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twilightkitkat · 8 months ago

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Can we take a second to consider how Deadpool's regeneration works?? Like what the limits are? And what that means in the context of their weaknesses and scenarios for fanfiction?

Deadpool's regeneration is near infinite. He's come back from being exploded before by a single blood cell. As long as he isn't completely atomized, he can come back.

If you explain his healing as an extremely enhanced metabolism (similar to Peter Parker's healing) then this would mean all cell processes and chemical reactions in his body happen at a significantly faster pace than the average person. This would apply to digestion, healing, energy expenditure, but also death and aging.

The human body has a finite limit of cells that it will produce in its lifetime, so if it was simply enhanced metabolism he couldn't regenerate infinitely. Even "enhanced" healing would have its limits and a greater metabolism wouldn't account for regrowing limbs or parts of the body entirely.

This would imply that his ability is more than just "enhanced healing" but instead the ability to completely reconstruct his body. This insinuates that mutants would need different DNA that maps out the parts of the body and the instructions to generate it in their genetic code. This is similar to the regrowth of a lizard's tail or how the liver of a human body can regenerate.

However, healing capabilities aside, where does the matter and energy for this come from? Matter doesn't spontaneously come into existence; it can neither be created nor destroyed. He would need a source of energy and matter to rebuild his body.

Let's start with energy. Most humans utilize chemical energy from food to carry out bodily functions. However, Deadpool can regenerate from a single blood cell without eating anything. This implies that his body is either insanely energy efficient and has a different blueprint or that mutants draw their energy from another source. Can mutants tap into matter and antimatter as a source of energy where the human body hits its limit?

More than energy, let's consider the issue of matter. To regenerate, Deadpool would need to rebuild the organic matter of his body. If it were just an issue of reattaching limbs and reforging bonds between severed body parts or torn skin, it would be feasible. However, it's been shown that even when Deadpool's limbs or blood or corpse are beyond salvageable, he regrows them from scratch. An example of this was in Deadpool 1 where he cut off his hand and left it with Colossus, but it still regenerated on its own without it disappearing.

This implies that the lost matter from energies such as detached limbs, blood, and gore isn't reused in the regeneration process unless intentionally reattached. If he's capable of regenerating from scratch, he needs a way to get carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, nitrogen, and phosphorus, which are the key elements that compose the human body. He also needs a way to condense these into macromolecules and organic compounds.

Hydrogen, nitrogen, carbon, and oxygen exist in large quantities in the atmosphere. Could he potentially be absorbing elements and reintegrating them into his body? Would this imply that his skin needs to be more porous to absorb elements through the air into his body?

For him to reintegrate these elements, is his body somehow catalyzing the synthesis of macromolecules? This was studied in the Miller-Urey experiment, which simulated the early conditions of Earth's atmosphere and the available basic compounds to see if it was possible for elements to spontaneously synthesize together to create the macromolecules needed for human life. It was found that under pressure, heat, and electricity, it was in fact potentially possible for the building blocks of human life to originate this way. Are mutant bodies capable of perfectly replicating the conditions and forces needed to cause this to happen consistently and at near-instantaneous speeds?

If this were possible, would this mean that there are conspiracy theories that "mutant" forces could be responsible for life on Earth in the Marvel universe? (If matter and anti-matter play a role in mutant abilities, could they have contributed to the existence of mutants to begin with? To life on Earth?)

Aside from these elements, phosphorus would be needed to recreate DNA and the nuclei of cells. Phosphorus doesn't have an atmospheric phase in its geologic cycle—it's only found in rocks and compounds, not the air. Wade couldn't absorb it from the ground because he doesn't always regenerate in areas where phosphorus is present. Does this imply that phosphorus is present in the air in Marvel and that in their dimension, it does cycle atmospherically for regenerative mutants to exist?

Considering that regeneration is possible given all of the elements are present, how was Wade able to regenerate his rapidly suffocating cells when he was trapped in the airtight tank by Francis? If he was able to replace the oxygen in his cells, does this apply that he had access to matter that "wasn't there"? Does this tie into anti-matter being an active force in Marvel that exists within mutants? Does energy conservation work differently, wherein antimatter potentially eats up organic matter in another part of the Earth to preserve the balance while it supplies necessary elements to mutants? Or is it another force?

Wade's regenerative capabilities can largely be attributed to his cancer. It gives him the added effect of rapid cell repopulation, while his healing staves away the deadly effects until it's neutralized.

For Wade's entire body to regenerate from a single blood cell, this would imply that his entire body is composed of stem cells that are capable of differentiating into all of the different types of cells. And that mutants have an insanely high number of stem cells compared to the average person. This could be incredibly useful in stem cell transplant surgery to help recover from issues with bone marrow, blood cells, cancers, blood disorders, and autoimmune diseases.

Do mutant stem cells play a large part in the medical field with their rapid regeneration and near-infinite cell differentiation? Are there mutants held captive and experimented on just to obtain their stem cells? Could Wade be a target of this?

Speaking of farming, could Wade theoretically infinitely sell his organs on the black market for money? Considering he can regrow organs entirely without the preexisting one intact. Would they go for extra money because of enhanced durability and "better" mutant cells?

Most regeneration couldn't be entirely infinite, though. Eventually, if the regeneration was rapid enough, cells would reach the Hayflict limit. The Hayflick limit is the number of times a normal human cell can divide before it stops dividing. At the end of human chromosomes, there are telomeres which protect the integrity of DNA during cell division. As cells continue to divide, the telomeres keep shortening until eventually they run out and the DNA itself gets damaged if further replication occurs. The cells reach a state of senescence, wherein the cell stops dividing but functions normally until it dies permanently. This makes infinite replication from the same set of cells impossible.

However, Wade is the exception. His cancer cells would keep dividing because telomerase, an enzyme, keeps lengthening the telomere to allow for rapid and infinite regeneration. Therefore, the cell would never reach the Hayflick Limit and Wade's entire body could be regenerated even from a single cell.

This would imply that his healing factor wouldn't be nearly as strong and would, in fact, have more imposing limits without his cancer. His mutation encompassed a faster healing ability, but it originally would be finite if his cells were overloaded and regenerated enough to reach the Hayflick limit.

Additionally, this implies that Wade stopped aging not because of his healing factor, but because of his cancer. Aging occurs due to chromosome shortening, wherein the telomeres of cells slowly get shorter until the cells are no longer capable of safe replication. Eventually, the speed of cells dying outpaces the speed of reproduction as the majority of cells reach senescence.

Wade's cancer stopped him from aging. It took his healing from strong to nearly invincible. The same thing that causes him pain every day is the very reason he's as strong as he is.

This also implies that if he ever did find a way to cure his cancer while keeping his ability intact, he would sacrifice his immortality. He would begin aging, even if slowly, and he would lose the ability to come back from mere scraps. His healing would be more on par with Logan (who I'll make a separate analysis of later), wherein he would still age and take damage but with rapidly accelerated healing and cell reconstruction capabilities.

Wade's healing is stronger than Logan's. Wade can recover if there is even a piece of him left, while Logan's healing has greater limits. While Wolverine has more enhanced physical capabilities, Wade wins in the regeneration department.

This implies that if the two were tortured repeatedly in a similar manner, Logan's regeneration might slow down and eventually stop if he was bombarded constantly without sustenance, while Wade's would hold on for much longer (potentially forever). Wade would be the sole survivor if they got trapped or tortured, and would have to watch Logan slowly die as his healing fails and his cells hit their limit .

This is a painful reminder that Logan will age and eventually die. With his ability, Wade will not. The very cancer that led to him losing the life he wanted and becoming the monster he sees himself as is the reason Logan will leave him behind in the end when he dies. It's a curse he'll never escape from, no matter how far he runs.

Wade can heal from almost anything physically, but could he ever really heal from outliving Logan? From losing him?

#poolverine #deadclaws #kitkat #deadpool 3 #deadpool and wolverine #deadpool movie #logan howlett #wade x logan #wade wilson #wade/logan #BROUGHT TO YOU BY A STEM MAJOR #iN COLLABORATION WITH MY AMAZING PREMED FRIEND #@sturfvi #i love you #thanks for being a bio major so you can be a doctor and i can write poolverine analysis

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spookieloop · 24 days ago

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Your Hero [John Walker X Fem!Thunderbolt!Reader]

Word Count: 5148

Premise: You and the rest of the Thunderbolts are going undercover to catch an arm's dealer at his favorite night club. Someone tries to spike your drink, and Walker teaches the scumbag a lesson. A violent one.

Rating: Smut with plot. Reader is a mutant with the power to control blood, who John rescued from a bunker where she was held prisoner before the events of the fic. Oral Sex (F!Receiving), P&V penetration, fingering, sex outdoors.

Content Warnings: Graphic violence, John Walker being an asshole, terminally ill sibling in Reader's backstory, unprotected sex

Taglist: @stardustedseas @to-be-a-sunshine I wrote the fic

————

It shouldn’t have bothered you when John Walker blatantly ignored you and seemed to have a snappy comeback prepared for every time you tried to speak to him. He was like that with everybody.

It was just a part of his “charm.”

The rest of the group had already started warming up to you since you joined the New Avengerz—or whatever stupid name Val had you going by, and they were always quick to call him an asshole when he’d snap at you over seemingly nothing.

But unfortunately for you, you knew that he had a special reason to hate you—and you really couldn’t blame him, no matter how badly you wished he didn’t.

That just came with the territory of having your body piloted by a Hydra control chip for the past five years, using your mutant abilities to perform a series of high profile assassinations.

Your power over blood was always something that disgusted people, even other mutants. No one really liked to be around the girl who could halt the blood flow to a man’s heart without even touching him.

But then that government agent came to your door—or at least, you thought he was with the government. He told you that he knew all about your little sister’s illness, and how it was likely to be terminal without high end care.

A result of the gene you shared—stable in your DNA, but not in hers.

He told you he could make sure all of those expenses were taken care of, synthesize a cure from your own blood . . . if you came to work for him.

Top Secret. Covert.

You were told that you were going to disappear for at least the next ten years, but there was no way you could’ve known what was going to happen to you.

All you knew was that it was the only way to save your sister’s life.

So you signed your name on the dotted line.

You knew it wasn’t going to be pretty, but you could’ve never expected what was going to happen.

As it turned out, the “government agency” your new handler worked for was a Hydra hold out. And they weren’t relying on your willingness to kill on their behalf.

They installed a chip in your brain that piloted your body on their command, forcing your consciousness to take a back seat and watch every terrible thing they used your powers to do.

It came to an end last October, five years into your captivity, when the bunker where you were being held was hit with an EMP blast that fried all the tech inside—including your chip.

You may have been trapped in the lower lab behind a hermetically sealed door, but the hydra agents who’d made a toy out of your body were sealed in with you.

You didn’t give them quick deaths.

But that only left you locked inside the lab with their corpses, knowing that if no one came to get you, you’d have a much slower death by starvation.

Your saving grace came in the form of a series of loud bangs against the door, each one denting the thick metal further until it broke down to reveal your hero.

Fast forward to now, to the star-spangled asshole shoulder checking you on your way out of the meeting room.

“Excuse you, Asshole,” you grumbled, and he didn’t even bother to look back, flipping you off over his shoulder.

You peeled your eyes away from his retreating form, focusing on the task ahead of you.

Bucky briefed you all on the mission—the whole team was going undercover to catch a prolific arms dealer, one who liked to spend a lot of time at one particular nightclub.

At first, you wondered why the police didn’t just take care of it if it was that easy to find the guy, but apparently his security was great at spotting anyone coming for their boss.

And great at getting rid of them.

So it was the perfect job for a merry band of trained killers who had already proven incredibly difficult to kill.

The only problem was that the slippery rat most definitely had an escape route planned in case anyone came after him, so the team was going to have to go in looking the part.

As you pulled on a pair of fishnets and wiggled your way into the skin tight black dress that Valentina had sent for you, you couldn’t keep your mind off of Walker.

Even if he was a giant asshole half the time—okay, maybe a little more than half—he was still the one who saved you from that bunker.

He was still the one who saved your ass time and time again out in the field, since you were a massive target for anyone who knew what you were capable of.

You couldn’t even count the amount of times he’s grabbed you and pulled you behind his shield, holding you close to him with his unnatural strength and blocking you from gunfire.

Even through his body armor, you could feel the heat radiating off of him . . . and the heat in your cheeks.

But the minute the battle was over, he’d always put as much distance between the two of you as possible.

It was getting hard not to take it personally, no matter what the others had to say about it.

That was why it surprised you when you walked out into the hallway, and Walker’s booming voice carried down the corridor.

“You’re going on the mission in that?”

You whipped around to face him, and you realized that, for the first time since you’ve known him, he wasn’t wearing his usual red white and blue tactical gear.

He had a black muscle shirt beneath a navy blue button down that was left open just enough to show off a hint of reddish blond chest hair. His sleeves were rolled up—crisp, to military standards—over his muscular forearms.

Your mouth went a little dry, and you only realized you were staring at him when he raised an incredulous brow.

“It’s not like I chose it,” you protested, suddenly very aware of the dress’s plunging neckline when his eyes dropped to your chest, before darting back to your face as though he hadn’t just been checking you out. “Besides, we’re going to a club. We have to look the part.”

“Yeah?” He scoffed, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “Well I’m pretty sure if you bend over I’ll be looking at parts of you I’ve never seen before.”

Your jaw dropped in disbelief at his sheer audacity. You gave him an annoyed shove, but to your frustration he didn’t move even an inch, his intense blue eyes still burning into you.

“And why is it that you care, huh?” You fired back, holding his gaze. “You haven’t said one kind word to me since I joined the team, and all of a sudden I should be taking your fashion advice?”

He stared at you a moment longer, the finer features of his face twitching like he was going to blow.

“Fuck me, fine, okay,” he hissed, throwing his hands up in frustration. “What the fuck do I care if you spend half the night fighting off handsy strangers?”

He pushed past you, stomping down the hall the way he always did when something pissed him off—which was often—but you could’ve sworn he almost sounded . . . jealous?

Whatever it was, he stayed pissed off the whole ride to the club you were supposed to be infiltrating. He barely even looked at you, and if you did catch him looking, he turned away so fast you were surprised he didn’t get whiplash.

And when it was time to split up—it would’ve been suspicious if you all went in as a group—Walker was the last one out of the vehicle.

You could practically feel his eyes on you as he watched you in line, waiting for his turn to join the queue.

If you were honest though, it was actually sort of comforting.

It was silly, after all the dangerous missions you’ve been on—in and out of your own control—but standing here in a line with all these well dressed people, hearing the base of the music half a block away from the door, was making your heart race with panic.

You’d never been one for parties, even before Hydra ended your life as you knew it, and you were beginning to wish you’d worn those uncomfortable earbuds that Bob gave everyone.

Surely having something in your ears would be better than hearing all the noise around you.

And if you thought outside was bad, it was so much worse inside.

You would have rather been on the battlefield any day. At least when you got overwhelmed by bullets, Walker would swoop in and protect you . . . even if he did act like an ass about it later.

But here, you had to smile and dance along with the rest of the crowd, lest security catch on to the plan. If even one of you gave it away, the target could be evacuated before any of you can even find him.

At least you were allowed to have a drink or two to calm your nerves. If Walker’s shield couldn’t protect you from social anxiety, the fruity little number you were sipping on would have to do.

“Watch your drink.” You felt Walker’s breath on your neck when he leaned in to talk directly into your ear, tugging the hem of your dress down where you hadn’t realized it had started to ride up.

You spun around to face him, your cheeks blazing from the unexpected contact. “What?”

It was too loud to hear him if you stood at a normal distance, so he had to lean in close to talk to you, almost pressing his body against yours.

“I said, watch your drink,” He repeated, his expression painfully serious, contrasting with the colorful lights and the blaring music. “I don’t like the looks of some of the guys here.”

“Of course you don’t,” you huffed, smoothing your dress. “It’s a club, Walker. There’s going to be creeps.”

“Sure, but I don’t want to have to chase down some frat boy’s van if you get drugged.”

Every time he spoke and his breath fanned over your skin, it sent shivers down your spine.

It was no secret that John Walker did things to your mind—he was an objectively attractive man, and the fact that he always seemed to be coming to your rescue didn’t hurt.

But you couldn’t afford to think like that. He hated you.

Didn’t he?

“Who made it your job to be my personal bodyguard, huh?” You challenged, leaning back just far enough so you could glare into those intense blue eyes, now widened with shock. “I didn’t ask you to come and save me.”

He looked at you like you’d slapped him, and your heart constricted at the realization that somehow, in some way, you’d wounded him.

But you were on a mission, and now was not the time to be trading verbal punches with the ex-Captain America. If one of you got a little too loud, said something a little too personal, you could blow the whole mission.

On the retreat, you turned away from him, but he grabbed you by the arm, his grip like iron, whether he was trying or not. “We’re not done here.”

“Yes, we are,” you protested, trying unsuccessfully to pull your arm free.

He stared at you incredulously. “You thought you were going somewhere, huh?”

“I was going to the ladies room,” you spat. “Unless you want me to piss right here on your shoes.”

With that, he released you, but his eyes never left you, even as you pushed your way through the crowd to get away from him.

And it was a good thing too, because not thirty seconds after you sat your drink down on one of the small tables near the bathroom, one of the scumbags he’d clocked earlier leaned over and sprinkled something into your drink.

“Oh fuck no,” he forced through gritted teeth, and began making his own way through the crowd.

If the creep who had spiked your drink would’ve seen Walker coming at him, he would have been running for dear life.

Dropping any pretenses of blending in, Walker stalked toward his unsuspecting prey like he was in an active warzone, fingers twitching for the pistol concealed at his hip.

But even he knew better than that.

Draw a gun now, and not only would he blow the mission, but his new target would probably run before he could get a clear shot.

But he didn’t need a gun.

The man didn’t even notice him until Walker grabbed your drink off of the table and whipped it at him, shattering the glass in his face.

“What the hell, man?” He shrieked, but the music was too loud for many people to hear the commotion.

“You’re coming with me.”

It wasn’t a question.

Walker grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, his vice-like grip impossible to struggle out of as he dragged him out of the side door and into the alley.

“Let go of me, you fucking psycho!”

“Oh, I’ll let go of you.” Walker chuckled, a dangerous sound resonating in his chest.

Not even using half of his strength, he threw the man into the side of the dumpster, denting it with the impact and no doubt breaking a few of his ribs.

“Oh my god,” he choked out as Walker stalked toward him. “You’re fucking Captain America, aren’t you?”

“Not anymore,” he snarled, grabbing the other man by the front of his shirt.

He hauled him to his feet, only to punch him square in the face. The alley echoed with the sickening crack of a human nose breaking.

The scumbag dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes, trying to cover his face, but the blood still oozed through his fingers.

Walker’s boot rested on the man’s head, pinning him to the pavement.

“But the thing is,” he pushed down harder, forcing an agonized sob from his victim. “I don’t need a fancy title to protect women. Especially that woman.”

Captain America or USAgent, it didn’t matter. He still had the strength to crush that man’s skull like a watermelon.

And he did it, just as you walked out into the alley.

“Walker, what the fuck?” You hurriedly shut the door behind you so that no one else would see the grizzly scene and raise alarm bells. “I thought I heard you outside from the bathroom window, but seriously, What. The. fuck?”

“I can explain—”

You put a hand up to interrupt him, before gesturing down to the corpse beneath his boot. “You can explain why you’re risking the mission by murdering a civilian?”

“That civilian spiked your goddamn drink,” he all but shouted, barely managing to rein in his volume. “You know, the one I told you to keep an eye on.”

“I-I wasn’t going back to it—couldn’t find a trash can,” you stammered, frozen under his intense gaze. “But I . . .” Your eyes flitted to the corpse, then back to Walker. “You did this for me?”

“Of course I did,” he choked out, a little quieter than before, though the effort was an obvious strain on him. “He tried to hurt you, and I couldn’t just let that happen.”

“You could’ve stopped him without eviscerating him,” you pressed. “I know you’ve got a temper, but this . . . ?”

You gestured toward the viscera and brain matter on the ground around him.

“Help me clean it up,” he sighed, breaking the lock on the dumpster before flinging the lid open. “Can’t leave a dead body just laying around.”

Your eyes narrowed on him. He was dodging the question, blatantly so, but that didn’t make him wrong.

Effortlessly, he lifted the corpse and tossed it in, while you used your power over blood to pull the rest of the mess—including what was all over Walker—into the dumpster along with the body.

“There,” you huffed as he shut the lid. “Good as new. Now, do you want to explain to me exactly why you popped that guy’s skull like the world’s most disgusting water balloon instead of doing literally anything less gross to get rid of him?”

You weren’t going to ask why he killed him—one less rapist piece of shit in the world was a good thing, as far as you were concerned.

But you knew full well that Walker knew a lot of ways to kill a man that were a lot less gruesome—more efficient, like everything else he did.

And since the two of you were supposed to be undercover . . .

“Do I want to?” he scoffed. “No, not really.”

He stepped past you, reaching for the door handle, but you grabbed the back of his shirt.

You couldn’t have stopped him if he was intent on moving. You both knew that. And yet, he froze in his tracks.

“John.”

His first name felt foreign on your tongue, but hearing it made his heart feel constricted in his chest.

“I know you hate me for my past,” you choked out, still clinging to his shirt. “But we’re a team now. If I did something to you—”

“You think I hate you?” He whipped around, finally facing you. “Why would you think that?”

He genuinely didn’t understand.

He would’ve thought that the way he fussed over you, and the way he protected you on the field would’ve been enough to make that obvious.

Like the others always said—he’s an asshole to everyone.

It wasn’t personal.

But . . . maybe it was to you.

“Oh, I don’t know,” it was your turn to scoff. “Maybe all the things you say and do when we’re not on the battlefield.” You exhaled through your nose, shaking your head as you looked away from him. “I get it though . . . Hydra operative and all that, even if I didn’t exactly have a choice . . .”

“Fuck,” he cursed under his breath, taking a step closer to you.

Not softly, but not roughly either—probably about as gentle as a man with his strength was capable of being, he grabbed your face, dragging your gaze back to his shining blue eyes.

Blue eyes that glimmered with emotion you’d never seen before. Not from him, at any rate.

“You . . .” He sucked in a deep breath, looking so unsure of what he was going to say next. “You make me crazy, you know that?”

“What—?”

“No,” he interrupted you, bringing a finger to your lips. “Don’t talk right now, or I’ll lose the stones to say it.”

Your brows knitted curiously. You didn’t understand why he suddenly looked so nervous here in this alley with you, as opposed to when he was on the battlefield, fighting for his life.

“I want you,” he choked out, like he was jumping on a grenade—no helmet this time. “When I first took you out of that bunker, yeah, I had my doubts about you, but when I found out what you’d been through, all I wanted to do was protect you—told myself that’s all I wanted.”

“But, why are you always so mean to me?” You shook your head, wanting to believe him, but it didn’t make any sense.

He ran his hands through his hair, letting out an exhale and looking up toward the sky for strength. “God, how do I say this without sounding insane?”

“Sound insane,” you encouraged him, taking his hands and looking up at him with big doe eyes, hanging on his every word. “Tell me.”

He squeezed your hands, so gently for a man of his strength that it made tears well up in your eyes.

The control he had to have to not crush you . . .

“I have ruined everything in my life I’ve ever loved. My wife left me—took my kid with her, and I deserved it.” He sucked in a breath, and you didn’t miss the broken shudder. “I’m a broken man, and I don’t deserve to try again with someone new.”

“You were trying to push me away.” Your lips twisted into a frown, and so did his.

“Yeah.” He nodded, trying to sniffle back the tears that were threatening to fall. “Thought it’d be better that way.”

“It isn’t,” you protested, staring up at him like he was the full moon, and you were a moth hopelessly following the light. “I want you to kiss me.”

“What?” His eyes widened, and you squeezed his hands a little tighter.

“Kiss me, John.” You added his name this time, and his breath hitched. “If you want to.”

“I want to,” was all he said before pulling you closer, crashing his lips against yours.

The kiss was feverish, hungry—no, starving.

John Walker was not the sort of man to do anything in half measures, and a thrill coursed through your body when he spun you both around and shoved your back against the wall, knocking the wind out of you with his strength.

“Fuck,” he gasped, backing away and assessing you with fretful eyes. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, now get back here,” your voice was breathy, broken by lust.

You grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pulled him back over you, and he picked up right where he left off.

His teeth found your bottom lip, and you could feel the growl that resonated against his chest in your own from the way he had you pressed against him.

“Are we really doing this here?” He murmured against your lips, leaning back just enough so that the tip of his nose was touching yours, possessively pressing his forehead against yours. “In the alley where I just crushed a guy’s skull?”

“Crushed a guy’s skull for me,” you corrected him, carding your fingers through his hair to pull him close again. You kissed the corner of his mouth, his jaw, his neck just under his ear before you whispered, “I’m down if you are—”

He was.

You barely got the words out before he was kissing you again. Then kissing your neck, then lower, lower still until he was down on his knees, looking up at you like he was in prayer.

His hands ghosted up your fishnet wrapped thighs, but he stopped at the hem of your too-short dress. “May I?”

His voice was raspy with need, and you were so turned on by it that you could barely answer. “Yes.”

Please.

Please, please, please.

You wanted him to touch you in that moment more than you’d ever wanted almost anything.

And he didn’t keep you waiting.

Ripping open your fishnets like he was unwrapping a present, he wasted no time pushing your panties aside, throwing one of your legs over his shoulder, and dragging his tongue across your pussy.

You let out a gasp, and he groaned his approval.

“So wet for me,” he practically purred, easily sliding two fingers inside of you as he watched your face twist with the effort to keep quiet. “So pretty too.”

He leaned forward again, his hot tongue dragging across your needy clit.

“Hmm,” he hummed. “So sweet.”

“John,” you begged, running your fingers through his reddish-blonde hair. “Please.”

“Since you asked so nicely . . .”

His voice was teasing, maddeningly so, but it was impossible to be mad at him when his face was buried between your thighs.

He sucked your clit between his lips, at the same time curling his fingers inside of you in a beckoning motion, rubbing that sweet spot and making stars start to form behind your eyes.

His name fell from your lips like a prayer, and he growled against your sensitive flesh, running his teeth along that pink bundle of nerves.

“Not fucking you until you cum for me at least once,” he grunted. “Not gonna take my time when I bury my cock in you—still have the mission to think about.”

If anyone else had said that to you, you might’ve been offended. But this was John Walker kneeling down between your legs. Of course he was still thinking about the mission.

The man was nothing if not a good soldier.

But he was everything to you. Especially right now.

It didn’t matter if the whole world looked at him like a dishonored reject, you knew him better than that. You knew that no matter what an asshole he could be sometimes, he was a hero.

Your hero.

You had to bite down on your own palm to stop yourself from screaming when your orgasm hit you, bliss crashing over you like a tidal wave.

Your juices poured down over his wrist, and he licked every drop clean, blue eyes fixed on your face.

“Fuck,” he groaned, palming himself through his pants. “You cum so pretty.”

You couldn’t speak. You were pretty sure that if you tried all that would come out was incoherent babble.

Slowly, he rose to his feet, leaning in and caging you against the wall with his arms as you looked up at him, helplessly lost in the headspace of your ecstasy.

“Gonna fuck you now”—He pressed his forehead to yours, drinking in the sight of you drunk on the pleasure he gave you—“If that’s okay with you.”

You nodded eagerly, and that was all the permission he needed to grab the back of your neck and pull you into a bruising kiss.

The taste of you on his tongue was almost too good to bear—evidence that he wanted you every bit as badly as you’ve been wanting him ever since he pulled you out of that bunker.

The sound of his zipper coaxed your eyes downward, and you watched him shove his jeans and boxer-briefs down his hips to reveal his cock—hard and ready for you.

You wondered if the serum had an effect on his size, or if he was just naturally gifted. Either way, your teeth sunk into your bottom lip in anticipation of the stretch.

Manhandling you effortlessly, he hoisted your legs up around his hips. He held you up with one hand, lining the head of his cock up to your soaking wet cunt with the other.

He slid into you slowly, inch by inch, his face twisting into a tortured grimace as he forced himself to wait for you to adjust.

It was considerate—you were beginning to realize that the man was considerate to a fault, always thinking of others even if it wasn’t actually what they wanted.

“Fuck me, John,” you told him, like an order from his commanding officer. “I need to feel you fuck me hard.”

“Darlin’, you don’t know how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that.” You felt his breath on your neck as he leaned in to whisper in your ear, “Just remember—you’ve got to be quiet or we’ll blow the mission.”

“The mission,” you choked out, lips parting in a silent gasp when he slowly pulled out and suddenly thrust back in, with a grin curling the corners of his lips. “I almost forgot about that.”

“Good,” he all but purred. “The only thing I want you thinking about right now is me.”

He’s all you could think about, especially when he carried out your orders and fucked you like he meant it.

You had to grit your teeth against the pleasure.

His name was trying to tear itself out of your throat, and every time his cock rubbed against that sweet spot inside of you you felt like you were going to lose all composure.

Your body was still on fire from the first orgasm he gave you, still warm and reactive to every touch.

Every too-hard squeeze of your hip.

He gripped your soft flesh so tightly that you were sure it was going to leave a bruise.

Even though your mutant abilities would heal you quickly, you hoped you’d at least get the chance to see the pretty purple blooms in the shape of his fingerprints before they went away.

Just the thought tipped you that much closer to the edge, lost in bliss as he rutted into you like an animal.

Raw and passionate in the dark alley, illuminated only by the moonlight.

You couldn’t hold it back much longer—just a few more thrusts and you were going to scream.

He could see it on your face.

“Here baby,” he cooed, his wrecked voice giving away just how close he was, before covering your pretty mouth with his palm. “I’ll muffle your screams if you want to let loose.”

You had never been so turned on in your life. The passion, the control it must’ve taken for him not to wreck your insides with his unnatural strength.

All at once, the dam burst even harder than the first time, and you did scream into his palm when you went careening over the precipice of ecstasy.

He wasn’t far behind, and your cunt clenching around him only dragged him over that edge with you.

His thrusts became more erratic, and he sounded desperate when he whispered, “Gonna cum,” in your ear. “Where do you want—?”

“Inside,” you managed to form the word through your haze of bliss.

His whole body tensed, and a string of expletives along with a strangled moan of your name fell from his lips when he came, flooding your insides with heat.

He pushed into you a couple more times before he finally pulled out, letting you rest your shaking legs back on the ground as the evidence of your pleasure and his ran down your inner thighs.

“Fuck,” he groaned, chest rising and falling from the intensity of the orgasm. “Let me get that for you.”

He pulled off his shirt, not caring about the buttons that snapped off and scattered in the alleyway, before using it to clean your thighs.

Stuffing the ruined shirt into his back pocket, he turned his attention to your face again, eyes melting into yours.

“Tell me that wasn’t a one time thing.”

The confident bravado was still there, but you could see through it now—see the vulnerability around the edges.

“It wasn’t,” you promised him, carding your fingers through his hair to pull his lips against yours again, catching his bottom lip between your teeth before leaning back to look into his adoring eyes. “But we should get back inside.”

“Right.” He cleared his throat, looking away awkwardly. “The mission.”

You turned away from him, reaching for the doorknob, but he caught your wrist before you could open it.

“John—?”

He cut you off by dragging you into another heated kiss. “Just needed one more, to hold me over until the next time.”

Next time.

You liked the sound of that.

#john walker #john walker x reader #john walker x you #fanfic #Your honor I love him #Also I like the blood powers so if I can swing more fic writing time there's a good chance that I'll do more stories with the blood powers #Not the same timeline though because I prefer writing smut fics of the first time between the characters

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sspookayy · 3 months ago

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"𝚄𝚗𝚠𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚗" || Cecil Stedman x Reader

Description:

Where extraordinary beings wield incredible powers, the GDA embarks on a groundbreaking project to synthesize DNA in pursuit of creating the ultimate weapon. But when things don't go as planned the project everyone was worked so hard for is put on hold, suspended in time.

"I don't understand.. If you loved me then why did you do this?!"

"Love makes us make tough decisions sometimes."

I LOVE THIS MAN.

I haven't really seen anyone write much fanfic about Cecil, and well hes my favorite character so i have to do the Cecil simps justice. Updates may be slow because i have an actual irl job and bills to pay but I'm gonna try my best and et chapters out in a timely manner.

*crossposted on Tumblr, Wattpad, and Ao3*

________________________

Introduction-

The wall clock ticked relentlessly on, each second whispering in counterpoint to the clang of metal and grunts. You paused briefly in your exercise, beads of sweat trickling down your forehead as you gazed about at the stark, unyielding walls of the government compound that was home. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed, their cold light casting an unforgiving glare on the rows of weights and machines that were now familiar companions in your endless pursuit of power.

Today, like every day preceding it, you were in the training room, pushing against the limits of your flesh. The weight of expectation had borne down on you since the day that they concluded you were an "experiment"—a component of a program to mold human potential into something greater, yet an offspring of circumstance gone awry.

You were different—not another test subject, but a pioneer of hybrid experimentation. Your creators had attempted to create a weapon, but you had become something more: a being imbued with unbelievable strength, agility, flight and reflexes, approaching the scale that was the Immortal in ability. You were a creation of their ambition, and while the world around you buzzed with the murmurs of heroism and glory, you had been kept under the veil of uncertainty.

You took a deep breath and seized the heavy dumbbells to begin another set of reps, muscles contorting and flexing as you pushed yourself to your limits. Your prison—your estranged home within these walls that held your secrets and torturers alike. You were coming to the end of your set when the door creaked open, the intrusion jolting you out of your focus.

"Impressive as always."

The voice was deep and resonant, heavy like the weights you were using, and it sent a thrill of recognition down your spine. You dropped the dumbbells and turned and faced Director Radcliffe—a tall, older man with sharp features, dark brown eyes, and an intelligence that radiated even in this austere environment. He was the Director of the Global Defense Agency, one of whose main functions was running the experiments.

"Sir," you breathed, attempting to conceal your surprise at his abrupt arrival. "What brings you here?"

He strode towards you with a swagger that belied the seriousness of the facility and delivered a smirk that played at the corners of his mouth. "Just stopping by to visit our most promising subject. I've been hearing whispers about your advancements, and I can tell that they're not merely rumors."

Radcliffe nodded towards the equipment, his gaze remaining on you—a combination of curiosity and admiration. You were naked, exposed; a combination of admiration and caution simmering between you as he gazed at you.

"Getting stronger every day," you replied, keeping your tone deliberately casual. "But I'm still waiting for the day I'm not a set of experiments." deliberately keeping your tone light."They seem to not be too keen on unleashing me on the world yet." You sat down on the bench that sat alongside the huge mirror that stretched along the whole wall and took the towel that was lying across it to wipe your face in an attempt to get rid of the thin layer of sweat that was covering your face.

Director Radcliffe leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, a curious smile spreading across his face. "You see, with the right mindset, even experiments can become pioneers. They just need the right environment to thrive." There was seriousness in his voice that suggested he knew more than he said, as if the very fabric of your life was woven with both potential and restriction.

You glanced up at him in the mirror, the overhead fluorescent lights casting a glare that was so harsh your reflection was almost ghostly. "I suppose so. But what if all they care about is how mindlessly I can follow orders?" You let the towel drop into your lap, the damp cloth a reminder of just how hard you were driving yourself—not just physically, but mentally.

He straightened, his demeanor shifting by degrees, as if he intercepted the undertone of your annoyance. "We understand what you're capable of. Your progress is... " He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Impressive. But I am not at liberty to ignore the risks of releasing you prematurely. You are not just a collection of skills—you're a person with a life ahead of you."

"Why do I feel like I'm in a cage, then?" you shot back, startling yourself with the venom in your tone. You could feel the tension building in the air, strained and charged.

Radcliffe's eyes softened as he took in a step closer. "Change is hard. I do know that. Yet every experiment started with a spark—your spark. We're preparing you for something more than you can presently see. You're not a tool. You can be a leader.".

You let his words hang, considering the weight they carried. Progress. Leadership. What would that even look like for someone like you? "I hope you're not just saying that to soften the blow," you said tentatively, the vulnerability in your voice surprising you both.

"Trust me, I'm not," he replied, his tone level and sincere. "But I need you to commit to the process. Training isn't about physical strength alone—it's about building the foundations of what you're capable of becoming."

You took the towel again, this time using it to wipe the sweat from your forearms. Maybe he was right. There could be more to this quest than you realized. "And if I fail?" you asked, your heart racing at the thought.

Radcliffe smiled, a hint of warmth breaching his normally stoic demeanor. "Then we learn. That's the beauty of experimentation—you can always adjust and try again."

You nodded, taking a deep breath. The path ahead of you was still uncertain, yet maybe, just maybe, the light at the end of your metaphorical tunnel was closer than you thought.

—

The day had drained you, each test and trial bearing down on your shoulders like a pile of bricks, a reminder of the burden you bore as you struggled to discover what you could do. Thankfully, the only thing left was to take your end-of-day vitals. Perched atop the unforgiving surface of the chilly, sterile examination table, you were able to sense a chill send a shiver up your exposed thighs, the fabric of your shorts far too brief to shield you from the cold metal below. Wires from a nest of machines coiled around you like sinister vines, and electrode pads affixed to your skin, squirming leads to monitors that displayed your EKG and a maelstrom of bewildering readings—esoteric glyphs that appeared to be a code you were desperately attempting to interpret.

The soft, soothing beeping of the machines almost lulled you into a restful sleep, but the cold, hard lights overhead were pitiless in their glare. Surrounded by an army of physicians and researchers prodding and poking at your body, you knew the largest threat was not in their intrusive methods but what followed: the return to your chambers, the place you disliked most, except for the frigid, unyielding halls of this tyrannical institute. As your gaze shifted to the left, you noticed a couple of operators and managers observing the professionals at work, their glances flicking with a mix of curiosity and indifference.

Far away, beyond the big window, ordinary people went about their everyday lives, becoming part of the rhythm of normalcy. Longing arose within you to be among them; to experience the comfort of a humdrum existence—a good job, a quiet day, a loving family. Such longings lay in the realm of dreams, an illusion which you knew would forever be out of your grasp. Amidst this sea of onlookers, your attention was suddenly drawn to Director Radcliffe, conversing with a passerby.

Squinting your eyes in an attempt to slice through the distance, your super-vision eventually caught up with the young man who had caught your attention. His smooth-slicked hair and authoritative height were equaled only by his sharply chiseled features, which spoke to authority. The gravity of the meeting was sensed, the tension so powerful it sliced through the sterile air. Then, suddenly, the young man shifted slightly, his intense eyes fastening onto yours like a shot of electricity. His eyes, an electric blue, pierced into your very being with an intensity that produced a shiver racing along your spine.

It was as if he could look right through the glass wall of your room, cutting through the layers of your being, stripping away the facade to reveal the vulnerable core within. For a moment, all else in the world outside of you melted away, and you were left with the weight of his scrutiny—a refined blend of curiosity mixed with something darker and more profound. You ached to look away, to recede into the sanitary folds of your hospital robe, but some inexplicable pull kept you riveted. Pity or judgment? Or something worse?

The beeping of equipment faded into the background, drowned out by the mesmerizing hold of his unseeing stare, stirring within you emotions long suppressed in the shadows. It was as though, in the bottom of that stare, he saw your unspoken wishes, your dreams of flight from this antiseptic jail. While the heaviness of his glance nearly strangled you, he tilted his brow infinitesimally, ever so small yet incredibly powerful an action, so it conveyed something unstated in between the two of you that was at once exciting and scary, which passed between the freezing emptiness of the lab and united the two of you into something akin to communion.

And since the moment was trapped halfway between suspended and reality, time itself stumbled, confusing the manner in which it must divide your closed-in reality from his certain truth. The sterile white walls of the room melted away, and for an instant, you were no longer merely a specimen of study, but a contributing participant in an unspoken debate—a bond of trust that poured from mutual helplessness and individual comprehension.

With each gasp of air, you felt the desire well up within you; the urge to flee the shackles of your existence. The world beyond your horizons, with all its mundane indulgences and small victories, beckoned you like a distant siren, promising freedom and a place of belonging. But as the electric blue of his eyes remained unmoved, a glimmer of hope was kindled in your chest. Perhaps, in that fleeting moment of comprehension, you could find the courage to dream once more—not just of a life beyond these bars, but of a world where your own desires were not on the fringes of fantasy.

With that in mind, you understood the weight of his eyes, allowing it to be a silent vow: to battle for freedom, resist the emptiness that wished to engulf you completely, and reclaim the vibrant life you had always imagined, no matter what.

Word Count:1869

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oxeyesaint · 2 months ago

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ok im realizing i have a bunch of issues with characterizations in superhero slash fics in general now cuz i got done reading all star: superman this weekend. and clark is so stubborn? and serious?? and he's so smart????

in the book he discovers the sequence of his own genome and even synthesizes it so lois can have his powers for a day, he figures out how to make human and kryptonian DNA compatible so they can have kids, he's been trying for years to come up with some sciencey way to unshrink kandor, he makes lois her own suit, he studies kryptonian culture, he's knowledgeable in astrophysics, he's singlehandedly making a knew heart for the fucking sun.

and he basically does this all on his own?? yeah he has the robots that help him out but he still needs to know a fuck ton of super complicated biology and math and physics. kryptonian technology??? he's trying to fix a fucking alien time machine all on his own.

this is only the 2nd superman comic i've read in full after only really being exposed to him thru superbat fanfics and i feel so robbed!! writers like to write him really kind and bubbly and but he is so much more than that!

anyway this is a long winded way to say i want batman and supes to nerd out about science in fics more often.

#superbat #superman #batman #clark kent #bruce wayne #bruclark #dc comics #fanfics #ao3 #text post

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inscinstech · 9 months ago

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Advancements in Oligonucleotide Synthesis and DNA Synthesizers

Oligonucleotide synthesis is a fundamental process in molecular biology involving the creation of short DNA or RNA sequences. These oligonucleotides serve as primers, probes, and therapeutic agents, playing critical roles in genetic research and biotechnology. The ability to synthesize specific sequences has revolutionized genetic engineering and diagnostics. Advances in this field have led to the development of more efficient and accurate synthesis techniques.

The Process of Oligonucleotide Synthesis

Synthesis involves sequentially adding nucleotides to a growing chain, following a predetermined sequence. This process is typically automated and carried out on solid supports, ensuring high accuracy and efficiency. The synthesis of oligonucleotides has become faster and more reliable with advances in technology. Researchers can now produce longer sequences with fewer errors, enhancing the scope of genetic research. The automation of synthesis has also reduced the time and labour required for large-scale production.

Importance of DNA Synthesizers

DNA Synthesizer is specialized instruments designed to automate the synthesis of oligonucleotides. These machines have revolutionized the field by significantly reducing the time and labour required for synthesis. Modern DNA synthesizers offer high throughput, enabling the production of numerous oligonucleotides simultaneously. This efficiency is crucial for high-demand applications such as genomic research and therapeutic development. The precision and reliability of these instruments are essential for ensuring the accuracy of synthesized sequences.

Applications of Oligonucleotide Synthesis

Oligonucleotide synthesis have a wide range of applications, from basic research to clinical diagnostics and therapeutics. They are essential for polymerase chain reactions (PCR), DNA sequencing, and gene editing. In therapeutics, synthetic oligonucleotides are used in antisense therapies and RNA interference (RNAi) technologies. These applications are driving advances in personalized medicine and genetic therapies. The versatility of oligonucleotides makes them invaluable tools in both research and clinical settings.

Innovations in DNA Synthesizers

Recent advancements in DNA synthesizers have focused on increasing the efficiency and accuracy of synthesis. These innovations include improved reagents, automated error-checking, and integration with bioinformatics tools. As a result, researchers can now synthesize longer and more complex sequences with greater confidence. The integration of advanced technologies has streamlined the synthesis process, reducing costs and increasing accessibility. These innovations are paving the way for new discoveries and applications in molecular biology.

Conclusion

Oligonucleotide synthesis and DNA synthesizers have transformed molecular biology and biotechnology. The ability to quickly and accurately synthesize custom DNA sequences has opened up new possibilities for research and therapeutic applications. As technology continues to advance, the impact of these tools will only grow. For the latest in DNA synthesis technology, visit inscinstech.com.cn.

Blog Source URL :

#Chromatography #Liquid Chromatography #oligonucleotide synthesis #DNA Synthesizer #lab equipment #AKTA #protein purification #Fast Protein Liquid Chromatography #FPLC #fplc chromatography

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girl-detector · 3 months ago

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Fun fact: quite a few organic compounds crystallize, including estrogen. It takes a bit of effort to do it but it can, although i do think you meant that in a "can be found in the ground" sort of way

(i can only find a picture of it in crystalline form from someone who synthesized it)

Guanine, one of the bases in DNA, is found in crystalline form within scallop eyes, i think that's weird

(@moonbuffoon )

#girl detector ramblings

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tinfoil-jones · 6 months ago

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The fact that Stan has made a whole career out of commit crimes and sell off scams—swindling people, conning them out of as much money as he possibly can, stealing, lying and committing a long list of goofily-named crimes—in order to survive alone in the world is part of what makes his character so interesting.

Filbrick realized a bit too late that Stanley never should have become a hardened criminal:

[Art by dimonds456] [Full vers in ch.24]

Because yeah, he's not a killer. He's never killed anyone, but at this moment Filbrick did not know that.

So here you have Stanley who is explaining, in-detail, from experience, what it's like to die of suffocation, while choking a man.

Here's the updated/final lore list of stuff he's allegedly done that only happened in this story and didn't happen in canon, Stan:

Doesn't start to worry about stab wounds until he gets to five

Used cocaine that he cut with Ambien, to the point that a standard dosage of Ambien for an adult man doesn't effect him, just kinda seasons his water more than anything.*

*This drug resistance also made it to where he's almost completely untouched by the dissociative properties of Ketamine.

*He was also totally fine after being loaded up with a tranquilizer that was not intended for human use, and was synthesized with paranormal creatures and monsters in mind. This same tranquilizer incapacitated his identical twin Ford for almost twenty-four hours, and he still had to be injected with Narcan to bring him out of out.

Has been kidnapped at least once before.

Has done questionable things for twenty dollars.

Has gotten shady back alley stitches before.

Was involved in a shoot-out with Agent Powers (an IRS agent) while he was running with Jimmy Snakes biker gang.

Has thirty unique attempts on his life so far.

Has escaped five prisons, two of those escapes were from the Infinetentiary. Which he broke into to rescue/conjugal visit his friend/ex Rick.

Was chased down the Interstate for fifty miles by Jimmy, who was trying to literally drag his soul to Hell.

Stole sleeping drugs from the Galactic Federation.

Has enough experience with unlawful abduction and confinement, and involuntary commitment, that he knows the distinct differences between them.

Has had his shoulder dislocated enough times he can easily reset one.

Caused half of the psychologists who tried treating him while he was committed to quit. The other half ended up also committed.

Was banned from Lottocron Nine for starting The Crusades

Was banned from Planet Chorus, for reasons unknown, but the domino effect would cause the Chorusan Civil War in 2552

Was banned from Arkansas for "corrupting" a large number of Southern Baptists.

Blew up an unmanned Galactic Federation warehouse because they didn't accept the prescription pad that he forged in English.

Did a keg stand with liquid ecstasy.

Was killed by the IRS.

Legally speaking, his full name in the Galactic Federation is "Staniel Danger Malone" because Rick was the one who registered an I.D* for him back when Stan didn't understand the regimes official language. His name is written in his I.D in Gromflomish as: ⌇⏁⏃⋏⟟⟒⌰ ⎅⏃⋏☌⟒⍀ ⋔⏃⌰⍜⋏⟒

Was banned from the City of Tijuana for selling flour tortillas that he mixed with sand, and telling everyone they were corn tortillas.

His DNA is potentially 104% identical to Fords

On one planet, his name is synonymous with "Customer Complaint" because he sold very subpar copper.

#early amnesia au #for your own good #stan pines #stanley pines #ford pines #stanford pines #rick sanchez #gravity falls #fanfiction #fanfic #ask #ask answered #for your own good lore #stanchez

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healthcare-updates-with-sns · 3 months ago

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#DNA Synthesizer Market #DNA Synthesizer Market Share #DNA Synthesizer Market Size #DNA Synthesizer Market Trends

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fandomnerd9602 · 4 months ago

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Can you please make platonic one for Natalia Knight aka Nocturna from Batman: Caped Crusader where Y/N cures her from her ailment so she can normally exist?

Natalia: you don’t love me! No one can!!

Y/N: I can and do.

Y/N injects her with a little vial…

Natalia: w-what did you do?!

Y/N: using some of your DNA I was able to synthesize a cure

The sun begins to rise…

Natalia flinches but doesn’t burn…

Natalie begins to cry…

Natalia: t-thank you

Y/N: let’s just watch the sunrise together

#dc #dcu #dc comics #dc universe #nocturna #nocturna x reader #natalia knight #mckenna grace #Batman #batman caped crusader

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suzukiblu · 4 months ago

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baby clone and all associated trauma, por favor?

“I’m supposed to fix you when you’re sad,” Tobias says quietly, his eyes on his feet. Tim barely represses a grimace. “That’s–you made me to make you happy again.”

“I made you because I genuinely thought it would be easier to learn how to clone well enough to reproduce what is possibly the most complicated set of DNA that’s ever lived on this planet and simultaneously synthesize a hyper-specific variant of telekinesis that maybe two or three people have ever even had with no access to any of those people’s DNA than go through the grieving process,” Tim says, just barely keeping the tightness out of his tone. Which . . . it actually was easier, probably, but that’s because he’s an incredibly damaged person who almost definitely needs very intensive therapy. Or at least some grief counseling, anyway. A damn support group, if nothing else.

Just–something.

#anonymous #wip: baby clone and all associated trauma

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sspookayy · 3 months ago

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"𝚄𝚗𝚠𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚗" || Cecil Stedman x Reader

Description:

"I don't understand.. If you loved me then why did you do this?!"

"Love makes us make tough decisions sometimes."

This took me all day lol

*crossposted on Tumblr, Wattpad, and Ao3*

Chapters Intro

Words

5.8k

________________________

Chapter 1-

Getting up and beginning the day was always the biggest challenge. The hard struggle to wake your mind was like eternity, but to be able to slide out of your painfully stiff bed was at least the easier half. When the clock struck 6 a.m., breakfast was served—a new serving of flavorless gruel that slid into your stomach. One couldn't help but speculate how, being such a great asset, you were given such meager rations. The revolting meal only augmented the sterile, prison-like ambiance that surrounded your presence.

Your room itself was a bleak gray devoid of any color, making it feel more like a cell than your space. You would often dream of the day that you would be liberated from this place, and envision a cheerful house with vibrant colors and inviting rooms. And yet you knew reality was far off—there was still so much to accomplish to reach your physical, mental, and emotional goals. Nevertheless, you had the hope that once you had traveled that path, you would be liberated, soaring through the air like a bird released from a cage. How you yearned to be among regular everyday human beings, to breathe the cold, fresh air, and to tread on real grass beneath your feet instead of the fake, lifeless material that carpeted the floors of the mockup training centers.

Your heart ached for those simple, rich moments that lay only the distance of a fantasy away. Your mind's eye could almost visualize the sunlight spilling through high windows draped in cheerful curtains, illuminating a kitchen filled with laughter and the smell of warm bread. You fantasized about cozy corners where you could curl up in a good book, surrounded by walls splashed with bright colors that reflected your spirit and soul.

And so here, the day flowed into the day after, each separated only by the antiseptic walls that echoed with distant footsteps and routine. The dullness all around you as reminder of what was to be—the way perilous, perhaps, but also paved in hope for tomorrow. And so you understood with every step toward your bolstered body, with every step your training carried you toward, there was a piece on which a foundation was laid toward your freedom.

Sometimes, late at night when the world outside sounded improbably close, leaves whispering in the faintest breeze, and birds singing good morning to the day. Those sounds pulled at your heartstrings, inducing an overwhelming longing to capture the life that you so desperately craved —a life filled with relationship, laughter, and genuineness.

Resolute, you set yourself tiny goals, each one a step nearer to that vivid future. Whether it was a training session that pushed you to your limits or a moment of self-reflection that delved deep into your psyche, every effort brought you nearer to the individual you wanted to become. And as you imagined the day when you would gain your freedom, you held fast to the dream that beyond dingy walls stretched a world for you out there—a world replete with life, energy, and tinged with colors of possibility.

But what you didn't know as you sat in your room, was that your freedom was much closer than you possibly could have thought of, because somewhere else in the facility was Director Radciffe, settling into a meeting room with other scientists, doctors, and other professionals from different fields. Along in the room were a few of the higher up agents, who all had the privilege of being in on the experimental project that everyone has been working on for over a decade. Among those agents had just happened to be the one you managed to catch a glimpse of the other day, Cecil Stedman. He by far wasn’t new in the GDA, but was one of their most promising agents, having assisted in the capture of multiple villains, stopping of terroristic threats and even mass bombings with lethal chemicals.

With the click of the meeting room door shutting, the muffled hum of the air conditioning unit provided a background hum to the somberness in the air. Director Radcliffe took in the table, making sure each attendee recognized the gravity of their mission. Pens scratched and papers crinkled as the team navigated the task of sinking deeply into discussions that would reshape the very face of their organization.

“Ladies and gentlemen," Radcliffe began, his voice stern and commanding. "We stand on the cusp of a breakthrough that can reshape our approach to containment and rehabilitation of potential threats. Project 47C is more than an upgrade of our present protocols; it is a revolution." His eyes swept the group, searching for any sign of doubt or disbelief.

Cecil sat back in his chair, arms folded, a small smile spreading as he observed how Radcliffe's excitement was reflected in his own. Having spent years chasing justice, Cecil felt they were finally on the brink of something huge—a means of tapping into the potential of the very forces they were trying to master.

One of the younger scientists, Dr. Elena Krause, interrupted. "With all due respect, Director, has there been any work on the ethical implications of playing with individuals who possess superhuman abilities? We know that they have fractured psyches due to the nature of their abilities, and manipulating those variables can have catastrophic effects.".

Radcliffe leaned forward. "That's the very reason that we're here. We've got a recommended model for integration, one which takes into account psychological testing, monitoring, and a fail-safe mechanism to cut down on risk. We cannot let sentiment cloud our judgment when the stakes are this high.".

From the other side of the room, a buzz-cut agent interjected, "If everything works out, the subjects will be beneficial, not threats. Think about it—no more containment cells, only cooperation. Imagine using their abilities for the common good under our guidance."

Dr. Krause frowned, quite clearly not believing her. "You're proposing a fantasy, and in the world of superhumans, fantasies become nightmares. You're going to utilize untapped abilities—abilities that could cause vast destruction if they malfunction. We need to be worried about their autonomy and mindset."

Cecil leaned forward, intrigued by the scientist's perspective, but excitement was in the air. Radcliffe had that glint in his eye—the same look he had when introducing revolutionary technology or unveiling new ventures. "I know you're concerned, Elena, and we do need a strong ethical guideline. But the reality is that these individuals, if they are left unchecked or misread, pose a constant threat—not just to us, but to society itself. We have a responsibility to turn potential enemies into allies."

The buzz-cut agent, who now stood against the wall, sneered. "And just think of the PR! Rehabilitating ex-threats as heroes—can you imagine the media firestorm? We'd be credited as superhuman rehabilitation pioneers. It could revolutionize the public image of our organization overnight.".

Dr. Krause shook her head, disappointment etched into her features. “You’re saying you’d rather sell a narrative than ensure these individuals receive the care they need. This isn’t an opportunity for glory; it’s about lives—theirs and ours.”

Radcliffe was getting short-tempered. "I understand that there are ethical issues, but we're not discussing playing God—we're discussing regaining control. You all know what's occurred over the past few years—how many lives were lost due to the fact that we were unable to contain threats? We cannot be naive.".

It was a classic standoff—a battle of science against ethics, of pragmatism against morality. Amidst the firecracker exchange, a soft but firm voice at the far end of the table intervened. It was that of Agent Lila Grant, a seasoned veteran and one of the older field agents who had seen the consequences of both excess and inaction firsthand.

"Director Radcliffe, if I might, the balance you're striving for is good. We've seen what occurs when we try to control that which we can never fully understand. Yes, we must devise some way of mitigating threats, but we can never lose sight of the human element here. There's a person behind these abilities, a person whose life can't be reduced to experimentation or collateral damage."

Cecil felt a surge of agreement in his own heart. He had worked with Lila and knew that her compassion was rivaled only by her commitment to justice. She was adept at bridging gaps, grasping the subtleties of human nature in an arena long ruled by hard-headed arithmetic.

Radcliffe took a deep breath, obviously frustrated. "Idealism will not save us from an angry superhuman bent on destroying us. We can't wait for the perfect solution. Time is not on our side.".

The air in the room was electric with tension, each one aware that what they had to say could mean the very fate of Project 47C. For Cecil, more was riding on this than ever before. He risked—opening his mouth not only to say what was wise, but to consider the implications of the proposal.

"Director, certainly efficiency is imperative, but perhaps we might secure the subjects in a phased assimilation process? We could begin with volunteers—that is, people who already actively seek cooperation or redemption. Perhaps they could be a bridge leading from their world to our and be respectful of their autonomy."

Radcliffe's brow wrinkled as he pondered Cecil's suggestion. "You want to treat them like partners, and not like captives?”

"Exactly," Cecil insisted, his tone even but strong. "If we can first build trust and respect, we may not only be able to utilize their abilities but include them in the healing process as well. Many of them are still struggling with their past; they should be able to reclaim their story."

Dr. Krause's eyes lit up, and Lila concurred. "Pilot programs could provide us with valuable information and feedback. We can't ignore the psychological reality of this—accepting their stories matters.".

Radcliffe rubbed his temple, weighing their words. He was torn between guarded hope and a feeling of duty—both options with risks of their own. "I'll consider phased implementation, but we have to move quickly. We have to be vigilant. If we execute Project 47C, we'll accomplish both our mission and our code."

As the meeting reached its conclusion, a subtext to the atmosphere emerged. Fear mingled with hope, since a feasible scheme began to coalesce, but the unpredictable ramifications remained threateningly suspended in the air.

At long last, the moment arrived for you to be released, hours after breakfast. Today’s agenda promised a series of activities: a straightforward flight training exercise, followed by lessons in battle strategy, and concluding with a light workout before dinner and the evening vitals assessment. As you dressed in a snug tank top and comfortable workout shorts, anticipation tingled in your veins.

Stepping out of your room, you were accompanied by Dr. Blackwell, the senior scientist in charge of your daily activities. She was a middle-aged woman whose steady presence had been a comforting normal in your life—a kind of mother figure. Dr. Blackwell's very real concern for your well-being could be observed; her compassionate heart shone benevolence like sunbeams, but she was evidently capable of holding a visible boundary marking her professionalism. Her work ethic too often appeared to be a motherly duty, a blend of instinctive caregiving and dedication to her work.

With the soles of your feet making soft, slow sounds on the cold, hard floor, the echo was dampened softly through the sterile halls, offering a rhythmic backdrop for your thoughts. Each step was sounded as if with determination, a reminder of hurdles to be cleared and opportunities to be seized.

You paused for a moment outside the training hall, a simulated room that replicated the outside world. Beyond that door lay a world where you could spread your wings, figuratively and take a headlong dive into the whirlpool of flying, strategy, and hard work that awaited. Drawing in a deep breath, you stepped forward to take the day and accept that now was your time to forge your own path in a world which had so very often appeared so restrictive.

As you pushed open the door to the training center, the familiar hum of machinery surrounded you. The simulation room was vast, its high ceiling high enough to accommodate your soaring flights. Virtual worlds—mountains, valleys, and open sky—filled the digitally created horizon, ready to challenge your skills. You could sense the anticipation rising within you, along with the familiar cautions of nervousness that preceded any crucial training session.

“Remember”, Dr. Blackwell responded, her voice stern and encouraging, as you came in. "Focus on your attitude and path. Your skills are phenomenal, but control is the key. It's not necessarily how high you can soar, but how well you can interpret wind currents and obstructions"

You nodded, leveling your breathing as you moved to the starting platform reserved for launching dives into the simulated realm. You sensed the crackling energy that thrummed beneath your skin, a presence that was familiar as you got ready to fly.

With a swift movement, you leapt off the platform, muscles tensing and releasing in a fluid burst of power. Weightlessness enveloped you, and air rushed past your face as you burst upward. The virtual sky stretched out before you, a bright blue filled with the golden hues of a simulated sun. You sliced through the air, your body automatically knowing what to do as you looped and flew.

“Great!" Dr. Blackwell shouted down from the ground. "Now, level and stabilize at fifty feet!”

You changed your position, arms extended a little and legs bending at the knees, sensing the slight change in your center of gravity. The air resistance changed as you settled, hovering motionless. Catching your breath, you stood still to appreciate the breathtaking view. The world around you was surprisingly real—the feel of the simulated ground, the creak of trees in the simulated wind, even the buzz of simulated wildlife spread across the horizon.

“Now, engage your combat maneuvers,” Dr. Blackwell instructed. “Let’s simulate a threat. Picture an enemy combatant approaching from your right!”

Adrenaline ran through you as you whirled in mid-air, instinctively assessing the imaginary foe. Your wrist cracked, your mind recalling your power to hold energy in a concentrated blast, and unleashed a tightly packed beam of energy at the figment of an enemy. It undulated through the air, electric charge crackling within it, hitting the ground near the simulated enemy.

“Good use of your energy!” Dr. Blackwell praised, her eyes sparkling with pride. “Now, let’s increase the challenge. I’ll add wind simulations and obstacles!”

Suddenly, gusts of wind assailed you, testing your agility and poise. You changed rapidly, feeling the pull of the currents and using your flight abilities to ride out the sudden shift. Swirling gusts attempted to confuse you as violently swaying limbs from simulated trees sought to deflect you. With a smooth curve, you leaned forward, making skilled passage through the simulated trees, each turn precise.

Great!" Dr. Blackwell cut through the chaos. "Now, let's create a moving target. It will be like a threat in real life!”

When the target—a swiftly darting drone—dove into sight zigzagging through the sky, your heart raced. You tracked its erratic course, deciding what to do next. With a colossal surge of power from your legs, you sprinted forward, calling on every ounce of your energy. In the blink of an eye, you were racing towards the drone, covering the ground with ease.

As you approached, you rolled hard to the side, allowing the drone to zoom on by. With a swift turn, you spun around, arm extended, your focus once again on your energy. Job done, you released a burst of power, striking the drone squarely. It exploded in a cascade of pixelated sparks, a burst of exhilaration that left you gasping.

"Now, put it all together!" Dr. Blackwell encouraged. "Take it higher!"

Your heart pounding, you flew once more, soaring to the reaches of the simulated atmosphere. You felt an almost-euphoric thrill as you soared higher, testing your limits. The ground below blurred, the world spreading out before you endlessly under your feet.

While executing a series of breathtaking flight patterns—spiral, dives, and loops—you indulged in the thrill of flying. With each action, you were inches closer to attaining not only having more control over your skills, but confidence as well.

Finally, as you reached the landing time, you focused on descending. You straightened your legs and prepared your body for a perfect landing on the practice platform. Your feet descended with perfectly executed poise, and a triumphant smile spread across your face.

"Exceptional!" Dr. Blackwell announced, her hands clasping together in genuine enthusiasm. "You really commanded today. You've improved wonderfully!"

You felt a surge of pride in your chest. The training was tough, but every minute was leading up to finding your real potential. As the day progressed, you were more dedicated than ever before to embracing not only your strengths, but also the responsibility that came with them, prepared to learn the lessons of battle tactics in the second part of your development. Today was not only another day of practice, but a turning point in your path to becoming the hero you were meant to be.

But, as with much of your life, every joyful and prideful moment was abruptly interrupted when a voice crackled to life through Dr. Blackwell's earpiece. “Yes, sir, I’ll be right there,” she responded, her tone shifting from warm to professional in an instant. She gathered herself, glancing up from her clipboard to meet your eyes. “I have to go meet with the director. He's sending someone to monitor you until I return, and they'll bring you to your lesson in battle strategy.” She departed as suddenly as she arrived.

As Dr. Blackwell departed, the same man you'd noticed earlier when you'd gone in to check your vitals a couple of days ago entered the room: He approached you, and the moment your eyes locked, something almost palpable filled the air. He didn't speak at first; rather, he looked you over with a cautious, almost gentle, expression as if he were attempting to piece together a puzzle.

“So you're the one Director Radliffe and the staff have been discussing. I finally get to meet you," he said, extending his hand for a handshake.

You took his larger hand firmly in your own, shaking it up and down, and then releasing it, with a wary mixture of curiosity.

"So, 47C, then? They still don't have a proper name for you, do they?" he taunted, a playful tone creeping into his voice.

Rolling your eyes back in frustration, you felt a bit worse for taking the bait. "Actually, they do," you replied, straightening your posture. "I'm (Y/N)."

"Ah, well (Y/N), I'm Cecil Stedman. I'm one of the best agents here," he said to you, his expression shifting to one of genuine interest. "Dr. Blackwell said you might need someone to escort you to your next training session."

You nodded, intrigued by this enigmatic agent. He was a charming sort, his presence soothing and authoritative. "It's nice to meet you, Cecil. I appreciate your help."

“Likewise. I’ve heard you’ve been making quite the impression,” he remarked, a hint of admiration in his voice. “Battle tactics can be rigorous, but I’m confident you’ll excel. Shall we?”

As you fell into step beside him, you couldn't help but see the undercurrent of tension that filled the air. It was strange, the way he seemed to sense the intensity of your training and the weight of your potential. You saw him out of the corner of your eye, noticing his features—a strong jawline, intelligent eyes, and an air of authority that was both threatening and reassuring.

"So, what's the first task in battle tactics?" you asked, desperate to shatter the silence and find out more about what was to come.

Cecil looked down at you, the edges of his lips curling into a smile. “Today, you’ll learn how to analyze your opponents and adapt your strategies in real-time. We’ll simulate various combat scenarios where you’ll need to think on your feet. It’s not just about raw power; it’s about strategy and timing.”

A surge of excitement flashed inside you. The possibility of continuing to build your skills even further—of refining your combat knowledge as well as your own abilities—was thrilling.

As you made your way through the halls of the facility, as guided by Cecil, you couldn't help but sense that today was going to be a turning point for you. This wasn't just another training session; it was a day to hone both your mind and your body, preparing yourself for whatever awaited you in this new foreign world.

"So, (Y/N)," Cecil cut you short. "Battlefield strategy—what do you know? What have they taught you so far?" You hesitated, struggling to think clearly. "Essentially positioning and the importance of understanding the landscape—but little more than that."

Cecil nodded, his face thoughtful. "Good start, but it's also important to know your allies' strengths and weaknesses. Working in a team, coordinating with others, is usually what separates victory from defeat.

As he spoke, you felt a connection building between the two of you, and that an increasing awe at this new world of heroes, tactics, and fight against impending threats was building inside. Day one, but already you could feel it deep within your own bones: you were meant for something great, and you would see it through no matter what.

Having arrived at the training room destined for combat tactics, you gazed at Cecil before proceeding to the room. The room was spacious, and there were holographic screens as well as combat simulation dummies all over the room. It was filled with activity as a team of trainees conducted various exercises.

"Welcome," a stern-looking instructor yelled, catching your attention. "Today we will be practicing adaptive strategies in battle. You will have to face different circumstances, and I demand only your best."

As the instructor fell silent, a quiet fell in the room. You felt a rush of excitement with a dash of nervousness. This training session was unlike the physical training you were accustomed to; this time, it would be a mental plunge into the intricacies of war strategies.

“(Y/N),” the instructor said, directing his attention solely toward you. “Today, we’ll focus on understanding tactics through a series of theoretical scenarios and simulations. You’ll be the centerpiece of our discussion.”

You felt the weight of his gaze, and while it was intimidating, it also fueled your determination. Awareness washed over you—this was your opportunity to learn directly and refine your strategic thinking.

"Begin at the beginning," the instructor said, getting up to turn on a computer-controlled board that bathed the room in color. Maps and battlegrounds blazed to light, colorful and intricately drawn. "Your first lesson will cover terrain analysis. Knowing your operating environment can impact your tactics as well as a battle's results.

He pointed to a precise map of a cityscape. "See the design of this place. Picture yourself standing here—a raised point with an unobstructed view—what are the benefits of this for fending off an enemy who is moving up from the north?"

You examined the map, allowing your mind to wander. "It would give me a better perspective," you replied thoughtfully. "I could see impending threats before they come to me, so I could prepare or lay an ambush."

"Right," the instructor nodded in approval. "But what are the potential threats of holding that position?" You cocked an eyebrow as you continued on to examine the terrain. "If the other side does possess ranged weapons, they will try to flank me or use cover and come in unnoticed."

"Excellent." He smiled weakly. "That's the key to battlefield awareness—constantly evaluating both your strengths and vulnerabilities."

As he ran through more situations, you were enthralled. The lesson moved along seamlessly, progressing from basic fundamentals to sophisticated theories like identifying enemy motives and behavioral patterns. Each slide was packed with anecdotes from past battles, and you listened ravenously.

"Now let's discuss opponent analysis," the instructor said, producing a list of traits to remember when your opponent is your enemy. "What kind of psychological tricks can you employ to gain the advantage?" You thought back over your past training. "Deception and misdirection would be effective—if I can make them believe that I am somewhere when in fact I am somewhere else, it might catch them off guard."

"Psychological warfare is just as powerful as physical combat." He paused, allowing you to absorb what was stated before issuing a new task. "I'd like you to develop a hypothetical plan for a two-to-one situation. You'll need to apply everything we've covered.".

With a slight leaning of recognition, you began to come up with your plan, mind working intensely. You envisioned the terrain—a steep alleyway with ambush possibilities but limited movement area. You took notes, not forgetting to consider unexpected factors that might happen in fights.

"Take your time," the instructor advised, observing as you sketched out diagrams and notes on your pad. "This is all about how fast you can adapt and strategize. Think about how your opponent will play off what you do."

After some solid thinking for a good half hour, you looked up, a sense of pride for your analysis creeping into your thoughts. "For the two-on-one fight, I would lead them into the thin alleyway, using my quickness and agility to avoid confronting them head-on. I'd create a diversion—such as by throwing something small and noisy to distract, then pounce from the back or use misdirection to drive one off the other."

"Bravo! You really grasped the fundamentals. A good strategy seeks to isolate the enemy and take advantage of their vulnerabilities." Your praise filled you with enthusiasm and confidence.

"Let's test this plan out with a simulation," he said, inputting data into the training system. The room transformed; the walls melted away into a virtual version of your alleyway. You felt a surge of adrenaline—this was no longer theory; it was going to become very real.

"Alright," he said, standing beside you as the simulation began. "It's not necessarily what you do; it's understanding how your opponents think. Implement your strategy and adjust according to their reaction."

The simulation sprang to life around you, the alley way filled with digital silhouettes and bursts of movement. You could see two aggressive figures at the other end, their

movements smooth and calculated as they positioned themselves to meet in the middle.

"Start," the instructor ordered, and you psyched yourself up.

As the attackers moved in, you executed your diversion, hurling an object that clattered on the ground just beyond your vision. The two virtual opponents exchanged a look, freezing for a moment.

You used the second to slide over to the side, establishing an ambush. As you did so, you felt the weight of your decisions—your previous analysis guiding every movement.

The leading attacker approached the noise with care, while the second hesitated, not knowing what to attempt. It was the time that you had anticipated, and your tension coursed through your system.

In a burst of tremendous speed, you struck out into the shadows, with the objective of disengaging the initial enemy and paralyzing him before the other could act. The moment felt thrilling as you allowed your survival instincts to operate.

"This is what it means to really understand strategy," the teacher told you, observing closely as you carried out your plan. "Now remember, improvise!"

When the second enemy came your way, your thoughts went wild. You could not get comfortable. You promptly adjusted, refining your strategy on the fly as you reacted to the latest events.

With a quick step, you ducked beneath the incoming blow and slid back into position with your agility. The air inside the room thickened with concentration, the ringing of your movement and the footsteps of the fighter echoing in your ears.

The simulation gamefully heightened as you waltzed around their attacks, using your knowledge of positioning to keep the upper hand. Finally, you managed to isolate the last opponent, repeating the plan you had designed in class.

When the simulation ended, the results flashed on the screen, and the outcome was a success. Your heart raced—not because of physical exertion but at the raw thrill of mental victory.

“Well done, (Y/N),” the instructor said, a rare smile breaking across his face. “You’ve not just learned the lessons today; you’ve applied them in real time with remarkable acuity. Your ability to adapt is impressive.”

You beamed at the praise, feeling a surge of pride and accomplishment course through you. “I appreciate that. I understand how important these tactics are.”

"Right," he replied, nodding his head in agreement. "The world is unpredictable these days. Having the ability to think on your feet and outsmart your competition tactically will set you apart."

As the class was over and you reviewed the lessons of the day with one another, you had a sense of closeness with your teacher—this was more than training. Every lesson developed a course towards mastery.

Determined to exceed all expectations, you left the room with a renewed sense of purpose, prepared to meet the challenges ahead of you, armed not only with authority, but with knowledge.

As the training session concluded, you were charged, buzzing with the adrenalin of the simulation and the pride of your performance. The instructor's praise lingered in your mind as you strolled with Cecil, who had stood silently throughout, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“Great job there," Cecil told you and him when you exited the training room. "I wouldn't have doubted you would do anything less, but you totally nailed those tactics."

"Thanks!" you replied, your cheeks reddening slightly with praise. "It was great to be able to apply the theory. I didn't realize how thrilling it would be to think on my feet that fast like that."

Cecil's gaze rested on you, a spark of admiration in it. "You've got a feel for it. It's not something to soak it all up; it's how you apply it in an inventive manner, and you've got that ability." The affectionate warmth and candor in his tone gave you a shiver of excitement as you proceeded along the corridor. You enjoyed these small moments of appreciation and respect; they gave wings to your ambition and desire to keep improving.

“You're making it sound so simple," you said with a wicked smile. "But I'm quite certain a whole lot of practice is still in my future."

“Sure, but you have the right attitude," he reassured. "And trust me, one of the most important qualities a hero can possess. It's what makes you stand out." You exchanged a glance, the air around you changing a fraction, becoming intimate. There was something unspoken hanging between you, a glimmer that grew with each exchange of compliment and look.

"So what's dinner in your room tonight?" he asked, breaking the silence as you turned down another hallway. "Something hopefully better than field rations night after night."

You smiled at the humor in his words. "I'm hoping for something good. But it'll probably be the same gruel they serve us every night."

"Well that doesn't sound great," he said smiling.

You felt a rush in your chest as you locked eyes with Cecil. "I could use some company while I eat. It gets kinda lonely in those rooms," you admitted, wishing your invitation expressed your desire for something more than a shared meal; it was about camaraderie in the drudgery of training life.

"Not at all; I'd be happy to assist," he replied, his voice trailing on the last word, a hint of warmth entering his voice. Glancing at you, the air between you became thick, charged with an unspoken connection. But then he clarified, "Though, we should keep things professional. I wouldn't want to cloud any waters—we're still 'colleagues' after all."

His adamant refusal to invade your space calmed the moment, filling the air with an aura of mutual respect even as your heart missed a beat at the irremediable feeling of camaraderie. Walking by your side, you couldn't help but notice the way he moved—casual but confident, his casual humor making you smile. Each conversation felt like it seeped into something more, laced with the hint of flirtation.

At last, you reached your room, and Cecil stood just outside the door, the soft sheen of overhead lights in the air about you. The moment was suspended, with both of you there, hesitating just that fraction.

"Tell me what you think of the food," he said, his voice dropping a little as if to create a more intimate rapport."

You could feel the tension growing in the air, an unspoken knowledge that perhaps this friendship was going to turn into something more.

"Okay, see you later then," you said, pushing open the door and then looking back at him again.

"Have a good one," he said, his cocky smile reassuring you as you shut the door behind you into your room.

As you closed the door, you stood there for a moment leaning against it, your heart racing, the bright chatter ringing in your mind. You were elated—not just from the practice, but from the connection you had begun building with Cecil. Dinner would no longer be just dinner; it would be a way to open up, to bond, and even flirt some more. Smiling to yourself, you headed toward the small table in the corner that had been arranged, with a new thrill of excitement not just for your task as a hero, but for the friendship that awaited you.

The last time you’d felt this flutter of excitement toward the opposite gender was long ago, during the rare occasions when the young blonde maintenance man was called in to fix your toilet. You’d purposely clogged it just to catch another glimpse of him, desperate for that brief interaction. But that was a long time ago, way back, and other than the doctors and researchers who made up your daily rhythms, there weren't really all that many young men your age you could even talk to—much less ignite anything remotely sentimental.

The doctors knew why they were alarmed. They knew how, particularly during your early teenage years, the fascination with boys, love, and relationships would only bloom. As you grew older, curiosity prevailed, fueled by the knowledge that declaring romantic interest was downright forbidden. The tension between desire and repression kept you craving attachment, spurring the ache that coursed through you today as you navigated your feelings for Cecil.

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