Superman’s Bris

I LOVE my DSP weekend. I really do. I meet and plan and talk and even have an occasional panel to be on (which I forgot about and still showed up with an audio-visual aid!)

Anyway– it was wonderful, and I may pull out stuff to talk about in the next week, and I have a few stories to tell about kids and dogs etc.

But while I was there, this started, and I felt it was important to finish it because… I mean, you saw the title!

While I was in Orlando, I got a very cool birthday present from a reader. She came to chat  and she sat down at our table and met me and Andrew Grey and Kim Fielding. The mug was a big hit, and the conversation turned—like they do. Of course, it was fueled by the recent Batdick controversy (and the fact that I have a picture of the original graphic novel frames on my phone that show very clearly that Bruce Wayne was circumcised) and Kim Fielding said she wanted THIS fanfic. It was important, she said. Necessary to life. The mohel, by the way? Was someone she actually met to perform a service for her family— she said I had to include him. It was NECESSARY.

Now I adore Kim, and would do ever so much to make her happy.

And of course, Andrea who gave me the mug deserves some happiness too.

So, here we go. Happy dinner table conversation—welcome to Superman’s Bris.

Superman’s Bris

Bruce kept telling Clark that the important thing was he was okay.

Six weeks recovery? Not a problem.

Broken leg, concussion, contusions? Batman had seen worse.

Superman had been there for worse.

Not a big deal.

But after their first night’s lovemaking, a couple of weeks before Bruce was allowed back in the field, Clark was driving everybody crazy.

Bruce would be up in the Eye in the Sky, analyzing data, putting together models of criminal activity to see if it linked to larger patterns, and Superman would buzz in through the electromagnetic airlock, slide his hand along Bruce’s back like he was checking for wounds, and then just buzz the fuck back out.

Bruce would be at work, laughing glibly about a skiing accident, when a mighty wind would haul through his suddenly open window, blow away all the papers, ruffle his hair, feel him up, and blow the fuck back out.

They would be sitting quietly, eating dinner, and Bruce would concentrate on his food—because Alfred cooked and fuck it all, he needed to concentrate on that shit—and when he looked up, Clark would be still be there, but Bruce would have the feeling of being surreptitiously triaged.

And Clark’s eyes would be glowing which meant he was X-raying his body through the table as he sat.

“Stop it,” he snarled.

“Stop what?” Fucking Kansas farm boy—guileless blue eyes. You could almost believe he was as innocent as all of that.

“Stop expecting my bones to shatter and my heart to stop. It’s sort of insulting. I work hard to stay fit. Unless there’s a bomb or a gun or a sword or something, I’m usually okay.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Bruce set down his knife and fork and glared at him. “You. Lie.”

Clark fiddled with his own cutlery, a complete uneaten steak on his plate. “Superman does not—“

“Maybe not, but Clark Kent just told a solid gold whopper. Christ on… on… on fucking crutches—“

“Which you still have to use!” Clark muttered.

“You’re being a child,” Bruce snapped. “Oh my God—did you never skin your knee as a child…”

And it hit him then. Like a clock to the jaw.

“You never skinned your knee as a child.”

The silence fell, a jagged granite boulder, plummeting through a black lake.

“No,” Clark said simply.

Bruce had a sudden thought. “You’re uncircumcised.”

The shock that washed Clark’s face scoured away Bruce’s irritation. “Uhm…”

Bruce Wayne’s smile was not sweet. It wasn’t pleasant. But it must have done something, something hot and wicked, because Bruce could see Clark’s face flush from across the table.

His next words were enough to make Bruce strangle on his own tongue.

“They tried to have a Bris.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The Kents. Martha’s family was, uh, Jewish. They were adopting me. They tried to have a Brit Milah. A Bris.”

Bruce put his elbow on the table and balanced his chin in the palm of his hand. “Do tell.” He may even have batted his eyelashes.

“It didn’t work.”

Bruce let out a positively filthy chuckle. “I know.” Clark’s foreskin was wonderfully sensitive. Bruce particularly liked pulling it back and licking under the head, because Clark made the most delicious noises.

Just thinking about it, Bruce could almost smell his come.

And Clark was still stammering, still fumbling for words that didn’t send the erotic flush rolling off him in waves.

“The, uh, mohel was… well I met him as an adult. He was sort of terrifying. Like, you know, this tiny man from Poland. He glared at me. We went to temple with Martha’s family sometimes. Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur… you know. Most of the time we did midwest Methodist, but… I guess…” He gave a weak smile, and Bruce got it. Jewish/Christian, Kryptonian/Human–theirs was not the first mixed marriage in Clark’s family history.

“So, a circumcision,” Bruce said, to get the conversation back where he wanted it.

On Superman’s penis. Because who wouldn’t want to have a conversation about Superman’s penis?

“Yes.”

“And the mohel held a grudge.”

Clark fidgeted with his silverware some more. “I… uh… apparently broke his favorite Kvellar. That’s a, uhm–“

“Bris knife. I know. You broke it?”

Clark started to roll his knife. Like, a tube of toothpaste. Into a tiny little tube.

“Well, it, uh… you know. Broke off. On, my, uh…”

“Superdick.”

He started to mold the ball of silver in between his thumb and forefinger. The knife was no longer a knife, it was now malleable silver clay.

“Foreskin.” Still not meeting Bruce’s eyes. “He, uh… broke three of them, actually. So, like, his favorite, and his two backups, and in the end, he just said I wasn’t really Jewish. Cause, you know, you have to draw blood.”

“So you’re not Jewish.”

He started to roll the little ball around on the table, like a marble, and Bruce wondered if it would be worth it to point out he was putting a divot in Alfred’s favorite antique banquet table.

“No Bar Mitzvah,” he said with a shrug. “But, uh, you know. Dad didn’t take advantage, so no baptism either. Just… sort of let me choose what I wanted.”

Bruce stood, without crutches, and used the table to balance as he walked over to take Clark’s chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“What you wanted,” he repeated.

Clark met his eyes, his cheeks a blooming red, white teeth sinking into his plump super-lips. “What I wanted.”

“Do you want me, Clark?”

He dragged in a breath, and Bruce could hear the rasp. “So bad.”

“I bleed.”

Those Kansas-sky blue eyes closed. “I’ve noticed.”

“I’m circumcised.”

That lush mouth, sinful really, curved upward. “I’ve noticed.”

“Would you like to know what I believe?”

Bruce could hear the bob of his adam’s apple. “What?”

He bent his head until his lips brushed Clark’s ear. “As God is my witness–any God–as long as I’m breathing, as long as my heart beats, I’ll love you. And when I stop breathing, when my heart stops beating, the love will still be there. But I won’t be able to play with your glorious, amazing body then, so you should use me while you can.”

He nibbled along Clark’s jaw, surprised when Clark tried to evade his kiss.

“I’m afraid,” he whispered.

Bruce tried to make him smile. “You? Even your foreskin is stronger than steel.”

But Clark would still not be tamed. “My heart–“

Bruce captured his mouth then, not wanting to hear it. Of course his heart was fragile. Tissue paper and promises fragile. Cornsilk thin. As substantial as a cloud in a a blazing sky.

But he opened for Bruce, groaning in need, and Bruce took over, straddling him carefully as he sat. Kiss, plunder–taste.

Clark returned then, hauling him close, and Bruce nibbled another path to Clark’s ear. “We can eat later. Care to fly us to bed now?”

“Why bed?” Clark panted, and Bruce slid his hand between them, pushing the heel of his palm against Clark’s burgeoning erection.

“I want to show you the blessings of a foreskin of steel.”

Clark laughed–a fractured, needy sound–but Bruce wanted to tap-dance in triumph. “That’s terrible.”

“I’m going to tongue it, and nibble on it, and play with it and–“

The world swooshed around his ears and he found himself in their bed.

Naked.

A very naked, very muscular Clark Kent was underneath him, bucking up against his stomach, leaking a copious puddle of pre-cum.

“Hungry?” Bruce taunted, worming his way down, making sure the corrugated muscles of his stomach rubbed harshly against Clark’s cock.

“You made promises,” Clark growled. “Or were you all talk–alk!?”

Bruce loved his taste. Loved his width and thickness. His foreskin. All of it.

But as he played and nipped, nibbled and sucked, what he loved most was having Clark Kent at his mercy.

He was not feeling particularly merciful this night.

He teased and played until Clark gibbered with need, practically sobbed with it. “Bruce! Oh my God! Please–I need to– you can’t– please–“

And then Bruce oiled his own aching cock and slid upward, thrusting into him without warning, knowing–after three years, knowing–that the roughness, the quick bite of pain, the intensity would put him over in the first stroke.

And render him helpless as Bruce pounded inside him, chasing his own climax.

He held it off as long as he could, watching Clark–flushed, sweating, head thrown back, eyes closed, body shaking with pleasure, with stimulation, with an orgasm that was still rippling through his cock, his taint, his ass.

Watching him abandoned, naked, losing all knowledge of his immortality, of his carefully instilled mores and manners, with his adorable farm boy shyness stripped away.

Just as vulnerable in spirit as Bruce was in body.

More so.

Afraid.

Afraid of losing the man he loved.

Bruce’s climax roared through him, a cleansing fire, screaming out of his chest, his balls in a pump and a throb of come.

Bruce collapsed on his chest, still rutting, even after he’d slid out in a sticky gush.

“I’m afraid too,” he whispered between their harsh breaths that filled the room.

“Yeah?” Clark’s hand slid through the lock of hair that had fallen on his forehead, pulling it back into place.

“Of losing this. Of losing you. You’ve never skinned your knee, Clark. But you’ve had your heart broken plenty of times. It’s no different for me.”

Clark chuckled rustily.

“But you’ve skinned your knees.”

“It was a warning,” Bruce agreed. “That’s all.” He closed his eyes, his face buried against Clark’s throat, and then opened them quickly. “Did I give you razor burn?”

Clark grunted. “Mm hm. It’s that thing I do. During sex.”

“Where we vibrate in quantum resonance.” Bruce wasn’t going to say it, but he had to. “I could hurt you. When we’re together. Right?”

Another grunt. “I guess.”

“I won’t,” he said softly. “Who needs a bris when you’ve got a foreskin of steel.”

Another rusty chuckle and Bruce knew he would be okay. No more super-whooshing and triage-on the fly. Clark could deal now. Thank the deity of choice.

Whoever that may be.

*  *  *

Clark listened to him fall asleep, thinking about skinned knees and razor burns, quantum resonance and sex.

Bruce Wayne and how his fragile body held Clark Kent’s fragile heart.

He started to plan then, for the end. For the many ways Bruce Wayne could die.

For the many ways Clark Kent could use the quantum resonance of his heartbeat to end his own life.

Bruce would never know. Clark would never tell him.

It was Clark’s own covenant though. Bruce would love him after death–he’d promised.

Clark would be there, wherever Bruce was. Sustaining that love in whatever realm and whatever form they’d become.