Chapter Text
Clark really hated his job right now.
Don't get him wrong, he loves his job. It allowed him to be connected to world events, not only to benefit his other job—as Superman—but to make him feel grounded to the world (ha). His job at the Daily Planet also made him feel more normal, human. It comforts him when he's so biologically different from everyone else on Earth in everything but appearance. Through his job he's made genuine connections, like his closest friend Lois.
But right now, at this moment, he hates it.
Clark never complained about his workload, or the numerous deadlines that kept overlapping. But the past week it feels like Perry's been doing everything in his power to bury him in work. Clark was actually feeling excited about this week too. A new season of his favourite show just came out, he's been meaning to try that pasty place that's on the other side of the city, and it's apple season, so his ma was going to make her delicious apple pie he's been waiting all year to eat.
But instead of doing any of those things, Clark is stuck working on grueling articles while counting down the minutes until his lunch break. Said break is—Clark checks the time—about 63 minutes from now.
Clark lets out a sigh, retyping a sentence for the fourth time. It doesn't help that Lois didn't show up to work today—Clark got a text earlier explaining how she got the flu—so his emotional support was absent. Worst of all, Clark's rut is approaching, he can feel it in the way he's slightly on edge—watching for (nonexistent) threats to his pack. His rut symptoms are never severe enough to justify calling in sick, but just thinking of an almost-week of irritation and crankiness is enough for Clark to let out another frustrated sigh.
Just as Clark was contemplating the pros and cons of gnawing one of his pens—it would ease some of his irritation, but at the risk of the pen exploding from his fangs—Perry’s voice cuts through the office space.
“Kent! In my office!”
With a resigned sigh born of repeatedly being summoned like that, Clark makes the trek to Perry's office. Cat must have sensed his frustrated mood earlier as she somberly commented, “my condolences for that time of the month,” even going as far as patting his arm as he passed. Clark resisted scowling at the physical contact, suddenly feeling territorial. Clark decides that he should visit his parents at the farm when he gets a chance, his rut symptoms always lessen after being with his familial pack.
When Clark sheepishly told Lois about his unique biology and er—mating cycle, she would jokingly call his ruts periods due to their similarities, despite his rut only occurring every two months. She accidentally said such a comment in the office, which led to a confusing situation where half the office thought he was trans. Even after explaining that it was an inside joke, he still wasn't completely sure if people believed it or not.
Upon entering Perry's office, Clark could see that Perry was leaning his hip against his desk. He was frowning at Clark, but he wasn't emitting a particularly strong scent, perhaps mild annoyance. Perry sighs as Clark takes a seat. Clark ignores the irritation from Perry looming over him.
“Kent, you've been reassigned. Lois was supposed to go to the Gotham Marine Life Fundraiser, but since Lane is out of commission, you're going instead. It's tomorrow, so you get the rest of the day off to pack. You need to be there by noon tomorrow, understand?”
This is bad, Clark would go into rut tomorrow, “Are you sure I should be the one to go? Lois is the best of us, perhaps someone else should-”
“It's already been decided, there isn't enough time to secure another spot on the event, and everyone else qualified enough has their own cases. Now get out of my office and go pack your bags, the details will be emailed to you.”
All Clark can manage is a mumbled affirmative as he vacates the office. As Clark heads home, his body is filled with a sense of dread. Gotham was an unfamiliar place filled with unfamiliar people, quite literally the worst possible place for him to be during his rut. In Metropolis, Clark would have his familiar apartment, Lois, and his coworkers who he was at least familiar with—in that they weren't complete strangers. But how the hell was he going to survive being in a social setting during his rut? What if he snaps at someone? Or bares his fangs at someone? Or—god forbid— growls at someone!?
Enough Clark, Hold yourself together! Think about this rationality, you can't opt out of the event, but you can at least prepare for it. The event is tomorrow evening, he has the rest of the day to pack before departing for Gotham.
Filled with a sudden sense of determination, Clark hurries home, opening up his suitcase. He quickly flies to Smallville, explaining to his Ma that his rut is coming. The Kents have always been so supportive and understanding of Clark's different biology. Ma knew his cycle was approaching, so she already prepared a bag of some recently worn shirts and scented quilts. After reassuring that yes, he's doing okay, and yes, he has enough supplies, they rub their inner wrists together, scenting him. The action has no effect on her, but Clark already feels calmer. Clark says his goodbye, promising to call more often, and returns to Metropolis.
Dropping off the textiles at his apartment, he drops by Lois' place. He checks up on her, ensures her fridge is restocked, and sheepishly asks if he can borrow some shirts she's worn. After practically having said clothes thrown in his face and a raspy, but nonetheless adamant, “Clark I don't give a shit about your rut habits, take the damn clothes and whatever you need to be comfortable, you idiot,” Clark returns to his apartment.
With all the generous donations from Lois and Ma, he briefly indulges himself by gathering the clothing items in his arms and inhaling deeply, the soothing scent of pack washing over him. Clark lets out a rumbling purr that makes him flush with embarrassment in the privacy of his apartment.
With everything settled, Clark opens his laptop and opens the email sent by Perry. Inside contains details about his hotel arrangement, press pass, and general persons of importance. The email explains in detail how Gotham Marine Life Organization is partnering with Wayne Industries in raising money to improve ocean and marine life. Clark reads through the briefing and Lois' notes on the event, highlighting individuals of interest. Bruce Wayne is to be in attendance, and although he's well known for being elusive with reporters, a statement from him would be incredibly valuable.
Bruce Wayne, a lot of people have a lot of things to say about this man. Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist. Okay, genius is mostly applied to Wayne Industries as a whole rather than their attractive CEO. Clark hasn't interacted much with Gotham, let alone their Prince. Gotham treats Bruce Wayne as a celebrity, beloved yet scrutinized at every turn.
“Poor boy, lost his parents early and had to inherit the family legacy”
“BRUCE WAYNE DONATES 2 MILLION TO SICKKIDS HOSPITAL”
“Bruce Wayne was born into the richest family in Gotham, the least he could do it throw some money into charity”
“BRUCIE WAYNE SPOTED WITH MALE MODEL OUTSIDE THE EDEN CLUB; Ever since the billionaire's coming out 3 years ago…”
“Does Bruce even run his company? I swear he seems clueless every time a reporter talks to him. He's lucky he has such a pretty face”
Despite the many articles and Twitter posts broadcasting people's opinion on Bruce Wayne, Clark has always believed in forming his opinions himself. Clark is all too familiar in how people's depictions of celebrities can be skewed—with himself technically being one as Superman. Clark will meet the man himself and decide what kind of man Bruce Wayne is.
Clark settles into bed early, he's going to need all the rest he can get. Lulled into sleep by the comforting familial scent of his territory and his pack, Clark can almost forget about the nightmare that would be tomorrow.
✧˖°.
Clark rises with the sun as it peeks from the horizon. Getting up from bed, he stands by the window to soak up the morning sun's rays, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. For a moment, Clark feels calm, the sun a warm breeze on his face, until a pigeon lands on his windowsill. He's suddenly filled with the irrational need to make the pigeon leave— how dare they enter his territory . Clark buries his face in his hands as he takes a deep breath. Calm down, it's just a damn pigeon, being a pigeon, it's not a threat, it's not a threat. God, this day's gonna be a mess.
✧˖°.
The hotel door closes behind him as he scans the moderate single room. The room is neat, clean—everything expected of a hotel room. But as Clark takes in the subtle scent of the laundry detergent and cleaning supplies, his body screams that everything is wrong . It doesn't smell like his apartment, or the farm, or Lois' place—because it isn't, but the feeling of wrongness burrows into his skin and sets his teeth on edge.
Dumping his things into the floor, Clark yanks off the bedding and furiously rubs the pillows, blanket, and sheets against his neck, scenting them. Once satisfied that his own space smells enough like him, Clark digs through his suitcase. He drapes the clothing items he borrowed from his pack around the room, on the back of the armchair, near the nightstand, on the windowsill.
Stepping back, Clark scents the room again, his shoulders loosening the scent feels less wrong . His skin isn't crawling like earlier, but he would still prefer just being at his apartment. Clark considered just flying to the event and back, but it would be hard to explain why he didn't check into the hotel, not to mention the unnecessary risk to his identity.
Taking off his shoes and sitting on the bed, Clark texts Lois to let her know he's checked in. Clark takes out his laptop, using work to try to shake off the feel of wrongness under his skin.
✧˖°.
Standing outside the event in his best suit, Clark already feels overwhelmed. Clark quite likes his suit, Lois helped pick it out for him after she got fed up with seeing his old one. Instead of the old beige, his suit is dark grey. Clark refused to wear anything that showed his physique, while Lois was adamant against anything too loose. Together they compromised something that didn't hug his form, but didn't try to hide it either. Clark still thought it showed more of his broad shoulders than he liked, so he only wore it for formal events such as these. He was wearing it with a dark blue tie ( “Trust me, it brings out your eyes” “That's kind of the opposite of what I need Lois” “Oh lighten up, Smallville, let me be vain”) and he made an effort to somewhat tame his curls—never enough to resemble Superman of course.
Any previous confidence he held about his outfit withered as he saw beautiful shimmering dresses and dark slim suits. Even amongst the other reporters he felt inadequate. It was clear everyone made their best effort to look stunning tonight, while he just brought enough to fit the dress code. It made him feel self conscious and on edge—though that could be his rut as well. It made him hunch a bit more, take up less space—be less noticeable.
Caught up in his head, he didn't get a chance to squeeze in any quotes as the guests entered. Although he probably wouldn't have had much success, observing how the paparazzi were barely held back by fences and security. The bright flashes and loud clamoring were more irritating than usual. His usually tempered super senses feeling more sensitive than usual—no doubt from his rut.
Clark was about to enter the building to escape an upcoming headache when the crowd somehow got even louder. The volume exploded when a man exited the limo. Clark's eyes widened as he took in Bruce Wayne as he gave the crowd a charming wave. Wayne's usual style of black was forgone for a near-black, dark navy tuxedo perfectly tailored to his frame. The dark fabric hugged his torso, displaying broad shoulders and a slim waist. To most people it would appear black, but Clark can see the slightest hint of blue at certain camera flashes. His tie was navy with a subtle, but elegant scale pattern—no doubt fitting the theme of the fundraiser.
Bruce appeared unaffected by the bright flashes and the crowd clamoring for his attention. Apart from the cursory glance after he exited the car, Bruce barely looked at the crowd at all. He walked the relatively short distance to the entrance in a confident, yet easy stride, his charming smile never leaving his face.
Just before Bruce Wayne reached the entrance, their eyes met. Blue met blue, and Clark saw his eyes soften, but he must have imagined it as the billionaire gave him a cheeky wink. He turned away before he could see Clark's blush.
✧˖°.
If Clark thought it was bad outside, then inside was worse, but for a different reason. Clark's habit of scenting a room backfires as he's hit with the sickly smell of hundreds of perfumes and colognes mixing and clashing together. Clark's sensitive nose—the one super sense that cranks all the way up during rut—burns as the combination of sweetfloralcitrusrichspice invades his senses. His fleeting headache becomes a migraine and is left so nauseous he leans against the wall.
Clark quickly breathes in through the mouth, out through the nose, vaguely aware he's hyperventilating to try to push out the smell of too much .
Using his X-ray vision, Clark quickly locates the men's bathroom and locks himself inside. Clark leans back against the door, eyes clenched shut, allowing himself to just breathe. The bathroom smells surprisingly pristine, Clark can only pick up the smell of cleaning products and a subtle air freshener. Clark uses the muted scents to ground him. Clark learned early on that the best way to deal with being overwhelmed is to focus on one scent and push out the others. Opening his eyes, Clark takes in the lavishly fancy bathroom vacant of people. Every surface shines, down to the floor tiles, it's quite frankly the nicest looking public bathroom he's seen?
Clark splashes his face with water, the cold water relaxing on his face. Clark scents himself, and is taken aback by the strong scent of his own distress. Despite knowing that everyone else on Earth is quite literally scent blind to it, Clark uses a damp paper towel to wipe down his scent glands. He thoroughly wipes around his neck—his largest glands—before wiping the inside of his wrists. Clark touches up his hair a bit and flattens any wrinkles on his suit.
Positive that he looks presentable—and more mentally prepared to face the crowd of aromas—Clark exits the bathroom to nearly ram into Bruce Wayne.
Clark takes a step back, caught off guard, before being hit with the mouth-watering aroma coming from Bruce Wayne. The lingering scents of the party are there, but the scent of the billionaire's own cologne overpowers them. The cologne has a rich, earthy fragrance, multiple subtle smells blending into something indescribably delectable. Clark can tell that the fragrance was applied to his neck. He wants to push him against the wall and bury his nose into it, lick the scent off his skin—
Clark immediately snaps himself out of that train of thought, suddenly realizing that they've just been standing and staring at each other. Before the moment becomes awkward, Clark remembers himself and apologizes, “ah I'm so sorry Mr. Wayne I didn't hear you coming in—”
“Don't worry about it,” the billionaire interrupts him, lowering his eyelids as he says “besides, I won't stand having such a pretty face apologizing for something like that.”
Clark feels his face heat, swallowing the excess saliva that's been gathering since he first smelled him. “I'm flattered Mr. Wayne, but—”
“Call me Bruce, Mr. Wayne is my father,” Bruce says with a smile, “now what's the name I can pin on this pretty face of yours?” Clark can see Bruce's eyes rake over his body appreciatively.
Clark knew Bruce Wayne has a reputation for being flirty—and that neither gender was exempt from it—but he didn't expect him to be quite so bold . He never thought that Bruce would show such blatant interest to someone like him. Clark swallows, pushing down the heat crawling up his face to say, “Kent. Clark Kent, from the Daily Planet ,” Suddenly realizing the opportunity gifted to him, he follows with, “May I ask some questions regarding Wayne Industries’ collaboration with the Gotham Marine Life Organization?”
Bruce's eyes snap up, his smile taking an amused lift. “All business with you, hm?”
Before Clark can dignify a response—and give away how much his mind is filled with non-business related thoughts—Bruce continues on.
“Alright then, we can head to somewhere more private, and I'll give you an exclusive with me.” Bruce grins, grazing his fingers along Clark's shoulder as he walks off, not even giving Clark a chance to agree or not. His posture holds the arrogance of knowing Clark is going to follow. Yet Clark can't really judge him because that is exactly what he does.
As they head back to the party, Clark realizes, “Wait, you don't need to use the bathroom?”
“No, I just wanted some space, same as you I suppose?”
Before Clark can panic about the possibility of Bruce Wayne witnessing his panic at the entrance, they re-enter the party, and the mix of scents suffocate Clark again. Instead of panicking like earlier, Clark uses all his willpower to focus on Bruce beside him. Clark dedicates himself to trying to separate the subtle mix of Bruce's scent while they weave through the guests. Bruce's cologne is the strongest smell on him, but Clark can pick out his expensive aftershave, his sweet conditioner, the slightest hint of mint on his breath.
Bruce realizes that Clark is slowly falling behind in the crowd from his lack of attention. Clark looks down to see gentle fingers clasping his left wrist, Bruce's index finger lies directly on his scent gland. The gentle pressure leaves his skin tingling pleasantly.
As they slowly move across the room, Clark's other senses start latching on to Bruce. Clark can see muscles subtly shifting under the suit, the way the light shines in his hair. Clark can hear his breathing, the soft rumble of his voice as he exchanges short pleasantries, his steady—surprisingly athletic—heartbeat. Clark can feel subtle callouses on Bruce's palm, the way their skin brushes when they turn.
A group of particularly excited guests pass, causing them to quickly change direction to avoid a collision. Bruce's grip on his wrist tightens slightly to not lose his grip. The pressure on his gland causes pleasure to shiver to run down his spine. Clark bites his lip to suppress the needy whine crawling up his throat. Luckily Bruce is too distracted by the other guests to see his reaction.
The rest of the world fades away as Clark's senses are filled with Bruce . It overwhelms him in the best way, Bruce being the center of his attention. The rest of the party feels distant, insignificant. Clark doesn't even mind how people brush against his shoulders, barely registers them going up stairs. His vision feels fuzzy as he briefly hears the sound of a door closing behind him.
The pressure around his wrist leaves, Clark nearly lets out a distressed whine until he feels a hand caressing his face, tilting his head up. The hand is warm, Clark leans into it as the concerned face of Bruce greets him.
“-ent? Clark? Clark, are you alright?”
Clark blinks, his awareness suddenly returning to him. He's in an office. With Bruce Wayne. Who's hand is still cupping his face. Their faces are inches away from each other.
Clark feels his cheeks catch aflame as he jerks backwards. He doesn't understand what just happened, he can barely remember how he got here. He's never been so out of it before, drunk on someone—or anything really. He realizes with mortification that his dress pants feel tight, and turns away to hide it—and flee from Bruce's concerned yet observant gaze.
“I'm okay, I'm okay. I just felt a bit—uh— overwhelmed for a moment. I don't really do—or go to parties like this.” Clark's answer comes out in a breathless rush as he stares at the door.
“It's alright,” Bruce's voice sounds impossibly soft, “take however long you need”
Clark nods jerkily, taking deep breaths and familiarizing himself with the environment. He can still hear the event going on downstairs, as well as Bruce moving away behind him, his heartbeat slightly elevated. He can smell the scent of rich mahogany, the lingering scent of cleaning supplies, and Bruce's intoxicating cologne. He can still feel remnants of Bruce's touch on his wrist, his face.
Confident enough that he feels okay—and has calmed a bit down there—he turns to face Bruce again.
The office is large, lined with bookshelves, large windows, and a large mahogany desk with a tall chair behind it. The room is dark, the only light coming from the full moon. Bruce is sitting casually on the side of the desk, his posture is aloof, but his piercing gaze betrays it.
“Sorry about that,” Clark says sheepishly as he approaches. “I've never really been to an event as big as this. I was a bit overwhelmed by the—uh smell.” Clark winces at the weak explanation, but it's much better than saying the whole truth.
Bruce lifts an impeccable eyebrow, the earlier concern replaced with confusion, “Smell?”
“Ah, well,” Clark fumbles, trying to explain it without sounding weird.
You see, you smelled so amazing that I started obsessing over every part of you to distract myself from the scent of the party and I practically became drunk on you and barely remember how we got here.
“I've always been a bit sensitive to fragrances and didn't expect so many people to wear strong perfumes and such tonight.” Clark says with a sheepish smile.
Bruce's eyes light up in understanding, before furrowing in concern again. “Does my cologne bother you? I can open a window if you'd like.”
“Oh, no, your cologne smells-” amazing “-fine, it's just ‘cause there were so many people, y'know?”
Bruce nods, satisfied with his answer. “Well, you can take a seat if you want to do that exclusive right now—only if you feel comfortable of course.” Bruce gestures to the chair in front of him.
“Thank you, Bruce.” Clark finds himself smiling softly as he sits.