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In the beginning, there is light.
Yellow and wonderful, dousing the creature's entire body and filling him with rich nutrients until he glows. He floats suspended in warm fluids, experimentally wriggling newly formed fingers and toes, watching curiously as the dark strands of his hair spread out around his face like tendrils. The womb is spacious and comfortable, but one day it's opened, the fluids drained, the light smothered. The creature whimpers and kicks in protest as strange gloved hands haul him out of the womb and onto a hard metal table, masked heads looming over him. He cries, shivering, everything so suddenly cold and dark. He wants the womb back, the warmth and weightlessness and light.
But then an unmasked face comes to peer down at him, smooth and pale with green eyes. This is the first face the creature sees, and something clicks inside; an imprinting.
"Well, hello there," the man coos. The creature stops crying when the man touches his face with warm, bare skin. The creature sighs happily at the contact, soothed. "Aren't you perfect? You're welcome for that, by the way."
The creature stares up at the man's smiling face, rapt; somehow, he senses that this man will tell him everything he'll ever need to know.
"Your name is Ultraman," the man says slowly; the words seem to etch themselves into the creature's soft new mind. "You are a living weapon, a tool that exists to serve me. That is all you will ever want to be." The man's smile grows; he spreads out his arms in a grand gesture to himself. "My name is Lex Luthor; you may call me Mr. Luthor. I am your master and creator. You are my first creation. Engineer doesn't count, I only modified her. But you, I patched holes in your genome and grew you from a fetus. Just think of me as God, and you as Adam." Mr. Luthor hums, sounding pleased. "Do you understand, Ultraman?"
Ultraman just smiles and reaches up to bat gently at Mr. Luthor's face. Mr. Luthor catches Ultraman's hand and holds it still by the wrist; Ultraman is too overjoyed by the touch and pressure to notice Mr. Luthor's frown.
"What the hell's wrong with it?" Mr. Luthor asks.
A masked person leans over the table, over Ultraman, and says to Mr. Luthor, quiet and urgent, "Its brain activity is worryingly low. It's most likely because we accelerated its growth so rapidly. It went from a fetus to an adult in just one month, as per your orders, and its brain development suffered for it. It has all the mental complexity of a dog. A particularly stupid dog, at that."
"Mm." Mr. Luthor considers Ultraman, his face creased with his frown, still holding Ultraman's hand. "Well, that's too bad, but now we know. I suppose we should terminate it and begin again?"
"Right away, sir," the masked person says, and disappears from Ultraman's view.
Ultraman can only stare up at Mr. Luthor, his whole world in Mr. Luthor's eyes. He feels as though Mr. Luthor will protect him from all harm, keep him warm and safe forever, and give him more of the wonderful yellow light. He reaches out, breaking Mr. Luthor's hold on his wrist, and wraps his arms around Mr. Luthor's waist, tugs Mr. Luthor closer to the table until Ultraman can roll onto his side and bury his face against Mr. Luthor's stomach, his soft clothes. There's a flurry of panicked sounds, raised voices and objects clattering, the masked people grabbing at Ultraman's shoulders, attempting weakly to pry him away from Mr. Luthor, and Mr. Luthor's sharp intake of breath — but all Ultraman knows is that Mr. Luthor is warmth and safety, and this is where he was made to be. He nuzzles at Mr. Luthor's stomach, grinning and making small noises of pleasure.
Mr. Luthor relaxes in Ultraman's arms, and, slowly, lays his hands on Ultraman's back. Ultraman preens.
"Nevermind about the termination," Mr. Luthor says. The panicked sounds and the grabbing stop. "There's no sense in destroying a perfectly good clone. After all..." He slides one hand into Ultraman's hair, strokes through it with his fingers. Ultraman giggles. "It doesn't exactly need to be intelligent, does it? All it needs is to do as I say."
"Sir," a masked person protests. "I can't recommend —"
"Shh…" Mr. Luthor cups Ultraman's face, thumbs at his cheeks. He grins widely up at Mr. Luthor. "Notice how my stupid puppy looks at me." Mr. Luthor's voice is soft, wondering. "Worshipful and adoring with simpleminded love. As if I were Superman."
Ultraman is trained to only nuzzle Mr. Luthor when they're alone together. He's trained to do many things, which can become complicated and confusing, but it helps that they all boil down to the same basic, sacred purpose:
Do as Mr. Luthor says.
Mr. Luthor is constantly in his ear during missions, telling him exactly what to do to complete the task, down to the simplest movement. Ultraman is relieved for this, because nothing is simple for him; he never knows what to do alone. But he's never alone, with Mr. Luthor's guiding voice in his ear. When Mr. Luthor says "6B," Ultraman launches the corresponding attack, slams his fist into his opponent's temple; he's been trained in countless attacks, waiting in his subconscious for Mr. Luthor's command. When Mr. Luthor says "home," Ultraman returns swiftly to base. When Mr. Luthor says "fuck me," Ultraman closes the bedroom door and strips off his suit.
"Good dog. Come here." Mr. Luthor reclines on his bed, naked and beckoning, his cock stiff between his splayed legs. "I was thinking about this all day. In my meeting with Ghurkos, that boring old ogre. In my office. While I was fucking Eve over my desk." He scoffs, shudders. "Sometimes I don't know why I bother with that ditsy little slut. Up, boy, on the bed."
Ultraman has never not been allowed up. He crawls onto the mattress between Mr. Luthor's legs and stares smiling at him, all warm inside. Ultraman likes being naked, though his suit is safe and comfortable.
"Oh, but that's not true." Mr. Luthor touches Ultraman's face, strokes from his temples to his jaw, then down his chest and stomach, toward where he's rapidly becoming hot and swollen. This is Ultraman's favorite thing. "It's because I like how she strokes my ego. And I like when she says things like —" He clears his throat, takes on a shrill pitch that startles Ultraman. "Oh, Lex, I dropped my phone in the toilet again, I guess it's in the ocean by now!" Mr. Luthor says, huffing, "I like that she's so stupid. Makes me that much more impressive in comparison. Isn't that pathetic?"
Ultraman finds it difficult to understand every word people say, even Mr. Luthor, who he pays the most attention to; with the exception of command words, of course, which his body is programmed to obey. There are no commands in this, so Ultraman just appreciates the sound of Mr. Luthor's voice, strong and reassuring, and leans forward to nuzzle Mr. Luthor's bare shoulder. Mr. Luthor smells like home. The bed is home; Ultraman sleeps here almost always, has for as long as he can remember.
Eve is never allowed to sleep in the bed; she has a room downstairs. Ultraman doesn't like her.
Mr. Luthor sighs and gently strokes Ultraman's hair, planting pleasure along Ultraman's scalp. "But at least I'm self-aware. Most megalomaniacs aren't, you know, but I refuse to delude myself. No, I have the rare privilege of knowing exactly what I am and what I want and why."
Ultraman pokes experimentally at Mr. Luthor's navel, and giggles when Mr. Luthor bats his hand away.
"Oh, my poor, brainless creation," Mr. Luthor coos. Ultraman revels in the sweetness of Mr. Luthor's voice, oblivious though he is to the words themselves. "You have none of those things, do you? You perfect moron. You are nothing." Mr. Luthor cups the back of Ultraman's head, kisses his forehead softly. "You want nothing." Then his nose. "You have nothing in the way of sense." Then his mouth. "Nothing."
Delighted, Ultraman crowds closer to Mr. Luthor, ruts his hips forward so his heavy cock drags pleasantly over Mr. Luthor's stomach.
"You're just a tool for me to use as I see fit, isn't that right?" Mr. Luthor is still cooing, still peppering Ultraman's face with soft kisses, still gently petting Ultraman's hair. "Yes it is. Oh, yes. By day you're my weapon, and by night you're my dildo. Just as well; what you lack up here." Another kiss to Ultraman's forehead. "You make up for down here." A warm hand closes around Ultraman's cock, squeezes; Ultraman gasps happily at the spark of pleasure. "And best of all," Mr. Luthor whispers, as Ultraman rocks forward into the tight channel of his fist, "you look like him, exactly, down to the last hair follicle. I've never seen his dick, but I don't need to; I have an exact replica right here."
Mr. Luthor presses Ultraman's cock between his legs, where he's already slick and opened. Ultraman's eyes roll back.
"Like I said, I know myself," Mr. Luthor says, lying back on the mattress, Ultraman following to kneel over him. "I embrace myself, everything, even the peculiarities. I made you to be a doppelganger, to take his place after I kill him, to fill his role with my own personal puppet. We're still on for that, by the way." Mr. Luthor smiles, thinly. "But I also made you for this. Prostate massagers don't cut it for me, you see, or those hideous monstrosities they sell online, red dildos and blue butt plugs with his symbol on them." Mr. Luthor makes a gagging sound. "And one can only imagine how he would react to those. His face would get so red, you'd think his heat vision was malfunctioning. He's such a prude, really."
Mr. Luthor holds Ultraman's hips and guides him inside, as always, as with everything. Ultraman bucks and squirms, overexcited, and only settles when Mr. Luthor strokes along his spine.
"Shh, shh. I'm here, idiot," Mr. Luthor croons, especially sweet. Ultraman's chest feels swollen with light. "My moron, my good-for-nothing, cross-eyed little fuck-toy, I have you." Mr. Luthor spreads his legs more widely, loosens his grip on Ultraman's hips, and allows Ultraman to start thrusting in and out, clumsy and without rhythm. Mr. Luthor has never tried to train Ultraman in this. "That's the best part, you know," Mr. Luthor says. "Knowing that he's utterly for real, when he says things like 'golly' and saves kittens from trees. If it were all an act, if he were some vicious creature masquerading as a boy scout, well. He wouldn't be half as interesting, would he?"
Ultraman pants, drops his head to Mr. Luthor's shoulder as his hips shove forward and forward, his hands clutching at the silk sheets. He wants to prise open Mr. Luthor's chest and crawl inside, wishes he could do it without hurting him; this is the next best thing, the closest they can be.
He would never hurt Mr. Luthor.
"Do you know my favorite thing about you, idiot? Aside from the obvious." Mr. Luthor cradles Ultraman's head to his shoulder with one warm hand, rubs Ultraman’s back with the other. "It's that I can tell you the same things over and over again, and you won't complain. Not even subtly. You don't even know I'm repeating myself. I pride myself on my speeches; it's not often that I get to ramble like this."
Ultraman's tongue hangs out of his mouth. He drools a puddle onto Mr. Luthor's collarbone. Everything is so good, singing in his gut.
"Tomorrow night you won't be here, I'm afraid. For the first time in months," Mr. Luthor says, more quietly. "You'll be in Boravia, guarding another weapons shipment. I also want to examine Ghurkos' forces, through your eyes."
Of these words, Ultraman only understands "night." He smiles, proud of this connection, and licks Mr. Luthor's shoulder; that's right, it's night, dark and cold outside but bright and warm inside. Ultraman is always warm at night, even during nighttime missions; his suit is heated.
"Imagine —" Mr. Luthor's breath hitches. His hand leaves Ultraman's back and slips between their stomachs. "Imagine if you were actually a part of the weapons shipment, and I was giving you to Ghurkos permanently. Yes, because I'd captured Superman and changed my mind about replacing him. I had him defeated, drugged, fitted with a kryptonite collar and chained to the bed. Thus rendering you, dear idiot, obsolete."
Ultraman gasps as Mr. Luthor tightens around him, grins and squirms happily against Mr. Luthor's chest. He loves being inside Mr. Luthor, but his real favorite thing is listening to Mr. Luthor's voice.
"I'm an honest businessman, so of course I'd be sure to tell Ghurkos about your secondary function. This 'fuck-toy' mode of yours," Mr. Luthor continues, musing. "I'd give him a manual detailing all your commands, and a kryptonite collar of your own, and I wouldn't even say goodbye to you. Why should I? You're nothing. Nothing to me at all, just an empty-headed, half-baked, defective placeholder, a poor imitation of what I really want. The last command I'd give you would be to make Ghurkos your new master."
Master Ultraman understands. He nuzzles Mr. Luthor's neck and drapes himself flush over Mr. Luthor's body; flying slightly, so his full weight won't crush Mr. Luthor. Ultraman has been trained in gentleness almost as thoroughly as violence. Mr. Luthor is forced to still his hand, with Ultraman pressed so close, but he allows it. He allows almost everything, when they're alone together and Ultraman is free to nuzzle.
"You'd have to obey him." Mr. Luthor kisses Ultraman's jaw, wraps both arms securingly around Ultraman's back. "That fat, disgusting creature, he would be your new god. He wouldn't be nearly as generous a god as I've been. You've never known a second of pain or humiliation your entire life." Mr. Luthor snorts. "Though, of course, that's mostly because you're too stupid to understand me when I'm insulting you. But, still, I've spoiled you rotten. My Adam, roaming unrestrained through the Garden, gorging himself on fruit. Metaphorically, of course." Mr. Luthor brushes light fingers over the small port on Ultraman's flank, a cap covering a hole; five times a day, a tube is inserted that fills his stomach and makes him stronger. He likes being fed, especially when Mr. Luthor feeds him himself. "If you ate fruit, or anything, your body would revolt. Poor, defective thing. I doubt Ghurkos would understand that; he actually manages to be less intelligent than you."
There's a brightness building in Ultraman's stomach, tightening and singing and perfect. He ruts just a little harder into Mr. Luthor, wanting more more more.
"So — so fucking spoiled." Mr. Luthor laughs, the sound punched out of him in fragments by Ultraman's hips. "How many puppies can say they're actually allowed to hump Master? And to completion, no less. I never knew I could be so indulgent, until you." His laughter fades, his voice changes. Ultraman marvels at him. "But Ghurkos wouldn't be indulgent. You wouldn't be his Adam, or his anything. With him, you wouldn't have any sentimental value to make up for your defects."
The brightness is close, so close, and Ultraman knows it's the beginning of his favorite feeling. He pants as he chases it.
"I'd tell him not to bother feeding you," Mr. Luthor coos, and kisses between Ultraman's eyes, soft and sweet. "And to never let you see the sun again. After all, the men Ghurkos likes are just boys, frail skinny things he can overpower in every possible way. With a kryptonite collar, and no food, and no sunlight, eventually you'd resemble them. You'd wither away to nothing. If you weren't nothing already, I mean." Ultraman falters, overwhelmed and frustrated with needing more. Mr. Luthor reaches down to hold his hips and guide him again, steering his thrusts. "He'd keep you chained to his desk. He and his men would take turns," Mr. Luthor whispers, his breath in Ultraman's ear; Ultraman giggles at the tickle of it. "Your secondary function will have become your primary one. They'd be rough with you, and you'd feel it, every second. It would be your first time feeling pain, my spoiled little brat. Your first time bleeding. Your first time treated not like an essential, expensive tool, but like a replaceable one. A sex toy."
Ultraman gasps and grins as he finally slips over the edge, the brightness breaking over him, racing up and down his spine in waves. He presses his face to Mr. Luthor's neck and pants, slows his hips. It could almost be too much, except for Mr. Luthor's hands soothing over his back.
"You'd never feel that again, that's for sure," Mr. Luthor huffs. "No, you'd only be used for this..." He trails one hand down between Ultraman's legs, and touches something there that makes Ultraman giggle and squirm away from Mr. Luthor's fingers, closer to his chest. "I never use you there because you're liable to clench down and castrate me no matter how gentle you're trying to be, but with a kryptonite collar that wouldn't be an issue."
Sated now, Ultraman rolls off of Mr. Luthor and curls close to his side, watching curiously as Mr. Luthor takes his own cock in hand and strokes quickly. Ultraman touches Mr. Luthor's wrist, rides the captivating up-and-down movements.
Mr. Luthor turns his head and kisses Ultraman's nose.
"You'd be whimpering and confused," Mr. Luthor whispers. His hand slows and stops, his cock softens. Ultraman tilts his head; usually Mr. Luthor only stops after he leaks over his fist. "You wouldn't know where you were or why, why things had changed. You'd wonder if I was — if —" Ultraman has never heard Mr. Luthor's voice splinter like this before, and he whimpers worriedly, nuzzling Mr. Luthor's shoulder. Mr. Luthor clears his throat. "If I was coming to get you soon. And if I did come for you, no matter how long it had been or how badly you had suffered..." Mr. Luthor cups Ultraman's face with both hands, and leaks out of his eyes, strangely, two drops sliding down his cheeks. Curious, Ultraman leans in and licks them away. They sing on his tongue.
"You would forgive me," Mr. Luthor says, smiling and damp-eyed. "Right away. Without explanation or apology. You're too stupid to hold a grudge." He brushes a lock of hair off of Ultraman's forehead, tucks it behind his ear. "No, you'd just want to be taken home, and cleaned, and fed, and... Oh, dear." Mr. Luthor frowns suddenly, staring at Ultraman with widened eyes. Ultraman isn't worried; Mr. Luthor smiles then frowns all the time. "Why is the thought of you whimpering and confused so distressing to me? It shouldn't be even slightly distressing to me.”
Ultraman's eyelids begin to droop. He presses closer to Mr. Luthor's warmth and safety, his muscles melting. He likes sleep.
"Fuck." Mr. Luthor groans. "Now I have to go through with it, don't I? If only for a few months, if only to cure myself of this... Attachment." He says this word with disgust, but Ultraman is too melted and near sleep to understand; wouldn't understand anyway.
All he ever understands is that he needs Mr. Luthor, and so long as Mr. Luthor is with him, everything is good.
"It won't be as bad as all that, of course. That was only hyperbole. I doubt Ghurkos will have you doing much more than torturing Jarhanpurian prisoners. Which could be fun. Right?" Mr. Luthor wraps his arms around Ultraman, around Ultraman's shoulders and waist, and sighs deeply. "Obviously I wouldn't actually allow anyone to damage you, you're still useful to me. This will be beneficial for both of us, not that you'll understand. But you should be toughened up, and I shouldn't be attached to you in any capacity. You're only a placeholder, like I said. A temporary solution, and not even a particularly good one. I mean, really. If I replaced Superman with you for any extended amount of time, the sheep, blind with hero-worship though they are, would eventually start to wonder why he'd become mute and brain-dead."
Fascinated by Mr. Luthor's mouth, which always moves so fluidly and produces such confident noises, Ultraman opens his own mouth and makes experimental sounds, croaking and halting: "Buh... Bah. Duh. Luh." He grins proudly at this, pats Mr. Luthor's chest. “Luh!”
Mr. Luthor grimaces and narrows his eyes at Ultraman, presses a gently stifling hand over Ultraman's mouth. "Stop that, moron. Don't try to appeal to my sympathy, I have none, you'll only make me angry. As of tomorrow that disgusting man is your new master.” He sighs and softens as Ultraman nuzzles his palm. “Temporarily. End of discussion."
The mission in Boravia is easy — only because Mr. Luthor is constantly in Ultraman's ear, as always, and Ultraman is never expected to know what to do alone — and ends early; well before nightfall. Ultraman is called home to the Tower, where he's allowed to poke at plants in Mr. Luthor's office while Mr. Luthor sits at his desk and shouts into his phone; then to the mansion, where Ultraman sits contentedly in Mr. Luthor's lap, while Mr. Luthor speaks quietly and strokes his unmasked face. Mr. Luthor's voice is a soft croon:
"So what if I spoil you, hm? I'm allowed my attachments; I deserve this, just like everything I want. You may be as dumb as bricks, but I grew you from a strand of hair, each one of your cells bears my signature. You're mine, and that makes you superior, really, to most everyone. Except him, but who isn't inferior to him? And I've thought up a solution, by the way, for when you take his place. I'll just stage a fight with some genetically engineered 'alien' and make it appear as though you swallowed a shard of kryptonite. The sheep will shower you with love and sympathy forever, and of course I'll always tell you exactly what to do. And I'll have him. You can help me break him, won't that be fun? We can train him to adore me just as stupidly and wholly as you always have, my perfect idiot.”
Ultraman just smiles and nuzzles into Mr. Luthor's palms, Mr. Luthor's calming, unfathomable voice warming him until he glows; as wonderful as the yellow sun.
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In the end, there is nothing but dark.