#send a thing

[noizy-mori]

Send me a show/game/book and I'll draw my fave ship.

Please.

[theguppiegupp]

.

[deadshot-fl-blog]

Send me some starters!!!

My muse needs something to do. Nothing too weird or provacative just some convo.

[talentedliarloki]

❝do you even know what you've /done/?❞

Send my muse one of the following to see how they react:

Loki was 2/3 into his ninth bottle of Stark’s most expensive scotch. Prior to that, the trickster had drained three glasses of wine, three tumblers of whiskey, and had been part-way through his fourth glass of scotch before simply taking the bottle and upending it. It’d been maybe three hours; perhaps four. Loki wasn’t sure of much other than that the colors of the city lights below Stark Tower were bleeding through his vision, blurring around the periphery of his field of sight, but in that dark under armor suit Tony Stark stood as a cool beacon amongst the smears of sickly orange and yellow.

The alluring blue glow of his reactor certainly aids in focusing the god’s attention enough to answer the man’s question.

❝Nothing for which I maintain even the slightest regret,❞ His eloquence is somewhat handicapped but it’s compensated for in how his voice flows like satin while he followed the metal ridge of the arc reactor through the billionaire’s shirt. If Tony tensed, Loki didn’t notice; not that he’d have cared if he had. ❝Care for a drink, Stark?❞

[talentedliarloki]

castiel looks down at himself, at his wounds, barely breathing as he speaks: ❝is-- is it supposed to be bleeding that much, loki..?❞

Send my muse one of the following to see how they react:

Loki lays the angel out flat on his back, one hand on the front of his shoulder and the other determinedly holding the gore-soaked cloth to the weeping wound in Castiel’s abdomen. He’s certain he’s never seen such blood loss before in his life and he pales along with the bleeding angel, taken aback by the question as he’s unsure how to answer it.

Castiel could always tell when he was lying.

He spread his fingers and adjusted the fabric gauze against the laceration as he craned his neck to press a kiss to Cas’ forehead, a halfhearted attempt at blocking his view of his own bloodied trunk. His eyes had paled to powder blue, the flecks within them like azure lightning. The way his breathing hitched made the god’s chest clench, his diaphragm grow taut.

❝Don’t look, Castiel,❞ Ordered the trickster as he sifted through his mind for possible cures or treatments. Even anything to ebb the flow of blood to buy them both some time would do, but Castiel was growing cold in his arms. Loki shook and curled closer to him, swallowing thickly. ❝Stay awake.❞

[talentedliarloki]

"Is-- is it supposed to be bleeding that much?"

Send my muse one of the following to see how they react:

With how much blood was pouring from the wound, there was no questioning whether or not an artery had been knicked. It seemed, by that point, to be moot anyway; the fact of the matter was that Loki was bleeding out Jim Kirk’s apartment floor and it seemed there was nothing either of them could do about it.

"What amount of bleeding is normal, Kirk? I’m dying to know.” Loki hissed sarcastically as he caught the man by the hem of his shirt and wrenched him down to his knees beside him. Jim’s eyes widened and his expression deadpanned as Loki’s fingers worked at his belt but as soon as the buckle was undone he swiped it from his waist and wound it around the superior portion of his thigh, tightening it to try to stem the flow of blood to the wound. “Are you going to sit there…” Loki’s head was swimming and he leaned back to rest the back of his skull against the wall on which he was leaning. “…or are you going to help me?”

[talentedliarloki]

"Do it for me."

Send my muse one of the following to see how they react:

     The four words are coughed more than they’re spoken and droplets of blood are sent with them, spattering the assassin’s alabaster skin with smears of vermilion. He didn’t have time for weighing pros and cons. The fact of the matter was, the Black Widow’s life had been placed in his hands.

     All that remained was whether or not he would (or even could) walk away.

     Another wet cough spurred him to act. He felt down her thigh, seized the gun there and pulled it from his holster. She didn’t react; something Loki found equal parts satisfying and chilling. To add to the certain surreality of it all, he could have force fed her the muzzle of her own gun and painted the headboard with the contents of her mind. Yet, when she drew a choked breath, he began dismantling the weapon. And quickly.

     He’d disassembled the weapon and was down to bearings. From the barrel, he found his tool: a long, narrow tube akin to the barrel of a syringe. That would have been his preferred tool, but as he was running low on supplies and time (Natasha was growing paler by the minute), this would work. It had to.

      He didn’t hesitate or prepare her for what was to come. He permitted the benefit of the doubt: she had been through much worse and more than once. This would be leisurely in comparison, he mused, and as he raise the hand which gripped the metal tubule he met her eyes and locked his jaw before plunging into her chest cavity.

      To her credit, she didn’t make a sound. He was sure one or two of her ribs suffered the brunt of the blow as the shaft was forced between two of the costal bones but all she did was take a breath. In doing so, her lungs inflated and the blood which had collected in her thorax and caused her lung to collapse was forced out through the barrel protruding from her side. One breath and her sheets were soaked with crimson. Another and her voice had returned completely. By the third, color was returning to her face and her eyes had rolled closed in relief. It wasn’t a day at the spa, surely, but vanquishing that pressure in her chest cavity was surely as close to respite as she could get in her current predicament.

      Loki kept a hand on the bearing to be sure no air would replace the escaping blood, waiting until she was stable before even relaxing himself. He settled by her side and loosed a low breath, heart in a dead sprint and mind at a standstill. He was unsure why he was lingering. There wasn’t anything he was expecting. A thank you? Hardly. A knife to his throat? More likely. A soft pale hand on his thigh was not on his list of expected outcomes, however; he’d take it though. Maybe it was what they both needed, or at least what they could both tolerate, for now.