Send “Sleep already!” for a starter where my muse is very clearly sleep-deprived, but refuses to sleep.

The Master’s mania is ill-slaked by the booming command of another forceful personality.  He stops what he’s doing, turns and rears up to his full height  (five feet, nine inches) and curls his lip majestically at Thor.

     “No,” is his withering and throughly mature retort.  

For a moment, however, he forgets how to filter language from his brain to his mouth, and blinks in a weeklong sleepness daze at the god, before his eyes refocus, and he nods sharply, as though pleased by his own wisdom.