Fuck Superboi

"My son, Connor," Lex Luthor explained. "You know him as Superboy."

Lois Lane frowned. "Right. He's a clone—yours and Superman's DNA."

The bald head nodded. Lex had given Lois a white fluffy robe that fell to mid-thigh, and led Lois out of the dressing room and down a corridor. Mercy Graves followed at a respectful distance, obviously there to make sure Lois was on her best behavior. Maria had been left behind.

"He is...not biologically male," Luthor said. "He chose to present himself as such, and I accepted his gender identity. Assisted him in little ways with binders, and top surgery when he came of age. Synthetic Kryptonian male hormones. Yet he is still biologically female."

"Right," Lois said. She tried to picture that. What it would be like to be a transmale and a superhero. The reporter could easily understand why he wouldn't announce the fact, though. The rags would call him "Supercuntboi," or worse. "So...you want me to fuck him? Why?"

"I want grandchildren," Luthor said. "Connor is in his twenties, peak fertility. He could easily take ten months off...a gap year, essentially. I would cover all the costs, of course. However, Conner is uncomfortable with the idea of artificial insemination...and is still attracted to women...so I've been investigating the use of a Kryptonian DNA graft..."

The reporter frowned as Lex Luthor devolved into technicalese. Genetic engineering. Red kryptonite. Temporary genetic shifts. They got to the end of the corridor and Lex held his hand up to the palm plate.

They passed into what looked to be a young man's apartment. Minimalist, but expensive. Black leather and shiny chrome. There was a couch, two squarish chairs, a large wall-mounted television, a double bed with square pillows and black silk sheets. The floor was some kind of treated wood, also black, that Lois could feel beneath her bare feet. She glimpsed a bathroom through a door, another door that must lead off to the street. A chrome fridge polished to mirror brightness, but no kitchen, no sink or washing machine. Like a hotel room.

"A safe house," Luthor said. "If Connor needs it. Sit, please."

He gestured toward the couch, and Lois sat. Lex took a seat in the chair.

"So," Lois said. "You're conducting illegal human genetic engineering experiments? To find...a sperm donor for Superboy?"

Lex inclined his head. "The women you're looking for were early subjects. All of them fit a certain psychological profile—pre-op transsexuals. History of body dysmorphia. Unable to afford traditional treatments. They volunteered, once the process was explained to them. Maria made the initial contact; that's her job. With you...well, she got a little proactive."

He hadn't exactly answered her question, and Lois knew it.

"It's Connor's choice, of course. But I think...well, you've got a personal connection to him. If you were to be the sperm donor...he might agree to it."

"Even assuming he would agree with it," Lois said. "Why the hell would I?"

"Because, Lois, if you do not receive the counter-treatment within twenty-four hours, the changes can be permanent." He said. Lex Luthor steepled his fingers. "Of course, there would also be monetary compensation, and exclusive access to the other test subjects for your article...provided you leave Connor out of it..."

"And what if Superboy doesn't want to fuck me?" Lois said. She didn't want to think about what it would mean if he did want to have sex with her. Then another thought. "Or if we have sex and he doesn't get pregnant?"

"All I ask is the attempt," Luthor said. "If Connor says no, or if it doesn't work...you would still have held up your end, and I will mine. Do we have a deal?"