Hello, welcome to my blog. This post includes my masterlist and I plan to update it as regularly as I can. I am a lesbian so all of the sneezing will be female.
You can call me AJ or bloody of you please, my gender exisists, I have been diagnosed with both dyslexia and autism and have been told I talk strangely (especily through typing) so... be aware idk, I have posted fic's before but as of now and as far as I plan I mostly post thoughts and art
Masterlist below the cut
Master List
Updated: 28/07/26 (Amarican: 07/28/26)
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Sneeze Art:
Saoirse and Mia (OC's)
Kiss on the Nose; Under the Mistletoes - (f/f)
Flowers for her Lady - (f/f)
F/ull M/etal A/lchemist B/rotherhood:
Soldier Sneezes - R/iza H/awkeye (f)
Snow Sneezing - R/iza H/awkeye (f)
A/gatha A/ll A/long:
Kissing hand: R/io V/idal - A/gathario - (f)
R/io V/idal - A/gathario - (f)
Animation:
Sneezing while holding books - (ambiguous)
Random OC's or N/A (Newest-Oldest)
Sneezing while hiding - (f)
Untitled - (f)
Sun Sneezing - (f)
Flower Crown - (f/f)
Morning Sneezes - (f/f)
Photic Sneezing - (f/f)
Sneezing while hiding - (f)
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Sneeze Fics:
B/ones:
Red Eyes (f)
Victim: T/emperence B/rennan (B/ones)
Word: 2.1k
Discription: Booth comes to comfort Bones on a hard day, only to find her struggling with both her emotions and her health.
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Kitten in the Kitchen (f)
Victim: T/emprence B/rennan (B/ones)
Word count: 4.9k
Discription: B/ooth brings home a cat, and the pair spend the next few days wondering why T/empe is sneezing so much (Also includes a healthy amount of B/ooth trying to figure out if shes sick or not)
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Rabbit on the Platform (f)
Victim: T/emprence B/rennan (B/ones)
Word count: 2.1k
Discription: B/ooth brings a rabbit back from a crime scene
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Rain (f)
Victim: T/emprence B/rennan (B/ones)
Word count: 3.8k
Discription: B/ones catches a nasty cold after getting caught in the rain following a particularly exhausting case. B/ooth takes care of her.
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Flowers (f)
Victim: T/emprence B/rennan (B/ones)
Word count: 3k
Disscription: B/ooth gives B/ones flowers from a greatful spouse.
Their is a n#de vertion of this that I'll post at some point, I couldn't find a single reference of r/io with an actual side profile (closest being when she turned her head) much less any refrences with similar poses. praise me for trying to draw clothes.
Somebody with magic that will activate evrey time they sneeze, ensuring that no matter how quiet or conspicuas they try to be the suddenly roaring candals will seal their fate
(photic light witch)
(water witch splasing themselves with freezing cold water)
(fire witch sneezing as the incense suddenly burn crazy)
(plant witch that keeps accidently growing the one flower their allergic too because their thinking about it)
I would have finished this yesterday but my utares decided to enploy the 'rip off the band-aid' meathod and attempt to deflesh itself in one fell -extremly agoizing- swoop
Summary: A short & sweet little ficlet inspired by this A/B cold scenario 💕 in which S/cully catches the cold M/ulder has just recovered from, and is wholeheartedly and justifiably grumpy about it. Domestic fluff ahead - you've been warned.
Notes: Takes place sometime in S7 when things are certainly a little more ~cozy~ between the two of them and it's not just couches that they've shared.
Word Count: 1.1k
The first thing Mulder hears when he lets himself into Scully’s apartment with his spare key and steps inside is a sneeze —
“Huhh’ESSCHhiiuew!”
— that comes from the direction of the living room. It’s loud enough that he thinks she may well have not heard the door open, and is almost immediately followed by a second one, desperately smothered into what sounds like several tissues at once.
“—huhp'tTSCHieew! …nguhh..”
Judging by the weary, nasal little groan that follows, Mulder suspects he has caught only the tail end of what was likely a much longer sequence. The couch faces away from his vantage point in her front entryway, its high back concealing everything but an uneven pile of blankets at one end, beneath which he further suspects must be one very miserable Dana Scully indeed.
“Gesundheit,” Mulder calls out by way of announcing himself. He closes the door behind him and sets the keys on the entry table.
“That key is for emergencies,” the blanket pile grumbles. There's a rustling of fabric and Scully’s head pops up over the edge of the couch, looking flushed and rumpled and not at all pleased to see him. He can’t blame her, really.
Four days ago, it had been Mulder who was marooned on his couch beneath the two blankets he owns, his bones aching and his head throbbing — while Scully plied him with soup, decongestants, and an endless supply of Kleenex. She had checked his temperature, bullied him into drinking both water and orange juice, and stayed until he fell asleep.
She had also, he recalls with a fresh wave of guilt, sat beside him while he coughed, sneezed, and thoroughly contaminated every breathable molecule of air and surface within a ten-foot radius.
By Friday morning – the first day he’d begun to feel remotely human again – Scully had looked pale and drawn, and had proceeded to sniffle her way through the day while operating on increasingly terse, hoarse assertions that she was perfectly fine each and every time he had dared to ask. By lunchtime her voice had acquired a soft, telltale huskiness, and by the end of the day she looked about ready to drop.
Mulder doesn’t know how she does it, but he has long suspected Scully schedules her illnesses – or at least holds them at bay through some inexplicable act of physiological disciplinary will – for weekends and federal holidays, when she can both suffer and convalesce in private.
The same cold that had laid him out for most of the previous week must have been circling her for days, biding its time until the weekend — because sure enough, it’s now Saturday afternoon, and Scully appears to have been wholly struck.
"I tried calling you twice,” Mulder replies, “but you didn’t answer.” He shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over the back of the couch, keeping it easily accessible should she require another layer anytime soon. He glances across the room at her desk, where the light on her answering machine is blinking red. “It could have easily been an emergency."
“I was sleeping,” she scowls, retreating further beneath her blankets again.
Now that he has rounded the couch, Mulder can properly survey what remains of his always-so-put-together partner. Only her face is visible among the nest of blankets Scully has made for herself – her hair mussed from sleep, her nose rubbed a vivid, tender pink, and her lips set in a chapped little pout. She looks, to Mulder’s private and considerable delight, unbearably dear, and in that moment he wants nothing more than to kiss that pout away. Still, he knows better than to try. Not yet, anyway.
The coffee table is littered with the evidence of a battle valiantly fought and lost – a bottle of Tylenol, two types of vitamin supplements, a box of tissues, and a half-empty roll of cough drops. A medical journal is being used as a coaster for a nearly-finished glass of orange juice and an empty mug of tea.
Scully eyes him warily as he surveys the scene.
“Go away, Bulder," she sniffles thickly.
Mulder does just the opposite, plopping down on the couch next to her and causing the cushions – and Scully along with them – to dip towards him. She makes a sound not unlike a disgruntled kitten as he presses the back of his hand to her forehead and tries to pull away, but she’s too thoroughly cocooned to get very far.
“You’re warm,” he murmurs, brushing her hair back from her forehead with his fingertips. “You must feel about as bad as you look.”
Scully fixes him with a dark, wounded glare, and Mulder immediately winces.
“That...came out wrong," he explains, offering her a sheepish little smile. He doesn’t add what he really thinks, which is that even feverish and scarlet-nosed and glowering at him from the depths of her blanket fortress, she looks more beautiful than anyone has any right to when in a state of abject misery.
Scully draws in a breath – presumably to tell him precisely where he can put his spare key and his bedside manner – but it catches suddenly, her eyelids fluttering shut as she shakes her head urgently, turning away as much as she can. Mulder hastily withdraws his hand and reaches for the tissue box on the coffee table, but she is already ducking into the blankets and burying her face in the soft folds, muffling another pair of helplessly congested sneezes.
"Bless you," he replies, offering her a tiny, sympathetic smile he knows she can't see.
Scully sniffles miserably and doesn't immediately emerge, uttering a muffled little grunt of acknowledgement from inside the blanket. It’s unclear to Mulder whether it’s a sound of appreciation or disdain, and he waits patiently for her to resurface. After a few long seconds she does, looking considerably more flushed, but readily accepting the wad of tissues he’s holding out for her without comment. She blows her nose with all of them, then tucks them into the open top of a second, empty box of tissues nestled between her and the side of the couch.
Mulder glances at the makeshift wastebasket and smiles. She’s nothing if not resourceful.
Scully gives him a tired look and sinks back against the cushions, tugging one of the blankets back up beneath her chin. Mulder lifts his arm so she can settle closer, and after a brief moment of hesitation, she relents and curls against him, her head finding the familiar place beneath his chin. She yawns, and it ends in a sigh that becomes a shiver, and he draws her a little closer, keeping the tissue box within easy reach of them both.
“How’s that cold of yours?” Mulder asks carefully. He knows better than to ask how she’s feeling outright, knowing the answer will be that she is fine, regardless of the truth behind it.
“It’s not my cold,” Scully mumbles grumpily against his chest, nesting even closer. “It’s yours.”
Mulder smiles and presses an apologetic kiss to the top of her head, feeling absurdly grateful that, for the first time in days, his nose is clear enough to breathe in the familiar scent of her shampoo.
“Sorry, Scully,” he chuckles into her hair. “No takebacks.”
Misunderstanding trope but its A misunderstanding Kink!B when they absentmindedly mention that A's sniffling is distracting them
This of course leads to A doing their best to be quieter through unproductive sniffles and unsatisfying stifles and only getting more frustrated when B continues to watch them
Meanwhile B who had thought they had A's sneezing patterns down to a tee is suddenly wondering after the sudden shift, both worried and disipoined by the development
(eventually they will figure out the misunderstanding with B telling A about their desires*tm, of course leading to very sneezy sex)
really off topic for the blog but... I'm not really 'out enough' irl and really want to share this stuff a with someone:
I think I got my first fully masciline nickname and I'm also noticing that my dead name has like nearly disipeered :)
I was finally able to convince my paranoia that I was now able to enter trans spaces and I was able to use some of the advice I found to finally find some jeans that don't trigger my dysforia
in the same vein the fact that I'm now 'allowed' to fully accept the fact that I am trans has helped me start working through some of my issues that stem from dysphoria (such as issues with hygiene steming parcialy from shower induced dysphoria)
(also realized me literally trying to cut my nipples off as a kid when they started growning was probably dysphoria)
I bought my first mens shirt, its so baggy and comfortable an it folds in a way that conceels my tits when I slouch (also got a very cool belt)
I was finally able to find masciline enough sunglasses (really great considering I refused to wear my old pair despite having chronic migraines that got triggered evreytime I glimpsed the sun for too long)
Started manspreding (when apropriate) and that has been giving me like small doses of euphoria (also standing like an asshole with my hands in my pockets and dick out)
All and all, turns out that being out (and just all together working out my suprestion) isn't as bad as I thought I'd be
B who is so sick of being congested that they dig out in old candle they know they're alergic too in a desprete effort too 'sneeze it out,' and their closeted snz-fucker partner who gets to watch
(said partner nearly moans when B accidently blows out the candle with their messily spraying sneezes)
Someone who stubbornly refused to bring a coat despite their partners insistence now trudging their way through the pouring rain but still stifling every sneeze into headache inducing silence as they shiver with snot leaking down their face because their partner is right there and will not here them sniffle, plus, the rain will wash it away so its fine
(They end up sick and get the 'I told you so' lecture anyways)
