Hi, there! My name's Wynn! :D I’m 26 years old, demiromantic/bisexual and also bigender (she/him). I have ADHD and I’m Autistic. I follow back from my rp blog, beasts-at-our-core. My main fandom is Pokémon. My current ongoing fic is here. The shorter abbreviated version still in-progress is here. My carrd with all of my information is here. Strawpage is here.
My main f/o right now is Zinnia from Pokémon Omega Ruby and Alpha Sapphire (Character Tag: ୨⎯ The Last Lorekeeper ⎯୧ / Ship Tag: ୨⎯ You Matter To Me ⎯୧/fallingstarshipping). The majority of my s/i's are named Rachel with a small handful of exceptions.
- My ao3, Ko-Fi, YouTube, Wattpad (I barely use it, but it's there), Neopets, Discord, Twitch (I also barely use this), and Toyhouse (also barely use) are all XxWindpawxX.
- Flight Rising is Icestalker
Commissions: CLOSED
Art Trades: Friends and Mutuals only at request
My BYF and DNI are on my carrd, but to make it short: DNI people who ship minors and adults together (with the exception of both halves being within the 17-19 age range) which includes aging up or down, people who ship family members together, exclusionists/gatekeepers, racists, queerphobes, misogynists, classists, ableists, zionists, people who send/engage in harassment and callouts, and people who are anti-recovery.
Summary: Tony tries to help Blaire while she keeps him at arms length (it goes both ways, quite frankly.)
Warnings: Injury and nudity mentions
Note: The lost cause comment is a callback to this fic (you don't have to read it to read this one)
Word Count: 1,153
Blaire watched with weary eyes as the bandage wrapped around her hand, her fingers twitching as Tony's own fingers nudged against them. His other hand holding her arm steady, his grasp gentle yet firm against the raised scarring.
Despite it all, she wasn't entirely sure he had paid much mind to the scarring before. Maybe brief touches, a grasping hand leading her elsewhere, or guiding her while instructing her - but this was different. More intimate.
She could feel the rough callouses of his fingers against the raised scars; sensitive, but not painful. Rarely painful. Mostly they developed this god awful skin deep itch that could never be reached, but that wasn't the issue at hand tonight.
No, Tony's furrowed brows as he wraps gauze around them, with a particularly potent smelling pain relief cream smeared beneath, was yet another futile attempt at easing that never ending ache. Really, she had tried all the pain relief hacks, and none of them ever worked, but it was hard to argue with Tony.
He had insisted they do something. After the mission he had found her sitting in a concerningly hot shower, bathroom mirror fogging up and skin dappling red from the heat. It didn't make that deep ache go away, but it did make it relent. Slightly.
She scrunches her face up as the smell of menthol and eucalyptus invades her nostrils, "You don't have to do this, you know." The words come out more weak than what she really intended, but felt compelled to finally break the silence lingering between them as they perched on the edge of her bed.
Although, these days, she supposes she rarely sleeps in it, or finds herself in her room much at all anymore. Only to retrieve things before finding herself back in Tony's room. Which is why he had come searching for her when she didn't find her way to his room like their usual routine.
She was still wrapped in a towel, hair damp, as he sat next to her, "Yeah, well, let me." He responds, perhaps with a slight edge of irritation as he finishes up before beckoning for her other arm.
She shifts, letting him gently urge her other arm into his lap, finding herself holding her breath as he spreads that god awful smelling cream over her scarred skin in the same gentle manner.
He doesn't look up when he speaks, "Were you even going to tell me you were in pain?"
She scoffs at that. What a hypocrite he was. He does peer up at that, and there is a twinge of guilt there, knowing he isn't any better.
"I don't exactly expect you to care." She responds, fingers twitching again as his finger tips run across the back of her hand, then across her palm.
He peers up again, blindly reaching for the gauze as he opens his mouth to speak, then shuts it.
"I guess that's fair." He finally responds before beginning to wrap the gauze around her forearm, "But we have plenty of stuff in the tower for pain relief. Hell, we have doctor on call, if you would just -"
"I watched you superglue a cut shut last week." She snaps.
"I was busy." He responds without missing a beat, shrugging as he ignores the hostile tone, "You're missing my point."
There's a thick silence, like molasses weighing between them, only filled with the sound of gauze ripping as he finishes up. She flexes her hands, grimacing slightly as her joints pop and click.
She peers down at the gauze wrapped hands. Yet her scarred fingers remain free and visible, a reminder. One corner of her mouth tugs into a frown, "I did it to myself." She finally murmurs, fingers wiggling as they both glance at them.
Tony shrugs, "I’ve done a lot of things to myself."
He doesn't get to finish the sentiment, as she cuts him off, "You said it yourself, I'm a lost cause."
He furrows his brows, genuine confusion in his expression as he pulls back slightly, "When did I say that?"
She lets out a sigh as she balls up her fists again, flexing them with a pained grimace, "It doesn't matter." He has a feeling the response isn't entirely about his question, and yet another silence makes its presence known. Unsure of how to respond, no, not when she's like this. In the past he would have taken great joy in burrowing under her skin, making less than pleasant comments, and watching her burst at the seams.
Now though, something weighs heavy on his chest as he watches her. Emotions he was far too familiar with displayed on her. Shame, perhaps. Guilt, even. A twinge of hopelessness mixed in.
He lets out a shaky breath at the same time she yawns involuntarily.
"Come on." He murmurs, and she raises an eyebrow as he walks towards the closet, "Find something to sleep in - not that I'm opposed to you sleeping nude." She rolls her eyes at him. Not quite the reaction he wanted.
But she obliges him, reaching for an oversized t-shirt and shedding the towel wrapped around her in favor of it.
Then he's tugging her into her bed, under the sheets, pulling her firmly against him. The towel and his jeans lay haphazardly thrown on the floor beside the bed, a habit that he knew irritated her, but was clearly not of her concern right now.
"Surprised you didn't drag me to your bedroom." She says, "You always complain about this bed." It's clearly an attempt to change the subject from earlier heavier subject, to pretend as if she was fine again.
He takes it though. Humming, "It isn't as comfortable as mine."
"Hm, not in the budget to get me a new bed?" She finds herself in her usual spot, tucked beneath his arm, cheek resting his chest as she speaks quietly.
"Well," he grins, "I need some reason to keep you coming back to my bed.” The weight in his chest is lifted when he can see a smile just barely cracking across her lips. As much as she tries to fight it off.
"Ugh." She groans, "That was lame."
"Smooth. That was smooth." He corrects.
"Whatever." She barely stops the laugh that bubbles up, opting to bury her face into his chest. He brushes some hair away, idly running his fingers through the thick black strands, her head rising and falling his breaths.
"I - I didn't mean it." He says suddenly, and when she peers up with a puzzled look, he sighs, "when I said you were a lost cause."
Her face shifts, evident she had already forgotten that she had brought that up earlier, or was at least pretending so. He clears his throat when he goes to speak again, "You're not. at all." She blinks at him a few times, before nodding and settling against him again.
If youre a closeted person somewhere out there thinking "I want to transition but it would be less progressive/unique/countercultural for me to be that gender instead of this one" please know that you are a real person not a character in a narrative and cant live your life based on what is good media representation. You are real you can only be yourself and theres no moral weight to any identity over another
Liberal transphobes enjoy positioning trans identities as regressive compared to cis queerness or like non-transitioning transness or anything else they can leverage to make transphobia look progressive and I think its easy to absorb that message subconciously. But in real life we just are what we are and no ranking of validity can change the fact that you have an identity that is NOT chosen and is just your unchangeable truth. Not only should you not have to live a life dictated by what is most countercultural to identify as or whatever but also: being trans is extremely countercultural and feminist and leftist to begin with and theyre only trying to convince you otherwise bc theyre bigots
"Why cant you be a feminine man society hates feminine men 🥺" and "all the butch lesbians are becoming men we need u 🥺" = stay in the closet for the noble purpose of being an abstract representation point in my new york times opinion column. You wont actually be a gnc cis person youll be a closeted trans person who uses the wrong words but I need you to do that because i hate you
for my fellow psychotics who struggle with thinking someone is in their house, a method I’ve found that really works are these guys:
i put them on my front door and anytime it opens they ring. that way if i think someone has broken in or i see someone who isn’t there i can think back to if the bells have rung, and if they haven’t i can assure myself it’s not real. obviously it’s not fool proof, like if you are prone to auditory hallucinations, but it has really helped me calm down in time to avoid major psychotic breaks. it’s a real lifesaver
shoutout to those who have a heavy dynamic of comforting their f/o's– being a safe space for them or offering them a happy future and environment they weren't canonically given. f/o's deserve to feel safe and loved too!
It's nuts how common it is to not allow children to be angry, even (especially) in households where adults are angry all the time. As a child I knew my own anger was unacceptable--not just expressing it outwardly but feeling it at all. So now as an adult my immediate reaction to my own anger is often to feel guilt instead of like. Noticing when someone is being rude or unfair or my boundaries are being violated or whatever. fucked up.
