welp. long time lurker both here on tumblr and (ages and ages and ages ago) the blue forum that shall not be named. figured i may as well introduce myself, get to know some of the people within the community, and (possibly?) share some of my own creations.
you may call me leaf or damien (not my real name). i'm an adult, my pronouns are he/him, i'm a college student with a part time job, and for the sake of brevity i'm asexual and gay. i love writing, both fanworks and original works. i'm very into audio fiction podcasts and sometimes video games, so perhaps you can expect content of that. kinkwise, i mostly enjoy snz, but colds, fevers, coughing, vulnerability, whump, and hurt/comfort are big for me too.
some boundaries: minors dni, obviously. i reserve the right to block any pages that are not clearly specified to be adults. i also reserve the right to block people who send me messages i am not comfortable with. this blog is not an invite to sexualize me. i am asexual, this is a non-sexual kink for me, and most of my posts will be sfw. treat me like a human being, please. also, i'd prefer if non-kink blogs didn't reblog my posts, though i probably won't do anything about it if you do so.
anyway, howdy! nervous but excited to be finally interacting. feel free to stop by and say hi or just message me about whatever, honestly.
"Alien fascinated by the concept of sneezing" scenario but with p/hm.
Maybe G/race finds himself allergic to something on E/rid, or a plant specimen gets replicated for his dome that doesn't quite agree with him. Maybe his nose is just extra sensitive after living in the sterile environment of the ship for so long. Whatever the case, R/ocky first sees G/race sneeze shortly after they get to E/rid.
And he is enraptured. Just utterly fascinated by the foreign concept of sneezing. He keeps asking G/race to do it again and is wholly unsatisfied when he insists he can't just do it on command.
Eventually, G/race gets fed up, and he relents and induces himself for R/ocky, who for once sits in silent awe.
My partner is currently dealing with a cold and will not blow his nose for the life of him. I'm genuinely considering clicker training him into the habit just so he doesn't give himself a damn sinus infection.
I've got that interesting manifestation of photic reflex where I don't sneeze when looking at the sun, but I do sneeze if I pluck my eyebrows. Or pull out a hair. Or just press my forehead really hard with a fingernail or something. It's not very reliable, and sometimes all it does is tickle, so it's not a very good inducing method or anything.
Also, and I'm not sure if it's related or a new cool different thing...sometimes I sneeze when I'm about to cry? Like the moment I tear up it'll start tickling. Not every time, but often enough that I've picked up on the pattern. I'd probably make a dacryphile snzfucker ascend.
My brain will craft the most interesting, canon-bending, thought-provoking alternate universe for my favorite medias, ship, and characters...just to use them to write self-indulgent sneeze porn.
want someone to use an inducing tool to make me sneeze, but then fawn and worry over me as if I sneezed unexpectedly, and then do it again, and again, and coax me into blowing my nose and call me a poor sweet thing and ask if I’m feeling alright, even though they are the one shoving this thing up my nose making it happen
a small and soft jmart love story, as told in mugs.
Moons and stars
The kitchen in the Archives is much the same as any other office kitchen Jon’s encountered. Windows that face onto little of interest, grey countertops and half-empty tins of instant coffee.
Accordingly, the kitchen sports the same collection of mugs that every office does. A handful with old Institute branding, the logo faded and half-scratched away (everyone says they had to scratch them out, something to do with that particular design making the CCTV go funny somehow. Jon doesn’t really believe it.) The usual white IKEA mugs, as basic as it gets, paired with a miscellaneous assortment of specific designs that no one quite remembers the original owners of. They pass from staff member to staff member and no one ever claims them.
Jon doesn’t have a mug of his own.
Actually, that’s not quite true. He does have the DILF mug that Tim bought him last year for Christmas. He had tried earnestly to explain that not being a father, he couldn’t possibly be considered a DILF, whilst Tim had laughed raucously and Sasha had tried to explain that no, Jon, it’s about the energy. Martin hadn’t been any help; just sat there giggling.
He uses it sometimes. Grudgingly. And never when he’s taking a statement.
Whilst the DILF-emblazoned mug is the only one he can stake a real claim of ownership to, Jon does have a favourite mug, in fact.
Several months ago, a few extra mugs turned up, pushed to the back of the cupboard like someone was trying to hide them. They’re a little wobbly in shape, imperfect, clearly handmade. But they have satisfyingly thick handles and are a comfortingly solid shape to hold. Their designs are delicate, simple, yet charming: one the colour of a dawn sky, another pale blue with fluffy clouds, another - and Jon’s mug of choice - a deep indigo with little moons and stars painted in an uncertain hand.
He often leaves it on his desk by accident, by virtue of using it so much. Only today, when he doesn’t particularly wish to leave his office, it’s apparently been returned to the kitchen. Of course.
The problem with the kitchen, on top of its being painfully dismal, is that people always expect conversation. Something that Jon simply doesn’t feel equipped for today. It’s barely ten am, far earlier than his usual break for a tea or a coffee, and yet he’s exhausted. Exhausted, and sniffling.
It’s with some trepidation, therefore, that he comes upon Tim already there.
“Morning, boss!” he says brightly, like it’s no consequence to him that it’s a dreary Monday. He’s filling a large cafetière with hot water. “Coffee?”
Jon feels it would be sensible to opt for tea, given his scratchy throat and budding cough. But when he weighs it up against the tiredness he feels behind his eyes, he decides that coffee may be his best bet after all.
“Yes-snf-please, Tim.”
He scrambles hurriedly for a tissue to press to his nose, thankfully coming up with one he’d thought to stuff into a trouser pocket. It seems as though he only has to move, and he starts sniffling.
As he moves to the designated mug cupboard, Tim gives him a sympathetic smile.
“Hayfever?”
“What? Oh.” Jon wishes he could take the excuse. It would be easy enough to brush it off as a symptom of the early spring and the ridiculous amount of pollen that’s simply everywhere. Unfortunately, he suspects the excuse will be harder to stick to in a few days’ time. He shakes his head.
“A cold, I think. I’ll try to-snf-keep my distance.” He fetches the mug with the moons and the stars from the cupboard, trying not to cringe at Tim’s awww of sympathy.
“That’s rough,” he says, beginning to pour out the coffee into what must be Sasha’s, Martin’s and his own mug of choice. “Let me know if you need anything, yeah? Please don’t hole yourself up in your office for three days, barely sleep and only let us in when you’re half-dead from pneumonia.” He holds out a hand to take Jon’s mug.
“That was once, Tim,” Jon says, and resists the urge to add and I’d do it again out of pure spite.
To his surprise, Tim grins when he receives the mug Jon’s chosen.
“You really like this one, huh? I’ll be sure to give Marto your compliments.”
“I-what?” Jon is both confused, and distracted. Confused because he’s unsure as to why Martin is related to his choice of mug; distracted because the vague itch at the back of his nose, that’s been bothering him all morning, is starting to make his breath shiver.
“You didn’t know? Martin made this one. The other handmade ones, too. I wouldn’t have guessed he did pottery, to be honest.” Tim holds out the mug, Martin’s mug, full of coffee, but pauses. “Need a minute?”
Jon holds up a hand, twisting to direct a sneeze into his right elbow. “hh’DTSCHH!” Half-stifled, it makes his head pound and his nose run all over again. Waving away Tim’s “bless you!”, he returns the tissue to his nose with one hand and takes the mug from Tim with the other.
“Sorry. I, hm. I wouldn’t have guessed, either.”
Martin had always struck him as. Well. Rather clumsy. Certainly far too clumsy for pottery, of all things.
“Thank you, Tim.”
“Feel better!” He shouts much too loudly as Jon leaves the kitchen. Jon hopes desperately that no one else has heard.
Back in his office, everything is mercifully quiet. He sits down at his desk with a sigh, one which catches at the end, fluttering into shuddering breaths, before his eyes are snapping shut. “hh’TSCHH!” It doesn’t hurt his head, this time, but his throat. He truly can’t win.
After a moment to blow his nose, he turns to his coffee, hoping that will at least help a little.
He wraps both hands around the mug. He’s always felt that he’s able to almost feel some tangible mark of the intent that went into making it. The care that went into its softly shaped sides. A warm sense of static at the back of his mind, a suggestion at his fingertips.
Jon had never before considered who might have made it.
He appraises the mug for a moment, takes a sip of his coffee, and goes about his day.
When they flee to the safehouse, the Institute’s collection of mugs is truly not something that crosses his mind. Mugs, in general, aren’t exactly at the top of his priority list.
It’s only when they’re unpacking their meagre belongings, trying to settle into the cabin in small ways, that he sees Martin extract it from his backpack. His favourite mug from the kitchen, with the hand-painted moons and stars.
“I, um. I thought you might like this,” Martin says hesitantly.
“That’s your mug. That you made?”
“Actually, it’s your mug now,” Martin replies. He smiles. “It’s for you.”
He holds it out and Jon can’t help but accept it like it’s the most precious gift in the whole of the burning, splintering world.
Big bad hotshot lawyer showing up to the courtroom and their allergies this year are awful. Everything is blooming outside the courthouse and their body is all too aware of it. They’re choking out hacking coughs and clearing their throat every few minutes, and no amount of water is doing the trick. They’re losing their voice more and more throughout the day. They try like hell to muffle the sneezing, but the courtroom is designed to amplify sound and everyone can hear each desperate gasp and sniffle. They hitch their way to a fit of huge sneezes all through closing arguments.
Thinking about becoming accustomed to the symptoms of one's cold, like it's some familiar friend you learn the ins and outs of.
Imagine, if you will, A and B. B's been dealing with a cold over the past few days, and, while excitedly rambling off some story to A, pauses. Their breath snags, and they pitch into their forearm with a singular sneeze. This is all well and normal; B is generally a 'one-and-done' sort of sneezer.
A, knowing this, smiles at them, amused and slightly sympathetic. "Oh, bles-" They don't get far before B holds up a finger, cutting them off.
"Not yet," they say. They haven't lowered their arm fully from their face yet; it just hovers in the air, anticipating. "There's always more with this cold."
So A and B both sit in suspense for a while longer. A watches B intently, waiting on the edge of their seat for this alleged additional sneeze, but B's nose doesn't so much as twitch. Their breath stays perfectly even, their face completely neutral. A can only wait so long. "B, I don't think your second sneeze is coming," they say finally, biting back a chuckle.
B looks…almost disappointed. "But- no- I promise, there's always been another one-"
"Well, I guess your cold isn't so reliable after all. Now, you were in the middle of a story?"
B shakes their head, apparently still bitter about their missing sneeze. "Right. Where was ihh…hh-!" Their breath catches, and they hitch a few quick times before it happens: they sneeze harshly, desperately into the sleeve of their jacket. They stay in that position for a moment, sniffling dripply and blinking tears from bleary eyes. But when they finally come up, there's a shit-eating grin on their face. "I told you. Always more with this cold," they say, the smugness in their voice dampened by congestion.
(Note that I didn't say "is underappreciated" or w/e, if you're a slut for colds and you still just want there to be more colds even tho like half of everyone's posts are probably colds, you can still vote colds lmao)
