Hell or High Water by Azurine

Bruce/Clark. Comicverse.

"I told you not to touch it."

I started this for the Cliché Fic Challenge, knowing full well I would not finish it by the deadline, but shooting for completion sometime in 2004. Inspired by the first part of Superman/Batman #8, in which Batman and Superman find a spaceship in the Gotham City Bay.

Date Completed September 3rd, 2004.

Okay, new rule. The next time he found an alien pod-ship thing at the bottom of the ocean, Bruce was *not* touching it.

Not one finger.

Not even his pinky.

"Urrrgh. . ." he said, and then vomited up another couple gallons of sea water.

"I'd feel sorry for you, but this is all your fault," Clark said, somewhere above and to the left of Bruce's head. All Bruce could see of him was one soggy red boot.

"Uh guh…" said Bruce, and puked again.

"You're lucky you didn't drown when that thing scooped us up."

Even over his own retching, Bruce could hear the *tone*. The tone that said Clark possibly considered drowning a fitting punishment for getting them into this mess.

On his hands and knees, gut cramping, lungs aching, salt water streaming from his nose, Bruce contemplated depositing the next batch of ocean vomit on Clark's boot.

"You don't *touch things* that look like they came from outer space," Clark continued. The red boot took a step back, making a squishing noise and ruining Bruce's plan to barf on it.

"Clark. Shut up." Bruce crawled away from the puddle he'd made and leaned against the wall, listening to his stomach gurgle. He flexed his arms and legs gingerly, wincing when he hit a sore spot here and there. Getting Hoovered into a space ship with enough ocean water to float Shamu was very, *very* painful.

Actually, the Hoovering hadn't been the worst of it. The loss of the re-breather had been a bitch, but the water had been purged early on in the whole experience. What *had* hurt was when the pod-ship thing rocketed into space with them inside, bouncing around in something that looked a lot like a giant spaghetti strainer.

Drain the water, keep the superheroes. And one puzzled sea turtle.

He could practically see the late-night infomercials.

So here they were, obviously on some sort of mothership, soaked and battered and waiting to see if there was a welcoming committee.

"I *told you* not to touch it," Clark said again, glaring at him as he wrung water from his cape, savagely twisting the fabric in his fists.

"You told me to *be careful*," Bruce corrected as Clark sat down on the bench and yanked off a boot. A small stream of sand and seawater poured forth.

"Same thing," Clark said, shaking the last of the water from his boot. He looked down at the debris, cocked his head. "Is that a clam?"

Bruce looked at it. "Mussel, I think. And *you* said it was Kryptonian." As long as blame was being assigned, Clark was going to get his share, too. In fact, he was welcome to all of it. Bruce already had his plate full with the puking and the bruises. And what *had* happened to that turtle, anyway?

Clark nudged the clam/mussel with his toe. "We still don't know for sure it isn't."

Right on cue, a door on the opposite side of the room opened and four tiny aliens toddled in, looking as non-Kryptonian as could be. Their bulging black eyes, rubbery bodies, and pale skin made them look as if they'd been plucked straight from Steven Spielberg's imagination.

Bruce looked at Clark.

"Okay. Fine. Not Kryptonian," Clark muttered as he tugged his boot back on. He stood and drew himself up into his best "Behold! I Am Superman!" pose. The band of Spielberg aliens began to twitter excitedly amongst themselves, perhaps impressed.

Bruce struggled to his feet, hoping to God he wasn't going to puke again. When he stepped tentatively away from the wall and found that his legs held, he crossed his arms over his chest, stared down at the little aliens, and tried to ignore the large quantity of ocean sand in his pants.

"Welcome," said the alien in the front of the group, amusingly formal in his bearing. His voice was of a lower pitch than Bruce expected from such a small being, and sounded like he was suffering from a head cold. "Your presence is unexpected, but we are pleased to have you here, humans." He pronounced it "hewmins."

"Thank you," said Clark, in an equally formal manner. "I'm afraid we'll have to insist that you return us to Earth immediately."

Bruce backed Clark up with a nod, then stifled a seawater burp.

"Oh, yes," said the alien, nodding his head. "We certainly will, after we have had a chance to study you."


Visions of red-hot eyeball-piercing needles and nasally-implanted tracking devices filled Bruce's head, and his stomach turned over unpleasantly.

"No," Clark said firmly. "No studying."

The aliens looked at each other, then at their spokesperson, who lifted a hand as if to quiet them. "No harm will come to you, I assure --"

"I don't care," Clark said. "No studying, no experiments, no tests, no anal probing."

Bruce blinked. Had he just heard Superman use the word "anal"?

Meanwhile, the whole group of aliens seemed to be edging closer, and Bruce had to fight the urge to take a step back.

Their leader spoke again. "We simply wish to observe and record natural human behavior. We are very interested in humans, particularly the XY species."

Clark looked at Bruce. XY?

Bruce thought about it for a second. "I think he means male humans. He's talking about chromosomes, probably."

"Ah." Clark nodded, eyes flicking briefly to the floor between them and the aliens. Measuring. He'd noticed it, too. They *were* closer.

"We wish to record natural behaviors only, not to cause pain," the spokesalien said again.

Bruce didn't have any intention of cooperating, but he was curious, so he had to ask. "What kind of 'natural behaviors' are we talking about here?"

The group took another step toward them, and was it his imagination or did they look. . .eager?

Bruce would swear to his dying day that the little guy sounded breathless with excitement when he said, "We wish to see you copulate."

"Good God!" blurted Clark.

Well. That put a whole new spin on the "anal probing" concept.

Bruce laughed.

Clark stared at him as if he'd lost his mind, and the Spielbergs tilted their heads in unison, looking at him with what he assumed passed for a quizzical frown on their largely featureless faces.

Bruce walked over to the bench, skirting the puddle he'd made earlier, and took a seat. The sand in his pants squelched unpleasantly when he sat down.

"If that's what you guys wanted, you've screwed up," he said. "You've got two 'XY humans' here," he said, gesturing to himself and Clark. "You need an XY and an XX. XY humans don't copulate with each other."

There was muted chaos amongst the aliens as they began to chatter in a language he couldn't understand. Again, the spokesalien silenced them.

"We have been studying your satellite transmissions," he said, "and have seen the XY species copulate with each other many times."

On an unseen cue, the wall behind the little guys lit up, and a slightly grainy image flickered to life. A movie, it looked like. Two men kissing, followed by a bedroom scene that would most definitely never make it onto network television.

"Um. . ." said Bruce. Vaguely, he wondered how exactly *he* always ended up being the guy who had to deal with strange shit like this. Captain America probably *never* had to watch gay porn in an alien spaceship.

Namor, on the other hand. . .

Clark's sardonic laughter drew his attention. "Unbelievable," Clark said. He tipped his head back and looked at the ceiling. "We've been kidnapped by extraterrestrial 'Queer as Folk' fans."

Bruce sat in surprised silence for a moment, then raised an eyebrow at Clark. "You watch 'Queer as Folk'?"

Clark's laughter turned into a cough, then died. He looked at Bruce, then back at the screen. "Uh. . .not really," he said, eyes averted. "I. . .I've read. . .there was an article about it. . ."

Bruce raised his eyebrow a little higher. Clark had recognized the show awful damn quickly for his knowledge to be based solely on some Entertainment Weekly piece.

"Tim was telling me about it," Clark finished lamely.

"Uh huh."

"I don't even get Showtime."


Clark turned his attention back to the aliens, all business once again.

"Yes, it's true that certain XY humans. . .copulate," Clark said. "Unfortunately, you've acquired two who do not. We'll have to deny your request."

There was more twittering from the Spielbergs, but the leader appeared unruffled by their refusal.

"That is disappointing, but we understand," he said, agreeably enough to make Bruce extremely suspicious. "As soon as the capture pod is ready, we will return you to your planet." His three-fingered hand touched a panel on the wall, and a door slid open. "You may wait here."

Bruce made another trip around the room, looking for the surveillance equipment he knew had to be there. "I don't like this."

Clark took off his cape. "And here I was thinking this was just what I wanted to do today." He squinted in the direction of the bathroom. "You think that shower really works?"

"I don't know. You should check it before you get in. Make sure it doesn't run hydrochloric acid or something."

Clark disappeared into the bathroom, and a few seconds later Bruce heard the shower begin to run. That was encouraging. He desperately wanted to shower.

He paced the perimeter of the room again. It looked remarkably like a hotel room on Earth, complete with a king-sized bed, stereo equipment, and a wet bar.

Porn flick setting if he ever saw one.

He opened the drawer in the nightstand, the one that, in normal hotel rooms, always held a Bible. This one was packed full of condoms, bottles of lubricant, and several brightly colored rubber. . .things. Sex toys. Some he recognized and some he didn't. What the hell were those *beads* for?


Unnerved, he decided to check out the bar. Some bottled water, lots of booze, a good selection of beer. He picked up a water and examined it, looking for any signs of tampering. He didn't trust the Spielbergs, but he needed water. All that salt water puking.

He twisted the cap off, satisfied to see it was still sealed, and took a small drink. Waited. When nothing strange happened, he took another sip and opened the little refrigerator. Some fruit, a couple sandwiches, a jar of pickled beets. Who the hell had they been observing when they put together this menu?

Curious, he unwrapped one of the sandwiches. White bread, slathered in peanut butter and jelly, with a single slice of ham nestled in the middle.

Maybe it was true. Maybe Elvis really was an alien.

The bathroom door opened and Clark ambled out, surrounded by a cloud of steam. He was wearing a towel around his hips, and his spit curl was already perfectly in place.

"Is that real food?" he asked, eyes landing on the sandwich in Bruce's hand.

Bruce handed it to him. "The all-American favorite. Peanut butter and jelly and ham."

Clark's eyebrows rose. "Interesting combination." He peeled back the top slice of bread, peered at the inside, then shrugged, smooshed it back down, and lifted it to his mouth.

Bruce grabbed his arm just in time. "What are you doing?"

Clark froze, mouth open. "I'm eating," he said, in the kind of voice one normally used to speak to the extremely young, the extremely old, or the extremely slow-witted.

"That's not a good idea," Bruce said, plucking the sandwich from Clark's fingers. "We don't know what they've put in it." He wrapped the sandwich back up and put it back in the fridge.

"It smells fine." At Bruce's questioning look, Clark tapped his nose with a finger. "Super-smell."

"Which means nothing if it's odorless."

"It wouldn't do anything to me anyway, you know."

"No, you *don't* know that," Bruce said testily. When Clark opened his mouth to speak, he added, "Two words: Poison. Ivy."

Whatever Clark had been about to say remained unspoken, but his eyes narrowed in what might have been a glare. Sore spot, thought Bruce.

There were several cans of soda sitting on the bar next to the ice bucket. He tossed Clark a can of Coke. "Here. At least this is sealed."

"Not very filling," Clark said, eyeing the can.

"You'll survive."

"It's warm."

"Put some ice in it."

"You're being ridiculous."

"How's the shower?" Bruce asked, unwilling to continue what was a pointless debate.

"Great, if you don't mind washing with dish soap," Clark said, cracking open the Coke and downing what had to be at least half the can before reaching for a glass.

Bruce headed for the shower and the dish soap.

Anything was better than an asscrack full of sand.

When Bruce got out of the shower, the pile of wet clothes on the bathroom floor--both his and Clark's--was gone. Disappeared. Without warning and without a sound.

Annoyed and unsettled, he stomped out into the main room. There was no sign of their clothes out there, either.

Clark was flipping through the CD selection. "One of the little guys took them," he said, before Bruce had a chance to ask. "They're going to return them clean and dry."

Great. Just perfect. Not that he'd had any great desire to sit around in his wet costume, but having no options but the towel made him even more anxious about their situation.

"Relax, Bruce."

"I'll relax when we're back on terra firma," he grumbled, not in a mood to be pacified. He padded over to the bed and poked it experimentally. It felt like a normal bed. He looked under it, saw normal dust bunnies. Groaning, he flopped down on his stomach and closed his eyes.

"You hurt?" Clark asked, sounding much closer than he had been just a moment ago. Bruce opened an eye. Clark was standing next to the bed, glass of Coke in his hand. He took a sip, chewed on an ice cube.

"Just banged up. I'll be fine." He closed his eye. As much as he hated the idea of falling asleep here, it might be the best thing. Make the time pass faster-

He heard Clark set his glass down on the bedside table. Then the bed shifted beneath him and Bruce felt what he was sure was Clark *straddling him*.

Oh, this was *just* what he needed. More weirdness in what was already a record-settingly weird day.

"Clark?" he said, voice amazingly calm. "What are you doing?"

Clark's hands closed over his shoulders, squeezing and kneading, then slid down his back, thumbs digging into the muscles on either side of his spine. "Giving you a rub down," he replied, as if it were a normal occurrence. As if every time they got kidnapped by aliens, the first thing he did was give Bruce a massage.

Funny how the "kidnapped by aliens" part had just become one of the more normal events of the day.

"I don't need a rub down."

"Maybe I need to give you one," Clark said, in a tone that set alarm bells to ringing in Bruce's head.

Before he could figure out just what in the hell he was supposed to say to *that*, Clark *shifted*, and Bruce realized he would never again be able to say he didn't know what it felt like to have Superman's balls resting on his ass.

And if he could so clearly *feel* his balls. . .oh, Jesus God please still be wearing the towel please still be wearing the towel. . .

Bruce looked over his shoulder.

No towel.

Just Clark's balls, definitely resting on his ass, and one aggressive-looking Superhard-on.

"Jesus Christ, Clark." Bruce scrambled to get out from under him, nearly losing his own towel in the process, and bolted from the bed. "What the hell is going on?."

Clark rolled to his knees, making no attempt to cover himself. "C'mon, Bruce. When they were talking about watching us have sex, didn't it make you wonder?"

"No." Bruce shook his head and backed up a few steps, tucking the towel around his waist a little more snugly.

"It made me wonder," Clark said with grin, perhaps amused that he'd just made the goddamned understatement of the century.

"Yeah, I'm getting that impression."

Clark continued to grin.

"Look, why don't you go in the bathroom and wonder about it by yourself for a few minutes, and we'll just forget this happened?"

This was certainly a first in his career as Batman--masturbation as a solution. God, *why* had he touched that damn pod-ship thing?

Clark slid off the bed and padded across the carpet, erection bobbing in front of him like a tiny missile. Well, maybe not *tiny*. . .

Bruce wanted to retreat, but he knew he couldn't. The brutal truth was that, stripped down to nothing but their fists, Clark could wipe the floor with him. It might be nothing more than a bluff, but he couldn't give an inch.

Clark, on the other hand, looked pretty eager to give Bruce several inches.

Clark stopped in front of him, then took one more step forward. The tip of his cock poked Bruce in the stomach, leaving a wet spot that chilled rapidly and made him shiver.

"I think you're wondering a little," Clark said.

"I'm not."

Clark's hands came up and settled on Bruce's shoulders, and Bruce was reminded once again that Clark was not like everyone else. That he was much stronger. That he felt *different* in a way that was impossible to explain. Clark's fingers tightened, holding him in place, and then he leaned forward and closed his mouth on Bruce's lower lip, sucking gently. Even as Bruce brought his arms up to push him away, Clark's tongue pressed against his lips, trying to gain access.

Bruce gave up on the idea of holding his ground and stumbled backward. His foot came down on something sticky, and he shouted in surprise. Which only helped Clark, who immediately slid his tongue into Bruce's mouth and moaned.

Clark's mouth was hot and demanding and he tasted like…peanut butter?

Peanut butter and *ham*.

Bruce planted his hands on Clark's chest and pushed him away easily enough to know Clark hadn't really been trying to hold on to him. As he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, he lifted his foot and looked down, already knowing what he'd find.

Mashed into the carpet was a piece of plastic wrap. A very, very empty piece of plastic wrap.

Bruce turned on Clark, furious. "You ate that sandwich?" he asked, in the deceptively quiet tone most of Gotham's criminals would immediately recognize as a sign that Batman was really, really pissed.

Clark shrugged an unconcerned shoulder. "I was hungry."

"I told you not to eat the food."

Clark gave him a look that clearly asked when the hell Superman had started taking orders from Batman. Which only made Bruce more furious.

"What happened to not touching things from outer space?"

Clark waved off his anger. "It's no big deal, Bruce. I'm obviously fine."

"*This* is fine?!?!" he practically shouted, all that steely Batman stoicism having fled for parts unknown. "This is *not* fine! This is *you* trying to have sex with *me*, which, in case you've forgotten, is something you've never done before in all the years we've known each other. They put something in the food that's making you do this."

Clark rolled his eyes. "Do you know how many times I've been poisoned or drugged? It never works. And if there had been something in the food, I would have known. The sandwich smelled perfectly normal."

If he'd been a disinterested third party, Bruce might have laughed at the very thought of Clark using the word "normal" in relation to *anything* about this situation. Normal was a *fantasy* at this point.

As if to reinforce the feeling of complete and total absurdity, Clark went back to the bed and sat down, leaning back on his arms. Like he was *presenting* his erection for Bruce's viewing pleasure.

Bruce resolutely kept his eyes on Clark's face. "This isn't some two-bit criminal trying to knock you out. This is. . .this is. . ." he waved his arms around, searching for the proper descriptive ". . .alien sex poison. Maybe it *does* work on you. Maybe you *can't* smell it."

Clark slid back and leaned against the headboard, hands clasped behind his head, and gave him a smug look. The Superhard-on continued to stick up at a jaunty angle.

"Or maybe that's just want you want to think," Clark said.

"For crying. . .I can't *believe* this." Bruce turned away, rubbing his forehead with his fingers. This was a nightmare. He'd always planned for the possibility of Superman going bad--he'd never thought to plan for him going horny.

He could only pray that whatever it was he'd eaten in that sandwich would wear off by the time they got back home.

In the meantime, Bruce's mouth still tasted like peanut butter and ham.

He found he felt a little better with the wet bar between himself and Clark's peep show, and decided he just might camp out behind it for the duration. He grabbed a bottle of water, then changed his mind and searched for something more potent.

Vodka. Stolichnaya. Still sealed. Perfect.

If there was ever a time when he needed hard liquor, this was it.

He poured a few ounces over some ice and took a drink, still angry, still muttering to himself. The vodka was smooth and hot, all the way down to his gut. He refilled the glass, and didn't bother to cap the bottle.

He glanced over at Clark, who was still watching him. One hand had drifted to his groin, where his fingers were lazily fondling his erection.

Bruce looked away, poured another inch of vodka into the glass. Downed it all in one gulp.

He looked at the bed. Clark's hand was a fist now, pumping slowly.

Bruce picked up the bottle and filled the glass to the rim with a shaking hand.

His eyes darted to the bed again. Jesus, Clark looked good. Flawless. Perfect skin, perfect muscles, perfect cock.

He bobbled the glass on the way to his mouth, slopping vodka down his chest.

He was not thinking about the Superhard-on. He was not thinking about Clark's erection. He wasn't. He wasn't.

Hell, why bother, when he suddenly had one of his own to contemplate?

He looked down at the towel that now seemed to levitate in front of his crotch. Oh no. Oh no no no.

This was not happening. It *couldn't* be happening. He hadn't eaten anything. The bottled water had been fine, so the vodka was probably fine. Nothing weird had happened until Clark ate the damn food.

But that meant. . .

If it wasn't the alien sex poison, that meant he really was getting turned on.

Over on the bed, Clark was still stroking himself. And smirking, though his eyes were now trained on the bar directly in front of Bruce's crotch.

Goddamn x-ray vision.

Bruce drained his glass, belly on fire, groin on fire, and in a few minutes his whole head was gonna be on fire if he got any more turned on than he already was. He set the glass down a little more forcefully than he intended, and an ice cube jumped out and slid across the bar.

He looked at it. And then across the room at Clark's abandoned glass of Coke, where a few slivers of ice still floated in the watery soda.

Oh. Fuck.



"The alien sex poison isn't in the food. It's in the ice."

Superman was a very good kisser.

He also reminded Bruce of a big puppy. Happy and eager and squirmy.

And not at all opposed to licking things.

"Good?" Clark asked, right before he dropped his mouth around Bruce's cock again.

Bruce tried to say yes, but all he produced was a choking noise. This was suction on a cosmic scale, no pun intended, and surely alien physiology was made for oral sex, because no human tongue moved like that.

His hips came off the bed and Clark's throat took him in and it felt like he was in the spaghetti strainer again, because he couldn't tell which way was up, and his eyes wouldn't open. His hands fumbled in Clark's hair and he held on for dear life as that mouth tugged on him again, pleasure twisting hot into his belly.

Seconds before he was about to come, he was suddenly flipped over and pulled up onto his knees. He felt hot breath on the back of his thigh, then a grazing of teeth, and then humid warmth on his balls. Clark's hands spread his ass and the tongue on his balls slid up, squirming wetly, massaging until -- sweet Jesus.

No tongue should be able to do that, not even one from another galaxy.

Clark loomed over him and yanked the bedside drawer open, and Bruce nearly sighed with relief when the only thing Clark took out of it was a bottle of lube.

A few seconds later what had to be a well-lubed finger probed gently, then slid in with a stretch that made Bruce suck in his breath. Two fingers in was even more of a stretch, and when they started thrusting slowly into his ass he wasn't sure if he wanted to scream or beg for more.

It was. . .it was *Clark* and it was intense and he wasn't sure which one of those things mattered most, what the fingers were doing or who they belonged to.

Then the fingers went away and it got more intense as Clark lined things up and started inching his way in.

Okay. Yes. Clark's cock *was* perfect, Bruce decided.

It was solid and deep, and sinking deeper with every hitch of those strong hips, until there wasn't any deeper to go. Then Clark's mouth closed on his ear and there was *grinding*.

Then he pulled back, panting in Bruce's ear. "Ready?" Bruce could hear the grin on his face.

God, yes. Two miles past ready, and about to beg for a fucking.

He didn't have to beg. He didn't even have to answer. Clark just started moving, a smooth glide, then a sharp bolt of pleasure, then a slow retreat. Smooth sharp slow. Smooth sharp slow.

He set an utterly maddening pace, rubbing every nerve to the breaking point until Bruce wanted to scream. The rhythm was relentless and Jesus, did he *always* have this kind of stamina?

When Bruce reached, fumbling, for his own cock, Clark said something, or maybe he just moved, and then he was driving into him hard as Bruce's hand kept pace. Downstroke as Clark thrust in and God, that was perfect right there, then an upstroke as he slid away. Smooth sharp slow until he had to come *now* and he said so.

Clark made a noise like a wounded animal, keening and hair-raising, and gave one last thrust that lifted Bruce's knees right off the bed as his slick fingers dug into Bruce's hips. Bruce's orgasm was like a razor cut down his belly, clean and white-hot and exquisite.

And, he remembered later, that was when he finally did scream.

A Spielberg brought their clothes back a few hours later. Bruce could have sworn the little creep was gloating.

By the time they showered--together, and he'd never look at dish soap the same way again--and got dressed, the alien sex poison had begun to wear off, and Bruce was feeling decidedly grumpy and chafed.

And if anyone asked, the chafing was from the sand in his pants.

He and Clark were doing a lot of throat-clearing and eye contact-avoiding, and generally having a hard time thinking of anything to say to each other. The topic of the ice was obviously totally off-limits.

A few minutes later they were summoned to the pod, where the sea turtle blinked at them from where he was secured in one corner. Bruce couldn't help but wonder what *his* night had been like.

They strapped themselves in as a disembodied voice began a countdown to blast-off. Bruce tugged his gloves on more securely and said, in his best nonchalant manner, "I assume you've come to the realization it was *not* entirely my fault we ended up here." After a few seconds of total silence, Clark said, "Actually, I don't see why we need to tell anyone about this. Ever."

"I agree."

The disembodied voice droned on.

Bruce gave Clark a sideways glance. "So much for 'no anal probing.'"

The corner of Clark's mouth twitched. "Well, I *am* an alien."

The End

More Notes: There's so much contradicting canon on Superman's invulnerability (particularly in relation to whether or not he can be poisoned) and his sense of smell that I had to just pick a theory and go with it. Same thing with whether or not he needs to eat (He could starve to death! No, he can't! Yes, he could!).

In the end, I decided he does get hungry and the alien sex poison evaded his sense of smell.

But who knows? Maybe he *wanted* to eat it.


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