Painting With Potions

Send me one prompt:

❁ in which our muses have to deal with a fever

“Leave it to you to get sick before me.”

Tommy laughed as he put his hand to Painter’s forehead, trying to judge the severity of the fever he’d been afflicted with. He had turned it into a joke, but that was broken up by the fact that he was wearing a paper face mask. Tommy had always been particularly sickly, and he didn’t feel like taking any chances.

Ginger tea with a little extra something to help that cough, he decided. He couldn’t make the illness go away; even for all of the Nightside’s medical advancement courtesy of the literal future, or many literal futures, they still didn’t have a cure for the common cold.

The lack of fingers in his hair was a sensation that made him frown, burrowing into the pillow and letting out a soft noise, hoping to prompt them into returning. When that failed, he picked his head up, peering around. His apartment seemed empty and dark, save for the light in the bathroom. Had he fallen asleep? 

Send “Mm..” and my muse will react to yours kissing their neck.

Hadleigh murmured softly as he felt the familiar gentle tickle of lips at the curve of his neck. He leaned back, giving Painter better access to whatever spots he so chose.

“Heading to bed?” he asked, reaching up to run his fingers through Painter’s many countless braids as he knew he liked. He set down his book, not bothering to mark the page. He would know where to continue from when he came back to it, and to anyone else all of the pages would have just appeared totally blank anyway.

He let out another mumbled noise as fingers scratched at his scalp, and gave Hadleigh a soft squeeze. 

Send “Smooch” for a reaction from my muse when yours give them a kiss on the lips.

“And what did I do to earn that?” His hands went automatically to Painter’s waist as he tilted his head down, his gaze settling somewhere along Painter’s collarbone.

Perhaps she would, perhaps she wouldn’t. Fae were notorious for being capricious beings, after all. And though Adelheid liked to think she wasn’t quite as changeable as other fae, the odd tricky mood struck her. She didn’t know who this stranger was, to wander so purposely into her forest (not even on the paths, the silly creature), but Adelheid liked the way he felt. Or, more accurately, the forest didn’t hate the way he felt and that was enough for Adelheid.

She rose gracefully from between the immense tree trunks where she had been sitting, not even bothering to brush the dirt away from her legs or the leaves from her hair. Perhaps he was looking for the elven queen and such an appearance surprised him. Perhaps he was simply looking for another elf, and the oddly earthy appearance of Adelheid surprised him. It didn’t particularly matter to Adelheid, because here she was…

…And here he was.

The skin across the back of his neck crawled and he offered her a small bow. This was the last time he was going to let Michelle play with the vagaries of words. 

Send me “Will you marry me?” and I’ll generate a number from 1-30 to see how my muse responds.

“You’re supposed to get down on one knee when you ask a question like that, you know.”

“Yes, well, I wasn’t exactly planning to ask you. It just sort of... slipped out. I had-”  His voice cracked slightly as he looked down and to his left, staring at a crack in the ground. 

Send me one prompt:

❁ in which our muses have to deal with a fever

“Leave it to you to get sick before me.”

Tommy laughed as he put his hand to Painter’s forehead, trying to judge the severity of the fever he’d been afflicted with. He had turned it into a joke, but that was broken up by the fact that he was wearing a paper face mask. Tommy had always been particularly sickly, and he didn’t feel like taking any chances.

“For starters, I wish for this illness to go away. Barring that, perhaps some ginger tea and possibly to get your brother? I have a sneaking suspicion I caught this at the Goblin market with Michelle. You remember that, a few weeks back? She was returning an item som-” 

 A deep, wracking cough rattled through his frame, leaving him cursing that trip with Michelle. Never again. Never again was he wandering one of the lesser markets with that woman. She attracted more trouble now that she was a woman in her middle age than she ever had as a teenager. 

Send me Anons as my muse’s child(ren).

“Is that so?”

Although it was the same set of words that most people would use to address a child they weren’t really listening to, Hadleigh sounded perfectly interested in what his daughter had to say. Of course, he was much less concerned with what Tommy and Michelle were doing than Painter might be, but for the sake of his lover’s sanity (and the sake of the furniture), it was probably best he intervene before Painter got home.

Send “Smooch” for a reaction from my muse when yours give them a kiss on the lips.

“And what did I do to earn that?” His hands went automatically to Painter’s waist as he tilted his head down, his gaze settling somewhere along Painter’s collarbone.

“Well, you could look up so I can see those pretty eyes of yours.” The artist teased, leaning forward to press a kiss against the corner of the detective’s mouth.