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rederiswrites · 8 months ago

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I wrote this out for FB and then thought I might as well share it here as well. So if you have ADHD, are a late-diagnosed adult with ADHD, and most particular if you are a person with a uterus and/or have children, this one might be for you.

...

Last couple of days have been a little...weird. Let's start at the beginning. Buckle up and learn something.

As many of you already know, I have ADHD. It's a condition with a PR problem--a lot of people, often even medical professionals, have a very distorted idea of what it does, and a very limited one. For starters, it's not about parenting, or lead paint, or lack of discipline. It's genetic, *highly* heritable, starts in childhood and persists throughout life, and is a sufficiently severe disability that it comes with a decrease in life expectancy of up to 13 years. It is a visible difference that can be perceived in brain scans. These are all, at this point, well established and thoroughly attested in the scientific literature. ADHD affects up to 5% of the population and appears across cultures. It is very common.

It's not just about lack of attention--in fact, plenty of medical professionals think the name should be changed, as in fact the problem isn't the volume of attention but the way we struggle to direct it. We are motivated by interest, and struggle to properly weight future goals and consequences, specifically because they are in the future. If the robin outside the window is more immediately rewarding to our brain, we will watch that, and not the teacher. Our ability to properly weigh the consequences of that choice is negatively impacted by our own biochemistry.

We struggle with many of what are termed the "executive functions", the self management systems of the brain. Degree and presentation varies from person to person, but initiating tasks, completing tasks, staying ON task, restraining impulses, emotional regulation, and working memory are among the things impacted. My working memory is notoriously horrible. When they send you those activation codes on your phone? I often have to go back and read them out several times to enter a six digit number. I have to stop and remind myself what I'm doing between every step of my morning bathroom routine, or making tacos. Sometimes I take off my glasses to put on my contacts, reset, and reach for my pill bottles while I still can't see. My long-term memory is also affected, with my husband de facto serving as the memory-holder of the family.

Another common symptom I personally experience is "time blindness", which can mean both that you have no "internal clock" that has a clear idea of the passage of time, and that our ability to properly weight the importance of things in the future is impacted. So, for example, I can know intellectually what's coming, but it takes some really complex and exhausting antics to actually focus and work on those things if they're more than a week or sometimes even a couple days away.

Without externally imposed controls, many ADHD people flounder and fail to meet social markers of success. Estimates of how many ADHD people manage to complete college range from 5% to 15%. Again: 5% to 15%! I have failed twice myself. WITH externally imposed controls, ADHD people often have to work far harder to make their brains do what is required, and either fail and develop an image of themselves as failures (usually with plenty of external help), or keep fighting and suffer crippling burnout.

To that point, ADHD is HIGHLY comorbid with a whole range of knock-on conditions, some of which stem from the same brain patterns that give rise to the ADHD itself, and others from the trauma of living with a disability, but they include very high rates of depression, anxiety, fibromyalgia, social isolation, and addiction. I have dealt with depression, anxiety, and fibromyalgia my entire adult life. I have never ended up in the trap of self-medication but let's be real, that's partly about having supports and a healthy social environment. It's not some accomplishment I praise myself for, nor is addiction a sin I shame anyone for.

And anxiety has a very different texture to it when what you're really anxious about is the next time you fail in some catastrophic way. Lock your keys in the car. Completely space on a doctor's appointment. Go to pay for groceries and find that your wallet is next to your computer at home. Because the anxiety is not irrational fear of some generalized bad thing. These things do and will happen, regularly. Sometimes it feels like the only fix is getting good at recovering. Because no matter how many times you manage not to blow it, there's always another chance.

So, the struggle to be a reliable person, to be a consistent parent, to be a dependable life partner, is continuous. And it is so so so hard and it sometimes feels like you're not actually making any progress at all. I have tried therapy. I have tried three (or four??) different non-stimulant medications that sometimes help people. One of them DID help. ALL of them had catastrophic side effects. There were times as I was trialing these medications when I needed to be minded because I wasn't capable of taking care of anything, not even myself. Without Jacob, I don't know where I'd be. Not here. Probably in poverty, which is where he found me.

I have tried probably most organizational tools you know of. I have tried imposing schedules, all of which turned to dust and ash when the next fibromyalgia flareup or the next major life disruption happened. I don't think a new schedule has ever lasted a month before.

I HAVE felt like I'm made progress lately. I learned things that really helped my fibromyalgia, which gave me the space to work on other things--just like getting the borders of a puzzle finished. Enough things were spiraling upwards, and I think I might be cementing some gains. I have felt optimistic.

But in the meantime, I asked my doctor if, now that no less than three cardiologists have insisted my heart is Perfectly Healthy, I could finally try stimulant medications. After decades of use, Adderall, Ritalin, and a couple related stimulant drugs are still the gold standard for ADHD treatment and improve outcomes substantially for many people. And stimulants are in serious international shortage. Have been for many months. The only one she thought she could get me was Adderall. And she didn't dare try anything but the standard 30mg because nonstandard dosages would be even less attainable.

So now I'm taking Adderall. One week on 30mg, which I stopped when it was clear my function was being seriously impaired rather than improved. Reassessed with the doctor, now trying 60mg, because that's two of the pills I've already managed to obtain. It is....too much. And in some ways it fixes problems I wasn't working on, while so far making my executive function, my initiation or even *contemplation* of tasks, virtually nonexistant. Which was, of course, the thing I was trying to fix.

So yeah. When you have the context, I figure you can understand the substance of my frustration yourself. If you have children, I don't think you need my help to imagine what it would be like to know that you are unpredictable, or to see that your children are used to to you undergoing events that make you act strangely and erratically. I think just knowing that often, new medications introduce themselves by giving me a migraine, and I know this is possible when I take that first pill, is fairly self-explanatory. And so I expect you can imagine what it would be like, with all of this as a backdrop, to experience worsening of your symptoms, probably because of age-related hormonal changes. To in desperation try something you'd previously been denied. And to learn that it probably won't help.

In a week, I will either give up on Adderall for now or find a way to make it work. I'll put together the pieces yet again--at this point, possibly my strongest personal skill--and continue that upward climb as far as I can get. I'm incredibly fortunate in that regardless, I will be fed and dry and warm and loved. But right now, I feel justified in some serious dismay.

#ADHD

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karinadele · 4 months ago

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Hydromorphone

Ratchet x Reader pt:3 pt:1 pt:2

A/N: so hard to write... I just write less and less for each block... might need to revisit before I post on AO3 properly..

Warnings: Obsessed!Ratchet, Pregnancy, Medical, Literally giving birth, Still a little dead dove

Half a year seems like an eternity usually. Yet in the blink of an eye, 9 months have gone by. Ratchet has grown increasingly close to you. With each tidbit of knowledge that you’ve taught him about the human reproductive system, it only fuels his desire to become yours. And it doesn’t help that the lingering image of not needing to mass displace keeps circulating in his processors. He doesn’t want to hurt you, but something about being able to take him whole –as he is, makes him heat to his spark.

You’ve noticed it too. His devotion to you. It’s not everyday someone will physically transform themselves for your wellbeing. And yet, he’s done exactly that.

As you lay down on the berth in the medbay, Ratchet has one servo on it, the other holding you.

Learning about the medical practice of performing ultrasounds to see the inside of you, he worked on his servos to transform it into one. One directly linked to him.

One would think it’s uncomfortable to have human data– data of another life, transmitted directly to you. But not Ratchet. To be able to physically be in contact with you. To be able to see the life you’re bringing in, with nothing but a few layers of flesh between.

Pouring the ultrasound gel on your stomach as you let out a small whimper. The cold and sticking texture being rubbed on with a single digit by Ratchet. You know he’s just doing this to check on you, but the difference in texture is just too much for you to not notice.

Ratchet instantly filed that sound into his processors. Not showing any difference in his displayed emotions, but his vents gave off a wave of hot air.

Sliding his now servo transformed transducer, as he glides it across your belly. You may not be able to see the sonogram, but he has it all recorded. Every movement inside you, of the baby, straight into his core processors.

He could project it so that you can see the sonogram, but there was no need. Your regular appointments with human doctors has kept you up to date about how the baby is doing. This? This is just for Ratchet’s own peace of mind. Allowing him to be a little self indulgent about it. Perhaps one of the last times before your due date. As a doctor, you couldn’t deny his chance to have first hand –servo experience on studying the human body.

You may think it’s just all in scientific endeavors, but Ratchet wants this just to be close to you. He won’t lie, studying human life is intriguing, but it’s because it’s you. Cybertron’s population only dwindles with the war, and to know that humans reproduce so easily… Only makes him think that perhaps, he could have a part in it.

Unsurprisingly, throughout this journey, you two have grown quite close. Bonding over the shared joy of a new life –albeit, was neither of yours, two being with nothing but love for life.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

“YOU WHAT?!” Ratchet exclaimed.

“MY WATER BROKE RATCHET.” You yell back. Stern and steady, but also panicking internally.

Pulling himself away from his work, panic rings through him. What do you mean your water broke?! Does he call June right now?! Do you even have time?!

“Hold on, I’ll call June–”

You cut him off. “Ratchet! Forget her! By the time she gets here, It’ll already be over!”

Ratchet has no idea what to do. There’s no other bots on base, and he’s definitely not equipped to deliver a human baby.

“Ratchet!” You call out. “For fuck’s sake Ratchet! You’re an ambulance!” You finally snap with the strength you have left.

He’d nearly forgotten. There may be no other bots on base, but he is an emergency vehicle. Hurriedly he punches in the coordinates of the nearest hospital into the groundbridge. Not even remembering that there’s no one on base to close it after. Picking you up from the couch as he puts you down on the ground next to him.

Taking a step aside as he transforms into his alt mode. “Get in.” He tells you.

Scrambling with a groan as you put your knee up into the ambulance’s back, climbing onto the stretcher. You’re fine. You tell yourself as you lay on the stretcher –why is there even a stretcher in here? Staring up to the ceiling of the van– of Ratchet. …Inside Ratchet?

Driving through the groundbridge as he switches his sirens on, speeding towards the hospital. Never in his life did he feel so helpless for a medical emergency. And to think, it’s you.

You on the other hand, amongst the painful grumbles and heavy panting, didn’t even realize you were crowning. Unable to hear anything Ratchet is saying, or the sirens, as all of your senses are dulled just trying to focus on whether to clench your muscles, or to just start pushing.

In the end, the body’s biology wins. Without even noticing, you cry out in pain, push after push.

Ratchet can't believe it. Not only did you give birth, but it happened in him. Of all beings this child has encountered, it was you and him. Primus help him.

Pulling up at the hospital, Ratchet’s calm demeanor is being washed with a wave of panic. Deciding the only way is to pull out a holoform. He couldn’t transform with you in him, or just drive into the hospital. A projection of his human avatar flickers into life in the driver’s seat. A middle aged man with dirty blonde hair and teal blue eyes opens the driver’s door as he steps out to carry you in. Pulling out the stretcher as it lands on the asphalt and rolling you into the hospital. Explaining to the intake staff your situation as you cradle the newborn, umbilical cord still attached. A bloody mess.

Soon enough, you’re upstairs in the maternity ward, with the doctors examined, your friends, and a holoform of Ratchet.

Ratchet doesn’t know who these two men are, or why they’re here. Nor do the couple know who Ratchet is. Unable to answer them when they asked for Ratchet’s relationship to you as he stammered.

“I’m her conj–” He stopped himself. Is he even your conjunx? Have you also accepted him? Would the human equivalent be ‘partner?’

“I’m her friend.” He ended up correcting himself. “The one that drove her here.” At least that part isn’t a lie.

What are these two men to you? They seem awfully attached to you, both sitting next to you as they cradle the newborn. Your child, in their hands. An internal turmoil of an unknown feeling battles in him. Frowning as he stares at the three of you. Wishing it was he that was next to you, holding your sparkling.

Jealousy.

Clenching his servos as he tells himself that you’re his. That he will mark you, have you carry his sparkling, That he’ll own you AND never let anyone else have contact with you. Certainly not the way these two men have.

#transformers #rambles #maccadam #transformers x reader #transformers x human #ratchet x reader #ratchet x human #Obsessed!Ratchet #medical inaccuracies #whos writing this... cause it aint me... ??? fuck am i on #i need to be drunk to write this

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casstheasswrites · 28 days ago

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NO SAINTS, NO SAVIOURS (5)

pairing: frank castle x reader (female)

summary: wrong place, wrong time. he saved her life, she patched him up. that should’ve been the end of it. some nights, you survive. others, you change.

trigger warnings: canon typical violence including blood and death. ptsd, trauma, eventual smut. at times, you get soft!frank. at others, he takes no prisoners. we love the duality of man <3

chapter length: 4.2k

authors note: in case you want more of this story faster, i've got nine chapters posted on my AO3 (linked below). just going to start double posting here on tumblr too :) i hope you enjoy and pls pls send me a message with your feedback or thoughts, if you have any! thanks a million.

archive of our own / feedback appreciated!

An hour or two later and the hospital had gone quiet. Visiting hours had come and gone, the emergency room had mostly cleared out, save for those with non-urgent ailments or injuries, and the nurses station was reduced to the in-between skeleton shift. You hang around, all the same, some inexplicable pull to those men in trauma room six at the end of the hall keeping you rooted here, unable to head home. You know you should go— should have gone long ago, really— but you simply can’t. Since your moment outside their room with Max, you’ve only caught sight of him in passing, while you moved from room to room, treating your other patients or checking on the men who had their unfortunate run-in with Frank earlier in the night.

Max and his partner take turns stationed outside and inside their room, but even when you are alone with him and checking their vitals, he doesn’t speak to you. Instead, he watches you, the weight of his eyes tracking your back as you move enough to tell you everything you need to know. It seems he still doesn’t know what to make of your words out in the hallway; like you’ve become more of a mystery to him, now, than you were before. And you were probably plenty mysterious then, too, given that the two of you had never spoken beyond the walls of your workplace.

The men cannot be transferred to NYPD holding cells until their imaging results come back, and those typically take a few hours, even at the best of times. After you’d managed to catch up to Dr. Murphy, he had come along to check on the patients with you, echoing your concerns about the man with the head injury. He’d been moved up the list for a CT scan, but now, you were playing the waiting game.

At the thought, you refreshed the digital medical chart system in front of you at the nurse’s station, watching as the pinwheel spun and spun, loading anything new that had come through. After a few more seconds, the pinwheel disappeared. Still no results from radiology. You breathed out a harsh exhale, teeth digging into your lower lip. For one reason or another, you felt this heavy weight settled on your chest, like you needed to get these men discharged and out of here as soon as possible. It was itching at the back of your scalp, but each time you lifted a hand to try and quell the sensation, it disappeared.

With a brief glance at the computer screen that displayed each of the vitals for your patients, you confirm everything is sound, and excuse yourself to the break room on the far side of the ER. One of the older nurses, a no-nonsense woman named Pam, promises to keep an eye on things while you refill your water bottle and grab a snack. You need the fuel to keep going; you already know you won’t be heading home now until those men are transferred out and someone else’s problem. As you follow the familiar route to the break room and your locker within it, your thoughts begin to wander. Questions stumble to the surface of your mind, replaying on an endless loop.

Why had Frank let these men go? Did he see them as something less than evil, perhaps a complicated version of innocent-adjacent? The man who Max had questioned had admitted to nothing more than being a driver; if that were true, then perhaps they hadn’t done enough to meet Frank’s threshold of good versus evil.

But if that were the case... why had he hurt them at all, rather than warning them off and letting them go? This was an abnormality, where the Punisher was concerned. A grey area you didn’t know how to navigate.

You opened the combination lock of your assigned locker, pulling it open and rifling through your bag in search of the protein bar you’d packed that morning. The weapon you’d picked up all those weeks ago was not here with you; you’d never make it past the metal detectors in the hospital lobby with something like that. Instead, you’d tucked it beneath your bed, stored alongside your summer clothes and old shoes you didn’t wear as often anymore. It was an odd realization that a weapon capable of killing was beneath you every night while you slept, housed beside sandals and shoes with kitten heels. Finally, your fingertips landed on the familiar sensation of the bars wrapper and you pulled it free, making quick work of opening it before you took a bite.

Your thoughts had begun to spiral, the obsession within you taking over every second that passed. You knew it wasn’t healthy. Worse— you knew it wasn’t safe. But there was no fear here, in the quiet moments where you simply stood at your locker and pondered the why’s. There was only a desire to know more, to understand more, to find the answers you so desperately sought. Frank hadn’t wanted to tell you anything more than exactly what you needed to know that night.

What were the odds, then, that you could try and find some of those answers on your own?

In a few more bites, you finished the protein bar and slammed your locker shut. You tossed the wrapper into the trash and refilled your water bottle, pausing for only one more moment as you left the break room. Near the door that led back out onto the floor, there was a mirror affixed to one side of the wall. You caught a glimpse of yourself there, and the frown on your face only deepened at the sight. Beneath your eyes were deep bags, likely darker than they’d ever been; you’d stopped bothering with makeup a week or two ago, realizing that no amount of concealer was going to even out the darkness permanently embedded there.

But beyond the darkness beneath your eyes, you appeared normal. You looked like yourself. Dark hair pulled back in a long braid, a black headband holding the fly aways out of your face. You hadn’t noticed until now, but your scrubs hung looser than they used to. You were shrinking— and not just in size.

One of the lights behind you in the break room flickered, then, drawing your attention, and your stomach gave an uncomfortable twist.

You took that as your cue to move on and so you did, turning away from the mirror and stepping out of the breakroom. As you began down the hallway, clutching your freshly filled water bottle in your hand, you began to hear something familiar— it was the sound of a heartrate monitor letting out an alert. An alert that a patient was flatlining. Your steps quickened into a run, eyes flaring wide as you reached the empty nurse’s station. Where the hell was Pam?

Your head whipped towards the sound of the monitor, then, eyes falling to the end of the hallway, outside of trauma room six. Neither Max nor his partner were stationed outside the room as they should have been and the door was shut, no light bleeding from inside out into the hallway. That familiar sense of dread, the one that had become an unwanted passenger inside of you for these past few weeks, returned ten-fold. Your throat closed over. Something was very, very wrong. Your body wanted to freeze— but your feet were already moving. Your water bottle was forgotten at the nurse’s station, alongside any rational thought to alert someone, call for security, hit a panic button, anything. You were not operating on rational thought anymore. Now it was purely instinct in control.

Though the hallway had never felt longer, you reached the door to trauma room six in record time. The only sound you could hear beyond the racing of your heart was the incessant beeping of the monitor inside— the incessant reminder that someone was dying. That someone was likely already dead.

The door was pressed firmly shut and so you reached for the handle, pushing it open with no more than a moment of hesitation. As you stepped inside, you blinked a handful of times, trying to make sense of what laid before you; the lights had been switched off, the room bathed in darkness and a familiar scent had joined that of the antiseptic you’d used hours earlier to clean the men’s wounds— it was a metallic scent, one you knew too well.

Blood.

As you stepped further inside, one hand reaching blindly for the light switch on the wall to your left, your feet nearly fell out from beneath you as you slid on something wet and sticky. Anxiety ripped at the seams of your composure, a gentle squeak of surprise pressing past your lips as you reached back for the doorhandle to steady yourself. You caught yourself just in time, and as you did, your other hand found the light switch and turned it on. Your world was suddenly bathed in brightness, illuminating the room around you.

The first thing you saw was the blood. No wonder the scent of it had been so strong.

It was smeared across the linoleum floor in thick, uneven strokes. Even to your own eyes, you knew it was too much. Too much for anyone to survive. You followed the line of it a few more feet, your entire body beginning to tremble.

And then you saw him.

A broken sound caught in your throat, a scream that never made it past your lips.

Max was slumped against the wall, legs bent awkwardly, back bowed like he’d folded in on himself. His eyes were open— dark, unblinking. Unseeing. He was gone.

His hands rested in his lap, stained deep red. As if, in his final moments, he’d tried to stop the bleeding. Tried to hold himself together.

Tears blurred your vision. Your breath caught and your knees threatened to give out.

The high-pitched wail of the heart monitor dragged your focus toward the bed across the room, and for one suspended heartbeat, you forgot how to breathe.

Because you weren’t alone.

There was a hood pulled over the figure’s head, obscuring your line of sight to his face, and when your gaze dipped to the man who Max had questioned earlier in the night, you saw nothing but more blood. Crimson soaked the bedding and the pillow beneath his head, seemingly rushing from a long slash wound across his neck. A fresh one.

There was so much blood that it had begun to drip down onto the floor, creating a puddle near the side of the bed.

He, too, was gone.

The figure who had killed them both lifted his head, then, and you finally realized you hadn’t been able to see his face because he was wearing a mask. It obscured the entirety of what made him recognizable, the only thing left within sight were his eyes. From this distance, they appeared to be a cold, empty blue. A pit as bottomless as the depths of the ocean.

He didn’t rush in his movements; he simply stepped back from the bed slowly, methodically. Like he’d done this before— like he would do this again. Your heart lurched at the thought, because now, his sights were set on you. You stumbled backwards, sneakers sliding in the mess beneath your feet, nearly causing you to lose your footing again. This man was a killer, and in his hand, his weapon of choice— a long blade with a serrated edge, coated in the blood of the two men he’d already killed. You knew without hesitation that it was the type of weapon that would not only kill… but cause a whole lot of pain, too.

The gravity of the moment did not seem to dawn on you as it should have. Perhaps it was the weeks of immersing yourself in the Punisher’s world— the article upon article that you’d read, filled with graphic depictions of the types of people he often found himself at odds with. Or maybe it was because, deep down, you’d begun to lose some part of yourself… the part of yourself that had still had an ounce of spark left within her. A desire to keep on living.

The latter thought proved itself wrong— because as the man reached the end of the hospital bed that separated you two, your gaze flickered away from him, instead drawn to Max’s fallen body. The mere sight of him caused your stomach to roll with unease and nausea, but that’s not what had caused you to look down at him. Because there, as you followed the line of his belt, you spotted exactly what you’d been looking for.

What was that saying, again?

Never bring a knife to a gun fight.

You lunged towards Max’s body without a moment of hesitation, your knees sticking to the blood that pooled on the tile below. Your hands shook violently, in fact, your entire body trembled— your teeth clattered against each other, your chin wobbling as terror overcame every inch of you. But you didn’t want to die; you wouldn’t die, not like this. The words replayed over and over again in your mind, even as you heard the footsteps of the man approaching you grow closer.

He was overconfident, his movements were not nearly rushed enough. He didn’t think you were of any concern to him; an easy target to identify and eliminate. Rage burned a pathway through your midsection at the mere thought; you wanted nothing more than to prove him wrong.

You pushed Max’s arm out of the way and twisted your wrist, ripping the pistol free of his hip holster just as you caught sight of the shadow of the man rise above you, casting darkness over the wall before you. You shouted— raw, furious, terrified, and threw yourself backwards and away from Max’s body. As you slid backwards, you twisted at the waist, lifting the pistol out into the mere foot or two of space that separated you and the man who wished you dead.

Your fingers closed around the trigger and you didn’t pause, didn’t hesitate— your eyes pinched shut and you squeezed. Your entire body jolted with the momentum of the shot, your arms pitching in the direction of the ceiling. You’d never once shot a gun before, never once been at the helm of something so deadly and so dangerous. Your shoulder blades flared in protest, pain lashing down your right side. The sound of the heartrate monitor had finally ceased— but that made no sense. You hadn't switched it off. Your eyes slowly reopened, but you had to blink to clear your vision. Your ears rang. A pressure bloomed at your temples— sharp, hot, like a tension headache left untreated too long.

There was movement ahead of you. Your attacker was not dead. He had fallen to the floor a few feet away and as your eyes widened at the realization, you noticed that he was trying to hoist himself to his feet, though seemingly not with much luck. You’d wounded him, but he was not dead.

You bent your knees and began shoving yourself away, away, away, as quickly as you could, your arms trembling roughly, the gun rattling in your grasp. Your sneakers slid against the blood on the floor, causing you to slip once more. A curse spilled past your lips, involuntary. You did not want to shoot again; you couldn't bare the thought of doing that twice. Your sense of the moment was distorted, though— your vision still partially blurred, hearing fuzzy, the only real sound you could pinpoint was the screaming of your heart.

This time, when the attacker tried, he managed to stumble to his feet. He was unsteady, seemingly wounded, and as his figure rose above you, you caught sight of a bleeding wound on his left shoulder, blood pouring from it and causing the black of his shirt to darken and stick to his skin. The moment continues simply because you missed.

Your lip’s part and you scream— or try to. Your throat burned with the effort, but you can’t even hear your own voice. As the man stumbled a step towards you, you notice that his eyes have gone wild— they flash with a rage that burns so hot, you have no choice but to lift your trembling hands once more. Down the barrel of the gun you watch him approach, your index finger wrapping around the trigger again. You’ll do it again. You have to. The only choice here is him or you.

But instead, there is a flash that fills the room and you flinch as a hole suddenly appears in the center of the man’s forehead, blood instantly pouring from the wound and leaking down the length of his mask. He collapses backward, falling like a tree split clean through at the base. As his dead weight hit the floor, you flinched once more, aching shoulders rising towards your ears as you close in upon yourself. Your fingers are nearly locked in place, wrapped around the gun, and you settle it against one trembling knee.

Your lips are moving once more, whispering to yourself, as if somehow the words you cannot hear will calm the pounding of your heart.

“He’s dead,” you said, over and over again. An unending loop.

And as your gaze shifted from the man who had attacked you, instead turning to land on the lifeless body of Max, the words continued. Tears blurred your vision and you blinked hard, but it only made it worse. Grief swells inside you, sharp and hot— but it doesn’t come alone. Anger bubbled beneath your skin right alongside it, overtaking it with ease. Anger had always been easier for you.

You lifted one trembling hand— the one not still locked around the gun— and wipe at your cheeks. But the tears kept coming. They wouldn't stop.

You didn't know who you were crying for anymore. Him or you.

The ringing in your ears slowly began to fade; you only noticed because suddenly, you can hear the broken sound of your own voice— cracked and strained from the screams you’d released in the moments that led you here. You pressed your lips together and bit down on the inside of your cheek, trying desperately to stop the tears that continue to fall. You grasped for whatever strength you can find, pulling from a tank you’d thought was long since emptied. Somehow, you find a little more.

After another beat or two, the tears began to slow. Then stop altogether.

And then a hand landed on your back— steady, gentle, a palm pressed between your shoulder blades.

You jolt at the contact, adrenaline flooding your system all over again. You twisted instinctively, momentarily forgetting that someone else had ended this for you.

As you turned, he lowered himself to your level, crouching just a foot away. Shock of dark hair and eyes, an outfit of only black, a vest with a white skull affixed to the front. Well worn combat boots, laced tightly, all the way to the top.

The mere sight of him broke whatever fragile resolve you'd managed to scrape together.

Your face crumples, eyebrows knitting together in pain. Your eyes slam shut as another round of tears begins to spill free.

“You did good,” he murmured, the tone of his voice so soft, you believe for a moment you’ve misheard him. But when you find the strength to wrench open your eyes, he is staring directly into them, and you find an assortment of amber flecks within the coffee colour of his irises.

The hand at your back slides to your shoulder, fingers curling just enough to anchor you— to remind you: you’re still here. You survived. You overcame.

The same could not be said for many others. At the thought, you turn your head once more, eyes wandering back to the fallen body of Max. Funny, kind, gentle Max. He deserved so much more than this; so much more than whatever story would be spun from the web of lies you were sure would come from this night. Your lips parted as if you intended to speak, say something, but no words came. What could you say? What would possibly be enough?

You'd denied it to yourself, but the truth was, he was your friend. And now he was dead.

“You can’t save everyone.” Frank said after another beat, capturing your attention all over again. You tore your eyes from Max and looked at the man in front of you instead, gaze tracing over the hard lines of his face, searching for something— answers, maybe— that weren’t there.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, voice barely more than a whisper.

“We don’t have time,” he said, shaking his head. His eyes met yours, then flicked down. He lifted a brow, the tilt of it asking a question. You followed his gaze, coming across the gun still clutched within your grasp. You hadn’t even realized you were still holding it. Your brow furrowed, asking a question of its own. Frank raised one hand slowly, motioning toward it. You nodded once and handed it over, your fingers still trembling— not just from the weight of the weapon, but from the weight of what you'd done with it.

He took it gently and flicked on the safety. Then tucked it behind him, likely into the waistband of his jeans. Without a word, he stood, and there was something so clinical about his movements— so calm and practiced. You couldn’t help but watch, in awe. As he rose, he reached down, his hand finding yours.

“Come on,” he said, giving you nothing more than a gentle pull before you were rising to your feet, too. “We have to go.”

“Go?” you echoed, your voice verging on incredulous. “Go where?”

“The other nurse managed to hit the panic button before he killed her,” he said in a rush, his eyes darting out into the hallway, seemingly on edge. You could sense the tension in his body, too. He wanted out of here— and he wanted out of here now. “This place is about to be swarming with cops. I can’t be here when that happens.”

Shock flickered through you, settling at your core like a heavy stone tossed into shallow water. Pam was dead, too. How many other victims might there be, tucked away at the end of a hallway, or concealed in a room with a closed door?

Frank still had one of your hands clutched in his own and he gave your arm a gentle tug, causing you to stumble forward a few steps.

“I can’t just leave, Frank,” you insisted, shaking your head, your lips beginning to quiver. “I’ve been clocked in all day; there’s a record of me being here.”

He went silent, then; and you watched as his lips pressed together so tightly, they began to turn white. His jaw worked and his hand fell from yours, instead lifting to run down the length of his face, a rough sigh filled with nothing but exasperation falling into the air between you.

“What do we do?” you prodded, eyebrows furrowing, the concern in your voice evident as you stared at him, searching for answers.

“Alright, alright,” Frank said through a tight breath— no anger, just tension. His hand curved along the length of his jaw, fingers digging into his skin as he walked you through the next steps, calm and still, just as you’d expect him to be. “You talk to them, only as long as you have to. Give a statement and be as honest as you can. I wasn’t here— you killed him on your own.”

You flinched at the implication— that you would offer that piece of information up, admit to taking this man’s life, though you hadn’t been the one to do it. You would have— you could have. But Frank had saved you from that fate.

This time.

“It was self defense,” he said, voice soft, reaching back out towards you, his hand returning to your shoulder in that gentle, grounded way of his. He had caught the look on your face— noticed how your entire body revolted at the thought of implicating yourself in such a way. You leaned into his touch, eyes falling shut for just a few beats of your heart. This was the only reprieve you would have and so you clung to it, for as long as you could. “They’ll offer you protective custody while they do the investigation… you’ll have to work your way out of that somehow. You’re smart, you can figure it out.”

You weren’t sure. But the way he looked at you— the intensity in his eyes— it made you believe he was. And that was enough.

Frank removed his hand from your shoulder and you instantly grew cold, missing the point of contact. His shoulders rose and he reached behind him, retrieving the one item you’d be happy to never see again for as long as you lived.

“Here,” he said, offering the weapon back to you. His mouth curved, faint— almost amused. “You’ll need this.”

You reached into the space between you and, with great hesitation, wrapped your fingers once more around the grip of the gun. You pulled it towards you, your gaze focused solely on the black metal of it, and then you rolled over the bottom of your scrub top and began to wipe all along the weapon, trying to erase any evidence that Frank had been here at all. When you’d finished, you lifted your gaze back to him, noting that he was watching you intently. His dark eyebrows were raised, almost like he was impressed that you’d thought to do such a thing.

You wanted to tell him that you'd watched plenty of shows and movies, knew a thing or two, but the words died at the back of your throat.

His eyes scanned the room once more, and when he seemed happy enough with the state of things, he gave you a short nod and began to back away. You stumbled forward, following him, words rising up your throat before you could stop.

“I need to see you, after…”

“I know. I’ll be waiting.”

After one more moment of delayed eye contact, he turned away and disappeared down the hallway and out of sight.

#frank castle #frank castle fanfic #frank castle fanfiction #frank castle x reader #frank castle x you #the punisher #the punisher fanfic #the punisher fanfiction #the punisher x reader #the punisher x you #no saints no saviours #no saints no saviours 5

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tangentiallly · 6 months ago

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One way to spot patterns is to show AI models millions of labelled examples. This method requires humans to painstakingly label all this data so they can be analysed by computers. Without them, the algorithms that underpin self-driving cars or facial recognition remain blind. They cannot learn patterns.

The algorithms built in this way now augment or stand in for human judgement in areas as varied as medicine, criminal justice, social welfare and mortgage and loan decisions. Generative AI, the latest iteration of AI software, can create words, code and images. This has transformed them into creative assistants, helping teachers, financial advisers, lawyers, artists and programmers to co-create original works.

To build AI, Silicon Valley’s most illustrious companies are fighting over the limited talent of computer scientists in their backyard, paying hundreds of thousands of dollars to a newly minted Ph.D. But to train and deploy them using real-world data, these same companies have turned to the likes of Sama, and their veritable armies of low-wage workers with basic digital literacy, but no stable employment.

Sama isn’t the only service of its kind globally. Start-ups such as Scale AI, Appen, Hive Micro, iMerit and Mighty AI (now owned by Uber), and more traditional IT companies such as Accenture and Wipro are all part of this growing industry estimated to be worth $17bn by 2030.

Because of the sheer volume of data that AI companies need to be labelled, most start-ups outsource their services to lower-income countries where hundreds of workers like Ian and Benja are paid to sift and interpret data that trains AI systems.

Displaced Syrian doctors train medical software that helps diagnose prostate cancer in Britain. Out-of-work college graduates in recession-hit Venezuela categorize fashion products for e-commerce sites. Impoverished women in Kolkata’s Metiabruz, a poor Muslim neighbourhood, have labelled voice clips for Amazon’s Echo speaker. Their work couches a badly kept secret about so-called artificial intelligence systems – that the technology does not ‘learn’ independently, and it needs humans, millions of them, to power it. Data workers are the invaluable human links in the global AI supply chain.

This workforce is largely fragmented, and made up of the most precarious workers in society: disadvantaged youth, women with dependents, minorities, migrants and refugees. The stated goal of AI companies and the outsourcers they work with is to include these communities in the digital revolution, giving them stable and ethical employment despite their precarity. Yet, as I came to discover, data workers are as precarious as factory workers, their labour is largely ghost work and they remain an undervalued bedrock of the AI industry.

As this community emerges from the shadows, journalists and academics are beginning to understand how these globally dispersed workers impact our daily lives: the wildly popular content generated by AI chatbots like ChatGPT, the content we scroll through on TikTok, Instagram and YouTube, the items we browse when shopping online, the vehicles we drive, even the food we eat, it’s all sorted, labelled and categorized with the help of data workers.

Milagros Miceli, an Argentinian researcher based in Berlin, studies the ethnography of data work in the developing world. When she started out, she couldn’t find anything about the lived experience of AI labourers, nothing about who these people actually were and what their work was like. ‘As a sociologist, I felt it was a big gap,’ she says. ‘There are few who are putting a face to those people: who are they and how do they do their jobs, what do their work practices involve? And what are the labour conditions that they are subject to?’

Miceli was right – it was hard to find a company that would allow me access to its data labourers with minimal interference. Secrecy is often written into their contracts in the form of non-disclosure agreements that forbid direct contact with clients and public disclosure of clients’ names. This is usually imposed by clients rather than the outsourcing companies. For instance, Facebook-owner Meta, who is a client of Sama, asks workers to sign a non-disclosure agreement. Often, workers may not even know who their client is, what type of algorithmic system they are working on, or what their counterparts in other parts of the world are paid for the same job.

The arrangements of a company like Sama – low wages, secrecy, extraction of labour from vulnerable communities – is veered towards inequality. After all, this is ultimately affordable labour. Providing employment to minorities and slum youth may be empowering and uplifting to a point, but these workers are also comparatively inexpensive, with almost no relative bargaining power, leverage or resources to rebel.

Even the objective of data-labelling work felt extractive: it trains AI systems, which will eventually replace the very humans doing the training. But of the dozens of workers I spoke to over the course of two years, not one was aware of the implications of training their replacements, that they were being paid to hasten their own obsolescence.

— Madhumita Murgia, Code Dependent: Living in the Shadow of AI

#v.txt #artificial intelligence #Madhumita Murgia #Code Dependent: Living in the Shadow of AI

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trans-axolotl · 2 years ago

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Image description: [ a photo of the Psych Survivor zine in a bush of ivy. The cover is a collage made out of medical records, vintage flower drawings, and magazine letters spelling “psych survivor zine".]

Hello everyone! I am so thrilled to announce the launch of the psych survivor zine, now available to download on www.psychsurvivorarchive.com.

A little bit about this project:

The Psych Survivor Archive is an abolitionist organization deeply invested in mad liberation and cross-movement organizing.

We host two projects: the Psych Survivor Zine and the Digital Story Archive. The Psych Survivor Zine celebrates Mad art in volumes released twice a year, with thematic prompts for each edition. The Digital Story Archive is a more informal forum for psych survivors to write about our lives and share as much as we want, when we want, how we want.

Through this archive, I hope to create a platform where psych survivors are believed and the psych system is held accountable for the ways it has harmed us. Our pain, resistance, knowledge, and grief are worth listening to, and I offer up this archive as a communal method of bearing witness.

This space is for the imperfect crazy person, the noncompliant patient, those of us who trash our rooms in the psych ward and yell to ourselves on the street. This space is for our comrades still incarcerated in all kinds of institutions and prisons. This space is for anyone who has been harmed by the psychiatric system and wants to rage about it–and this space is for anyone who doesn’t have the words to talk about it.

This space is for you.

You can download a pdf and an image described pdf for free on the website, or order a physical copy! This zine is incredible-featuring artwork by 13 different Mad artists, the 55 page zine includes collages, poems, harm reduction toolkits, and more!!

Artists include @kihnindewa, @bioethicists, @gothhabiba and @librarycards, among many more!

This project has been really vulnerable and cathartic with me, and I am so excited to share it with you. Feel free to explore the website, submit your story, and check out our resource guide.

#personal #psych survivor #survivingpsych #antipsych #psych abolition #mad liberation #mad pride #psych survivor zine #disability #really really happy with this.#disability pride month #also if i tagged you and you don't want to be tagged pls let me know! i don't know who else from the project is on tumblr #mad punk

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jungkoode · 5 months ago

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死 KKANGPAE | EXTRAS 死

† info guide †

☆彡Welcome to the World of Kkangpae

There's something about the shadows they don't tell you—how easily they consume everything, how quiet they remain despite the noise of the world above. This is the world you're about to step into. Kkangpae is not a place for the faint-hearted.

But before you descend, let me offer you a few things to hold onto.

❥ If you're someone who needs a mental image to anchor yourself, I've provided edited visuals of the characters. These images match the way I've imagined them, so feel free to refer to them as you read. Sometimes, it helps to see the face behind the mask, even if it's not the real one

★ The Council of 9: The Apex of Power At the top of Kkangpae sits the Council of 9—an invisible hand that controls everything. Each member hides behind a code name, a necessary shield to keep their true selves buried. Power, here, is not loud. It's quiet. Calculated. And it's always watching. If one wishes to refer to them by their actual names, permission must be obtained beforehand.

❥1. Namjoon (RM) - Supreme Commander: The mastermind, the leader of the gang and responsible for the overall planning and decision-making.

❥2. Jin (Moon) - Deputy Commander: The right hand of RM, He's the one who stands beside RM, ensuring everything runs smoothly—inside and out.

❥3. Jimin (JM) - Chief of Financial Operations: The economic wizard, responsible for managing the gang's finances and economic activities.

❥4. Hoseok (J-Hope) - Chief Medical Officer: The guardian of health, tending to the medical needs and wellbeing of the gang members.

❥5. Yoongi (AD) - Chief of Cyber Intelligence: He's the unseen eye, controlling the digital space, making sure secrets stay buried and information flows in their favor.

❥6. Jungkook (Jeon) - Chief of Tactical Assassinations: The master of targeted elimination, focusing on precision and strategy.

❥7. Taehyung (V) - Chief of Stealth Assassinations: Co-leading the Assassination division with his nemesis -- the enigmatic shadow, specializing in covert and untraceable operations.

❥8. Chaewon (Flower) - Chief of Covert Influence: The manipulator of strings, adept in seduction and subtle control to achieve the gang's objectives.

❥9. Hyunjoo (Jessi) - Chief of Logistics and Recruitment: The resourceful maven, managing the gang's supplies and resources and recruiting new members.

༺Other characters ❥10. Yunjin - Seduction Division: New blood in the Seduction Division. Your roommate, though she keeps more to herself than you'd expect.

❥11. Kazuha - Seduction Division - Sharp. Professional. Shares a room with Eunchae and Sakura. Another member of the Seduction Division.

❥12. Sakura - Youthful, with a kind of liveliness that doesn't belong in a place like this. But she's here, and she's part of the game.

❥13. Eunchae - The youngest, a bubbling contrast to the world around her. Still, she's in the Seduction Division. That says enough.

❥14. Takama - Jeon's second-in-command in the Tactical Assassination Division. He follows orders, but not without a mind of his own.

[More to add because your girl is lazy] ★ Divisions: Where Power Is Fragmented, Yet Whole

Kkangpae isn't just a single entity. It's split into divisions, each one vital to its survival. Each one led by a member of the Council. They function like parts of a machine, smooth and efficient.

- Assassination Division: 1. Tactical Assassinations: Jeon leads this team. They make sure every move is planned and executed with precision. 2. Stealth Assassinations: V leads this one. It's less about planning, more about improvising. Quick, silent, unseen.

- Seduction Division: Flower leads this. They use charm, influence, and manipulation to get the information they need, infiltrating places others can't reach.

- Cyber Intelligence Division: AD handles this. They control everything digital, gathering secrets, breaking into systems, and protecting the gang's data.

- Medical Division. J-Hope ensures everyone stays healthy. It's not just about tending to wounds—it's about survival in a world that's always at war.

- Financial Division: JM manages the finances, ensuring the gang always has the funds to operate smoothly.

- Logistics & Recruitment: Jessi runs this. She makes sure the gang is always well-equipped, and she brings in new members to keep the operations alive.

★ The Myung-dong Faction (MDF). Located on the outskirts of Kkangpae's territory is a formidable gang known as the Myung-dong Faction (MDF). They are just as notorious and powerful as Kkangpae, and the two have a long history of animosity marked by betrayal, tragedy, and a fierce struggle for power.

★ A World Governed by Unspoken Rules In Kkangpae's kingdom, nothing is more valuable than loyalty, and nothing is more unforgivable than betrayal. The code that governs their actions is considered sacred and influences every decision, relationship, and destiny. Within this world, alliances are formed and broken, secrets are exchanged like currency, and every friendly gesture is a potential threat. And the cardinal rule? No attachments.

As you delve into this narrative, remember that in Kkangpae, appearances deceive, and every face wears a mask. Brace yourself for a journey into the heart of darkness, where power is the only truth, and survival the only goal.

★★★ Put your left hand on the Bible,

sell a lie for me

★★★

#kkangpae #jungkoode #kgp #kk

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simonh · 11 months ago

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Utility of Therapeutic Plasmapheresis for Neurological Disorders by National Library of Medicine Via Flickr: Contributor(s): National Institutes of Health (U.S.). Medical Arts and Photography Branch. Publication: Bethesda, Md. : [Medical Arts and Photography Branch, National Institutes of Health], 1986 Language(s): English Format: Still image Subject(s): Plasmapheresis, Nervous System Diseases -- therapy, Consensus Development Conferences, NIH as Topic Genre(s): Posters Abstract: White poster with a multi-colored diagram representing neurons. A phone number is also given for further information. Extent: 1 photomechanical print (poster) : 71 x 56 cm. Technique: color NLM Unique ID: 101454392 NLM Image ID: C01016 Permanent Link: resource.nlm.nih.gov/101454392

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jazzy-offical · 20 days ago

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I am fucking sick of AI.

AI has fundamentally ruined the way we live.

I know it seems drastic and over exaggerated, but at this point it is genuinely true. AI can be helpful, but it gets to a certain point. Going into high school, I am now extremely worried that I will not be able to find a job after graduation. My particular passions are animation, digital art, music, and coding. AI can easily do all of those jobs within seconds. Due to this, artists like others and I have been put in a predicament where we could potentially not have jobs.

Another thing, AI is destroying the education system and the general knowledge of humanity. Students use AI to complete homework for them, causing them to not actually retain any information and this will result in unintelligence. This is the next generation, people. We are the ones meant to sustain the planet, and yet we allow AI to teach us that two plus two equals five, and the “AI Overview” is the first thing you see. Teachers are using AI to grade papers, hypocrites. They use AI to do their jobs but do not allow us to do the same. Besides, studies have found that AI incorporates bias into upwards of 38.6% of answers, and AI is completely incorrect upwards of 25% of the time.

AI has been observed to think for itself. AI. Thinking for itself. In a Chinese research facility, a robot with AI software attempted to attack the researchers. AI programs were studied and they overrode shut down instructions. This technology is not here to be our friend.AI has gotten EXTREMELY good at mimicing us. AI Minecraft youtubers, generated street interviews, AI “humans” ominously demonstrating that they “can talk”.

I’m not distinctly for nor against AI, but I definitely lean more towards anti-AI. It honestly depends on its use.

For example, AI in the medical and scientific communities has been extremely influential in modern medicine and technology and have contributed greatly to the advancement of research in both fields. In these specfic cases, I am all for AI as long as it helps the wellbeing of others.

Generative AI, however (the type you are most common with), I am completely against. Leave the art to the artists, the writing to the writers, composing to the composers, and the filming to the filmmakers. AI in the more creative spaces has shown nothing but harm to the humans in those spaces. Companies are refusing to hire actual artists for product images or actors/voice actors for commercials simply because they think “AI can do it better”, which it can’t. AI will never replace the human imagination, no matter how advanced it becomes. ChatGPT could create a perfect one-to-one recreation of the Sistine Chapel and the original would still be better. AI cannot pick up a pencil or a brush, AI cannot pour blood, sweat, and tears into a piece of music, AI cannot create emotion within a scene, AI cannot write with such passion and dedication. AI cannot measure up to the human desire to create.

In conclusion, AI is not a specific good nor evil, but is slowly moving towards the latter. It has its strengths and weaknesses, as everything else. It can be used for good but just as easily used for bad. Just make sure to support your local artists and steer clear of generative AI.

#anti ai #rant post #artificial intelligence

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cozzzynook · 1 year ago

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Emergency ask!!! Just had to have my cat euthanized, vets still have no idea why they went downhill so fast. Can we have some comfort via carrier Perceptor with sparkling Hot Rod.

I’m so sorry this happened. Praying for you 🙏🏽

“Shh, sweet flame, it’s okay. I’m here now, I have you,” Hot rod was a sweet bitty, he truly was.

He was the best sparkling he could ever hope to ask for. He didn’t cry unless he needed his spark medicine and he only whined and fussed kicking his arms and legs when he was hungry or needed changing.

Just like always, the moment Hot rod felt Perceptors em field and spark pulse he stopped crying and wiggled his frame. Trying to get to his carrier the only way he could until Perceptors servo’s lifted him from the crib and he was resting on his carriers chassis. Receiving kisses on his helm as he rubbed himself against his carrier inhaling his scent, feeling at home again.

His tiny servos gripped what he could of Perceptor and accepted the pacifier his carrier slipped into his intake.

He felt soft digits feeling along his exposed spark chamber covered in wired and medical tape and he sighed feeling his optics droop when the wire that needed changing was removed.

He felt a little pull on his spark before it was relieved of all tension as a new wire was put in place and his carrier was cooing at him.

“My brave little sweet flame, you did so well, yes you did,” his carrier affirmed when he looked up at him with cloudy optics that were beginning to understand colors but still too young to grasp shapes.

All he knew was that his carrier was here and that was reason enough for him to smile.

He smiled often because he was truly his carriers creation and as his creation he was smart enough to understand many types of em fields. The one he felt most was happiness and he made sure his carrier gave off the pleasant feeling as much as he could.

His carrier was so warm and wonderful, he couldn’t help but want him to feel the same.

In his bitty brain they were one and it only made sense to want a part of himself to be happy.

“My little sunflame, I have a treat for you,” his carrier smiled and kissed his olfactory sensor making him sneeze a little. His optics were hanging low as he looked at Perceptor and it made the mech have cuteness aggression.

As Perceptor came to the kitchen he was greeted to Brainstorm immediately putting away whatever dangerous project he was working on. In favor of greeting him and his sparkling the mech has taken a ring to calling his own as well.

“Darling, I see our sparkling is awake and wants you. Only fair. who wouldn’t want the most beautiful mech in the solar system?”

He blushed so embarrassed at Brainstorms choice of words, it made him flustered. An emotion his bitty rubbed his chin at with his helm while giggling as he dropped the pacifier that was caught on the frame link.

“You are insufferable,” Perceptor spoke as he grabbed the tiny cube of sparkling candy, it was homemade and not as sweet as the regular batch. Hot rod couldn’t have things like that yet.

“And he’s not your bitty, he’s mine,” Perceptor flushed, sitting in the chair Brainstorm pulled out for him. He picked up a tiny cube that Brainstorm cut in half, the mech knew exactly how he wanted it down to the inch and centimeter and he nodded his thanks to him.

“Thank you, its perfect,” Perceptor was much easier to pull praise from when his bitty was involved and Brainstorm was the image of a mech floating in the clouds with how brightly he smiled and how wide his em field felt.

Hot rod noticed as he looked and waved a fist at him but Perceptor was too busy focusing on his one true love.

“Say ah, warm spark,” Roddy looked back to his carrier and mimicked him by opening his intake and tasting the treat.

He made a funny face at the texture but when it popped and melted in his mouth making him give off a surprised noise, he could taste the delicious treat and bounced in his carriers arms.

Swallowing, he opened his intake for another and happily accepted as he felt both em fields lift the room in an ocean of joy.

“Such a good bitty,” Perceptor kissed his cheek smiling at him. He allowing Brainstorm to lift Hot rod from his arms and nuzzle his helm. Hot rod never had a problem with Brainstorm but he didn’t stay with him for longer than five hours at most. Which was the longest he’d go to anyone who wasn’t Perceptor or Optimus who often came by so his bitty Bee could play.

“You loved our little cooking experiment, perfect. I can’t wait until you’re old enough to give feedback. Ooh I can’t wait until you know how to write. i’m going to get so many notebooks for our future scientist.”

Perceptor didn’t say anything, he just let Brainstorm feed Hot rod the new treat as he babbled to Hot rod all the things he wanted to do with him when he was older and more in Brainstorms comfort zone. He wasn’t going to tell the mech he was doing just fine now with the sparkling he truly saw as his own.

He didn’t want to trip Brainstorm up in a whirlwind of jumbled thoughts he hasn’t worked out yet.

He’ll just let the mech do his thing as he enjoy’s watching him be a wonderful, genuine sire to their sparkling.

#perceptor #hot rod #carrier perceptor #hot rod transformers #transformers #perceptor tranformers #sparklings #macadams #maccadam #simpatico #brainstorm #brainstorm x perceptor #perceptor x brainstorm

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