Eminema!

INTRODUCTION!!!

Helloooo! I’m Emma :)

I write and draw. I’m -18!

I like DC and Marvel, as well as ALNST, Avatar, Genshin Impact, and RDR

I listen to Rollercoaster at Sunset, Radiohead, and Boa

I also have open commissions! I will write or draw for you, writing is $0.02 per word, drawing is $15 for a fully rendered drawing. I take PayPal and Venmo!

TAGLIST~ Superbat, Understanding(?), possible jealousy if you look waaay into the lyrics..

“Damn that pretty boy Clark.”

Is what Bruce Wayne found himself thinking, most days, alone in the Batcave, staring at reports and news papers from the Daily Planet to find more to criticize on the farm boy. Looking into every damage, every injury. Some kind of flaw.

But every one he found, he never brought up at the next meeting with the League. Staring into Superman’s shining blue eyes. What a perfect man.

Three weeks had passed since then.

Clark received a text from Bruce.

Bruce 🦇

Dinner at the manor. 7. We need to talk.

And show up to the Wayne manor at 7 PM, He did. Wearing a white size too big button up, black slacks, and his black dress shoes, having just gotten off work.

He walked to the door, expecting Alfred to be there. Expecting the rest of the League to be there. Expecting Bruce’s children to be inside the manor. Not for Bruce to open the door, before Clark had a chance to knock.

“..You’re late.” Bruce noted, looking Clark up and down, without much change to his blank appearance.

“I was busy— at work.” Clark admitted, sheepishly. Not fully expecting to have been called out on that.

“Mm.” Was the only reply Bruce gave. He opened the door, allowing Clark to enter.

They’d sat down soon after, across each other. Bruce cutting straight to the point.

“Last week, in Metropolis. Did you know the city now has 30 thousand in property damage?”

“I- uh. Yes.” Clark answered, nervously. Already knowing where this would lead to.

Bruce glanced up from the table, to see Clark looking at the table, at the wall. Anywhere but the man in front of him.

After a beat, Clark finally looked up at the other man.

“You didn’t bring me here because of Metropolis.”

Bruce doesn’t answer right away.

“….No.”

“You wanna tell me I messed up?”

“I wanted to understand why I couldn’t.” Bruce admits.

Clark blinks, as Bruce slides a Manila folder across the table. Inside, there’s newspaper clippings, battle reports, mission summaries. Every single one, Clark’s name highlighted. Clark flips through them, as if trying to find a rhyme or reason.

“I’ve spent months, looking for proof.”

“..Of what?” Clark asks, looking up at him.

“That you may be as reckless as everyone says.”

“..And?”

Bruce huffs through his nose, a short sound.

“I always find the opposite.”

“..oh.”

Clark laughs, but not mockingly. Almost in shock. But there’s a tint of warmth beneath it.

“Wanna know something funny, Bruce?”

Bruce waits.

“I spend half my time wishing I was a bit more like Batman. You always know what to do, what to say. There’s always a plan. Barely any fear.”

Clark admits, looking at the man.

To which, Bruce has no response. Then, Bruce finally says something he’s likely never admitted.

“I don’t know how to let people know me, most days.”

Clark doesn’t answer immediately.

“..Could I try?” He offers, awkwardly, smiling that small smile that makes the apple of his cheek more pronounced, his right dimple appearing along with the smile.

“…Sure.” Bruce nods once.

For Bruce, that’s enormous.

Minutes of talking turned to hours. By 11 PM, Clark was by the door.

Clark smiles, holding a Tupperware of leftovers. “So…”

“Dinner again next week?” He asks

Bruce pauses.

Normally, it’s be a We’ll see.

“…You can come by whenever, Clark.”

Clark’s smile widens.

“Uh, great!”

He leaves the Manor, Bruce gently closing the door behind Clark.

It seemed a weight had been lifted off his shoulders and chest, for the first time in years, and he no longer had the urge to find material to compare himself to Clark with. Like he’d finally let someone into his heart.