Chapter Text
Bruce pauses as the glossy elevator doors on the Daily Planet ground floor slide open, and he’s hit with an usually intense barrage of scents.
Immediately, he plucks out a familiar earthy, ripe scent—a unique smell that always reminded him of apple trees, crackling fires and blinding smiles.
Clark Kent typically wore scent-blockers built with kryptonian technology that presented him as a beta while he worked as an unassuming journalist, but ditched the scent patches while being Superman.
Bruce had been curious about the choice, to which Clark had bashfully explained that while it was stereotypical, and he regularly condemned it in his articles, most civilians felt at ease when knowing an alpha was at their rescue. So, he rarely used suppressants or scent patches on patrol unless close to rut.
The young alpha in question stood towering over the group, front and center in the elevator car. His frumpy clothes were an intentional choice, but the fidgeting and slightly off-center glasses were authentic.
He watches in amusement as Clark seems to go through ten stages of grief as he realizes who the doors revealed to join their ascent, most likely being too distracted with running late and the sheer amount of different scents inside the small space to notice Bruce was in the area.
Which leads Bruce back to his original observation, the concerning fact that Clark’s scent was so prominent in the elevator despite the man being dedicated to hiding it.
It is that knowledge that makes Bruce hesitate, had Clark been so late this morning that he had forgotten a critical part of playing ‘every day beta?’ Was it Bruce’s mind imagining something there that wasn’t?
Would not be for the first time.
Bruce considered the possibility of Clark’s rut, but the superhuman normally monitored his rut cycle closely. He said he was terrified of ever encountering and harming a civilian while he was ‘compromised.’ He went to extra lengths to make sure those around him were safe, the only reason Bruce was aware that he ran away to the Fortress for his cycle was because of his own unconventional methods.
—
Years ago, back in his early “alien investigation” days as Clark liked to call them, he had bugged Clark almost immediately.
Something about hiding world-ending technology and possibly even an omega harem. He kept up with the tabloids regarding Big Blue, ever thorough in his research.
It was a practically microscopic listening device that Bruce had managed to flick onto his cape, innocent enough to play it off as his normal perpetual suspicion of anything new. Then eventually, came the drone.
Then drones.
The incident occurred while Bruce was low. Really low.
He hadn’t slept in over 48 hours, long patrols and grueling meetings at Wayne Enterprises left his eyes sunken and vision bleary. At his age he expected to be able to step back from his corporate duties, but it seemed his secretary thought otherwise with the revolving door of advisors and Gotham elites he hosted in his office.
More like held hostage, Bruce thought bitterly.
As it was, he was seconds away from face-punching his keyboard before a blur of color flashed across the screen.
Ah, Superman arrived at the Fortress of Solitude.
Bruce was familiar with the hideout, having observed the alpha for approximately a month at this point.
He didn’t understand. Did the guy do anything wrong? Bruce was pretty sure he had once caught Clark crying behind those clunky glasses he wore when he stepped on an ant.
So no, he didn’t believe the alien was a threat. He knows his stalking should have stopped there.
With Bruce being himself, it didn’t. It got worse.
Maybe I missed something. I should watch a while longer.
A glimpse of Clark’s face from the screen had Bruce’s heavy eyelids snapping open to take in the sharpening pixels of his target.
Something was…off. Literally.
Screen Clark was currently in the process of desperately ripping the top of his suit off his body, completely indifferent to the scraps that hit the snow-covered ground.
As more skin reveals itself to Bruce’s intense gaze, Bruce feels his stomach swoop.
Maybe Alfred was right, he should’ve eaten something before he holed up in the cave again.
Bruce watches with rapt attention as the alpha manages to lift a trembling hand to press against the House of El crest embedded in the ice.
Bruce definitely does not commit the image of a panting, shirtless Superman to memory as he waits for the icy structure to open for him.
Bruce reaches his own trembling hand up to trace the exposed back of Screen Clark, a shaky breath released from his clenched teeth.
He wonders what he smells like.
Judging by Bruce’s own internal timeline, he deduced that Clark was most likely in rut, or whatever the kryptonian version of an alpha’s cycle was.
Practically panting himself, Bruce leans impossibly closer to the screen before he watches the hulking man fold in on himself and smack his face on the icy entrance of the Fortress. Bruce can’t help but wince slightly as a crater is formed on the surface where the impact was, leaving the El crest slightly indented.
Damn, poor door.
Bruce blinks and then he’s watching Clark, Superman, the young alpha wrench his pants down and attempt to rip off his boxers, a snarl Bruce hadn’t known he could even make twisting his smooth features.
Face nearly centimeters from the screen, Bruce catches the moment an elongated canine snags on Clark’s pink, full bottom lip. Another new ‘thing’ of Clark’s that Bruce was not previously aware of. Bruce would have to replay the footage and add it to his notes.
Later. Definitely later.
Bruce swallows, the hand previously tracing Clark’s form wrenches away like the screen became molten and presses it tightly to the top of his thigh, forming a fist borne of discipline and restraint as he takes in a deep breath.
If he was there, Bruce would be overwhelmed with the amount of pheromones Clark was emitting right now.
His mouth waters. Alfred really was right, he’s so hungry.
Before Clark can give Bruce any real material, the entrance to the stronghold finally opens and he is all but dragged by his legs by a tall silver robot Bruce had never seen before, and the entrance is promptly shut once again.
Sitting back in his chair, Bruce rakes a hand down his face. He hadn’t realized he had been sweating so profusely. Grimacing, he wipes his slick hand on his compression pants, and shuts off the monitor.
A throat clearing somewhere in the depths of the cave behind him has his back rigid, straightening up and turning around swiftly in his chair. Bruce prays his own pheromones haven’t spilled out from his worn-out patch he forgot to take off once he got home.
“Doing a bit of research, Master Bruce?” Alfred’s voice gives nothing away, but the slight crinkles at the corners of his eyes betray his nonchalance.
Grumbling, Bruce pushes away from the screens completely and stretches to his full height, bones popping and releasing tension from having sat for who knows how many hours. He hadn’t bothered to look at the time while he was ‘researching.’
Alfred took his lack of answer as one in itself, the beta walking closer and handing him a mug of something warm and earthy. Like Clark’s scent.
“Well then, Master Richard will be leaving for school promptly, and he would like to request you to join him for breakfast,” Alfred eyed him warily, Bruce knew he was taking in the dark shadow of stubble across his face and purple eye-bags.
He was nearly 40—why couldn’t he wear his age proudly? Christ, he needed a cup of scorching hot coffee and a damn massage.
“The young master would also like to relay his latest findings on the case you are both working on.”
This caught Bruce’s attention, he finishes the tea in one go and practically slams it down on the surface of his desk. Dick hadn’t been with him long, and even less had known of Bruce’s second identity.
Bruce was apprehensive to let the young boy into the dark side of his life that often overshadowed anything and everything else— his family’s company, relationships, his own health. He refused to burden Dick with the cross he chose to bear on his shoulders; never would he force him into this life.
But Dick was like Bruce in that way. He saw Bruce’s abnormal approach to justice as an outlet for his own grief. He leapt (quite literally) into the role of ‘Robin,’ a name Dick had chosen to use as his alias once he was allowed to patrol with Batman.
“Master Bruce,” Alfred lightly calls, Bruce blinking rapidly to clear the haze that had glazed over his eyes, “might I suggest that you rest after the young master leaves? You have no scheduled meetings for the first time in quite a while, and the streets have been rather quiet since your successful raid the other night.”
“Alfred, don’t do this right now. You know that I have to meet with Lucius this morning regarding the updated serum for Scarecrow’s toxin we’re developing.” Bruce’s heart aches with old pains when he sees the first wave of emotion since the older man walked in pass over his face before it hardens once again.
“I am sure Mr. Fox would understand rescheduling your appointment to a later date, given the circumstances.”
There’s a steely glint to the beta’s eyes now, and after a moment of deliberation Bruce ultimately hangs his head and gives the man a small nod. He’ll have to call Lucius.
“Very well Master Bruce, and might I suggest that you take a cold shower to freshen up before you join us? It seems you had a very long night.” Alfred turns on his heel and walks out of the cave, leaving Bruce standing by his desk, the back of his neck and ears warming.
—
Bruce comes out of his reverie and shakes his head to clear the cloud of scents as best as he could and confidently steps into the fray.
Brucie Wayne never worried about trivial things like personal space and overwhelming pheromones.
His days of getting drunk off the slightest waft in the breeze of a virile alpha had long since passed. His medical grade suppressants and scent blockers made sure of that, so he really had nothing to worry about.
And, he maybe had a bone to pick with Clark and the best way to get back at the younger man was to him embarrass him. Bruce is not ashamed to admit he’s occasionally used their public personas to play a few… jokes on Clark.
Clark seemed to be the only one apart from the man’s own pack to know this side of Bruce. The one who reveled in torturing others for the benefit of his own amusement. Well, he guessed the villains of Gotham also knew.
As he approaches, he takes note of the way Clark starts to imperceptibly reel back, a slight shake to his head ‘no’ as he pleads silently for Bruce to spare him, begging him to wait for another elevator.
Bruce can hear the click in Clark’s throat as he steps in closer, his front pressed directly to Clarks. Another look of horror crosses Clark’s face before quickly falling back into a practiced abashed look, a sickeningly sweet one sliding into place onto his own.
Most of the features that Bruce delighted to see bloom in red at the slightest tease were obscured by Clark’s thick frames. A shame, seeing the giant man bright red in the face was half the fun, even after all these years.
“What are you doing here?” Clark hisses out under his breath, shaky smile becoming more strained by the minute, shoulders hunching further as Bruce got comfortable in his personal bubble.
Cheshire grin splitting wider, an identity honed to perfection and often-used easily washing over Bruce’s entire demeanor.
He’s leering up at him and just about to open his mouth, when Clark is saved by the bell.
“Mr. Wayne! To what do we owe the pleasure?”
Bruce spares a glance to his right, a younger rookie reporter who he had once allowed to interview him because Clark was busy stands at his side excitedly. He barely resists the urge to snarl as the young man presses a friendly shoulder against his, an innocent form of scenting often done between colleagues and mentors.
Bruce suddenly feels his back make firm contact with the elevator doors behind him, Clark’s impossibly large frame pinning him against them and effectively blocking Bruce from the view of anyone else in the elevator and growling in warning.
Bruce grits his teeth at the overt display of possession, hypothesizing a million different reasons for the unusual behavior and eventually putting two and two together.
Of course, it would be his luck that the first time he’s wanted to be amiable with Clark after their most recent spat at a JL meeting almost a month ago, Clark would be in pre-rut.
Really, his skin prickling and body temperature steadily increasing, just his luck.
The thing was, Clark didn’t know how to let go once he latched on. And five years ago, at the ripe age of 27, he had metaphorically and physically latched onto Bruce’s cape and hadn’t shown any signs of letting go since.
In those years, there had been instances where the lines had blurred a bit.
Late nights patrolling, patching each other up and raising Dick added layers to their relationship that neither seemed to be able to navigate through.
The slight scenting from another man, even a beta, must have really set off Clark’s instincts. Bruce fights to keep his heart rate steady, refusing to lay a single card on the table.
“Wow, these young pups really can’t control themselves, huh?” Bruce titters with the intonation of a delighted foodie whose favorite meal just delivered itself directly to his door, peeking over Clark’s trembling shoulders to send a wink to the shocked beta.
It’s a deflection at best, using his notorious reputation to his advantage as he grips Clark’s horrid tie (who wears plaid these days?) and drags the younger man forward—and down a couple inches to eye level.
The younger man’s scent pours off of him in waves, the smell becoming suffocating in the small room, sweat beginning to drip down the back of Bruce’s own neck. The notes in his scent were a clear message to his perceived threat.
‘Mine.’
Chuckling, Bruce smoothly recovers with an airy laugh, patting Clark’s cheek condescendingly and saying something about being his favorite interviewee. He coos as Clark’s eyes fall shut, Bruce’s pulse thundering in his ears despite being long desensitized to obnoxious public displays of whatever this was with a variety of omegas, alphas, even betas.
It was because this was so unlike Clark, that’s what had Bruce so out of sorts. He repeated this in his head as Clark’s scent softened, toasted apples overwhelming the atmosphere once again.
Bruce was half convinced that he was still dreaming. He put some of his underwater training to use and took in as little air as possible, trying to avoid the effects breathing in Clark’s pheromones would surely have on him even with the help of his suppressants.
“Maybe I should have a talk with Perry, it seems some of his employees need a reminder on proper workplace behavior.” His eyes narrow into slits and the last word slips between his teeth as he brings Clark’s forehead to his own.
Bruce isn’t sure if it’s the skin contact or the word ‘behave’ that does it, but Clark lets out an imperceptible whimper into the hot air between them, eyes glazed and staring at a spot on Bruce’s neck.
Frowning, Bruce leans further into the touch and is shocked by the extreme nature of his temperature. Clark ran abnormally warm, but this was a different level entirely.
Pulling back, Bruce lets out a huff of annoyance as Clark chases the contact immediately, his hands he snuck around Bruce’s waist tightening.
Bruce presses a freed hand to the center of Clark’s chest and exerts effort to create distance between them. The alpha grumbles in clear disapproval, but lets Bruce move him how he wants.
He swears this is the longest elevator ride of his life, counting down the seconds it’ll take until he can get Clark out of this elevator and somewhere, anywhere that wasn’t here.
It was too early, right?
Over the course of the years, Bruce had kind of picked up on the timing of Clark’s ruts. They were more frequent than a human’s, alpha’s on earth tending to experience rut every five or so months. Clark’s were every three months.
Bruce was determined to sit the younger man down and demand that they set up a shared calendar to avoid instances like this again, but that will have to wait until Clark recovers.
Finally, the elevator doors glide open and Bruce drags Clark by the tie out and into the less-oppressive air. They walk for a few minutes until Bruce finds an empty conference room that he shoves open and practically tosses Clark inside of.
The change in environment seems to have cleared Clark’s brain a bit, and Bruce watches as Clark’s ears and neck turn a splotchy red.
“Oh god, B-bruce,” Clark brings his hands up to cover his mouth, and Bruce wishes the frames weren’t obstructing his view of Clark’s misty eyes.
“I’m so sorry, I don’t know what came over me! I was feeling a bit off this morning but I ran out of all my suppressants and only had these convenience store patches since I haven’t been to the, erm, fortress,” the word is whispered but Clark barrels on, “but then I was already late and Perry’s been on my a-ass lately so I had no choice but to come in today, and oh gosh I must have made you so uncomfortable. I shouldn’t have touched you like that without permission and I acted so out of line-“
“Clark, please shut up now.”
“Got it,” Clark nods once and presses his lips together in a straight line.
Bruce sighs tiredly, “Look, I’m not upset about what just happened, frankly I’m concerned Clark.” Bruce scowls and steps back into Clark’s space. He brings his hand up to his forehead, nodding once, confirming the irregular warmth of it and the dilated pupils before swiftly putting a few feet between them.
Bruce has to hold his breath as he examines him, careful to avoid breathing in the tantalizing alpha pheremones.
“I’m sure I don’t have to tell you this Clark, but you’re in rut. Or pre-rut, more it seems.”
The word ‘rut’ leaving Bruce’s lips has an instant effect on the young alpha, eyes further darkening and unfocusing, bitten lips parting as Clark attempts to scent the air instead of replying to him.
Bruce lets out a sigh for what feels like the umpteenth time, and hopes Clark was too out of it to notice the nearly unnoticeable uptick of his heartbeat, and says, “Okay, this is becoming unsafe. Stay right here, don’t move until I am back. Understood?”
He’s still not listening, instead leaning further into Bruce’s space.
“No.”
Bruce’s eyes shoot up to his forehead, a bolt of shock breaking through his composure.
He laughs mirthlessly, “No? Clark stop being petulant, I’ll be back after I speak with Perry-“
Before he can even blink or finish his sentence, Clark grabs Bruce in an immobilizing hold, his impossibly large hands pinning him to his chest. Before Bruce can reach up to grip the man’s hair to yank him off, Clark stops him in his tracks when he leans down to Bruce’s neck and sniffs deeply.
Grumbling low in his chest, Clark is clearly displeased when he doesn’t get a dose of the scent he’s looking for, his rut-addled brain forgetting that Bruce wears patches.
Looking up at the ceiling Bruce lets out the longest sigh yet and lets himself be snuffled and scented by the younger alpha.
Clark was one of 4 people in the world who knew Bruce Wayne’s, the Batman’s big secret.
He was an omega.
—
At 6’1 and approximately 230lbs of mass, Bruce was the exact opposite of what society pictured as the ‘Model Omega.’ Not that Bruce ever cared, having always viewed his secondary gender as a hindrance, something he never indulged or even gave importance to.
He had a myriad of other issues to deal with than to worry about fertility or attracting a potential mate.
It wasn’t that he was embarrassed about his gender designation, he knew many omegas who were powerful enough to bring the mightiest alpha cowering on their knees. Rather, Bruce was aware of the world’s perception of omegas.
So, Bruce Wayne was a beta, and Batman was an alpha.
The neutral state of his perceived public gender worked seamlessly alongside his playboy reputation. Betas, alphas and omegas were all seen and expected to be by Brucie’s side when he was out on the town or twirling sloppily in sparkling venues.
In his early days as the Bat his suit gave off no scent, until he experimented with utilizing an artificially created alpha scent on patrol.
Bruce hadn’t been familiar with the scent emitter tech yet, and honest-to-God made a vandal piss themselves, their paint can clattering to the floor before he bolted into the night with the overwhelming amount of pheromones the suit pumped into the air.
He was much better with the tech now, to his enemies fortune.
He had planned on keeping Clark in the dark about his secondary gender, like everyone else. Unfortunately with the younger man’s borderline stalking, it became an inevitability that he would find out.
It was anti-climactic the way it happened. A particularly grueling patrol had left Batman passed out at the mouth of the cave.
Superman found him there unconscious, but breathing, after hearing the unnatural uptick of his heartbeat in Metropolis.
Bruce knew the younger man had his heartbeat memorized, Clark had shamelessly admitted that since he wasn’t able to smell him through the kevlar suit, the telltale dips or inclines that gave away most ailments in a normal person’s scent had translated into memorizing the steady routine of his heart.
Bruce, beaten and bruised had opened his eyes to a blinding light. He breathed in warm apple pie and cozy fireplaces and buried his neck further into the scent.
“You smell like a bakery.” Clark had flushed all the way down to his shirt collar, grip on Bruce faltering for a second before readjusting to hold him tighter.
“How can you smell me?” Bruce’s half-unconscious brain logged back online at that, too exhausted to come up with any way to get himself out of this.
Sighing, he slumped further into the mans grip. Clark was so good. Bruce had monitored it, hated it, felt it. If anyone were to be able to know this about him and look at him with the exact same star-struck gaze they always did, it would be Clark.
And honestly, a part of Bruce was relieved to share this with another person, even though the rational part of him knew this could be detrimental to everything he had built.
Ignoring that part of his mind, he reached up and ripped his scent patch off his swollen gland. In seconds, the space filled with his scent, mingling with Clark’s until it was theirs.
“Well. Why do you think, Mr. Reporter?”
Clark, goodkindhonestsmellsogood Clark just looked down at him with those bright blue eyes of his, expression so sweet it made Bruce nauseous and simply said, “Thank you.”
It was like Bruce had given him a gift, something precious and invaluable. Bruce shuddered, there really was no going back now.
—
“Bruce,” his name is dripped from drooling lips as Clark continues to rub his neck against his, scenting him so aggressively the only thing keeping slick from running down Bruce’’s legs at this point were his suppressants and sheer iron will. He needed to get out of here, and fast.
Even though Bruce had been the one to lock them away in here, he couldn’t help but feel that he was the one now trapped underneath Clark’s ravenous gaze. A ring of red around his eyes demanding Bruce to submit.
A graze of that elongated canine Bruce had seen all those years ago against his throat pulls a muted gasp from him, instinctively arching further into Clark’s bruising hold.
Bruce’s heart ached, knowing this side of Clark was one he kept close to his chest, most likely never even spending a rut with anyone else in his life. Well, Bruce knew there was a time Clark had been going out with Lois Lane so maybe they had-
His stomach hurt. With that, he uses all of strength to push Clark away and plaster himself against the door, preparing to fend him off if necessary. He wasn’t sure there was much he could do to completely evade the man without a certain green aid.
Luckily for him, Clark’s natural obedience seems to translate pretty well into his alpha instincts, simply wanting to listen to Bruce and please him. Another shiver went down Bruce’s spine at the sheer implications of that.
He was temptation personified, broad shoulders expanding with every intake of breath, shirt collar stretched out and tie loosened due to Bruce’s earlier manhandling. He was panting and slick with sweat, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes as he tried to get himself under control. His thick curls were messier than usual, and Bruce licks his lips as he follows a bead of sweat that fell off a strand roll down Clark’s face.
He was going to do something drastic, world-ending if he stayed in this empty, suffocating conference room any longer.
“You’re a real pain, Clark,” he intends for it to come out teasing, but it’s shaky,“stay here, I’ll be back soon.”
He bolts out the door, jamming it so it can’t be opened.
He smooths his hair down, trying to not dwell on the fact that he reeks of Clark right now, can only be grateful that no one else knows Clark’s natural scent.
Polished dress shoes squeak against the floor as he walks at a less-than casual pace, he remains careful to avoid bumping shoulders with any more of Clark’s coworkers. Things could escalate if Clark smelled any more scents on him.
Rounding the corner he comes face-to-face with Lois Lane.
The beta was naturally beautiful, with a vicious tongue and sharp wit that set Bruce on his toes every time he spoke with her. Bruce liked her.
“Well, what do we gave here?” Her observant eyes raked over him and he could once again breathe a sigh of relief when he remembered she wasn’t able to smell the alpha pheromones clinging to his skin and suit.
“Ms. Lane, a pleasure as always,” he smoothly brings her hand to his face, faint beta smell calming the heat at the corners of his mind.
“Going off the way you look, I’ll take it you were up to no good in one of our storage closets again. News flash Bruce, some people don’t enjoy being privy to salacious acts like you seem to constantly find yourself engaged in.” Her words are biting but the warmth in her eyes betray her.
Lois had been a tough nut to crack, something Bruce could relate to, and once she had interviewed him a few times and realized he wasn’t completely insufferable, they grew to respect one another.
“Ah, always a pleasure talking to you Ms. Lane, but unfortunately no closets were harmed,” he smiles impishly, “yet.”
An idea had popped into his head the second he saw the beta, and despite his instincts screaming the opposite, he knew what had to be done.
“I’m here on official business, but I believe I passed a friend of yours looking quite unwell. Kant? Clerk?” Lois’ teasing grin slips, concern clouding her eyes as she realizes who he is referring to.
“You know his name, Mr. Wayne,” her calculating brain never giving him the chance to lie, “Clark’s interviewed you multiple times. Tall, dorky, completely obsessed with you?”
He laughs airily before leveling a gaze at her, “Oh, can you blame him?”
She rolls her eyes, then makes a move to leave.
“So where is the big guy?” She tilts her head in the opposite direction, clearly itching to find the man now. “I’ll go see if I can yell some sense into him.”
“Ms. Lane,” he grabs her hand once more before innocently smiling, “I would suggest getting him home and into a cold shower. He looked quite feverish.”
Her gaze steels at that last word, and gives Bruce a single nod before whipping around into the direction Bruce had come from.
This worked out for everyone.
He just didn’t know if that was the truth, or what he was trying to tell himself before he turned around and did something rash like take Clark back home, help him through his rut and finally finally-
No.
Bruce ends up back in front of the elevator doors and enters, the space much emptier now that the morning rush had abated.
Sighing for the last time, he presses the button down and makes his way out of the Daily Planet.