatever heâs doing at the stove to pat you on the head. On occasion he gently scratches behind your ear, rubbing your cheek with his thumb. Try as you might to avoid conversation, Clark decides to talk at you. Even if you arenât listening or responding, he still tells you about his day whilst not expecting a response, like one might with a pet. After a while, he stares at you silently and expressionlessly, waiting for pasta to boil.
Making eye-contact feels awkward, and a little too much like the defiance you once gave up. Rather than give yourself any false hope of hurting him in some way, you fiddle with the bottom of your shirt, avoiding looking at him. It almost feels like he would blast you away with his laser vision if he looked any harder. It's uncomfortable. After the prolonged silence, he speaks, cupping your cheek in his hand like before.
"You've been so good recently." His hand that was holding the pot comes up to find a chunk of your hair to play with. (he does this regardless of hair texture, even if you insist on him keeping his hands to himself. he doesn't seem to understand the concept of not patting your head, even if it musses your hair up. If you wear a head covering of some kind he just pats your head gently.) "You've been eating all your meals on time, going to bed, you haven't been yelling or kicking me, you do all your chores, all without being so fussy like you used to be..." he sighs, the blank expression he'd been wearing before changing into one of reflection.
"You've been spacey lately, and I just wish you'd be a little chattier." He says in his usual soft, sing-song voice, as if he's just complaining to a friend that they've been a bit quiet, not is prisoner. Clark scrunches his nose, deep in thought as he turns down the heat on the noodles, testing to see if they're done. He hands you one to nibble on. The wrinkles on his nose quickly melt away, replaced by a wide smile. "Why don't we have some outside time tomorrow? I'll get home early from work, we'll walk around the yard for a while, you can watch me put the neighbor's cows away. Doesn't that sound fun?"
You'd rather be caught dead than openly admit to Clark that 'outside time' is a good idea, but god, if stretching your legs doesn't sound nice. To be outside, to breathe fresh, unfiltered air. You hesitantly nod. Clark turns the stove off and brings the pot of noodles to the sink, the puffs of steam as he strains the noodles fogging up his glasses.
"I know I told you no this morning, but you've been so well behaved recently."
Dinner was good. Clark's cooking is always good. You hate that about it. It makes you think of being anywhere else, and at this point that saddens you more than anything. You don't want to think of the outside that you're missing. But if you don't eat Clark will force feed you so there isn't much of a choice.
Your body, trained by nights and nights of the same routine, has started to slow with tiredness. Your bedtime isn't long after dinner. Being full of warm spaghetti and garlic bread doesn't exactly help either. This doesn't go unnoticed by Clark, who gently pats your head before taking up your empty plate. He rinses them off in the sink, cleaning them diligently before drying them and setting them on a rack by the sink. He then turns to you. You with your head in your arms on the counter.
You hate that your body has adapted to this. That it so willingly learned when you're supposed to be in bed, that it so easily warped to his schedule, what he wanted for you. It makes you want to flail your limbs around in protest, to force your body to wake up, but you can't. All you can do is yawn, pressing your cheek to the inside of your forearm. Clark seems to find that cute. He carefully lifts you up from your chair, cradling you to his chest. "Are we sleepy sunshine?" He looks rather pleased with himself. You don't respond. "I'll take that as a yes."
He carries you up to your room, keeping you tucked against him. When you get to your bedroom, he maneuvers you to hold you with one arm, searching for some pajamas for you to wear. He changes you as quickly and respectfully as he can, hands lingering no longer than absolutely necessary. You could almost close your eyes and imagine anyone else taking care of you. You've done it before, he notices when you do.
After what can be no longer than a few minutes, he tucks you in, before sitting on the side of the bed, just gently holding your hand. You don't know how long he stays there, you never do, or when he leaves, but you fall asleep like that, trying your absolute hardest to ignore him. to ignore the impossibly warm, overbearing presence by your bedside.