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The fastest way to accomplish The Project is to cease being afraid of The Project. The Project cannot maim you. The Project cannot kill you. The Project is more afraid of you than you are of it. It is okay if The Project turns out differently from how it was in your head, and it is okay if it has flaws. You are capable of engaging with The Project.
The first photo is from 1956. It shows a Black woman watching members of the Ku Klux Klan (a terrorist, racist, far-right organization focused on white supremacy) walking along a sidewalk in Montgomery, Alabama (USA). I couldn't find the photo's author, but most sources state that it was taken in 1956.
The second photo shows members of the Patriot Front group (a white supremacist and nationalist group, formed in 2017, that openly advocates what they call "American Fascism") traveling on the subway during the 250th anniversary of the U.S. independence in Washington D.C., while a Black woman watches them. The photo is by photographer Cheney Orr, taken on July 4, 2026, 70 years after the first photo.
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Every soldier had to come to terms with death. It was part of the job. Something they had to become pretty intimate with.
It brought squads together, broke others apart. The 141 weren't immune to it either. They had seen it more than they could count by now. From fresh recruits ripped away from the world to young to veterans no one thought would fall.
But the 141, contrary to other squads, had to deal with something far worse than death.
Immortality
And by God was it even worse when it came in the shape of you. You hadn't been with the team long, but they had grown so fond of you already. Which made it all the more horrible the first time it happened.
A clean head shot. Sniper. One no one could have seen coming. Dead on impact. Your brain matter scattering on the wall behind them. Your lifeless body hitting the ground as they moved into position, searching for the threat.
That part they were used to, even if it still hurt them deeply. What they weren't used to was the gasp that came out from your corpse a few seconds later. How your body started moving again, like a puppet getting its strings suddenly pulled thought. Your movements were jerky as you picked your gun back up and started moving in formation with them.
They didn't react at first, not in the middle of a firefight, but the moment things had calmed down? The freak-out was instantaneous.
Price was barking in his coms for immediate extraction while Gaz was already on you, trying to stabilize you, talking about miracles and survival chances, only to complete freeze when he saw the bone of your skull snap back into place and your skin slowly knitting itself back together as you left out what could only be described as a low, painful gurgling noise.
Ghost barely had the time to pull up his mask as he vomited at the sight alone. Soap started praying, something he hadn't done in a long time.
To say this had been a traumatizing experience was quite the understatement.
They learned pretty quickly not to talk about it to anyone else. Hell, they barely talked about it amongst themselves at the beginning.
It's not like you were trying to get yourself killed. You never were reckless, never put yourself in direct danger. But God did you seem to have shit luck.
They learned pretty quickly that your apparent immortality didn't mean you couldn't die; it meant you couldn't stay dead.
You still bled, still felt the pain, still carried the trauma of every death, even if you healed at an inhuman speed.
They never got used to it, not really, but they learned to delay their reaction to after the op, once everyone was back at base, or at whatever safe house they were staying at.
And they developed a little ritual to deal with the trauma over time. Without fail, after every op that resulted into one or more of your deaths, the moment they got back to base, they had one of the communal shower rooms cleared.
They would file in one by one, no matter who was on the op or not, and pull you in with them before locking the door behind them.
Someone, most often Ghost, would start up the showers, steaming up the room, while either Soap or Gaz would pill your gear and clothes off piece by piece, a med kit laying at the ready on a nearby bench.
It didn't matter how quickly your body could regenerate, they had learned, the hard way, and pretty early on, that your healing factor did not always expel every foreign objet from your body, that you couldn't always feel it and that you could very much still get infections from it.
So they checked. Every time, every wound. Pulled out bullets and shrapnel when need be, forced broken bones back in the right position when they didn't move by themselves, and made regular appointments for blood work and radio imaging just to be sure.
Then they would pull you under the water to clean your still recovering form. Four sets of hands on you, cleaning, scrubbing, reminding themselves you were alive, here, breathing.
It wasn't sexual, never had been, despite the many slow, tender kisses that had been exchanged a couple of times. It was soft, grounding. A way to say everything is okay now, without the actual words.
Yes, they felt better huddled close together under the warm water, but they were still dreading the day you wouldn’t get back up.
As an older queer, allow me to say: the walls of the closet are load-bearing. It is our job as a community to stand in front of that door and tell everyone who wants to peek inside to fuck off.
There are so many reasons a person may choose not to come out and there is no reason a person would owe the public or a stranger that information. Certainly it's not owed simply because someone is famous.
We have fought for decades to make it safer for people to be open and authentic about themselves, but we are not yet there. And even if we were, the closet would still be something we need to maintain for those who are not ready to reveal that part of themselves.
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You've always wanted a baby. You wanted to grow a family full of love and light, everything that was the complete opposite of your own childhood.
After a busy life, you've done just that. Great house, great car, great job.
Except... no one is interested in starting a family with you.
The universe is strange and will give you what you want and more
TW: 18+, MDNI, there's a baby in my fic, smut, poly 141 x Reader, pregnancy, birth, babies, 141 not nice men at first but they want to make it right, mentions of previous childhood abuse and neglect, angst with a happy ending
(Divider made by @/enchanthings)
Part 1) All That She Wants Is (Another) Baby
Part 2) Havin' My Baby, What a Wonderful Thing
Part 3) Please, Don't Leave The Baby
Part 4) Go To Sleep, Little Baby
Part 5) Feed me baby, I'm hungry
Part 6) Rest with me baby, just for a moment
Part 7) Crash into me, baby, take care of me
Part 8) Baby, taste me
Part 9) Take me to the park, baby, then let me show you how it's done
the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be apart of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.
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"Thought I heard Dad telling you to get rid of these panties." Each of Simon's angry words was punctuated by a rough pull to your underwear. The fabric burns between your cheeks, your soft whimpers muffled by Ghost's hairy cunt smothering your face.
"You call that cock sucking? How are you gonna take Dad's cock if you can't take mine?" He shudders when your tounge laps the bottom of his twitching t-dick. He didn't want to admit it. He couldn't, but you were bringing him closer and closer to his peak.
You whine desperately when he tugs you up off your knees, squeezing your head between his thighs. He shudders, thrusting against your tongue when he finally reaches his peak. "You're going tonget rid of your panties, and you're going to learn to suck me off." The next yank to your panties is brutal enough to rip the fabric, a pained sob dribbling tears onto his thighs.
"You won't let our Dad down, you understand?" He grunts as he finally lets your head free, staring at the slick and tears all over your face. "Not after everything he's done for me and now you, runt." He gathers your torn panties up in his hands, pocketing them into his vest.
"Can I suck you off again, please?" You plea, staring down at his swollen t-dick. "I can get better, I promise." Simon chuckles softly as he grips your hair, tugging you back between his legs. God, you were just like him when he first started, when Dad first set his sights on him.
"That's what I like to hear, runt. You're going to learn today."
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