Chapter Text
If Clark needed oxygen to survive, he’s sure he would be on the floor unconscious by now with the way his windpipe is being crushed under Bruce’s strong, calloused hands. As it is, Clark chokes on his spit when Bruce somehow yanks him even closer, mumbling something insulting under his breath that Clark chooses to tune out.
He waits with bated breath as Bruce finishes fussing with his tie, praying to any deity that may hear him that Bruce’s fingertips against his pulse can’t feel its erratic rhythm.
Any further down and Bruce’s cold fingers would be pressed against the edge of his scent patch. All he would have to do is lift it to smell the truth of his feelings and expose everything, and Clark would let him, he’d let Bruce do anything to him, as long as he keeps touching him-
Bruce tightens his tie one more time and smooths down the collar before stepping out of Clark’s space. He barely resists a whine from the loss of warmth, but is ultimately grateful for the rush of cool air that washes away the dangerous path his mind had been wandering down.
He had been a ball of nerves the whole day, hell, since he had last seen Bruce.
Head clearer, he flushes with shame at how distracted with Bruce’s presence he had been that he wasn’t focused on the reason why they were in Bruce’s home office in the first place.
——
The invitation had come right after his rut finished.
His first day back in the office greeted him with an obnoxiously bright gold envelope on his desk. Alongside the envelope, sipping what looked like her second cup of coffee despite the early hour, all hopes for a quiet day had been dashed by none other than Lois Lane.
Sighing, Clark had dumped his bag beside the desk and dropped his frame into the chair so hard it creaked. He winced, and purposely ignored Lois’ raised brow. He could practically feel her vibrating with whatever she was holding back.
Still refusing to meet her eye, Clark begrudgingly acknowledged his friend with a less-than polite-sounding, “Yes, Lois?”
Finally breaking her silence, she spoke as if she hadn’t been waiting for him to arrive all morning, “Looks like your little crush might not be all that one-sided.”
She took another long sip from her mug, the noise further grating on Clark’s nerves despite being in the office for all of five minutes.
She had that effect on him.
Despite his griping, Lois was his rock.
When he had first arrived in Metropolis, Clark had had no one. Sure, he was lucky that he had gotten a good-paying job, with coworkers and a boss who truly seemed to care for the work they did and those involved. And yes, he flew around the planet constantly, meeting thousands of people and saving even more happily, but he felt the metaphorical distance nonetheless.
Many knew Clark Kent, the reporter. The world knew Superman. But in Metropolis, no one knew him.
Then he became friends with Lois.
It had been natural the way they gravitated towards one another. A simple invitation to share thoughts on the newest LutherCorp purchase of subsidiaries over coffee became daily lunches, and then dinners every week.
She was the most intelligent woman Clark ever had the privilege to meet, and she didn’t pull punches when it came to giving him a piece of her mind. Lois was an unstoppable force and absolutely, devastatingly beautiful.
Her beta status made for an easy partnership, even more-so with her general lack of interest in secondary genders. His presentation as a beta eliminated any chances for questions regarding where he spent his rut cycles.
They dated briefly, becoming further entangled in one another’s lives up until Lois uncovered his secret.
He had spent his rut at the Fortress like he normally did, able to avoid Lois’ concern with a simple text letting her know he would be out sick for a few days with a cold.
Clark just forgot that he had lent Lois a key in case she ever needed anything urgent.
He had been planning on telling her, really he did, but it just never seemed like the right moment.
At the time he had been horrified, he thought that would be the end; that she would yell and berate him over skewed journalistic integrity, for lying to her.
Instead, she had simply finished her coffee in one gulp before striding over to where she had caught him in the act of flying back through his open window, and kissed him.
Eyes blazing with the satisfaction of a detective closing a case, she had leaned in and in an uncharacteristically soft voice said, “I knew it.”
She was more shocked by the fact his real gender designation was alpha, but quickly got over that too.
“Makes no difference to me, right?” Her expression had turned playful then, “I would’ve guessed omega.”
It was almost offensive the way she seemed to friendzone him after, blowing off any advances of his with a laugh and wave of her hand.
He wanted to ask why the sudden change, but never could get past the ball of emotion and anxiety in his throat.
Was she… afraid of him now?
He couldn’t help but feel silly for even toying with the idea, having seen the woman throw herself into dangerous situation after dangerous situation for the sake of a story.
Then one day he finally drew up the courage to just ask.
“Clark I’m not blind,” she emphasized the word with an exaggerated gesture over her eyes, “You’re in love with the big bad Bat!”
She waited for him to react, but when she was met with only blank confusion she continued explaining as she would to a 5-year old.
“Oh come on. You’ve been crushing on him for like, ever? Actually, the obsessive cyberstalking makes more sense now. Unless you’ve graduated to following him too? The shrouded vigilante; the dark, mysterious Alpha of Gotha-“
“That’s enough!” He had frantically closed his hands over her mouth, looking around wildly for Jimmy or Ron in case they might have been eavesdropping.
Only letting her go once he felt a slick tongue trace a line on the palm of his hand, he stepped back, grumbling and wiping his hand on his work slacks.
“Real mature, Lois.”
“Sorry Clark,” she said, not looking sorry in the slightest, “but you’re not as good at hiding things as you think you are.”
“Um, hello? I’m great at hiding things!” He grimaced as the words rang out, not needing enhanced hearing to catch the way his voice went up a register. He cleared his throat then tried again, “I’m great at hiding things.”
Clark hadn’t meant to be so obvious about his… curiosity involving Gotham’s masked protector, but after finally meeting the man a few months prior, he couldn’t help but feel a strange pull towards him.
The man in question hardly gave Clark a reason to even want to interact, but Clark was helpless against his own compulsive mind when all it wanted was to know more about the Batman. He wanted to get to know the man behind the blatantly obvious artificial alpha scent and kevlar.
Despite his violent approach, Clark admired the hero for his devotion to the solemn city. It was clear to anyone who watched him how every crushing kick and bruising punch was methodical, moves calculated minutes before the fight had even begun.
Clark somehow knew deep down that even the Bat’s decision to fake a different secondary gender was deliberate, and most likely necessary for his own survival.
He sometimes trailed high above in the clouds, out of sight, while Batman patrolled.
Sometimes.
Lois had patted him on the back placatingly before sauntering away, cackling as she rounded the corner and out of Clark’s direct line of sight.
Despite the breakup, their closeness remained unchanged, and things settled back into routine as if nothing had ever happened in the first place.
“Earth to Clark? Did the possibility of Bruce finally reciprocating your feelings break you or something?”
Clark had snapped back to reality at that, blinking rapidly and then squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to gather this thoughts.
Feelings? Reciprocated? Bruce?
“You know, he pretended not to know you.”
That finally got Clark’s full attention, heart racing at the mention of that day.
“He had to Lois,” he shifted uneasily in his chair, clearing his throat as he raised his chin a bit in defense, “also, he doesn’t know that you know. You shouldn’t even know.”
In his defense he hadn’t been the one to let the bat out of the bag. Lois had it figured out by the second interview he managed to magically secure with the notoriously press-averse billionaire.
She had shrugged a singular slender shoulder, gaze twinkling almost as obnoxiously as the offending envelope still unopened in front of him.
Without another word, Lois tapped a manicured nail onto the golden paper once before slinking away back to her desk with an alarmingly satisfied look on her face.
Wayne Enterprises
Mr. Kent,
It would mean a great deal to me if you would accompany me to this year’s Wayne Foundation Gala next Saturday evening.
Despite what the papers insist, these events are considerably less dreadful with the right company.
A car will arrive for you at seven.
- Bruce Wayne
——
“B, are u sure I’m the right one for this?” ‘Did you run out of international runway models to hang off of your arm,’ is what he didn’t say.
He wrings his hands uncomfortably while he watches Bruce primp himself in the mirror, considerably less rough than he had been with Clark.
He supposes he deserves it, after all.
“I mean the press there already know me, so if you’re goal is to lay low then you definitely chose the wrong person, I mean you’ve said it yourself that I’m horrible at being subtle, what if-“
Bruce levels a devastating look at him through the mirror, which effectively shuts his insecure ramblings down.
“Clark, if I wanted to fly under the radar I would not have shown up at all.” He shakes his cuffs out one more time before facing Clark head on.
“Did you forget the occasion? I could have shown up via video call and I would still make headlines. Trust me Clark, I have a reason for why it needed to be you accompanying me tonight. Just bear with it for a few hours then you may go.”
Right. There was a reason Clark was here. Bruce hadn’t invited him out of his own personal desire, Clark was just another tool in his belt necessary for whatever his goal tonight required.
He wishes he could take off his scent patches to quickly rub his wrists along Bruce’s body and scent him properly before they walked into the thirsty maws of Gotham elites. His own mouth waters as he recalls the first time he was blessed with Bruce’s natural scent.
The older man’s years of constant suppressant abuse and heat repression had shone through once the patch had been removed, a lingering chemical scent that made Clark’s senses tingle irritably.
Despite that, Clark had instantly become addicted to the smoky, jasmine scent the man was surrounded by. Clark greedily drank in the whiskey-floral notes, not needing his eidetic memory to burn it into his mind.
Their scents had intertwined mouthwateringly, apple orchards and thickets of jasmine set ablaze.
That alone was enough to stroke his alpha’s secretly disgustingly large ego.
And if he ruffled Dick’s hair a little longer than normal when he knew he wouldn’t be seeing the young beta for a while, then that was his business. Bruce had never mentioned anything about the scenting either, so he took the silence as permission.
He was just grateful Alfred could not smell his pheromones otherwise he’s not sure his behavior would be so quietly tolerated, despite the close relationship he maintained with the man.
None of the other Justice League members dared to question why Superman was allowed to scent the other supposed alpha, knowing better than to try to figure their dynamic out after all this time.
If he was far gone then, Clark was absolutely hopeless now.
He swallows around the mouthful of saliva that gathers in his mouth, bitter jealousy sliding down his throat along with it.
It had been a long time since he broke a champagne flute at the first gala he was invited to. Bruce ducked out early with a beautiful omega who couldn’t keep her hands off of him that night. The poor glass didn’t stand a chance.
Maybe my presence will deter them tonight, he was desperate to raise his low spirits in order to perform to Bruce’s standards. He wanted to make him proud.
Tonight, he was the one with Bruce. And maybe if he played his cards right, he could use the excuse of their cover to sneak a hand into Bruce’s as they leave.
Clark likes to think himself an optimist.
Growing more frustrated in spite of his efforts, if only he could let his scent spread, thwart any potential suitors like he had in the elevator all those weeks ago.
Oh gosh, the elevator.
—
His rut had hit him unusually fast and fierce that time around.
Bruce later scolded him for his lack of preparedness over the phone, but in the end sent Clark a message with a link attached to it that read:
Kal-El’s Cycle
Fill out this calendar and notify me when you are finished. Do it as soon as you get a chance, Clark. I’ll know if you’re putting it off.
-B
In the weeks leading up to it, Clark had felt all sorts of off.
Okay, yes it was technically his fault for growing lazy with manually taking note of his ruts, but he hadn’t actually needed a physical calendar since he first presented.
If he had, he would have been more acutely aware of the dwindling number of scent patches and tablets of daily suppressants that he had specifically curated at the Fortress of Solitude.
Not only had he almost exposed himself at the Planet, but by the time Lois had shucked his deadweight into a cab and miraculously got him into his apartment, he was practically incoherent, mumbling the same thing over and over.
“Brucebrucebruceeeee!” He had thrashed in his bed, shredding the sheets in fury as his alpha realized his ‘mate’ wasn’t there.
He left you. He doesn’t want you. He doesn’t want to help you with your rut because you’re not worthy.
“God Smallville, you’ve got it bad.”
Buying her lunch the week after he returned had been, in part, to make up for the incident, as well as an attempt to ensure she never spoke of it again.
It hadn’t worked.
Clark had met with and started a working relationship with the Batman before he ever met ‘Bruce’ in person. It hadn’t been until the vigilante begrudgingly revealed his identity to Clark that he began to directly interact with his playboy persona.
Bruce Wayne was an enigma. He was untouchable, an overwhelming force to be reckoned with. His neutral gender status enticed any and all, and if Clark was a lesser man he would have made it a real problem years ago.
That’s why when he had seen Bruce appear in the opened doors of the elevator, he couldn’t tell if it was a blessing or a test.
He had looked striking in his charcoal suit, a deadly combination of quiet strength and loud provocation. The hauntingly seductive smile that had stretched across his perfectly pink lips at the sight of Clark only seemed to add to the fire that had ignited within himself.
Clark had been so distracted by his general grogginess and the way his clothes seemed to stick unnaturally to his skin to even notice Bruce arriving at the Planet. The moment Bruce had stepped into Clark’s space and practically presented to him with his nuzzling (he knows he’s exaggerating, but Clark would like to imagine it went this way nonetheless) Clark knew he would do something utterly humiliating.
He struggled enough in the long stretch of days spent in the desolate isolation of the Fortress, thankful that nothing he said or did would allow the Superman robots to let him leave and hunt down what he really wanted.
Clark knew his unusually unfocused state meant his cycle was approaching soon, but he had figured he had a few days at least before he entered pre-rut and decided to go in to work anyways. Perry had been exceptionally irascible that week too, so he really had no other choice.
Seeing Bruce in his ‘Brucie’ state had provoked his alpha to the point it sent him barreling head-first into it early, taking advantage of the close proximity he did not normally get with the man.
Thankfully Lois had left pretty much immediately after making sure he wasn’t going to do anything rash; like fly out of his window naked and beg Bruce to take care of him.
His rut haze usually provided distorted illusions to aide him along, a quirk he was not sure was due to his alien biology or if he was genuinely just out of his mind.
It wasn’t something he could necessarily ask Kara about, either.
And Rao, were the hallucinations/dreams absolutely breathtaking.
Normally they were pretty standard. He was usually able to pop his knot pretty easily once his imaginations took over.
Pale skin littered in silver scars, rippling muscles taut with tension, bitten lips parted in utter ecstasy; that all usually did the trick.
His knot-driven mind had other plans this time around.
Months before, Clark had covered an event that Wayne Enterprises was hosting for charity. For reasons often only known to the man himself, Bruce had specifically requested that Clark be the one to attend the event. Perry had long-been used to the billionaire philanderer’s antics, his acceptance bought with a bright smile and promise of further funding for the paper.
Clark wasn’t sure what exactly he had done so wrong this time around that warranted the amount of unusual and cruel torture from Bruce, but his rut-addled brain was appreciative of the spank material.
The charity event, if the lecherous activities and its attendees could even muster enough shame to pretend that’s why they were here, featured Bruce Wayne in all his sparkling glory hosting a wet t-shirt contest.
In booty shorts.
At nearly 42, Clark had secretly hoped that the older man’s more racy days were behind him. He was dreadfully wrong.
Bruce had pranced around the stage as the contestants were sprayed with water, giggling loudly when he would get the occasional spray himself. His thick thighs were soaked in the liquid, his tight white t-shirt might as well had been forgotten altogether with the way his rosy nipples were on full display.
If it had been Bruce’s intention to make Clark so furious with the lack of clothing and the abundance of nasty vultures flanking his sides, then it had worked as well as any of his plans usually did. Flawlessly.
He left the event early under the excuse of a stomach ache. The sad reality was that he went home and rubbed his dick raw, computer left untouched and notes on the event blank.
Despite his alpha having taken the incident as a direct insult, a clear sign to Clark that he was not his and belonged to the mask he wore for the masses, he was utterly grateful for the memory.
Bruce was a big man, a walking wet dream for omegas and alphas and everything in between.
The thought had made rut-Clark’s hand clench tightly, and he distantly registered that the sheets he had been gripping with his left hand were now fully shredded through.
Clark bowed his head in shame as the twisted fantasy played out, the fog in his brain making it impossible to think clearly.
He had never had a rut-dream this vivid, this vulgar.
Bruce bent over the Watchtower monitor, looking at Clark over his shoulder as he dipped lower to show off the slick gathering between his thighs, Clark’s view unobscured due to his revealing attire.
Even in his state Clark knew it wasn’t realistic, Bruce wouldn’t be caught dead doing anything other than strict business in the Watchtower, much less something as debauched as this.
That didn’t stop him from reaching a hand under his boxers, gripping himself in his right palm tightly, like he was punishing himself.
Clark at least had enough wits about him to feel a slither of guilt of the way his mind conjured up the most humiliating position he could put him in.
Fantasy Bruce was presenting to Clark in those god damned mini shorts, scent turned suffocatingly smoky and sweet until Clark swore he could literally taste it.
Clark groaned in pain and relief, the fantasy abating his agitated alpha. If he couldn’t have the real deal, he would make do with his imagination.
He didn’t think the hallucination could get any worse (better?) but his feverish mind seemed to take that thought as a challenge.
“Kal,” Fantasy Bruce rolled his head back to fix Clark with a teasing look, eyes brimming with unshed tears and lips curved into a mean smile, “are you going to finally take what’s yours?”
His head sent a loud cracking noise through the stifling air as he threw it back against the headboard. If he was anyone else, Clark was sure that his protruding fangs would have torn through his bottom lip with how furiously he bit down, trying to keep his noises of animalistic pleasure as quiet as possible.
He just needed a little bit more; his ruts were shorter than the average human’s so all he needed was one more orgasm to be rid of the ravenous curse he was under.
“Fuck,” Fantasy Bruce groaned out, rocking back into Clark’s bruising hold as he used him for his own pleasure. Bruce’s body was a testament to his dedication to his beloved city, even the grey hair smattering the edges of his temples were beautiful to Clark.
Clark was whimpering uncontrollably, head thrashing side to side in search of the woody, sweet aroma his omega would let out if he was in Clark’s clutches. He wouldn’t let him go once he had him, Bruce wouldn’t be able to leave without a bite on the nape of his neck.
“Fuck me like you mean it,” the snarl the omega used to get his command across only served to make Clark throb, determined to make his omega happy and left full.
It was with the image of his Bruce, Batman, hanging off his knot, face pressed into the crook of his elbows with cum dripping onto the Watchtower floor, shorts practically destroyed from where Clark’s imaginary hands had torn them in half, that his real knot popped as he cried out and the rut haze broke.
For what felt like the umpteenth time since his rut had started, Clark hung his head in shame.
—
“Kal.” The sharp tone Bruce uses makes it clear that Clark had messed up somewhere. Said man is scanning him from head-toe, clearly trying to find a reason for his odd behavior.
Bruce’s storm-grey eyes are analytical, appraising him now that his clothes are laid perfectly in place according to his criterion.
The designer suit had been waiting for him once he arrived at the manor to replace his usual dowdy, brown one.
Clark pulled at his collar uncomfortably, only stopping when Bruce’s eyes grew darker and threatening.
He swallows, slowly lowering his hand.
Bruce sighs, eyes shifting off to the side before he squares his shoulders and meets Clark’s eyes again.
“If you really do not feel comfortable accompanying me, you don’t have to force yourself for my sake.” If Clark didn’t know the man, he would almost say Bruce looked upset.
“I’m all too aware of your distaste for these types of events.”
Clark fumbles for a second before finding the words, his mind still occupied with remembering the porno it had created during his rut.
Get it together, Kal-El. Show him you’re worthy of being by his side.
“I’m sorry,” Clark sighs the words embarrassedly, “it’s been a long week. I’m honored to be your date tonight Bruce. I guess I’m just a little bit nervous.”
Bruce’s steely gaze softens, causing Clark’s heart to race dramatically. Rao, he really was easy.
“You’ll be by my side the entire time, I have no intention of letting anyone else there take my eye-candy for a spin tonight.”
Clark smiles widely at that, cheeks warming at the possessive wording Bruce was using.
That’s right, he was Bruce’s tonight. No one else’s. His alpha, even though no one else knew it.
Clark squares his own shoulders, renewed confidence giving him the courage to reach his hand out and brush a microscopic speck of dust off of Bruce’s lapel.
Even with the reassurance Bruce had infused into him, he still doesn’t know where he finds the nerve to step into Bruce’s atmosphere and lean down to whisper in his ear.
Clark can practically imagine the way Bruce’s scent would tickle his nose if he wasn’t wearing patches, he would drown in a sea of heady sweetness and decline any offers of rescue.
“I’ll be good for you tonight, I promise Bruce.”
Bruce seems to hold his breath for a split second before he clears his throat and promptly pushes Clark away by the shoulders, but he isn’t able to escape Clark’s biology when his ears pick up the minute uptick of his heartbeat.
Clark knew Bruce’s weaknesses, too.
“Right then, we should be leaving soon if we don’t want to miss anything.”
A lie, Clark is well aware of Bruce’s chronic tardiness when it comes to these events. He once waited for hours in the rain before Bruce popped up at his own event. Or maybe, he had told Clark the wrong time on purpose.
“Behaving also means no knot-headed behavior as well, Clark.“ It’s Bruce’s turn to gain the upper hand as he recovers from the slight shock of Clark’s words.
“You’re not going to try and bite me in front of everyone at the gala, right boy scout?”
Clark’s face blazes with embarrassment and quickly growing arousal. Again, if he didn’t know any better, he would think Bruce was flirting with him.
It would be an hour before the persona fully slipped over him, lingering touches and playful teasing something Clark has become practically immune to when Brucie was ‘on.’
Yet Clark was already finding it increasingly hard to find where the line between possible mission/reconnaissance cover and them was.
Bruce’s usual scowl slips into a dirty, knowing smirk.
“We don’t need another repeat of last time, do we?” Laughing condescendingly, Bruce pats his chest and struts out the door of his office, clearly satisfied with winning this round.
Clark shuts his eyes so tight he can see the stars he flies among behind his eyelids, and breathes a deep, unnecessary breath in.
Tonight would be different. Clark may have lost this battle, but so help him he would be damned if he lost the war.
Bruce had given him an opportunity by inviting him along tonight, whether the older man knew it or not.
Clark will be a good boy tonight; he’ll smile at those who approach Bruce, even drink a few flutes of champagne that have no effect on him. He’ll help Bruce with whatever he needs, then he’ll execute his plan.
Tonight, he is going to make sure Bruce understands just how far he has pushed him. As much as he loves him, and was truthfully terrified of ever disrespecting the man he admires most, Clark is at his limit.
Two can play at this game, Bruce.