bakerstreet | A Picture is Worth... Meme.

A Picture is Worth... Meme.

A Picture is Worth.... Meme
This ain't your mama's meme. Forget your RNG, forget your tired old prompts.
A picture is worth a thousand words.
It's easy. Comment with your character. Then go comment around.
But instead of pre-filled prompts with words or numbers, you find a gif or image (any gif/image from any canon or scenario you please) that sets the scene.
The picture is the prompt.

WARNING: THIS POST WILL BE IMAGE HEAVY. AND POSSIBLY NSFW AND THERE MAY BE TRIGGERS.
Some images will not be able to be hidden behind cuts, so please be aware that triggery material may be found within.

If you post an image that is violent or sexual in nature please LINK it, do not embed it into the comment.

Feel free to use this template to stick your image in there.

Good resources for images/gifs are weheartit or tumblr. For not so safe for work gifs/images go here and here.

Original Meme here.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

[I understand a thing or two about being a woman in a man's world.

That hadn't been the first thing M had ever said to Eve, but it was what stuck. She remembers it like yesterday, the memory coming into focus as the news sinks in. Standing in uniform, being scrutinized, being told to report to her for a debriefing. Being told she had what it took to work for mi6, that power should always be in the hands of women, that men were just too emotional for it.

As right or wrong as M might have been, Eve can feel the emotions pressing against her throat and eyes, like a blade to the skin. It wasn't enough to get her to cry ( soldier's don't cry, and neither does secret service ), but she had to turn her face away, keep the tense twitch of her lip and the mourning in her brow hidden, if only for a moment. She has to be strong, for M16 and for Mallory--he would hear the news through her after all.

Now though, she simply needs a moment.]

Staying in bed with you. [ Her tapered fingers reach out to barely trace the shape of his mouth. Maybe she's never been the most tactile person, but there are ways to overwrite some memories faster than others. Touch works quickest. Then, taste. (Like coffee and the whiskey he drank at the bar weeks ago, like good night's and I made you breakfast's and something wholly unfamiliar. )

It's strange, the kind of laziness that settles into her bones. It's not just sleep inertia or a lack of awareness — it's wanting to stay here, like this, self-contained and otherwise happy to just share breath. (Compromised doesn't come close.)

Her mouth quirks, like she's inviting him in on the joke. Like the answer's not obvious: ]

What about you?

[ It's a comforting thing to know that he was already shivering before, so whatever he's doing right now is probably still totally related to that and not anything she happens to be doing right now. While she isn't as warm as she could be, she's still infinitely better than what he had going on before, all swaddled in the blanket by himself like he was, and he really can't help the way he flattens and reaches for her, rises up to meet her where necessary, trying to eke out every single last bit of contact she's offering, like a starving man lying on a table of food. Or... some better way for that metaphor to go. ]

Good survival skills. [ God, there's a little actual warmth happening, he's far too happy about that. ] Thank you.

[..Okay, so it's post-half broken curse. Emma believes. Understands things now, saw August (Pinnochio, whatever) turn back to wood and .. Nearly lost Henry. Forever.

But that's all said and done, and surprisingly there are a few moments of calm before the storm. She has yet to find Mary Margaret and David- Mom and .. Dad, and maybe she's just sort of wandering, seeing people for who they really are, watching them see themselves again. It's heart warming, in a weird sort of way.

Then there are people who already believed. Who knew. People she'd thought were crazy. Henry, Gold, Regina. .. Jefferson. Actually, she'd almost forgotten about the poor Hatter in all the fuss. At least, she had, until she heard an oddly familiar voice coming from .. somewhere nearby. And .. muffled?]

[Yeah, so. Driving a car when everything changed and shit hit the fan and a big magical burst kind of radiated out from wherever the hell it had, you know, come from? Not actually fun.

Especially not when it ends with Jefferson hanging from the seat of a car, upside down, face kind of squished against the dashboard.

Because that is just so much fun. Even better? He's stuck. Just... stuck. Wedged in and completely unable to move and just. Stuck. Left to hit against the window as best as he can and call out to the people he can barely see moving outside.

He knows what happened. It's like the fog's been lifted. It's no longer a painful struggle to sift through the two sets of memories. He knows his pre-curse self and his post-curse self, there's no longer this strain on his memories, his sanity. He can feel the signs of magic, because even if he isn't magic himself? He's still tied to it. Spending so long in Wonderland, having such a connection to the hat, a hat only he knows the ins and outs of working? Yeah.

He knows the curse is broken.

He's just kind of busy being stuck in a car.]

[She doesn't want to. Not when he's in the hospital, on machines and barely there, because really, this just isn't fair. Also it's RP land, so we can AU the shit out of anything we want.

So instead of dying, he had a heart attack. And now ... Now he's on life support. Maybe he's got a heart somewhere, maybe it really was Regina. Maybe she's the Sheriff and maybe he'll be kept on L.S. until she deems him unfit for it any more, because Regina renounced her emergency contact status- to which she immediately took up. Even if Regina is the farthest thing on her mind right now.

She's practically living by his bedside, and ... No. He can't go anywhere. He'll get better. What do the doctor's know.]

[ No, someone definitely knows. Tony's just really not sure he actually cares enough about it to bother going around and annoying people until he gets an answer that seems like it's not just placating.

Hey, Tony gets that. He's fantastic at just staying here, in his workshop, never really having to go out and actually play with things, fight off bad guys, make people swoon; he could do all of that from right here, even, but there's a whole side of life and yourself that doesn't get met that way. You've got to get up and out and into things, or you're just not plugged in to all there is in a life.

He nods a little bit, sort of already checking back in to what he was doing - he didn't really stop thinking about it when she came in, it's just more for a moment there was a more immediate puzzle, and now that it seems that one's taken care of, his mind is trying to return to the previous one. ] Bored, lost, or hungry?

[ He, for his part, prefers never to interact with the other 00s. It's just easier that way, to keep them all nicely spread out. ]

The outfit I have in mind wouldn't really fit me. [ Too narrow in the shoulders, deep in the chest, short on the thigh, etc. ] 'Already'? [ Have you forgotten all that time in the field so easily, Ms. Moneypenny? What was all that if not roleplay? ]

[And who is doing her rounds still? Still ducking out of any attempted hugs (though most of those are failed and .. received), and avoiding as much of the main streets as she can. Because honestly, happy as she is to have Henry alive and well, and to .. have his curse broken, it's .. it's reeling. She can feel things she doesn't understand; people say it's magic. She doesn't get it. At all, actually.

And she doesn't feel like seeing Mom and Pops just yet, either. That's ... a whole other can of worms she doesn't feel like busting open just yet. Besides, there's a noise she's hearing, back here on the side road; a sort of banging against glass, metal. Muted.

A truck. Overturned and oh gods, is there someone in there? So yeah, she's going to drop down and around, bending over to try and see into the glass- too shattered to see anything through-- the door is next. Girl of brawn, yanking that door off with one foot propped on the side. It's broken enough as it is.]

Hold on- Get you out in a second-- [And reaching down to offer an arm, wrapping hand around whoever else is reaching back. And yanking. Don't fall, now.]

[ The moon shrivels to a speck of dust in the sky, and another rises to take its place. The winter-king forgets his own name, he forgets the joy of his youth, and he remembers only the hunger of the valdyr, the pain of the white-faced dryads. Winter devours everything upon the lands, until the soil is barren, and even the skies above are barren of light.

He grows bitter and cruel. He ceases to sing of his prophecies entirely, for the future has already proved itself to wrought of little other than suffering heaped upon suffering. He learns to steal from the creatures under his own dominion. Their blood runs hot through his veins, and still he is but a black tower of waning life in the gyre of snow and sleet. Everywhere he travels, the earth is crusted over with the frost. Every moment of warmth left upon winter's country is sucked of marrow and swallowed whole.

A thousand years after the winter-king was gifted with a boon more precious than his own life (a name shaped by a single syllable, sweet as a rune-spell upon his tongue), the mortals come.

Hordes of them, naked and dumb as beasts in the snow. And yet their minds are sharpened by the pain that the cruel winter-king looses upon them: they learn to conjure fire from the violence of stone against stone, to hide their nakedness behind fur and leather, and to build shelters of wood and brush. They speak in the words and sing the melodies that the winter-king teaches to them.

For a time, he knows contentment. That his dominion has lost the beauty of his youth matters no more, for now he has mortal subjects who bow to his will, and who worship him for the god that he has become. He is as powerful of the sallow moon hung upon the sky, and as distant as the shadow of a star, so they offer him part of all they have, even in the worst years of his winter.

And yet — there is a land beyond winter's peaks verdant with life, a land that the winter-king once loved more than his own. Beauty and bounty are plentiful within its borders, and its summer-king is the most beautiful of all. When the sleet drives its way past the meager wood of their shelters, the mortals climb down the slopes of winter's mountains and find, to their delight, the land of summer.

A hundred years pass. The mortals have forgotten the winter-king, and again he grows bitter and vicious in his isolation.

This time, when he descends from his palace of ice to meet with the king of summer, he brings the winter with him. Every blade of green falls to the frost where he treads. The skies roil with a storm barely leashed, and the red berries upon the bushes grow white with fallen snow. ]

Thor-king. [ says the voice of winter, like the cracking of ice beneath a great weight. The snow has caught in his eyelashes and in the dark fall of his hair, but otherwise he is unadorned; only the fall of a fur-lined shift retains his modesty. Bare-footed and lean as a hungry wolf, the winter-king summons the only lover he has ever known. ] Thor-king, betrayer!

[There's a run in her stocking. It hadn't been there before the fighting had broken out, but she felt the fabric tear underneath her dress when she kneed a man in the groin. Maybe it's a sign that she's not quite as good at this as the perfectly maintained James Bond, but it's invisible to anyone but her under the fabric of her gown. She only feels it against her fingertips when she slips her gun back into the holster on her thigh, her eyes on 007 with a rebuttal in her lips--]

Maybe if you wanted to get in the way again.

[But there's no time for small-talk, especially not with the fact that she just fired a gun. The sound would echo, their estimated time-frame would be cut in half, and she follows after him quickly on high heels. The instant they're in the room she takes the rifle from him, opening the case and beginning to set it up. It's a step-by-step process that is almost instinct at this point, after years of sniper training for the military and a familiarity for the weight that would press against her shoulder. They have to speed up though, the time is ticking.]

I don't take a shot unless it's going to count, it's good practice.

With your suit, I'd not think you'll have a problem keeping up. [And he's just grinning so brightly at the prospect of his Midgard shield brothers coming to Asgard. They will be interesting to watch as they behold the golden halls.]

Director Fury can be at ease for the few days that we shall spend in Asgard. Heimdal will keep watch.

[What time is it?

Christmas Time. And there's silly little music playing in the background- thank you JARVIS, and the big open windows let in more than enough mid-day light off the winter setting. Where were they? She doesn't even remember. She's pretty sure she doesn't remember the eggnog being spiked either, but who's complaining, really?

Not when she's trying to stand, and failing, and wow, her legs are more numb than she thought. How long have they been sitting there laughing and talking and ... enjoying each other's company?]

[Eve Moneypenny is a professional. She gets to work on time, focuses on the job at hand and keeps herself present and attentive. A good professional, though, also knows when it's time to let loose, to get a drink, to find a dark corner and warm company. It's a careful balance, meticulously specific in their cases, with the national security information they are privy to, but it's a dance worth taking. A burnt out worker bee is no use at all.

It's how she found herself in this Catalan bar lit by candle and flickering florescence, in a low cut dress that went down to her knees to keep away the strays. Too much thigh could be too much of an invitation in places like this, and she'd rather not spend her night off fighting off handsy drunks.]

Personal enough. Seeing as you don't speak Catalan well enough, I assume the same for you.

[She can speak it though, and orders herself a whiskey on the rocks.]

[Ginny could argue that flying is like a dance, just like fighting can be one. There's skill and a certain level of elegance—balance—required for all three; one must see each part of their body as an extension of self, and for her, that goes for the broom, too. A broom is a little like a horse in her mind; it can sense your fear, your passion, and a well-made broom falls in tune with every subtle shift in grip that it's almost like reading your mind. A good broom will work with you so it's not like you're just using it to fly, but that you are flying yourself. In a way, it feels like the sky belongs to Ginny when she's lost so high up in it. There's the passion of flight and combined with the tactics and strategies of Quidditch, a flier gets something as calculated as a fight, roughened with raw instinct.

It's dirty, yes. Sometimes in the literal sense. The pitch is still muddy from the early morning rain and Ginny's been splattered with it in one of her many nosedives for a plummeting Quaffle and evasive maneuvers. To the untrained eye, she's reckless; but she just lost her fear of falling years ago so now she can do whatever she wants, broom and wind permitting. It's liberating.

And when she finishes up with her practice team and swoops down to Will, working to catch her breath, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, smile broad under all the mud and sweat—there's an electricity about her, the thrill that comes from a good workout. Surely he understands.]

Do I? [She swipes the back of her hand across her forehead, leaving a streak of grime in its wake.] Let's have your latest insult, then. Don't deny it, I can hear it in your tone.

[Not even Will Herondale can sour a good long day of flying and the high it leaves her with.]

[It's been a really, really long time.

He doesn't get to do this often enough anymore. Just sit with Pepper and pretend like he doesn't have anything else to do never has anything else to do. That he's not Tony Stark, Iron Man, defender of all and billionaire philanthropist, always with some appointment to go to, some press meeting to field. To just be Tony and Pepper, boyfriend and girlfriend, enjoying a few days of peace and quiet and fun in one of the many vacation homes he doesn't get to frequent nearly enough anymore.

But here they are, just sipping spiked eggnog, laughing and talking and relaxing and Tony? He can't remember being happier. Well, okay. It's on par with flying for the first time, but he's at least smart enough to not tell Pepper that.]

Okay- [He's up, having had a long, long time to practice drinking and functioning, one arm slinging around Pepper's waist to catch her, grinning as he sort of wobbles them around in a circle, pulling her in close and raising his eyebrows, nose to nose with the normally so held together Pepper Potts.

He loves seeing her let loose with him, it's... it's almost like a privileged, sharing these moments.] Are you seriously that far gone? If so, uh, we need to do shots more.

[She knows how busy he gets, is. Which is why she spent three and a half months working out a schedule that would give him- them, some time off. And right around the holidays. There would be time for day-or-two visits with family and such, of course, at least Pepper's family. But right now? Right now was for them. A vacation. In she-didn't-care-where. It had snow, and a fireplace, and it was cozy and rustic and still expensive enough to be Stark and it was perfect. Only made more perfect by actually having the man himself be there with her.

But yes, he is much more adept at drunk functionality than she is, so yes, he's going to be helping her up whilst she leans into and against him, arms around and legs twisted, toes tingling in that nigh-painful way. There is just something important that he's said. Wrongly. And she needs to fix it.]

If you mean 'do more shots', then yes, I completely agree. I am not that far gone.

[She's not, but she's getting there. She doesn't throw up when drunk, and the worst that could happen? She falls asleep in her boyfriend's arms.

How tragic.]

Edited 2012-11-23 07:59 (UTC)

Mmmm. [Tony's making a face, pulling her up a little more so she's, you know, not sliding down and about to fall on the floor. Just helping Pepper stand on her own two feet as he screws up his nose, furrows his brows and causes his eyes to crinkle in the corners.] Yeah, passing on the shots. Because shots means moving and moving...

[He tilts his head to the side, tightening his grip around Pepper's waist as he shifts slowly from side to side, lips twitching upwards as he hears JARVIS switch the track, a soft waltz version of some Christmas song or whatever playing, lights dimming and the fire cranking itself up just a little more.

Even if Tony himself failed at being romantic, at least he'd managed to program JARVIS to pick up the slack.] Means less of this.

[He grabs her hand, lifts it up above her head and steps back, guiding Pepper in a lazy twirl before pulling her back into his arms]

Kind of want you to know which way's up for now.

[This is where Pepper would thank her lucky stars that she isn't that far gone already. That Tony's little impromptu twirl of her didn't leave her reeling. She could easily stand up on her own, it was just ... Warm. A buzzing warm. One that left her more than a little content to move as he pleased, to hold his hand just a little more tightly (when she wasn't twirling, of course), and yes. She had noticed the music shift.]

But Tony. [She's back against him now, swaying just a little, keeping time with the soft, holiday beat in the background, eyes tracing from brown irises to scruff and back again.] We are moving.

[Not that she seems at all interested in moving to get those shots or anything. No, no. Right here is just fine. More than fine.]

I'm pretty sure that's not going to be enough to keep him from shooting fire from his eyepatch.

[This description is chosen very deliberately. Yes, Bruce is trolling Thor. He's not even sorry.]

[budapest.

q's not exactly the vacationing type as eve (and likely every other member of mi6 with half a brain) probably already knows, but sometimes desperate times call for desperate measures. or in this case, an international terrorist cell's highly volatile and top-notch secured internal records calls for a tedious extraction by the most careful and clever fingers. one wrong move and the whole thing goes up in smoke--literally.

it's awfully rare for q to have to leave headquarters and he's perfectly fine with that considering the only two places he even cares to call some semblance of "home" are his desk and his bedroom. and realistically, the former is where most of his time is spent (tea and pyjamas or not). but sometimes no matter how much he might resent the change in scenery, his presence is crucial. at least he's not the only one that's been displaced this time--eve may not be the one pulling triggers around here anymore, but she's still essential for monitoring, outside intel...and truthfully, she still drives a mean stick-shift.

thankfully they were able to avoid flying for this one, and of course for his additional benefit he's managed to aggravate 007 along the way. something about lack of leg room compared to private jets and no dom on the train, but q had kindly reminded him that if bond preferred he can risk blowing himself and the data up without his expertise. perhaps that's why the agent was so keen to leave the scene alone and make his way back to the hotel mi6 so graciously booked to tide them over until tomorrow morning.

q and eve are halfway back when he finally switches off his tablet, fully disconnected for the first time in...well, ages.]

M will be happy to know I've decrypted and transferred all files back to headquarters for analysis. [His lip quirks slightly and pulls up into the faintest of smirks before he covers it to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose.] Any better and we're going to start giving the double-oh's a run for their money.

[it's still early in the evening, and q realizes now that the adrenaline's worn off and the day's worn on that he's famished and parched for some real tea.]

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 20 of 53

A Picture is Worth... Meme.

no subject

no subject

no subject

do i get gold stars for sarcasm i could have a whole cosmos by now

no subject

no subject

no subject

<3<3

8D

no subject

darling heaaaart

Pepper Potts | MCU

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

beautiful places obv

no subject

no subject

Re: Ariadne | Inception

no subject

no subject

no subject

sorry this took so long sob