The first sense that come to you is sound. As you become aware the soft sounds lulling you into a peaceful bliss, as if the sound of wheels over tile floor was the calm of ocean waves. With time the sound develops more clarity, the clanks of the moment of the gurney feeling sharper. You can hear people speaking, although still unaware of how many or what they are saying. Not bothered to try to decipher any of it. You could feel you were moving, the gurney slowing or rounding corners here and there. It seems your mind is beginning to come back to you at the same time as your sight does. As you squint to open your eyes you’re greeted by the aggressive brightness of fluorescent lights flashing above as you pass beneath them. You resort to closing your eyes again but the damage is already done.
“Subject 42 has awoken.” Someone announces as you feel a hand briefly squeeze your shoulder reassuringly. You can feel the glove sticking slightly to your clammy skin as it pulls away. This is when you realize your lack of a shirt, or gown. With what feels like extraordinary effort you open your eyes again and manage to tilt your head slightly to look each way. You can see at least four or five people surrounding you, walking your gurney down a long corridor before the gloved hands of someone at the head of the bed firmly moves your head back to center, shining a light in each eye. It’s hard to gather your thoughts but you think back, can you remember being in any accident? I must be in the hospital obviously, you think. You become aware of the rising beeping of what you can only assume is a heart rate monitor. The hands above you lightly tapping one of your cheeks trying to rouse your full attention. “Take some deep breaths for me. We are almost there.” At this point you finally find the focus to make eye contact with the stranger above you, whose face was mostly obscured by a surgical mask. You do your best to suck in a shakey breath as you burst through a set of double doors. Before you can comprehend what’s happening you’re being lifted and positioned on an operating table by 4 or so masked figures in scrubs. Each arm is stretched out and secured in place before you can begin to think of resisting, the table moves some, and your legs are secured too, albeit in a much more compromising position. Looking down you see your naked body, adorned by a multitude of wires and sensors across your chest and abdomen, you’re not normally shaved bare like this either. You feel movement on one side and look to the left where you see someone pulsing a large syringe into an IV port already in place.
You don’t get to watch for long before your head is being tilted up and back as a mask comes down over your mouth and nose, held firmly in place by strong hands. “You need to calm down, 42, you’ve been through this before. Slow deep breaths. Just let the medicine do its job.” The man spoke in a reassuring tone but nothing he said did anything to ease your rising panic, if anything he added to it. But you didn’t have long to let your thoughts snowball, forseeing your panic the anesthetist had already begun squeezing the rebreather bag, slowly and steadily filling you with whatever plasticly smelling gas was coming through the mask. Just a couple breaths in you’re feeling light and detached. You’re still confused, sure, but no longer feeling the rush to act. You are just a passive passenger in your body, you didn’t know what the many hands touching you were doing but it was none of your concern. You were just along for the ride.
You lost your sense of time long before gaining consciousness in the hallway, unsure and unbothered by how long you’d been breathing in the sweet gas, until now you’re feeling something new, the heavy detached feeling had transformed into something different, you felt very present. Hyper aware of every sensation. You could feel the pull of the sticky pads on your chest and stomach, the wires brushing against your skin with each breath. The air felt so much colder against your exposed genitals, was that wetness?…Oh god, what is that heat building! A groan escapes your lips that I’m not even sure you were aware of as you try to arch your back and wither in your restraints, unable to get far. It all builds so fast! You had no knowledge of how desperately you needed to be touched until you felt the researcher’s gloved hand graze your labia, causing a visible shudder. You started to wonder again what was happening but before your thoughts could progress you were seeing stars…
The lead researcher, sat between your legs fully inserted two fingers into your aching hole. Clenching down, back arching, a moan more animal than human erupted from behind the mask held to your face. You try to comprehend the white hot sensation stemming from your groin as the fingers curl to massage your G-spot momentarily before withdrawing. Leaving you with an aching need you’ve never known before. “Yup, the subject is ready to proceed”
Prompt from this ask game, always open for Aiden/Harrison. This is a crackwhump prompt though so prepare yourself accordingly.
cw: medwhump, noncon drugging, emeto as per prompt, early early days Aiden and Harrison (:
Masterlist
“Sir?”
Harrison sighs behind him. “Yes?”
He swallows, wets his lips.
“What? What is it?”
“I—I—”
He tenses when Harrison leans into view, making him pull against the restraints. He’s lying flat on his back today so it feels like he has even less nonexistent wiggle room than usual.
“What? I don’t have all day and if you’re just going to whine about being bored or thirsty, I don’t want to hear it.”
“I just—I wanted to ask what you’re doing today…” He loses confidence at the end, his voice falling almost to a whisper. Harrison told him to speak freely but he’s not allowed to complain about the restraints or his pain level, unless Harrison asks. Maybe this falls into the realm of forbidden topics too.
“Oh, I thought I already told you.” Harrison rolls back out of view. “You’re going on the drip today.”
For some reason, his mouth goes dry. “What is that, sir?”
“Think of it as a reset to factory settings.”
“Is that-is that why I don’t remember anything other than this?” The monitor beside him starts to beep faster before he even recognizes his pulse hammering inside his chest. “Is that why I forgot my name?”
Harrison appears at his side with an IV bag of blue liquid. “And just when you were rediscovering deductive reasoning.”
He swallows, pinching his eyes shut so he doesn’t see the needle. As the cold liquid burns its way into his arms, Harrison strips off his gloves.
“Wait. You’re leaving?”
He doesn’t get to hear his answer because the burning feeling reaches his neck, his heart, pulses up into his head. He grits his teeth, curling his fingers into fists.
He’s breathless and panting by the time he acclimates to the attack on his body. And alone.
His heart hammers irregularly in his chest as he waits for the effects.
If he was on this drug before he was with Harrison, it was only a week or two ago. There are no windows down here but sometimes he gets a clear sign from Harrison to mark the time. A not-yet-fully-caffeinated look in the morning, an extra edge of impatience or his five-o-clock shadow at the end of a long day.
We’ll make a great team, Harrison said to him that first day. He could feel right away that they were working toward something but Harrison never told him exactly what. There were days of baseline tests, everything from his senses to fitness to fine motor skills. Tests with a shock collar around his neck that seemed to make it harder to breathe even when Harrison left the room.
He’d take a hundred decontaminations, collared and hands bound over his head under freezing and then scalding water over…
But Harrison has never done that to him. He doesn’t know where the idea came from but he can feel his weight hanging in his wrists so clearly, see the others in the back of the van.
His stomach fills with a cold, slippery dread and he doesn’t know why. Is this what the drug does? Makes him hallucinate? He doesn’t need help inventing nightmares, not with Harrison’s needles and scalpels.
He tries to distract himself, focus on what’s real and right in front of him. The immovable restraints, holding him flat on the table at his ankles, hips, wrists and forehead. If he thrashes enough, he can get some movement in his torso at the expense of feeling like he’ll dislocate every joint from his wrist to his shoulders. He curls and uncurls his fingers into fists, the steel bands above the inner lining digs into the backs of his hands. His eyes trace the ceiling, forty-five tiles in rows of five. Three have discolored spots from water damage or something else. Eight fluorescent lights, the very edge of the surgical light at the edge of his vision, the top of the monitor.
It’s not enough. The movie in his head becomes even more vivid. Colors brighter, sounds louder. If the decontamination and the van of other companions in collars was what brought him here, it was the only thing to come back easily. Everything else is cut together with no rhyme or reason. A box of photos thrown up in the air, his focus catching them at random.
There’s a baby girl. She’s everywhere, she’s everything.
From a tiny, sleepy bundle to a wobbling toddler. But she looks nothing like him. That much he knows, Harrison had him do a skills test in the mirror. How could he feel like she belongs to him? Or does he belong to her?
There’s a little boy too, clenching his fists at his sides as he asks permission to go to a friend’s birthday. His homework’s done, his room is clean, chores finished. He’ll buy the present with the money he made on his paper route. Yes, sir, he already set aside a third of his earnings for the church and the same amount to save. The gift will take the rest but all of his friends will be there and he wants so badly to be included.
He’s gangly and grown now, stomach full of butterflies as he watches from the back of the classroom as a new boy introduces himself. His heart almost stops when he walks right up to him and takes the empty seat at his table.
He can smell her from where she lies in his arms, weight or the absence of it, heavy on the center of his chest. Tears are streaming down his face and he blinks at the fluorescent lights above but they can’t hold him here.
He rocks her to sleep. They share a room and every night he falls asleep to the soft sound of her breathing. They gave him such a nice collar, more of a necklace really, shiny identification hanging in the hollow beneath his throat.
Like the one he brought home from a claw machine game, neon and stretchy. He liked the way it made his neck look long, made him feel pretty and something else he didn’t have a name for yet. The little boy’s father rips it from his neck, says ugly words he doesn’t understand. The back of his hand splits his lip. He fishes the necklace out of the kitchen garbage can in the middle of the night and buries it in the soft flower bed under his bedroom window.
He takes the hit well, keeps his voice even as he apologizes. Even when he hits back. Even when he falls down the stairs. Even when his hands are bound and he’s kneeling on cold tiles. He keeps his voice even and apologizes like he’s meant to.
There's no more pain with her. For the first few months he believes it. There’s another companion in the house, older and as well situated as he is.
The other boy kisses him in the locker room but he runs away.
He takes all his clothes off for him under the bleachers.
They make him strip every day, under the harsh lights, in the cold air that seems to cut right through his skin.
He has no idea what he’s doing, giggling nervously in a tangle of naked limbs on his twin bed.
They tell him exactly what to do, down on his knees with a fist gripping into his hair. He doesn’t like that though.
He pushes him face down onto the bed but he’s here for her. He’s here for her.
He chokes on a sob, mouth thick with saliva. He didn’t realize he was crying so hard until he has trouble catching his breath. This is nothing like what Harrison described.
“Sir?” He chokes out. He hopes Harrison is watching the cameras. He doesn’t even know where they are but that doesn’t mean much since he can’t see the back half of the room. Even now, flat on his back he can’t see his own toes, let alone inspect the walls.
His stomach twists as he struggles to breathe.
It wasn’t supposed to happen. He isn’t here for that. He’s here for her and what if—
She’s crying, she’s calling his name. His name but he doesn’t even care. All he cares about is her. But he can’t move, he’s locked on Harrison’s table. Hands on the back of his neck and the small of his back pin him down. When he hears the beep that sounds when the back door opens. The one to the pool.
Harrison must not be watching or he doesn’t care.
“No, no, no.”
But he’s already too late. Of course, he’s too late. That’s how he wound up here. He still tries, gives away all of his air and he can’t breathe, he can’t see. His throat is raw like he’s been strangled. He chokes on sobs, screams into the nothingness, the blank ceiling tiles above him, the emptiness in the center of his chest.
He was there for her. He was there for her. There are other flashes, other names, a number, he doesn’t care.
It aches and he cries. Pulls and thrashes against the restraints until he feels the trickle of blood. He keeps pulling, keeps fighting. If he can get the IV out of his arm—
He stops, crying too hard to breathe. It won’t bring her back. Nothing will bring her back.
He hasn’t eaten once since being here but now his stomach turns over and he can’t stop sobbing to try to breathe past the nausea. The bile starts to rise up his throat. He’ll surely choke and die on this table. He can’t turn his head, not even a little.
It’s everything he deserves but he still panics, a primal need to survive taking over.
“Sir—please,” he gags.
Oh god, he’s going to be sick. He retches and—
The door slams. “For the love of Christ.”
Harrison walks across the room, sighing as he releases his head and opposite arm to pull him, twisting against the restraint at his hips just in time to vomit into a basin. His stomach heaves again and again, rocking his body between sobs.
Harrison releases him to flop onto his back, walking to the other side of the table to refasten his wrist. “We’ll have to clean and dress those later. I don’t want to risk an infection.”
Mercifully, Harrison raises the head of the table. It’s already easier to breathe. He swallows the next sob. All of him aches but there is still liquid in the bag.
He focuses on Harrison, an anchor to keep him from getting lost in the tornado inside his head. “You heard me?”
“As soon as I stepped out of the elevator.” Harrison shakes his head. “Why am I not surprised you were down here screaming your head off?”
He balks. “You weren’t watching me?”
“I was upstairs,” Harrison says slowly, like he’s confused.
“Yeah but the cameras—”
“There are no cameras.”
“What?”
Harrison blinks at him. “What?”
“So you can’t—you don’t—”
“Check on you while I’m gone? No.”
“You’re lying,” he accuses before he can think better of it.
Harrison sighs long sufferingly. “Why would I lie to you?”
“I don’t know…” He wants to squirm away, turn his head. “So I relax and think I’m not being watched and maybe try something.”
Harrison snorts a laugh. “Maybe you have a sense of humor after all.”
He glares at him.
“Alright, I’ll bite.” Harrison puts his hands on his hips. “What are you going to try bolted to the table at six points?”
He grinds his teeth.
“I thought so. Unlike you, I have a life outside this room.”
“You could have fooled me,” he spits. “Seems more like you’re married to your mad scientist side-hustle.” He has no idea where—or maybe who is more accurate—the defiance comes from but every version of himself holds their breath, waiting for the fallout.
Harrison just laughs. “Blue really is your color.”
Amongst all of the feelings raging inside him, he singles out a little pride as he bites back a smile.
"Your name is Star and you're nineteen years old. No medical history besides birth control pills for menstrual pain. Four-foot-eleven... And a whopping 112 pounds. Can you confirm?"
The patient is restrained in a cot; both ankles and wrists are bound to the bed with padded leather. She's breathing quickly, according to the mobile vital display. The blood pressure cuff silent after inflating a few minutes prior.
"Please, please let me leave! I- I didn't do anything wrong, I promise. It's a mistake, I promise!" She squealed and cried, tremors ripping through her tiny body.
I turn back towards the patient, wild chestnut hair falling out of two braids. Her brown eyes are wide with fear and her face is dappled with tears she couldn't reach.
"Can you confirm?"
"That's- that's not me! You got the wrong person!"
"So you cannot confirm"?
"No!" She shrieked as the blood pressure cuff inflated again; I waited for it to release before turning back to her.
"Your driver's license, fingerprints, and DNA would tell me otherwise. If you cannot verbally confirm your identity, I'll assume you have a brain illness and you'll be promptly discarded. You'll be worth more to me as a cadaver than a human who doesn't know her own identity."
"It's a true pity, but I'm always needing extra organs and blood supply. Let me just grab the potassium and stop your little heart. It really is a shame that you're defective"
The patient was stunned into silence. She watched as I gathered a syringe from my briefcase, filling it with concentrated potassium (or so she thought).
"A small pinch, and a burning sensation, and it'll be over in 5 minutes, okay?"
The small girl screamed and pulled at all of her restraints at the sight of the syringe; she violently shook and scooted as far away as her shackles would allow.
Gasping and crying, she gave in.
"NO NO WAIT STOP! I'm Star and I can confirm it! I swear I'm okay! I'm only taking one medication and I know who I am! Please don't kill me!"
"Oh, little Star, we're going to have SO much fun together. Trust me."
She relaxes a bit, but her eyes continued to trail the large injection I've prepared.
"Looks scary, doesn't it? You'll learn soon enough that lying brings punishment. Let this be your first lesson."
Wailing and crying and struggling, Star recoils as I bring the syringe down to her level. "Your first lesson, hmm?"
The needle is deftly inserted into her shoulder; I hold her down as I expel the contents of the barrel. Star's eyes fly wide open, her freckles gleaming as her face turns pale.
Started this one impulsively for March of Pain 2025 and it kinda grew from there. It's currently unfinished (just a couple of chapters to go) but if you are looking for a Clark Kent whump fix (or just an angsty action based Superman & Lois story in general) look no further.
Fic Title: Prisoner
Summary:
What if things had gone a little differently in 2x07 after Anderson shot Clark and imprisoned him at the DOD?
Alone in a cell, depowered by red solar lamps, and still bruised from his fight with Anderson's soldiers, how will Clark hold up against the man's brutal methods of extracting the truth?
And will it take the whole family to get him out of there?
force their jaw open - perhaps whumper has a friend <3 or simply uses a contraption - and just let them eyeball it ! there's no need for much precision ... all that matters is being unable to hear whumpee's cries ^^
