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I’ll be back later with someone else you’ve chatted with and I’ll kill them too.
Maybe that reporter you always do interviews with. Maybe I’ll kill Clark Kent next.
“The Daily Planet has an assignment to interview Lex Luthor. We want to find out why Lex is dumping weapons in Boravia and his stance and views on this war.” Lois sat on the couch, staring at him with suspiciously focused eyes.
“I think you’d be perfect for this job.”
Clark rested his arm on the back of the couch and turned his head. “Why me, Lois? I’m just an ordinary reporter.”
Lois rolled her eyes and leaned back beside him. “Don’t play dumb. You have your unique advantages.” She lowered her voice.
“And he’s currently embroiled in a scandal stemming from his last heterosexual relationship. Maybe he’s interested in a change of taste—someone less beautiful, less ornamental, more... diverse.”
“Like who?”
“Like you, Clark.”
Clark raised his eyebrows, his eyes wide behind his black-rimmed glasses. “Are you suggesting that Lex might be interested in me as his boyfriend?”
He knew it wouldn’t work. Even if he played the role of a useless, decorative boyfriend to get close and document Lex’s daily life, Lex’s girlfriends were mostly just necessary accessories—like wearing a watch when going out. But based on his unique relationship with Superman, as perceived by others, Lex was more wary of him than any of his ex-girlfriends. He wasn’t sure whether to feel honored or annoyed.
Luthor—no, Lex. Wait, since they were now supposedly dating, he should call him Lex. When Lex was on TV, Clark sat in the staff chair like a pet, waiting. Lex didn’t care how stiff Clark’s smile was when his gaze swept over, or whether his emotions were genuine, or if he was panicked by the things happening around him.
Lex rarely spoke to him directly unless giving orders. Whenever he convincingly hinted at the threat of superhuman beings in front of Clark, he would turn his head and ask if Clark had recorded that part.
Dating Lex was like signing a contract of servitude. You were no longer your own independent person; you were his useful tool. As for what happens when the tool is no longer useful, well, that might be a question for the missing persons files.
A few of Lex’s girlfriends had vanished after dating him, which should have been a big deal. Most of his dates were celebrities, active on social media, and then one day they just disappeared—like an urban legend. But there was no evidence, and these things were well-covered up. He began to wonder if the disappearance of a small-time Daily Planet reporter would be even easier, like water vanishing into water. And he wondered if Lex had a Bluebeard-like room or was more like the original story’s Gilles de Rais, whose primal impulses had turned into casual cruelty and sin after witnessing Superman’s incredible feats.
He didn’t even know why Lex had agreed to this! When he volunteered for the opportunity to interview Lex, the way Lex looked at him in the sunlit, unobstructed glass building made it almost impossible to discern any expression other than contemplation. Lex was a genius—anyone knew that. Under Lex’s thoughtful gaze, Clark pretended to adjust his hair to fix his hypnotic glasses, though he was sure they hadn’t failed. He wanted to confidently ignore whatever suspicions or evil plans might be brewing in that smooth head.
“Interviewing me after interviewing Superman?” Lex leaned back in his chair, signaling his secretary to bring coffee.
The secretary silently handed over the coffee, and the first thing Clark did was take a sip, shocked that it was actually to his taste.
“I believe it’s always good to see the other side of things,” Lex tilted his head to one side.
“Perhaps we can both discover some unknown aspects.”
At least they could agree on that.
The interview went smoothly. Lex was as confident and persuasive as he always was in TV interviews, as long as the target of his attacks wasn’t sitting across from him. Before coming for this interview, Lois had given him emergency training, so he could swallow his more radical retorts every time he wanted to impulsively argue, turning them into more professional discussions.
Lex Luthor was outstanding even among the few billionaires. His profile on magazine covers exuded a privileged youthful glow, confident and arrogant, with an illusion of omnipotence.
He was naturally proud, and whenever someone compared him to others, his disapproving sneer was always cold and direct. In some people’s eyes, Lex had every reason to despise those beneath him. This might be why he hated Superman—because Lex despised him too.
Superiority and inferiority were like two sides of the same coin.
Clark endured all his anger, just as he endured Krypto , telling himself that he didn’t understand, that he didn’t comprehend what he was doing, that he was just a dog (though this didn’t apply to Luthor, but it could).
As the interview neared its end, he was undoubtedly relieved. The plan to be a decorative boyfriend was impossible. Lex had never dated any same-sex partners before, and Clark didn’t possess the beauty or intelligence to attract most people’s attention. He blended his clumsiness well, and he couldn’t even figure out some modern technology.
But Lois laughed heartily after hearing his rebuttal, which annoyed him. She said, laughing, that there was no need to worry—as long as he had any special relationship with the “Superman” that Lex was obsessed with, he had already succeeded halfway.
Miscalculation, Lois. It seems he’s not as interested in me as you thought. Clark stood up from his seat and packed his things.
“By the way, Clark,” Lex called out to him, “do you have plans later?” He looked innocent and mild-mannered, approachable.
Clark almost said yes, but then imagined Lois throwing a piece of paper in his face, so he quickly changed his answer to no, he had time later. Lex didn’t look at him, as if he had already anticipated the response.
“I’ll arrange a car to pick you up.”
Clark opened his mouth, thinking he could fly there faster, but riding in a luxury car was probably part of dating a CEO. He never thought he’d have a day of being involved with a billionaire, let alone Lex Luthor.
In the end, he just shrugged, indicating that Lex was in charge.
When Lex dined with him at an upscale restaurant, Clark might have accidentally knocked over a few cups and utensils. Before the staff could react to pick them up or replace them, Clark had already pushed his chair back, lifted the tablecloth, and crawled underneath. Finding the dropped utensils in the dark wasn’t difficult, especially with Superman’s vision. He successfully collected the large fork, small fork, coffee spoon, and soup spoon.
But the space under the table was too cramped for his tall frame, and Lex’s overly long legs showed no intention of making way for him. He struggled to reach for the dinner knife on the floor to his right front, his fingertips brushing the handle several times but unable to grasp it without touching Lex’s calf. This futile attempt annoyed him, and what annoyed him more was that his phone in his pocket vibrated, ignoring the time and place, alerting him to new messages.
He should have gotten out from under the table first before checking the messages, so he ignored the phone’s frequent vibrations, lowered his body, and made one last attempt. Clark’s fingers were mere millimeters from the damned knife. As he held his breath and his body weight unconsciously shifted forward, he finally grabbed the handle and almost cheered.
He exhaled, fluttering the fabric in front of him. Oh, so this was the feel of Lex’s suit pants. His face was now pressed against Lex’s calf because Lex was squeezing him with his leg. Lex’s tailored suit pants fit snugly, clearly outlining his calf with little room for imagination. Lex’s left leg lightly retracted backward, brushing against Clark’s face, while his right leg continued to stretch forward. From the initial standard sitting position, he shifted to a more comfortable posture.
This position allowed Lex to easily step on the dinner knife with the tip of his leather shoe—the knife Clark had spent over a minute trying to grasp—and then casually kick it aside.
Clark wanted to shout, to stand up abruptly as if flipping over a table like flipping over a piece of clothing.
“Clark,” Lex called him. Through the table, Clark saw Lex staring at the chair opposite, his expression calm to the point of boredom, as if Clark was making him this bored. “Why aren’t you coming out from under the table yet?”
“Because of my leg.”
“What’s wrong with your leg?”
“The person it’s attached to doesn’t want to come out.”
He had the courage to tell such a dry, cold joke in front of Lex. Because if things were as simple as those social media platforms he didn’t quite understand, if dating Lex really had a friendship or rating interface, he was eager to leave a 0-star review and then message Jimmy to ask how to block people you don’t want to talk to anymore, and what the difference between blocking and hiding was.
He even thought about hiding under the table to finish reading Lois’s barrage of texts about his date, because her informant had just photographed them entering a high-end restaurant together.
Clark Kent. He knew him. They were supposed to have no connection at all, if not for—Superman. Those three syllables flickered and danced on his tongue like flames, the last syllable curling up with the bitter ash of hatred and jealousy.
No matter what others thought of Superman, to him, he was merely an alien who happened to resemble humans, masquerading as one of them. People worshipped him as if he were superior. That foolish smile—oh, just thinking about it made him want to vomit. Fortunately, Kent didn’t resemble him too much; it was still tolerable.
He was the only ordinary person Superman was willing to be close to. Ordinary, a farm boy from Kansas with a clean record. Lex couldn’t see what quality made Superman choose him as his exclusive interviewer. Perhaps the Kryptonian just liked this kind of stupidity—someone with an IQ similar to his own, making it easier for him to understand the interview questions. This Clark reporter’s interviews were almost devoid of any personal style or emotion. He had glanced at some of those reports about Superman; his interviews with Superman never had any disagreements or inconsistencies, as if Clark himself had no personal opinions about the events. That was why he wasn’t the best reporter at the Daily Planet; Lois Lane easily surpassed him.
He could understand Superman’s bland, even mediocre taste in choosing him, which he attributed to the Kryptonian’s lazy indulgence in his comfort zone: from the pile of reporters, he picked Clark Kent, who was neither the most eloquent nor the most observant. His clumsiness was unbearable, and his temper wasn’t exactly docile. However, he might be different in front of Superman, just like he was now.
He pretended to be clumsy, knocking all the utensils off the table, eagerly bending down to pick them up, crawling to his feet. Perhaps that’s how he was with Superman: in an accident that might have been orchestrated by Lex or not, Superman saved this reporter with black-rimmed glasses and a silly air.
Clark might have been holding his briefcase, his curly hair disheveled, breathing heavily, his cheeks pale from nervousness, soon flushing with a faint blush, making him look like a poster boy. Superman, with an overly confident smile, patted his back to comfort him.
Then Clark dropped his briefcase and lunged at Superman, wrapping his arms around his waist and kneeling down. His arms encircled the alien, looking up at him without a shred of shame for his audacious behavior. His face was neither red nor pale now; he looked up, opened his mouth, and exhaled, and anyone could see his soft tongue tip vaguely visible in the gap of his breath, emitting a glossy heat. He politely and calmly asked Superman if he could give him a blowjob.
That might be the reason. Lex lightly bumped Clark’s face with his knee, feeling the warm, fleshy touch along with the sensation of the glasses frame against his leg. Whether Clark would fling himself onto his lap like the most dedicated and enthusiastic prostitute was uncertain. But if his relationship with Superman wasn’t as simple as everyone imagined, then Clark would definitely be excellent material for his plan.
A trap, a bait. Waiting for someone to bite down.
Since that first date, Lex gave him more time for interviews and maintained this dating relationship with him. He sat at a small table next to Lex’s desk to write his articles, and at various times found excuses—like going to the bathroom or taking a walk—while deliberately avoiding Lex’s public cameras used to monitor him, to complete his other “job.”
Lex was usually surrounded by bodyguards, employees, and assistants. That bodyguard who wore a combat mask and never showed his face, Lex called him Ultraman. He could tell this was another manifestation of Lex’s abnormal animosity toward Superman. Ultraman never spoke; perhaps this was just another clichéd image of the strong, silent type. The only thing he was sure of was that this Ultraman was one of the superhumans, based on Lex’s threat theory toward superhumans, especially his undisguised disgust toward their representative, himself. He didn’t know why Lex chose to keep Ultraman by his side.
During this period of observation, he found that this bodyguard wasn’t always with Lex; sometimes he was sent out on missions. But when he appeared, sometimes Clark would receive a super delicious donut or desserts from around the world, still warm as if freshly baked, which was probably one of the perks of being Lex’s boyfriend, that evil rich man. Of course, Clark himself wasn’t incapable of doing that.
Occasionally, there was such sinful sweetness. Just like Lex himself, when he was in a good mood, he would put his arm around Clark’s shoulder or waist, as if they were a couple facing an interview. They were about the same height, and standing next to Lex, he occasionally felt a slight floating sensation, like mindlessly enjoying that donut. You couldn’t objectively deny its deliciousness—whether from the taste buds, the feeling, or the thoughts in your mind—but when you thought more deeply, it didn’t taste right.
This feeling always appeared when he observed this nominal boyfriend. Everything about Lex could be described as sleek and neat. The most fitting to his temperament were those blue eyes, as if salvaged from a bright, temperatureless ice lake, with nothing beneath them.
Most people look tough with a bald head, and Lex was no exception. This somewhat neutralized his young and refined aura, while shamelessly flaunting to the world: he had a skull that was perfect even among humans, from the neck to the skull shape, almost rivaling the bust of Nefertiti. Arrogant cheekbones, a fine and straight nose that matched his small head… How could you remember your own name when facing such a handsome man? Sinful, sweet, ultimately unsatisfying—he was granted this privilege, and at the cost of himself, he could avoid being bewitched by this almost hypnotic atmosphere.
Today, the Superman that Lex hated had a setback. Although he eventually won the fight, he was first punched into a water tower, and then the camera captured a few photos of his face being beaten ugly. People were crazily sharing those screenshots online without malice, and in the pictures, he looked like an idiot. Clark frustratedly turned off his phone, praying that time would make these screenshots forgotten on the internet. Lex held a wine glass, his figure reflected in the glass. Clark pushed open the heavy wooden door, trying to slip in unnoticed. Clark was late, of course he was late.
But this time, Lex didn’t seem to mind. He looked like a satiated wild animal, enjoying a brief moment of peace and tranquility. Clark put his backpack on the table and sat obediently on the sofa.
“You’re late.”
“Sorry, the interview ran overtime.” Clark ran his hand through his hair, a tired sigh muffled in his chest.
Lex stood in front of him, humming noncommittally.
His tongue hurt, and his cheeks still had a frozen feeling. Every time after overusing his freeze breath, he would feel this way—as if he had stuck his tongue and mouth on a freezing railing for an eternity. Lex sat beside him, his thumb resting on one side of his face, slightly tilting his chin to look at Clark. Clark could feel the finger pad, slightly warmer than his own, pressing a soft indentation on his cheek, right next to his dimple.
Lex leaned forward, his lips meeting Clark’s at a slight angle. Clark parted his lips, allowing Lex to enter without hindrance. Human, with the temperature he craved, wet and hot, entering his mouth. His teeth, tongue tip, inner walls, thawing and reviving in the exchange of saliva, as if all he needed was a little intimacy to make him feel, feel that he was no longer as cold as dead, to feel… that he was still the same as everyone else.
Now, it was his turn to share his warmth with Lex. He carefully closed his mouth around it, leaving a narrower space, enveloping Lex’s tongue, using his tongue bed and palate to build a flushed chamber, crowded and tight inside. In this nowhere-to-go place, Lex’s tongue, with the taste of wine and ice, tasted almost gentle.
He couldn’t get drunk, and at this moment, he almost wished he could share the feeling of strong liquor flowing through his throat, steaming up from there. Next time Kara invited him to drink in the red sun system, he might consider agreeing.
Lex pulled back, his fingers still on his face, as if they were still lingering in the unfinished afterglow.
“Tell me, Clark,” those blue eyes like shattered ice in the sea gazed at him, instantly dousing his heated mind, “did you go to interview him?”
They both knew who he was talking about.